of his snow-shoe caught in a hummock of snow and ice.  For a flash it stopped him, and the moment’s pause was fatal.  Before he could throw himself forward on his face in a last effort to save himself, the ice gave way and he plunged through.  In his extremity he thought of DeBar, of possible help even from the outlaw, and a terrible cry for that help burst from his lips as he felt himself going.  The next instant he was sorry that he had shouted.  He was to his waist in water, but his feet were on bottom.  He saw now what had happened, that the surface of the water was a foot below the shell of ice, which was scarcely more than an inch in thickness.  It was not difficult for him to kick off his snow-shoes under the water, and he began breaking his way ashore.

Five minutes later he dragged himself out, stiff with the cold, his drenched clothing freezing as it came into contact with the air.  His first thought was of fire, and he ran up the shore, his teeth chattering, and began tearing off handfuls of bark from a birch.  Not until he was done and the bark was piled in a heap beside the tree did the full horror of his situation dawn upon him.  His emergency pouch was on the sledge, and in that pouch was his waterproof box of matches!

He ran back to the edge of broken ice, unconscious that he was almost sobbing in his despair.  There was no sign of the sledge, no sound of the dogs, who might still be struggling in their traces.  They were gone—­everything—­food, fire, life itself.  He dug out his flint and steel from the bottom of a stiffening pocket and knelt beside the bark, striking them again and again, yet knowing that his efforts were futile.  He continued to strike until his hands were purple and numb and his freezing clothes almost shackled him to the ground.

“Good God!” he breathed.

He rose slowly, with a long, shuddering breath and turned his eyes to where the outlaw’s trail swung from the lake into the North.  Even in that moment, as the blood in his veins seemed congealing with the icy chill of death, the irony of the situation was not lost upon Philip.

“It’s the law versus God, Billy,” he chattered, as if DeBar stood before him.  “The law wouldn’t vindicate itself back there—­ten years ago—­but I guess it’s doing it now.”

He dropped into DeBar’s trail and began to trot.

“At least it looks as if you’re on the side of the Mighty,” he continued.  “But we’ll see—­very soon—­Billy—­”

Ahead of him the trail ran up a ridge, broken and scattered with rocks and stunted scrub, and the sight of it gave him a little hope.  Hope died when he reached the top and stared out over a mile of lifeless barren.

“You’re my only chance.  Billy,” he shivered.  “Mebby, if you knew what had happened, you’d turn back and give me the loan of a match.”