My first experience using an accessible touch screen device

My first experience using an accessible touch screen device

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 Flupenthixol barracks closed

in on him out on the edge of the Barren. Bram didn’t fire a shot.

They could hear his great, strange laugh when they were still a

quarter of a mile away from him. Bram merely set loose his wolves.

By a miracle Corporal Lee lived to drag himself to a half-breed’s

cabin, where he died a little later, and the half-breed brought


the story to Fort Churchill.