one o'clock
It was less than two hours later when Philip and the Chippewayan set off into the western forests , the Indian ahead and Philip behind , with the dogs and sledge between them . Both men were traveling light . Philip had even strapped his carbine and small emergency bag to the toboggan , and carried only his service revolver at his belt . It was one o'clock and the last slanting beams of the winter sun , heatless and only cheering to the eye , were fast dying away before the first dull gray approach of desolate gloom which precedes for a few hours the northern night . As the black forest grew more and more somber about them , he looked over the grayish yellow back of the tugging huskies at the silent Indian striding over the outlaw 's trail , and a slight shiver passed through him , a shiver that was neither of cold nor fear , yet which was accompanied by an oppression which it was hard for him to shake off . Deep down in his heart Philip had painted a picture of William DeBar -- of the man -- and it was a picture to his liking . Such men he would like to know and to call his friends .