That was the shocking thing about it all.
Even his hair was a reddish blonde, wild and coarse and ragged like a lion's mane, and his eyes were sometimes of a curious blue, and at others--when he was angered--green like a cat's at night-time.
No man knew Bram for a friend.

He was a mystery.

He never remained at a post longer than was necessary to exchange his furs for supplies, and it might be months or even years before he returned to that particular post again.

He was ceaselessly wandering.

More or less the Royal Northwest Mounted Police kept track of him, and in many reports of faraway patrols filed at Headquarters there are the laconic words, "We saw Bram and his wolves traveling northward" or "Bram and his wolves passed us"-- always Bram AND HIS WOLVES.