CHAPTER VII
Philip was not unaccustomed to the occasional mental and physical shockwhich is an inevitable accompaniment of the business of Law in thenorthland. But never had he felt quite the same stir in his blood asnow--when he found himself looking down the short tunnel into the faceof the man he was hunting.
There come now and then moments in which a curious understanding isimpinged upon one without loss of time in reason and surmise--and thiswas one of those moments for Philip. His first thought as he saw thegreat wild face in the door of his tunnel was that Bram had beenlooking at him for some time--while he was asleep; and that if thedesire to kill had been in the outlaw's breast he might have achievedhis purpose with very little trouble. Equally swift was his observanceof the fact that the tent with which he had covered the aperture wasgone, and that his rifle, with the weight of which he had held the tentin place, had disappeared. Bram had secured possession of them beforehe had roused himself.
It was not the loss of these things, or entirely Bram's sudden andunexpected appearance, that sent through him the odd thrill, which heexperienced. It was Bram's face, his eyes, the tense and mysteriousearnestness that was in his gaze. It was not the watchfulness of avictor looking at his victim. In it there was no sign of hatred or ofexultation. There was not even unfriendliness there. Rather it was thestudy of one filled with doubt and uneasiness, and confronted by aquestion which he could not answer. There was not a line of the facewhich Philip could not see now--its high cheek-bones, its wide cheeks,the low forehead, the flat nose, the thick lips. Only the eyes kept itfrom being a terrible face. Straight down through the generations Brammust have inherited those eyes from some woman of the past. They werestrange things in that wild and hunted creature's face--gray eyes,large, beautiful. With the face taken away they would have beenwonderful.
For a full minute not a sound passed between the two men. Philip's handhad slipped to the butt of his revolver, but he had no intention ofusing it. Then he found his voice. It seemed the most natural thing inthe world that he should say what he did.
"Hello, Bram!"
"Boo-joo, m'sieu!"
Only Bram's thick lips moved. His voice was low and guttural. Almostinstantly his head disappeared from the opening.
Philip dug himself quickly from his sleeping-bag. Through the aperturethere came to him now another sound, the yearning whine of beasts. Hecould not hear Bram. In spite of the confidence which his first look atBram had given him he felt a sudden shiver run up his spine as he facedthe end of the tunnel on his hands and knees, his revolver in his hand.What a rat in a trap he would be if Bram loosed his wolves! What sportfor the pack--and perhaps for the master himself! He could kill two orthree--and that would be all. They would be in on him like a whirlwind,diving through his snow walls as easily as a swimmer might cut throughwater. Had he twice made a fool of himself? Should he have winged BramJohnson, three times a murderer, in place of offering him a greeting?
He began crawling toward the opening, and again he heard the snarl andwhine of the beasts. The sound seemed some distance away. He reachedthe end of the tunnel and peered out through the "door" he had made inthe crust.
From his position he could see nothing--nothing but the endless sweepof the Barren and his old trail leading up to the snow dune. The muzzleof 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 spokenloudly or threateningly, but Philip felt in the words a cold andunexcited deadliness of purpose against which he knew that it would bemadness for him to fight. Bram had more than the bad man's ordinarydrop on him. In his wolves he possessed not only an advantage but acertainty. If Philip had doubted this, as he waited for another momentwith the muzzle of his revolver close to the opening, his uncertaintywas swept away by the appearance thirty feet in front of his tunnel ofthree of Bram's wolves. They were giants of their kind, and as thethree faced his refuge he could see the snarling gleam of their longfangs. A fourth and a fifth joined them, and after that they camewithin his vision in twos and threes until a score of them were huddledstraight in front of him. They were restless and whining, and the snapof their jaws was like the clicking of castanets. He caught the glareof twenty pairs of eyes fastened on his retreat and involuntarily heshrank back that they might not see him. He knew that it was Bram whowas holding them back, and yet he had heard no word, no command. Evenas he stared a long snakelike shadow uncurled itself swiftly in the airand the twenty foot lash of Bram's caribou-gut whip cracked viciouslyover the heads of the pack. At the warning of the whip the horde ofbeasts scattered, and Bram's voice came again.
"M'sieu--ze revolv'--ze knife--or I loose ze wolve--"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Philip's revolver flewthrough the opening and dropped in the snow.
"There it is, old man," announced Philip. "And here comes the knife."
His sheath-knife followed the revolver.
"Shall I throw out my bed?" he asked.
He was making a tremendous effort to appear cheerful. But he could notforget that last night he had shot at Bram, and that it was not at allunreasonable to suppose that Bram might knock his brains out when hestuck his head out of the hole. The fact that Bram made no answer tohis question about the bed did not add to his assurance. He repeatedthe question, louder than before, and still there was no answer. In theface of his perplexity he could not repress a grim chuckle as he rolledup his blankets. What a report he would have for the Department--if helived to make it! On paper there would be a good deal of comedy aboutit--this burrowing oneself up like a hibernating woodchuck, and thenbeing invited out to breakfast by a man with a club and a pack ofbrutes with fangs that had gleamed at him like ivory stilettos. He hadguessed at the club, and a moment later as he thrust his sleeping-bagout through the opening he saw that it was quite obviously a correctone. Bram was possessing himself of the revolver and the knife. In thesame hand he held his whip and a club.
Seizing the opportunity, Philip followed his bed quickly, and when Bramfaced him he was standing on his feet outside the drift.
"Morning, Bram!"
His greeting was drowned in a chorus of fierce snarls that made hisblood curdle even as he tried to hide from Bram any visible betrayal ofthe fact that every nerve up and down his spine was pricking him, likea pin. From Bram's throat there shot forth at the pack a sudden sharpclack of Eskimo, and with it the long whip snapped in their faces again.
Then he looked steadily at his prisoner. For the first time Philip sawthe look which he dreaded darkening his face. A greenish fire burned inthe strange eyes. The thick lips were set tightly, the flat nose seemedflatter, and with a shiver Philip noticed Bram's huge, naked handgripping his club until the cords stood out like babiche thongs underthe skin. In that moment he was ready to kill. A wrong word, a wrongact, and Philip knew that the end was inevitable.
In the same thick guttural voice which he used in his half-breed patoishe demanded,
"Why you shoot--las' night!"
"Because I wanted to talk with you, Bram," replied Philip calmly. "Ididn't shoot to hit you. I fired over your head."
"You want--talk," said Bram, speaking as if each word cost him acertain amount of effort. "Why--talk?"
"I wanted to ask you why it was that you killed a man down in the God'sLake country."
The words were out before Philip could stop them. A growl rose inBram's chest. It was like the growl of a beast. The greenish fire inhis eyes grew brighter.
"Ze poleece," he said. "KA, ze poleece--like kam from Churchill an' zewolve keel!"
Philip's hand was fumbling in his pocket. The wolves were behind himand he dared not turn to look. It was their ominous silence that filledhim with dread. They were waiting--watching--their animal instincttelling them that the command for which they yearned was alreadytrembling on the thick lips of their master. The revolver and th
e knifedropped from Bram's hand. He held only the whip and the club.
Philip drew forth the wallet.
"You lost something--when you camped that night near Pierre Breault'scabin," he said, and his own voice seemed strange and thick to him."I've followed you--to give it back. I could have killed you if I hadwanted to--when I fired over your head. But I wanted to stop you. Iwanted to give you--this."
He held out to Bram the golden snare.
The Golden Snare Page 7