broader, Ms eyes like a Chinaman's, and writers of human history call
him Eskimo.

The Johnsons, once they started, did not stop at any particular point.
There was probably only one Johnson in the beginning of that hundred
year story which was to have its finality in Bram. But there were more
in time. The Johnson blood mixed itself first with the Chippewa, and
then with the Cree--and the Cree-Chippewa Johnson blood, when at last
it reached the Eskimo, had in it also a strain of Chippewyan. It is
curious how the name itself lived. Johnson! One entered a tepee or a
cabin expecting to find there a white man, and was startled when he
discovered the truth.

Bram, after nearly a century of this intermixing of bloods, was a
throwback--a white man, so far as his skin and his hair and his eyes
went. In other physical ways he held to the type of his half-strain
Eskimo mother, except in size. He was six feet, and a giant in
strength. His face was broad, his cheek-bones high, his lips thick, his
nose flat. And he was WHITE. 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. For two years the Police lost
track of him. That was when Bram was buried in the heart of the Sulphur
Country east of the Great Bear. After that the Police kept an even
closer watch on him, waiting, and expecting something to happen. And
then--the something came. Bram killed a man. He did it so neatly and so
easily, breaking him as he might have broken a stick, that he was well
off in flight before it was discovered that his victim was dead. The
next tragedy followed quickly--a fortnight later, when Corporal Lee and
a private from the Fort Churchill barracks closed in on him out on the
edge of the Barren. Bram didn't fire a shot. They could hear his great