Both men were traveling light.

Philip had even strapped his carbine and small emergency bag to the toboggan, and carried only his service revolver at his belt.

It was one o'clock and the last slanting beams of the winter sun, heatless and only cheering to the eye, were fast dying away before the first dull gray approach of desolate gloom which precedes for a few hours the northern night.

As the black forest grew more and more somber about them, he looked over the grayish yellow back of the tugging huskies at the silent Indian striding over the outlaw's trail, and a slight shiver passed through him, a shiver that was neither of cold nor fear, yet which was accompanied by an oppression which it was hard for him to shake off.

Deep down in his heart Philip had painted a picture of William DeBar--of the man--and it was a picture to his liking.