could not happen. And yet he knew that it COULD happen. A woman up
there--with Bram! A woman with hair like spun gold--and that giant
half-mad enormity of a man!

He clenched his hands at the picture his excited brain was
painting for him. He wanted to jump from the sledge, overtake
Bram, and demand the truth from him. He was calm enough to realize
the absurdity of such action. Upon his own strategy depended now
whatever answer he might make to the message chance had sent to
him through the golden snare.

For an hour he marked Bram's course by his compass. It was
straight north. Then Bram changed the manner of his progress by
riding in a standing position behind Philip. With his long whip he
urged on the pack until they were galloping over the frozen level
of the plain at a speed that must have exceeded ten miles an hour.
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,