ere was a thrill of triumph. Brokaw's hands were
clenched, as if some one had threatened to strike him.

"You mean--" he gasped.

"Just this," interrupted Billy, and his voice was harder than Brokaw's
now. "The God you used to pray to when you was a kid has given me a
choice, Brokaw, an' I'm going to take it. If we stay by this fire, an'
keep it up, we won't die of cold, but of starvation. We'll be dead
before we get half way to Thoreau's. There's an Indian shack that we
could make, but you'll never find it--not unless you unlock these irons
and give me that revolver at your belt. Then I'll take you over there
as my prisoner. That'll give me another chance for South America--an'
the kid an' home." Brokaw was buttoning the thick collar of his shirt
close up about his neck. On his face, too, there came for a moment a
grim and determined smile.

"Come on," he said, "we'll make Thoreau's or die."

"Sure," said Billy, stepping quickly to his side. "I suppose I might
lie down in the snow, an' refuse to budge. I'd win my game then,
wouldn't I? But we'll play it--on the square. It's Thoreau's, or die.
And it's up to you to find Thoreau's."

He looked back over his shoulder at the burning cabin as they entered
the edge of the forest, and in the gray darkness that was preceding
dawn he smiled to himself. Two miles to the south, in a thick swamp,
was Indian Joe's cabin. They could have made it easily. On their way to
Thoreau's they would pass within a mile of it. But Brokaw would never
know. And they would never reach Thoreau's. Billy knew that. He looked
at the man hunter as he broke trail ahead of him--at the pugnacious
hunch of his shoulders, his long stride, the determined clench of his
hands, and wondered what the soul and the heart of a man like this must
be, who in such an hour would not trade life for life. For almost
three-quarters of an hour Brokaw did not utter a word. The storm had
broke. Above the spruce tops the sky began to clear. Day came slowly.
And it was growing steadily colder. The swing of Brokaw's arms and
shoulders kept the blood in them circulating, while Billy's manacled
wrists held a part of his body almost rigid. He knew that his hands
were already frozen. His arms were numb, and when at last Brokaw paused
for a moment on the edge of a frozen stream Billy thrust out his hands,
and clanked the steel rings.

"It must be getting colder," he said. "Look at that."

The cold steel had seared his wrists