Philip was not unaccustomed to the occasional mental and physical shock
which is an inevitable accompaniment of the business of Law in the
northland. But never had he felt quite the same stir in his blood as
now--when he found himself looking down the short tunnel into the face
of the man he was hunting.
There come now and then moments in which a curious understanding is
impinged upon one without loss of time in reason and surmise--and this
was one of those moments for Philip. His first thought as he saw the
great wild face in the door of his tunnel was that Bram had been
looking at him for some time--while he was asleep; and that if the
desire to kill had been in the outlaw's breast he might have achieved
his purpose with very little trouble. Equally swift was his observance
of the fact that the tent with which he had covered the aperture was
gone, and that his rifle, with the weight of which he had held the tent
in place, had disappeared. Bram had secured possession of them before
he had roused himself.
It was not the loss of these things, or entirely Bram's sudden and
unexpected appearance, that sent through him the odd thrill, which he
experienced. It was Bram's face, his eyes, the tense and mysterious
earnestness that was in his gaze. It was not the watchfulness of a
victor looking at his victim. In it there was no sign of hatred or of
exultation. There was not even unfriendliness there. Rather it was the
study of one filled with doubt and uneasiness, and confronted by a
question which he could not answer. There was not a line of the face
which Philip could not see now--its high cheek-bones, its wide cheeks,
the low forehead, the flat nose, the thick lips. Only the eyes kept it
from being a terrible face. Straight down through the generations Bram
must have inherited those eyes from some woman of the past. They were
strange things in that wild and hunted creature's face--gray eyes,
large, beautiful. With the face taken away they would have been
wonderful.
For a full minute not a sound passed between the two men. Philip's hand
had slipped to the butt of his revolver, but he had no intention of
using it. Then he found his voice. It seemed the most natural thing in
the world that he should say what he did.
"Hello, Bram!"
"Boo-joo, m'sieu!"
Only Bram's thick lips moved. His voice was low and guttural. Almost
instantly his head disappeared from the opening.
Philip dug himself quickly from his sleeping-bag. Through the aperture
there came to him now another sound, the yearning whine of beasts. He
could not hear Bram. In spite of the confidence which his first look at
Bram had given him he felt a sudden shiver run up his spine as he faced
the end of the tunnel on his hands and knees, his revolver in his hand.
What a rat in a trap he would be if Bram loosed his wolves! What sport
for the pack--and perhaps for the master himself! He could kill two or
three--and that would be all. They would be in on him like a whirlwind,
diving through his snow walls as easily as a swimmer might cut through
water. Had he twice made a fool of himself? Should he have winged Bram
Johnson, three times a murderer, in place of offering him a greeting?
He began crawling toward the opening, and again he heard the snarl and
whine of the beasts. The sound seemed some distance away. He reached
the end of the tunnel and peered out through the "door" he had made in
the crust.
From his position he could see nothing--nothing but the endless sweep
of the Barren and his old trail leading up to the snow dune. The muzzle
of his revolver was at the aperture when he heard Bram's voice.
"M'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or I mus' keel yon. Ze wolve plent'
hungr'--"
Bram was standing just outside of his line of vision. He had not spoken
loudly or threateningly, but Philip felt in the words a cold and
unexcited deadliness of purpose against which he knew that it would be
madness for him to fight. Bram had more than the bad man's ordinary
drop on him. In his wolves he possessed not only an advantage but a
certainty. If Philip had doubted this, as he waited for another moment
with the muzzle of his revolver close to the opening, his uncertainty
was swept away by the appearance thirty feet in front of his tunnel of
three of Bram's wolves. They were giants of their kind, and as the
three faced his refuge he could see the snarling gleam of their long
fangs. A fourth and a fifth joined them, and after that they came
within his vision in twos and threes until a score of them were huddled
straight in front of him. They were restless and whining, and the snap
of their jaws was like the clicking of castanets. He caught the glare
of twenty pairs of eyes fastened on his retreat and involuntarily he
shrank back that they might not see him. He knew that it was Bram who
was holding them back, and yet he had heard no word, no command. Even
as he stared a long snakelike shadow uncurled itself swiftly in the air
and the twenty foot lash of Bram's caribou-gut whip cracked viciously
over the heads of the pack. At the warning of the whip the horde of
beasts scattered, and Bram's voice came again.
"M'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or I loose ze wolve--"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Philip's revolver flew
through the opening and dropped in the snow.
"There it is, old man," announced Philip. "And here comes the knife."
His sheath-knife followed the revolver.
"Shall I throw out my bed?" he asked.
He was making a tremendous effort to appear cheerful. But he could not
forget that last night he had shot at Bram, and that it was not at all
unreasonable to suppose that Bram might knock his brains out when he
stuck his head out of the hole. The fact that Bram made no answer to
his question about the bed did not add to his assurance. He repeated
the question, louder than before, and still there was no answer. In the
face of his perplexity he could not repress a grim chuckle as he rolled
up his blankets. What a report he would have for the Department--if he
lived to make it! On paper there would be a good deal of comedy about
it--this burrowing oneself up like a hibernating woodchuck, and then
being invited out to breakfast by a man with a club and a pack of
brutes with fangs that had gleamed at him like ivory stilettos. He had
guessed at the club, and a moment later as he thrust his sleeping-bag
out through the opening he saw that it was quite obviously a correct
one. Bram was possessing himself of the revolver and the knife. In the
same hand he held his whip and a club.
Seizing the opportunity, Philip followed his bed quickly, and when Bram
faced him he was standing on his feet outside the drift.
"Morning, Bram!"
His greeting was drowned in a chorus of fierce snarls that made his
blood curdle even as he tried to hide from Bram any visible betrayal of
the fact that every nerve up and down his spine was pricking him, like
a pin. From Bram's throat there shot forth at the pack a sudden sharp
clack of Eskimo, and with it the long whip snapped in their faces again.
Then he looked steadily at his prisoner. For the first time Philip saw
the look which he dreaded darkening his face. A greenish fire burned in
the strange eyes. The thick lips were set tightly, the flat nose seemed
flatter, and with a shiver Philip noticed Bram's huge, naked hand
gripping his club until the cords stood out like babiche thongs under
the skin. In that moment he was ready to kill. A wrong word, a wrong
act, and Philip knew that the end was inevitable.
In the same thick guttural voice which he used in his half-breed patois
he demanded,
"Why you shoot--las' night!"
"Because I wanted to talk with you, Bram," replied Philip calmly. "I
didn't shoot to hit you. I fired over your head."
"You want--talk," said Bram, speaking as if each word cost him a
certain amount of effort. "Why--talk?"
"I wanted to ask you why it was that you killed a man down in the God's
Lake country."
The words were out before Philip could stop them. A growl rose in
Bram's chest. It was like the growl of a beast. The greenish fire in
his eyes grew brighter.
"Ze poleece," he said. "KA, ze poleece--like kam from Churchill an' ze
wolve keel!"
Philip's hand was fumbling in his pocket. The wolves were behind him
and he dared not turn to look. It was their ominous silence that filled
him with dread. They were waiting--watching--their animal instinct
telling them that the command for which they yearned was already
trembling on the thick lips of their master. The revolver and the knife
dropped from Bram's hand. He held only the whip and the club.
Philip drew forth the wallet.
"You lost something--when you camped that night near Pierre Breault's
cabin," he said, and his own voice seemed strange and thick to him.
"I've followed you--to give it back. I could have killed you if I had
wanted to--when I fired over your head. But I wanted to stop you. I
wanted to give you--this."
He held out to Bram the golden snare.