“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.