Hunched over, with Isobel's head sheltered against his breast, Philip
rode a dozen paces behind the agent. It seemed as if the sun had
suddenly burst in molten fire upon the back of his neck, and for a time
it made him dizzy. His bridle reins hung loosely over the pommel. He
made no effort to guide his horse, which followed after Billinger's.
It was Billinger who brought him back to himself. The agent waited for
them, and when he swung over in one stirrup to look at the girl it was
the animal ferocity in his face, and not his words, that aroused Philip.
“She's coming to,” he said, straining to keep the tremble out of his
voice. “I don't believe she's much hurt. You take this canteen. I'm
going ahead.”
He gave Philip the water and leaned over again to gaze into the girl's
face.
“I don't believe she's much hurt,” he repeated in a hoarse, dry
whisper. “You can leave her at the water hole just beyond that hill off
there--and then you can follow me.”
Philip clutched the girl tighter to him as the agent rode off. He saw
the first faint flush returning into her cheeks, the reddening of her
lips, the gentle tremor of her silken lashes, and forgetful of all
else but her, he moaned her name, cried out his love for her, again and
again, even as her eyes opened and she stared up into the face of the
man who had come to her first at Lac Bain, and who had fought for her
there. For a breath or two the wonder of this thing that was happening
held her speechless and still lifeless, though her senses were adjusting
themselves with lightning swiftness. At first Philip had not seen her
open eyes, and he believed that she did not hear the words of love he
whispered in her hair. When he raised her face a little from his breast
she was looking at him with all the sweet sanity in the world.
A moment there was silence--a silence of even the breath in Philip's
body, the beating of his heart. His arms loosened a little. He drew
himself up rigid, and the girl lifted her head a trifle, so that their
eyes met squarely, and a world of question and understanding passed
between them in an instant. As swift as morning glow a flush mounted
into Isobel's face, then ebbed as swiftly, and Philip cried: “You were
hurt--hurt back there in the wreck. But you're safe now. The train was
wrecked by outlaws. We came out after them, and I--I found you--back
there on the prairie. You're safe now.”
His arms tightened about her again.
“You're all right now,” he repeated gently. He was not conscious of
the sobbing break in his voice, or of the great, throbbing love that
it breathed to her. He tried to speak calmly. “There's nothing
wrong--nothing. The heat made you sick. But you're all right now--”
From beyond the hill there came a sound that made him break off with a
sudden, quick breath. It was the sharp, stinging report of Billinger's
carbine! Once, twice, three times--and then there followed more distant
shots!
“He's come up with them!” he cried. The fury of fight, of desire for
vengeance, blazed anew in his face. There was pain in the grip of his
arm about the girl.
“Do you feel strong--strong enough to ride fast?” he asked. “There's
only one man with me, and there are five of them. It's murder to let him
fight it alone!”
“Yes--yes--” whispered the girl, her arms tightening round him. “Ride
fast--or put me off. I can follow--”
It was the first time that he had heard her voice since that last
evening up at Lac Bain, many months before, and the sound of it thrilled
him.
“Hold tight!” he breathed.
Like the wind they swept across the prairie and up the slope of the
hill. At the top Philip reined in. Three or four hundred yards distant
lay a thick clump of poplar trees and a thousand yards beyond that
the first black escarpments of the Bad Lands. In the space between a
horseman was galloping fiercely to the west. It was not Billinger. With
a quick movement Philip slipped the girl to the ground, and when she
sprang a step back, looking up at him in white terror, he had whipped
out one of his big service revolvers.
“There's a little lake over there among those trees,” he said. “Wait
there--until I come back!”
He raced down the slope--not to cut off the flying horseman--but toward
the clump of poplars. It was Billinger he was thinking of now. The agent
had fired three shots. There had followed other shots, not Billinger's,
and after that his carbine had remained silent. Billinger was among the
poplars. He was hurt or dead.
A well-worn trail, beaten down by transient rangerss big revolver
showing over his horse's ears. A hundred paces and the timber gave place
to a sandy dip, in the center of which was the water hole. The dip
was not more than an acre in extent. Up to his knees in the hole was
Billinger's riderless horse, and a little way up the sand was Billinger,
doubled over on his hands and knees beside two black objects that
Philip knew were men, stretched out like the dead back at the wreck.
