"Why don't you kill me--here--now-while I'm sitting helpless beside you,
and you've a knife in your belt?"
DeBar lifted his head slowly and looked with astonishment into his
companion's face.
"I'm not a murderer!" he said.
"But you've killed other men," persisted Philip.
"Three, besides those we hung," replied DeBar calmly. "One at Moose
Factory, when I tried to help John, and the other two up here. They were
like you--hunting me down, and I killed 'em in fair fight. Was that
murder? Should I stand by and be shot like an animal just because it's
the law that's doing it? Would you?"
He rose without waiting for an answer and felt of the clothes beside the
fire.
"Dry enough," he said. "Put 'em on and we'll be hiking."
Philip dressed, and looked at his compass.
"Still north?" he asked. "Chippewayan is south and west."
"North," said DeBar. "I know of a breed who lives on Red Porcupine
Creek, which runs into the Slave. If we can find him we'll get grub, and
if we don't--"
He laughed openly into the other's face.
"We won't fight," said Philip, understanding him.
"No, we won't fight, but we'll wrap up in the same blankets, and die,
with Woonga, there, keeping our backs warm until the last. Eh, Woonga,
will you do that?"
He turned cheerily to the dog, and Woonga rose slowly and with
unmistakable stiffness of limb, and was fastened in the sledge traces.
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