s Lake, at Lac Seul,
and over on the Mackenzie--and never have I seen hair on a woman like
that."

"And Bram has never been out of the northland, never farther south than
Fort Chippewyan that we know of," said Philip. "It makes one shiver,
eh, Pierre? It makes one think of--WHAT? Can't you answer? Isn't it in
your mind?"

French and Cree were mixed half and half in Pierre's blood. The pupils
of his eyes dilated as he met Philip's steady gaze.

"It makes one think," he replied uneasily, "of the chasse-galere and
the loup-garou, and--and--almost makes one believe. I am not
superstitious, M'sieu--non--non--I am not superstitious," he cried
still more uneasily. "But many strange things are told about Bram and
his wolves;--that he has sold his soul to the devil, and can travel
through the air, and that he can change himself into the form of a wolf
at will. There are those who have heard him singing the Chanson de
Voyageur to the howling of his wolves away up in the sky. I have seen
them, and talked with them, and over on the McLeod I saw a whole tribe
making incantation because they had seen Bram and his wolves building
themselves a conjuror's house in the heart of a thunder-cloud. So--is
it strange that he should snare rabbits with, a woman's hair?"

"And change black into the color of the sun?" added Philip, falling
purposely into the other's humor.

"If the rest is true--"

Pierre did not finish. He caught himself, swallowing hard, as though a
lump had risen in his throat, and for a moment or two Philip saw him
fighting with himself, struggling with the age-old superstitions which
had flared up for an instant like a powder-flash. His jaws tightened,
and he threw back his head.

"But those stories are NOT true, M'sieu," he added in a repressed
voice. "That is why I showed you the snare. Bram Johnson is not dead.
He is alive. And there is a woman with him, or--"

"Or--"

The same thought was in their eyes again. And again neither gave voice
to it. Carefully Philip was gathering up the strands of hair, winding
them about his forefinger, and placing them afterward in a leather
wallet which he took from his pocket. Then, quite casually, he loaded
his pipe and lighted it. He went to the door, opened it, and for a few
moments stood listening to the screech of the wind over the Barren.
Pierre, still seated at the table, watched him attentively. Philip's
mind was made up when he closed the door and faced the half-breed