xamined the trail.
It was old. The frost had hardened in the huge footprints of DeBar's
big hound; it had built a webby film over the square impressions of his
snow-shoe thongs. But what of that? Might not the trail still be old,
and DeBar a few hundred yards ahead of him, waiting--watching?

He went back to the sledge and unstrapped his carbine. In a moment the
first picture, the first sympathy, was gone. It was not the law which
DeBar was fighting now. It was himself. He walked ahead of the Indian,
alert, listening and prepared. The crackling of a frost-bitten tree
startled him into stopping; the snapping of a twig under its weight
of ice and snow sent strange thrills through him which left him almost
sweating. The sounds were repeated again and again as they advanced,
until he became accustomed to them. Yet at each new sound his fingers
gripped tighter about his carbine and his heart beat a little faster.
Once or twice he spoke to the Indian, who understood no word he said and
remained silent. They built a fire and cooked their supper when it grew
too dark to travel.

Later, when it became lighter, they went on hour after hour, through the
night. At dawn the trail was still old. There were the same cobwebs of
frost, the same signs to show that DeBar and his Mackenzie hound had
preceded them a long time before. During the next day and night they
spent sixteen hours on their snow-shoes and the lacework of frost in
DeBar's trail grew thinner. The next day they traveled fourteen and the
next twelve, and there was no lacework of frost at all. There were hot
coals under the ashes of DeBar's fires. The crumbs of his bannock were
soft. The toes of his Mackenzie hound left warm, sharp imprints. It was
then that they came to the frozen water of the Chariot. The Chippewayan
turned back to Fond du Lac, and Philip went on alone, the two dogs
limping behind him with his outfit.

It was still early in the day when Philip crossed the river into the
barrens and with each step now his pulse beat faster. DeBar could not be
far ahead of him. He was sure of that. Very soon he must overtake him.
And then--there would be a fight. In the tense minutes that followed,
the vision of Isobel's beautiful face grew less and less distinct in his
mind. It was filled with something more grim, something that tightened
his muscles, kept him ceaselessly alert. He would come on DeBar--and
there would be a fight. DeBar would not be taken by surprise.