Philip could see where Bram had come in on the run, and where he
had kicked off his snowshoes. After that his great moccasin tracks
mingled with those of the wolves. Bram had evidently come in time
to save the hind quarters, which had been dragged to a spot well
out of the red ring of slaughter. After that the stars must have
looked down upon an amazing scene. The hungry horde had left
scarcely more than the disemboweled offal. Where Bram had dragged
his meat there was a small circle worn by moccasin tracks, and
here, too, were small bits of flesh, scattered about--the
discarded remnants of Bram's own feast.
The snow told as clearly as a printed page what had happened after
that. Its story amazed Philip. From somewhere Bram had produced a
sledge, and on this sledge he had loaded what remained of the
caribou meat. From the marks in the snow Philip saw that it had
been of the low ootapanask type, but that it was longer and
broader than any sledge he had ever seen. He did not have to guess
at what had happened.
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