For the first time Philip saw the look which he dreaded darkening his face.

A greenish fire burned in the strange eyes.

The thick lips were set tightly, the flat nose seemed flatter, and with a shiver Philip noticed Bram's huge, naked hand gripping his club until the cords stood out like babiche thongs under the skin.

In that moment he was ready to kill.

A wrong word, a wrong act, and Philip knew that the end was inevitable.
In the same thick guttural voice which he used in his half-breed patois he demanded, "Why you shoot--las' night!" "Because I wanted to talk with you, Bram," replied Philip calmly.