his great voice had been heard rising above the howl of his pack on still winter nights, and that half-breeds and Indians had come upon his trails, here and there—­at widely divergent places.  It was the French half-breed superstition of the chasse-galere that chiefly made them disbelieve, and the chasse-galere is a thing not to be laughed at in the northland.  It is composed of creatures who have sold their souls to the devil for the power of navigating the air, and there were those who swore with their hands on the crucifix of the Virgin that they had with their own eyes seen Bram and his wolves pursuing the shadowy forms of great beasts through the skies.

So the Police believed that Bram was dead; and Bram, meanwhile, keeping himself from all human eyes, was becoming more and more each day like the wolves who were his brothers.  But the white blood in a man dies hard, and always there flickered in the heart of Bram’s huge chest a great yearning.  It must at times have been worse than death—­that yearning to hear a human voice, to have a human creature to speak to, though never had he loved man or woman.  Which brings us at last to the final tremendous climax in Bram’s life—­to the girl, and the other man.

CHAPTER II

The other man was Raine—­Philip Raine.

To-night he sat in Pierre Breault’s cabin, with Pierre at the opposite side of the table between them, and the cabin’s sheet iron stove blazing red just beyond.  It was a terrible night outside.  Pierre, the fox hunter, had built his shack at the end of a long slim forefinger of scrub spruce that reached out into the Barren, and to-night the wind was wailing and moaning over the open spaces in a way that made Raine shiver.  Close to the east was Hudson’s Bay—­so close that a few moments before when Raine had opened the cabin door there came to him the low, never-ceasing thunder of the under-currents fighting their way down through the Roes Welcome from the Arctic Ocean, broken now and then by a growling roar as the giant forces sent a crack, like a great knife, through one of the frozen mountains.  Westward from Pierre’s cabin there stretched the lifeless Barren, illimitable and void, without rock or bush, and overhung at day by a sky that always made Raine think of a terrible picture he had once seen of Dore’s “Inferno”—­a low, thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always threatening to pitch itself down in terrific avalanches.  And at night, when the white foxes yapped, and the wind moaned—­

“As I have hope of paradise I swear that I saw him—­alive, M’sieu,” Pierre was saying again over the table.

Raine, of the Fort Churchill patrol of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, no longer smiled in disbelief.  He knew that Pierre Breault was a brave man, or he would not have perched himself alone out in the heart of the Barren to catch the white foxes; and he was not superstitious, like most of his kind, or the sobbing cries and strife of the everlasting night-winds would have driven him away.