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,

“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.  Suddenly he reached out and caught Bram’s arm.  “Why the devil don’t you come across!” he demanded.  “Why don’t you talk?  I’m not after you—­now.  The Police think you are dead, and I don’t believe I’d tip them off even if I had a chance.  Why not be human?  Where are we going?  And what in thunder—­”

He did not finish.  To his amazement Bram flung back his head, opened his great mouth, and laughed.  It was not a taunting laugh.  There was no humor in it.  The thing seemed beyond the control of even Bram himself, and Philip stood like one paralyzed as his companion turned quickly to the sledge and returned in a moment with the gun.  Under Philip’s eyes he opened the breech.  The chamber was empty.  Bram had placed in his way a temptation—­to test him!

There was saneness in that stratagem—­and yet as Philip looked at the man now his last doubt was gone.  Bram Johnson was hovering on the borderland of madness.

Replacing the gun on the sledge, Bram began hacking off chunks of the caribou flesh with a big knife.  Evidently he had decided that it was time for himself and his pack to breakfast.  To each of the wolves he gave a portion, after which he seated himself on the sledge and began devouring a slice of the raw meat.  He had left the blade of his knife buried in the carcass—­an invitation for Philip to help himself.  Philip seated himself near Bram and opened his pack.  Purposely he began placing his food between them, so that the other might help himself if he so desired.  Bram’s jaws ceased their crunching.  For a moment Philip did not look up.  When he did he was startled.  Bram’s eyes were blazing with a red fire.  He was staring at the cooked food.  Never had Philip seen such a look in a human face before.