It was a woman's letter--and he read it now with bowed lead, a letter of infinite faith, and hope, and love, and when once more he turned toward Philip his face was filled with the flush of a great happiness.
"Mebby you don't just understand, Phil," he whispered, as if the other were listening to him.

"I'm going to leave this." With the stub of a pencil he scribbled a few words at the bottom of the crumpled letter.
He wrote in a crude, awkward hand: You'd won if it hadn't been for the rock.

But I guess mebby that it was God who put the rock there, Phil.

While you was asleep I took the bullets out of your cartridges and put in damp-paper, for I didn't want to see any harm done with the guns.

I didn't shoot to hit you, and after all, I'm glad it was the rock that hurt you instead of me.
He leaned over the cot to assure himself that Philip's breath was coming steadier and stronger, and then laid the letter on the young man's breast.
Five minutes later he was plodding steadily ahead of his big Mackenzie hound into the peopleless barrens to the south and west.
And still later Philip opened his eyes and saw what DeBar had left for him.