A dozen times Philip made efforts at conversation. Not a word did
he get from Bram in reply. Again and again the outlaw shouted to
his wolves in Eskimo; he cracked his whip, he flung his great arms
over his head, and twice there rolled out of his chest deep peals
of strange laughter. They had been traveling more than two hours
when he gave voice to a sudden command that stopped the pack, and
at a second command--a staccato of shrill Eskimo accompanied by
the lash of his whip--the panting wolves sank upon their bellies
in the snow.
Philip jumped from the sledge, and Bram went immediately to the
gun. He did not touch it, but dropped on his knees and examined it
closely. Then he rose to his feet and looked at Philip, and there
was no sign of madness in his heavy face as he said,
"You no touch ze gun, m'sieu. Why you no shoot when I am there--at
head of pack?"
The calmness and directness with which Bram put the question after
his long and unaccountable silence surprised Philip.
"For the same reason you didn't kill me when I was asleep, I
guess," he said.
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