Billinger's yellow-mustached face, pallid and twisted with pain, looked
over them as Philip galloped across the open and sprang out of his
saddle. With a terrible grimace he raised himself to his knees,
anticipating the question on Philip's lips.
“Nothing very bad, Steele,” he said. “One of the cusses pinked me
through the leg, and broke it, I guess. Painful, but not killing. Now
look at that!”
He nodded to the two men lying with their faces turned up to the hot
glare of the sun. One glance was enough to tell Philip that they were
dead, and that it was not Billinger who had killed them. Their bearded
faces had stiffened in the first agonies of death. Their breasts were
soaked with blood and their arms had been drawn down close to their
sides. As he looked the gleam of a metal buckle on the belt of the dead
man nearest him, caught Philip's eye. He took a step nearer to examine
it and then drew back. This bit of metal told the story--it bore the
letters R.N.W.M.P.
“I thought so,” he muttered with a slight catch in his voice. “You
didn't follow my good advice, Bucky Nome, and now you reap the harvest
of your folly. You have paid your debt to M'sieur Janette.”
Then Philip turned quickly and looked back at Billinger. In his hand the
agent held a paper package, which he had torn open. A second and similar
package lay in the sand in front of him.
“Currency!” he gasped. “It's a part of the money stolen from the express
car. The two hundred thousand was done up in five packages, and here
are two of 'em. Those men were dead when I came, and each had a package
lying on his breast. The fellow who pinked me was just leaving the dip!”
He dropped the package and began ripping down his trouser leg with a
knife. Philip dropped on his knees beside him, but Billinger motioned
him back.
“It's not bleeding bad,” he said. “I can fix it alone.”
“You're certain, Billinger--”
“Sure!” laughed the agent, though he was biting his lips until they were
necked with blood. “There's no need of you wasting time.”
For a moment Philip clutched the other's hand.
“We can't understand what this all means, old man--the carrying off
of--of Isobel--and the money here, but we'll find out soon!”
“Leave that confounded carbine,” exclaimed Billinger, as the other rose
to mount. “I did rotten work with it, and the other fellow fixed me with
a pistol. That's why I'm not bleeding very much.”
The outlaw had disappeared in the black edge of the Bad Lands when
Philip dashed up out of the dip into the plain. There was only one break
ahead of him, and toward this he urged his horse. In the entrance to the
break there was another sandy but waterless dip, and across this trailed
the hoof-prints of the outlaws' mounts, two at a walk--one at a gallop.
At one time, ages before, the break had been the outlet of a stream
pouring itself out between jagged and cavernous walls of rock from the
black heart of the upheaved country within. Now the bed of it was strewn
with broken trap and masses of boulders, cracked and dried by centuries
of blistering sun.
Philip's heart beat a little faster as he urged his horse ahead, and
not for an instant did his cocked revolver drop from its guard over the
mare's ears. He knew, if he overtook the outlaws in retreat, that there
would be a fight, and that it would be three against one. That was what
he hoped for. It was an ambush that he dreaded. He realized that if
the outlaws stopped and waited for him he would be at a terrible
disadvantage. In open fight he was confident His prairie-bred mount took
the rough trail at a swift canter, evading the boulders and knife-edged
trap in the same guarded manner that she galloped over prairie-dog and
badger holes out upon the plain. Twice in the ten minutes that followed
their entrance into the chasm Philip saw movement ahead of him, and each
time his revolver leaped to it. Once it was a wolf, again the swiftly
moving shadow of an eagle sweeping with spread wings between him and the
sun. He watched every concealment as he approached and half swung in his
saddle in passing, ready to fire.
A quick turn in the creek bed, where the rock walls hugged in close,
and his mare planted her forefeet with a suddenness that nearly sent him
over her head. Directly in their path, struggling to rise from among the
rocks, was a riderless horse. Two hundred yards beyond a man on foot was
running swiftly up the chasm, and a pistol shot beyond him two others on
horseback had turned and were waiting.
