“I should like to get a moose,” Reynolds declared.  “I haven’t shot one since I came north.”

“Don’t do it, young man, unless ye kin git nuthin’ else,” Samson advised.  “A moose is a purty big animal, an’ we could tote only a little piece of its carcass.  The rest we’d have to leave to spile.  I’ve allus made a practice of shootin’ something that I kin clean up in a few meals.  Some critters, who call ’emselves men, shoot everything in sight, an’ leave it to spile.  That is wasteful slaughter, an’ not true sport.”

Reynolds was glad to roll himself up in his blanket that night, for he was tired after his day’s tramp, with a heavy pack on his back.  Samson did likewise, and soon silence reigned in the deep forest, broken only by the ripple of the brook a short distance away.  It was a calm night, mild, and with not a breath of wind astir.

Some time during the night Reynolds awoke with a start.  He sat up and looked around.  It was light enough for him to see that his companion was gone, and he believed that it was his footsteps that had aroused him.  After waiting for some time and nothing happened, he once again stretched himself out upon the ground.  But he could not sleep.  What was the meaning of Samson’s departure? he wondered.  Had it anything to do with the Indian they had seen that day across the ravine?  The more he thought of it, the more mystified he became.  How long he thus lay there with every sense alert, he did not know, though it seemed a long time before the prospector at last returned.  Reynolds pretended that he was asleep, but his suspicions were now firmly confirmed when the old man bent over him for a few seconds as if to make sure that he was not awake.

Reynolds did not refer to the incident the next day, and Samson made no mention of it.  The latter was in excellent spirits, and talked freely as they moved on their way.  That night they halted, and made ready their camp by the side of a small lake.  It was a peaceful and beautiful spot.  Not a ripple ruffled the surface of the water, and the trees along the shore were mirrored in the clear depths.  Reynolds was delighted, and he expressed his admiration to his companion.

“Isn’t this great!” he exclaimed.  “I have never seen anything to equal it!  It is a matchless gem, with a perfect setting.”

“Yes, it sartinly is wonderful,” the prospector drawled.  “An’ I’m glad ye like it.  Guess thar should be ducks over yonder,” and he motioned to the upper end of the lake.  “A good fat feller’d be nice fer dinner to-morrow.”

Picking up his rifle, he disappeared among the trees, and in another minute his light tread was unheard.  Reynolds stood for some time viewing the scene before him.  He longed for his paints and brushes that he might catch the impressions ere they faded.  Unfortunately he had left them behind, so he had to satisfy himself with feasting his soul instead.