He was like Pelletier, and through him he was
entering upon a strange adventure which held for him already the
thrill and suspense of an anticipation which he had never
experienced in the game of man-hunting.
Had the golden snare been taken from the equation--had he not felt
the thrill of it in his fingers and looked upon the warm fires of
it as it lay unbound on Pierre Breault's table, his present
relation with Bram Johnson he would have considered as a purely
physical condition, and he might then have accepted the presence
of the rifle there within his reach as a direct invitation from
Providence.
As it was, he knew that the master of the wolves was speeding
swiftly to the source of the golden snare. From the moment he had
seen the strange transformation it had worked in Bram that belief
within him had become positive. And now, as his eyes turned from
the inspection of the sledge to Bram and his wolves, he wondered
where the trail was taking him. Was it possible that Bram was
striking straight north for Coronation Gulf and the Eskimo? He had
noted that the polar bear skin was only slightly worn--that it had
not long been taken from the back of the animal that had worn it.
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