He was like Pelletier, and through him he was entering upon a strange adventure which held for him already the thrill and suspense of an anticipation which he had never experienced in the game of man-hunting.
Had the golden snare been taken from the equation--had he not felt the thrill of it in his fingers and looked upon the warm fires of it as it lay unbound on Pierre Breault's table, his present relation with Bram Johnson he would have considered as a purely physical condition, and he might then have accepted the presence of the rifle there within his reach as a direct invitation from Providence.
As it was, he knew that the master of the wolves was speeding swiftly to the source of the golden snare.

From the moment he had seen the strange transformation it had worked in Bram that belief within him had become positive.

And now, as his eyes turned from the inspection of the sledge to Bram and his wolves, he wondered where the trail was taking him.

Was it possible that Bram was striking straight north for Coronation Gulf and the Eskimo?
He had noted that the polar bear skin was only slightly worn--that it had not long been taken from the back of the animal that had worn it.

He recalled what he could remember of his geography.