od, and I've halt
a notion He believes a little bit in me, in spite of the laws made down
in Ottawa."

The cabin loomed up amid a shelter of spruce like a black shadow, and
when they climbed up the bank to it they found the snow drifted high
under the window and against the door.

"He's gone--Pierre, I mean," said DeBar over his shoulder as he kicked
the snow away. "He hasn't come back from New Year's at Fort Smith."

The door had no lock or bolt, and they entered. It was yet too dark for
them to see distinctly, and DeBar struck a match. On the table was a tin
oil lamp, which he lighted. It revealed a neatly kept interior about a
dozen feet square, with two bunks, several chairs, a table, and a sheet
iron stove behind which was piled a supply of wood. DeBar pointed to a
shelf on which were a number of tin boxes, their covers weighted down by
chunks of wood.

"Grub!" he said.

And Philip, pointing to the wood, added, "Fire--fire and grub."

There was something in his voice which the other could not fail to
understand, and there was an uncomfortable silence as Philip put fuel
into the stove and DeBar searched among the food cans.

"Here's bannock and cooked meat--frozen," he said, "and beans."

He placed tins of each on the stove and then sat down beside the roaring
fire, which was already beginning to diffuse a heat. He held out his
twisted and knotted hands, blue and shaking with cold, and looked up at
Philip, who stood opposite him.

He spoke no words, and yet there was something in his eyes which made
the latter cry out softly, and with a feeling which he tried to hide:
"DeBar, I wish to God it was over!"

"So do I," said DeBar.

He rubbed his hands and twisted them until the knuckles cracked.

"I'm not afraid and I know that you're not, Phil," he went on, with his
eyes on the top of the stove, "but I wish it was over, just the same.
Somehow I'd a'most rather stay up here another year or two than--kill
you."

"Kill me!" exclaimed Philip, the old fire leaping back into his veins.

DeBar's quiet voice, his extraordinary self-confidence, sent a flush of
anger into Philip's face.

"You're talking to me again as if I were a child, DeBar. My instructions
were to bring you back, dead or alive--and I'm going to!"

"We won't quarrel about it, Phil," replied the outlaw as quietly as
before. "Only I wish it wasn't you I'm going to fight. I'd rather kill
half-a-dozen like the others than you."

"I see," said