had loaded his meat, and with his pack had struck out straight
north over the Barren. Every wolf was in harness, and Bram rode on
the sledge.

Philip drew a deep breath. He was learning new things about Bram
Johnson. First he assured himself that Bram was not afraid, and
that his disappearance could not be called a flight. If fear of
capture had possessed him he would not have returned for his meat.
Suddenly he recalled Pierre Breault's story of how Bram had
carried off the haunches of a bull upon his shoulders as easily as
a child might have carried a toy gun, and he wondered why Bram--
instead of returning for the meat this night--had not carried the
meat to his sledge. It would have saved time and distance. He was
beginning to give Bram credit for a deeply mysterious strategy.
There was some definite reason why he had not made an attack with
his wolves that night. There was a reason for the wide detour
around the point of timber, and there was a still more
inexplicable reason why he had come back with his sledge for the
meat, instead of carrying his meat to the sledge. The caribou
haunch had not weighed more than sixty or seventy pounds, which
was scarcely half a burden for Bram's powerful shoulders.

In the edge of the timber, where he could secure wood for his
fire, Philip began to prepare. He cooked food for six days. Three
days he would follow Bram out into that unmapped and treeless
space--the Great Barren. Beyond that it would be impossible to go
without dogs or sledge. Three days out, and three days back--and
even at that he would be playing a thrilling game with death. In
the heart of the Barren a menace greater than Bram and his wolves
would be impending. It was storm.