In his voice there was a thrill of triumph.  Brokaw’s hands were clenched, as if some one had threatened to strike him.

“You mean—­” he gasped.

“Just this,” interrupted Billy, and his voice was harder than Brokaw’s now.  “The God you used to pray to when you was a kid has given me a choice, Brokaw, an’ I’m going to take it.  If we stay by this fire, an’ keep it up, we won’t die of cold, but of starvation.  We’ll be dead before we get half way to Thoreau’s.  There’s an Indian shack that we could make, but you’ll never find it—­not unless you unlock these irons and give me that revolver at your belt.  Then I’ll take you over there as my prisoner.  That’ll give me another chance for South America—­an’ the kid an’ home.”  Brokaw was buttoning the thick collar of his shirt close up about his neck.  On his face, too, there came for a moment a grim and determined smile.

“Come on,” he said, “we’ll make Thoreau’s or die.”

“Sure,” said Billy, stepping quickly to his side.  “I suppose I might lie down in the snow, an’ refuse to budge.  I’d win my game then, wouldn’t I?  But we’ll play it—­on the square.  It’s Thoreau’s, or die.  And it’s up to you to find Thoreau’s.”

He looked back over his shoulder at the burning cabin as they entered the edge of the forest, and in the gray darkness that was preceding dawn he smiled to himself.  Two miles to the south, in a thick swamp, was Indian Joe’s cabin.  They could have made it easily.  On their way to Thoreau’s they would pass within a mile of it.  But Brokaw would never know.  And they would never reach Thoreau’s.  Billy knew that.  He looked at the man hunter as he broke trail ahead of him—­at the pugnacious hunch of his shoulders, his long stride, the determined clench of his hands, and wondered what the soul and the heart of a man like this must be, who in such an hour would not trade life for life.  For almost three-quarters of an hour Brokaw did not utter a word.  The storm had broke.  Above the spruce tops the sky began to clear.  Day came slowly.  And it was growing steadily colder.  The swing of Brokaw’a arms and shoulders kept the blood in them circulating, while Billy’s manacled wrists held a part of his body almost rigid.  He knew that his hands were already frozen.  His arms were numb, and when at last Brokaw paused for a moment on the edge of a frozen stream Billy thrust out his hands, and clanked the steel rings.

“It must be getting colder,” he said.  “Look at that.”

The cold steel had seared his wrists like hot iron, and had pulled off patches of skin and flesh.  Brokaw looked, and hunched his shoulders.  His lips were blue.  His cheeks, ears, and nose were frost-bitten.  There was a curious thickness in his voice when he spoke.

“Thoreau lives on this creek,” he said.  “How much farther is it?”

“Fifteen or sixteen miles,” replied Billy.  “You’ll last just about five, Brokaw.  I won’t last that long unless you take these things off and give me the use of my arms.”