Seizing the opportunity, Philip followed his bed quickly, and when
Bram faced him he was standing on his feet outside the drift.

"Morning, Bram!"

His greeting was drowned in a chorus of fierce snarls that made
his blood curdle even as he tried to hide from Bram any visible
betrayal of the fact that every nerve up and down his spine was
pricking him. like a pin. From Bram's throat there shot forth at
the pack a sudden sharp clack 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
saw the look which he dreaded darkening his face. A greenish fire
burned in the strange eyes. The thick lips were set tightly, the
flat nose seemed flatter, and with a shiver Philip noticed Bram's
huge, naked hand gripping his club until the cords stood out like
babiche thongs under the skin. 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."