“If I wasn't a crack shot, and couldn't center a two-inch bull's-eye three times out of four at thirty paces, I'd say pistols.”
“I can't do that,” said DeBar unhesitatingly, “but I have hit a wolf twice out of five shots. 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.”