His emergency pouch was on the sledge, and in that pouch was his waterproof box of matches! He ran back to the edge of broken ice, unconscious that he was almost sobbing in his despair.

There was no sign of the sledge, no sound of the dogs, who might still be struggling in their traces.

They were gone--everything--food, fire, life itself.

He dug out his flint and steel from the bottom of a stiffening pocket and knelt beside the bark, striking them again and again, yet knowing that his efforts were futile.
He continued to strike until his hands were purple and numb and his freezing clothes almost shackled him to the ground.
"Good God!" he breathed.
He rose slowly, with a long, shuddering breath and turned his eyes to where the outlaw's trail swung from the lake into the North.

Even in that moment, as the blood in his veins seemed congealing with the icy chill of death, the irony of the situation was not lost upon Philip.
"It's the law versus God, Billy," he chattered, as if DeBar stood before him.