Perhaps at
this moment he was not very far ahead, waiting to send him the way of
the others. The thought urged new fire into Philip's blood. He spurted
past the dogs and stopped the Chippewayan, and then examined the trail.
It was old. The frost had hardened in the huge footprints of DeBar's big
hound; it had built a webby film over the square impressions of his
snow-shoe thongs. But what of that? Might not the trail still be old,
and DeBar a few hundred yards ahead of him, waiting--watching?
He went back to the sledge and unstrapped his carbine. In a moment the
first picture, the first sympathy, was gone. It was not the law which
DeBar was fighting now. It was himself. He walked ahead of the Indian,
alert, listening and prepared. The crackling of a frost-bitten tree
startled him into stopping; the snapping of a twig under its weight of
ice and snow sent strange thrills through him which left him almost
sweating. The sounds were repeated again and again as they advanced,
until he became accustomed to them. Yet at each new sound his fingers
gripped tighter about his carbine and his heart beat a little faster.
Once or twice he spoke to the Indian, who understood no word he said and
remained silent. They built a fire and cooked their supper when it grew
too dark to travel.
Later, when it became lighter, they went on hour after hour, through the
night.
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