As he made
his way through the scrub timber along the edge of the Barren it
was with the feeling that he no longer desired Bram as a prisoner.
A thing more interesting than Bram had entered into the adventure.
It was the golden snare. Not with Bram himself, but only at the
end of Bram's trail, would he find what the golden snare stood
for. There he would discover the mystery and the tragedy of it, if
it meant anything at all. He appreciated the extreme hazard of
following Bram to his long hidden retreat. The man he might outwit
in pursuit and overcome in fair fight, if it came to a fight, but
against the pack he was fighting tremendous odds.
What this odds meant had not fully gripped him until he came
cautiously out of the timber half an hour later and saw what was
left of the caribou the pack had killed. The bull had fallen
within fifty yards of the edge of the scrub. For a radius of
twenty feet about it the snow was beaten hard by the footprints of
beasts, and this arena was stained red with blood and scattered
thickly with bits of flesh, broken bones and patches of hide.
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