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.
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