It'll be a quick, easy way, and we'll settle it
with our revolvers. Going to shoot to kill?"
"No, if I can help it. In the excitement a shot may kill, but I want to
take you back alive, so I'll wing you once or twice first."
"I always shoot to kill," replied DeBar, without lifting his head. "Any
word you'd like to have sent home, Phil?"
In the other's silence DeBar looked up.
"I mean it," he said, in a low earnest voice. "Even from your point of
view it might happen, Phil, and you've got friends somewhere. It
anything should happen to me you'll find a letter in my pocket. I want
you to write to--to her--an' tell her I died in--an accident. Will you?"
"Yes," replied Philip. "As for me, you'll find addresses in my pocket,
too. Let's shake!"
Over the stove they gripped hands.
"My eyes hurt," said DeBar. "It's the snow and wind, I guess. Do you
mind a little sleep--after we eat? I haven't slept a wink in three days
and nights."
"Sleep until you're ready," urged Philip. "I don't want to fight bad
eyes."
They ate, mostly in silence, and when the meal was done Philip carefully
cleaned his revolver and oiled it with bear grease, which he found in a
bottle on the shelf.
DeBar watched him as he wiped his weapon and saw that Philip lubricated
each of the five cartridges which he put in the chamber.
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