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.
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