In that moment of terrible shock--in the one moment when it seemed to
him as though no other woman in the world could have worn that golden
tress of hair but Isobel, Philip had stopped his horse, and his face had
gone as white as death. With a tremendous effort he recovered himself,
and saw Billinger staring at him as though the hot sun had for an
instant blinded him of reason. But the lock of hair still rippled and
shone before his eyes. Only twice in his life could he remember having
seen hair just like this--that peculiar reddish gold that changed its
lights with every passing cloud.
He had seen it on Isobel, in the firelight of the camp, at Lac Bain--and
he had seen it crowning the beautiful head of the girl back home, the
girl of the hyacinth letter. He struggled to calm himself under the
questioning gaze of Billinger's eyes. He laughed, wound the hair
carefully about his fingers, and put it in his coat pocket.
“You--you have given me a shock,” he said, straining to keep his voice
even. “I'm glad you had foresight enough to keep the lock of hair,
Billinger. At first--I jumped to a conclusion. But there's only one
chance in a hundred that I'm right. If I should be right--I know
the girl. Do you understand--why it startled me? Now for the chase,
Billinger. Lead away!”
Leaning low over their saddles they galloped into the North. For a time
the trail of the five outlaws was so distinct that they rode at a speed
which lathered their horses. Then the short prairie grass, crisp and
sun-dried, gave place to a broad sweep of wire grass above which the
yellow backs of coyotes were visible as now and then they bobbed up in
their quick, short leaps to look over the top of it. In this brown sea
all trace of the trail was lost from the saddle and both men dismounted.
Foot by foot they followed the faint signs ahead of them, while
over their backs the sun rose higher and began to burn with the dry
furnace-like heat that had scorched the prairies. So slow was their
progress that after a time Billinger straightened himself with a nervous
curse. The perspiration was running in dirty streaks down his face.
Before he had spoken Philip read the fear that was in his eyes and tried
to hide the reflection of it in his own. It was too hot to smoke, but he
drew forth a case of cigarettes and offered one to Billinger. The agent
accepted one, and both lighted in silence, eying each other over their
matches.
“Won't do,” said Billinger, spitting on his match before tossing it
among the grass. “It's ten miles across this wire-dip, and we won't make
it until night--it we make it at all. I've got an idea. You're a better
trailer than I am, so you follow this through. I'll ride on and see if
I can pick up the trail somewhere in the edge of the clean prairie. What
do you say?”
“Good!” said Philip. “I believe you can do it.”
Billinger leaped into his saddle and was off at a gallop. Philip was
almost eagerly anxious for this opportunity, and scarcely had the other
gone when he drew the linen handkerchief and the crumpled lock of hair
from his pocket and held them in his hand as he looked after the agent.
Then, slowly, he raised the handkerchief to his face. For a full minute
he stood with the dainty fabric pressed to his lips and nose. Back
there--when he had first held the handkerchief--he thought that he
imagined. But now he was sure. Faintly the bit of soiled fabric breathed
to him the sweet scent of hyacinth. His eyes shone in an eager bloodshot
glare as he watched Billinger disappear over a roll in the prairie a
mile away.
“Making a fool of yourself again,” he muttered, again winding the golden
hair about his fingers. “There are other women in the world who use
hyacinth besides her. And there are other women with red-gold hair--and
pretty, pretty as Billinger says she was, aren't there?”
He laughed, but there was something uneasy and unnatural in the laugh.
In spite of his efforts to argue the absurdity of his thoughts, he could
feel that he was trembling in every nerve of his body. And twice--three
times he held the handkerchief to his face before he reached the rise
in the prairie over which Billinger had disappeared. The agent had been
gone an hour when the trail of the outlaws brought him to the knoll.
From the top of it Philip looked over the prairie to the North.
A horseman was galloping toward him. He knew that it was Billinger, and
stood up in his stirrups so that the other would see him. Half a mile
away the agent stopped and Philip could see him signaling frantically
with both arms. Five minutes later Philip rode up to him. Billinger's
horse was half-winded, and in Billinger's face there were tense lines of
excitement.
