His empty pistol dropped to the snow, and for a moment he stood rigid, with his face half turned to the gloomy sky, while a low cry of grief burst from Philip's lips.
In that momentary posture of DeBar he saw, not the effect of a wound only, but the grim, terrible rigidity of death.

He dropped his own weapon and ran forward, and in that instant DeBar leaped to meet him with the fierceness of a beast! It was a terrible bit of play on DeBar's part, and for a moment took Philip off his guard.

He stepped aside, and, with the cleverness of a trained boxer, he sent a straight cut to the outlaw's face as he closed in.

But the blow lacked force, and he staggered back under the other's weight, boiling with rage at the advantage which DeBar had taken of him.
The outlaw's hands gripped at his throat and his fingers sank into his neck like cords of steel.

With a choking gasp he clutched at DeBar's wrists, knowing that another minute--a half-minute of that death clutch would throttle him.