Everything was too clear for that. Far back
on the Barren Bram had loosed his pack at sight of the caribou,
and the pursuit and kill had followed. After that, when beasts and
man had gorged themselves, they had returned through the night for
the sledge. Bram had made a wide detour so that he would not again
pass near the finger of scrub timber that concealed his enemy, and
with a curious quickening of the blood in his veins Philip
observed how closely the pack hung at his heels. The man was
master--absolutely. Later they had returned with the sledge, Bram
had loaded his meat, and with his pack had struck out straight
north over the Barren. Every wolf was in harness, and Bram rode on
the sledge.
Philip drew a deep breath. He was learning new things about Bram
Johnson. First he assured himself that Bram was not afraid, and
that his disappearance could not be called a flight. If fear of
capture had possessed him he would not have returned for his meat.
Suddenly he recalled Pierre Breault's story of how Bram had
carried off the haunches of a bull upon his shoulders as easily as
a child might have carried a toy gun, and he wondered why Bram--
instead of returning for the meat this night--had not carried the
meat to his sledge.
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