“There's some one out on the prairie,” he called, as Philip reined in.
“I couldn't make out a horse, but there's a man in the trail beyond the
second ridge. I believe they've stopped to water their horses and feed
at a little lake just this side of the rough country.”
Billinger had loosened his carbine, and was examining the breech. He
glanced anxiously at Philip's empty saddle-straps.
“It'll be long-range shooting, if they've got guns,” he said. “Sorry I
couldn't find a gun for you.”
Philip drew one of his two long-barreled service revolvers and set his
lips in a grim and reassuring smile as he followed the bobbing head of a
coyote some distance away.
“We're not considered proficient in the service unless we can make use
of these things at two hundred yards, Billinger,” he replied, replacing
the weapon in its holster. “If it's a running fight I'd rather have 'em
than a carbine. If it isn't a running fight we'll come in close.”
Philip looked at the agent as they galloped side by side through the
long grass, and Billinger looked at him. In the face of each there was
something which gave the other assurance. For the first time it struck
Philip that his companion was something more than an operator at Bleak
House Station. He was a fighter. He was a man of the stamp needed down
at Headquarters, and he was bound to tell him so before this affair was
over. He was thinking of it when they came to the second ridge.
Five miles to the north and west loomed the black line of the Bad Lands.
To a tenderfoot they would not have appeared to be more than a mile
distant. Midway in the prairie between there toiled a human figure.
Even at that distance Philip and Billinger could see that it was moving,
though with a slowness that puzzled them. For several minutes they stood
breathing their horses, their eyes glued on the object ahead of them.
Twice in a space of a hundred yards it seemed to stumble and fall. The
second time that it rose Philip knew that it was standing motionless.
Then it disappeared again. He stared until the rolling heat waves of the
blistered prairie stung his eyes. The object did not rise. Blinking, he
looked at Billinger, and through the sweat and grime of the other's
face he saw the question that was on his own lips. Without a word they
spurred down the slope, and after a time Billinger swept to the right
and Philip to the left, each with his eyes searching the low prairie
grass. The agent saw the thing first, still a hundred yards to his
right. He was off his horse when Philip whirled at his shout and
galloped across to him.
“It's her--the girl I found in the wreck,” he said. Something seemed
to be choking him. His neck muscles twitched and his long, lean fingers
were digging into his own flesh.
In an instant Philip was on his feet. He saw nothing of the girl's face,
hidden under a mass of hair in which the sun burned like golden fire. He
saw nothing but the crumpled, lifeless form, smothered under the shining
mass, and yet in this moment he knew. With a fierce cry he dropped
upon his knees and drew away the girl's hair until her lovely face lay
revealed to him in terrible pallor and stillness, and as Billinger stood
there, tense and staring, he caught that face close to his breast, and
began talking to it as though he had gone “Isobel--Isobel--Isobel--” he
moaned. “My God, my Isobel--”
He had repeated the name a hundred times, when Billinger, who began to
understand, put his hand on Philip's shoulder and gave him his water
canteen.
“She's not dead, man,” he said, as Philip's red eyes glared up at him.
“Here--water.”
“My God--it's strange,” almost moaned Philip. “Billinger--you
understand--she's going to be my wife--if she lives--”
That was all of the story he told, but Billinger knew what those few
words meant.
“She's going to live,” he said. “See--there's color coming back into
her face--she's breathing.” He bathed her face in water, and placed the
canteen to her lips.
A moment later Philip bent down and kissed her. “Isobel--my
sweetheart--” he whispered.
“We must hurry with her to the water hole,” said Billinger, laying a
sympathetic hand on Philip's shoulder. “It's the sun. Thank God, nothing
has happened to her, Steele. It's the sun--this terrible heat--”
He almost pulled Philip to his feet, and when he had mounted Billinger
lifted the girl very gently and gave her to him.
Then, with the agent leading in the trail of the outlaws, they set off
at a walk through the sickening sun-glare for the water hole in the edge
of the Bad Lands.