He saw the triumph in DeBar's eyes, and with a last supreme effort drew back his arm and sent a terrific short-arm punch into the other's stomach.
The grip at his throat relaxed.

A second, a third, and a fourth blow, his arm traveling swiftly in and out, like a piston-rod, and the triumph in DeBar's eyes was replaced by a look of agony.

The fingers at his throat loosened still more, and with a sudden movement Philip freed himself and sprang back a step to gather force for the final blow.
The move was fatal.

Behind him his heel caught in a snow-smothered log and he pitched backward with DeBar on top of him.
Again the iron fingers burned at his throat.

But this time he made no resistance, and after a moment the outlaw rose to his feet and stared down into the white, still face half buried in the snow.