side. His empty
pistol dropped to the snow, and for a moment he stood rigid, with his
face half turned to the gloomy sky, while a low cry of grief burst from
Philip's lips.

In that momentary posture of DeBar he saw, not the effect of a wound
only, but the grim, terrible rigidity of death. He dropped his own
weapon and ran forward, and in that instant DeBar leaped to meet him
with the fierceness of a beast!

It was a terrible bit of play on DeBar's part, and for a moment took
Philip off his guard. He stepped aside, and, with the cleverness of a
trained boxer, he sent a straight cut to the outlaw's face as he closed
in. But the blow lacked force, and he staggered back under the other's
weight, boiling with rage at the advantage which DeBar had taken of him.

The outlaw's hands gripped at his throat and his fingers sank into his
neck like cords of steel. With a choking gasp he clutched at DeBar's
wrists, knowing that another minute--a half-minute of that death clutch
would throttle him. He saw the triumph in DeBar's eyes, and with a last
supreme effort drew back his arm and sent a terrific short-arm punch
into the other's stomach.

The grip at his throat relaxed. A second, a third, and a fourth blow,
his arm traveling swiftly in and out, like a piston-rod, and the triumph
in DeBar's eyes was replaced by a look of agony. The fingers at his
throat loosened still more, and with a sudden movement Philip freed
himself and sprang back a step to gather force for the final blow.

The move was fatal. Behind him his heel caught in a snow-smothered log
and he pitched backward with DeBar on top of him.

Again the iron fingers burned at his throat. But this time he made no
resistance, and after a moment the outlaw rose to his feet and stared
down into the white, still face half buried in the snow. Then he gently
lifted Philip's head in his arms. There was a crimson blotch in the snow
and close to it the black edge of a hidden rock.

As quickly as possible DeBar carried Philip into the cabin and placed
him on one of the cots. Then he gathered certain articles of food from
Pierre's stock and put them in his pack. He had carried the pack half
way to the door when he stopped, dropped his load gently to the floor,
and thrust a hand inside his coat pocket. From it he drew forth a
letter. It was a woman's letter--and he read it now with bowed lead,
a letter of infinite faith, and hope, and love, and when once more
he turned toward Ph