As he had been feverishly anxious to return into the North, so, now, he was anxious to have this affair with DeBar over with.  He lost no time at Lac Bain, writing his letter to Inspector MacGregor on the same day that he arrived.  Only two of the dogs which the Indian had brought into the post were fit to travel, and with these, and a light sledge on which he packed his equipment he set off alone for Fond du Lac.  A week later he reached the post.  He found Hutt, the factor, abed with a sprained knee, and the only other men at the post were three Chippewayans, who could neither talk nor understand English.

“DeBar is gone,” groaned Hutt, after Philip had made himself known.  “A rascal of a Frenchman came in last night on his way to the Grand Rapid, and this morning DeBar was missing.  I had the Chippewayans in, and they say he left early in the night with his sledge and one big bull of a hound that he hangs to like grim death.  I’d kill that damned Indian you came up with.  I believe it was he that told the Frenchman there was an officer on the way.”

“Is the Frenchman here?” asked Philip.

“Gone!” groaned Hutt again, turning his twisted knee.  “He left for the Grand Rapid this morning, and there isn’t another dog or sledge at the post.  This winter has been death on the dogs, and what few are left are out on the trap-lines.  DeBar knows you’re after him, sure as fate, and he’s taken a trail toward the Athabasca.  The best I can do is to let you have a Chippewayan who’ll go with you as far as the Chariot.  That’s the end of his territory, and what you’ll do after that God only knows.”

“I’ll take the chance,” said Philip.  “We’ll start after dinner.  I’ve got two dogs, a little lame, but even at that they’ll have DeBar’s outfit handicapped.”

It was less than two hours later when Philip and the Chippewayan set off into the western forests, the Indian ahead and Philip behind, with the dogs and sledge between them.  Both men were traveling light.  Philip had even strapped his carbine and small emergency bag to the toboggan, and carried only his service revolver at his belt.  It was one o’clock and the last slanting beams of the winter sun, heatless and only cheering to the eye, were fast dying away before the first dull gray approach of desolate gloom which precedes for a few hours the northern night.  As the black forest grew more and more somber about them, he looked over the grayish yellow back of the tugging huskies at the silent Indian striding over the outlaw’s trail, and a slight shiver passed through him, a shiver that was neither of cold nor fear, yet which was accompanied by an oppression which it was hard for him to shake off.  Deep down in his heart Philip had painted a picture of William DeBar—­of the man—­and it was a picture to his liking.  Such men he would like to know and to call his friends.  But now the deepening gloom, the darkening of the sky above, the gray picture ahead of him—­the Chippewayan,