“Lord, if I had Billinger's gun now!” groaned Philip.
At the sound of his voice and the pressure of his heels in her flank
the mare vaulted over the animal in their path. The clatter of pursuing
hoofs stopped the runner for an instant, and in that same instant Philip
halted and rose in his stirrups to fire. As his finger pressed the
trigger there came to his ears a thrilling sound from behind
him--the sharp galloping beat of steel upon rock! Billinger was
coming--Billinger, with his broken leg and his carbine!
He could have shouted for joy as he fired.
Once--twice, and the outlaw was speeding ahead of him again, unhurt. A
third shot and the man stumbled among the rocks and disappeared. There
was no movement toward retreat on the part of the mounted men, and
Philip listened as he slipped in fresh cartridges. His horse was
panting; he could hear the excited and joyous tumult of his own
heart-but above it all he heard the steady beat, beat, beat of those
approaching hoofs! Billinger would be there soon--in time to use his
carbine at a deadly rate, while he got into closer quarters with his
revolver. God bless Billinger--and his broken leg!
He was filled with the craze of fight now and it found vent in a yell
of defiance as he spurred on toward the outlaws. They were not going to
run. They were waiting for him. He caught the gleam of the hot sun on
their revolvers, and saw that they meant business as they swung a little
apart to divide his fire. At one hundred yards Philip still held his gun
at his side; at sixty he pulled in his mare, flattened along her neck
like an Indian, his pistol arm swinging free between her ears. It was
one of the cleverest fighting tricks of the service, and he made the
movement as the guns of the others leaped before their faces. Two shots
sang over his head, so close that they would have swept him from the
saddle if he had been erect. In another moment the rockbound chasm
echoed with the steady roar of the three revolvers. In front of the
flaming end of his own gun Philip saw the outlaw on the right pitch
forward in his saddle and fall to the ground. He sent his last shot at
the man on the left and drew his second gun. Before he could fire again
his mare gave a tremendous lunge forward and stumbled upon her knees,
and with a gasp of horror Philip felt the saddle-girth slip as he swung
to free himself.
In the few terrible seconds that followed Philip was conscious of two
things--that death was very near, and that Billinger was a moment too
late. Less than ten paces away the outlaw was deliberately taking aim at
him, while his own pistol arm was pinned under the weight of his body.
For a breath he ceased to struggle, looking up in frozen calmness at the
man whose finger was already crooked to fire.
When a shot suddenly rang out, it passed through him in a lightning
flash that it was the shot intended for him. But he saw no movement in
the outlaw's arm; no smoke from his gun. For a moment the man sat rigid
and stiff in his saddle. Then his arm dropped. His revolver fell with
a clatter among the stones. He slipped sidewise with a low groan and
tumbled limp and lifeless almost at Philip's feet.
“Billinger--Billinger--”
The words came in a sob of joy from Philip's lips. Billinger had come in
time--just in time!
He struggled so that he could turn his head and look down the chasm.
Yes, there was Billinger--a hundred yards away, hunched over his saddle.
Billinger, with his broken leg, his magnificent courage, his--
With a wild cry Philip jerked himself free.
Good God, it was not Billinger! It was Isobel! She had slipped from the
saddle--he saw her as she tottered a few steps among the rocks and then
sank down among them. With his pistol still in his hand he ran back to
where Billinger's horse was standing. The girl was crumpled against the
side of a boulder, with her head in her arms--and she was crying. In an
instant he was beside her, and all that he had ever dreamed of, all that
he had ever hoped for, burst from his lips as he caught her and held
her close against his breast. Yet he never could have told what he said.
Only he knew that her arms were clasped about his neck, and that, as she
pressed her face against him, she sobbed over and over again something
about the old days at Lac Bain--and that she loved him, loved him! Then
his eyes turned up the chasm, and what he saw there made him bend low
behind the boulder and brought a strange thrill into his voice.
“You will stay here--a little while,” he whispered, running his fingers
through her shining hair. There was a tone of gentle command in his
words as he placed her against the rock. “I must go back for a few
minutes. There is no danger--now.”
He stooped and picked up the carbine which had fallen from her hand.
There was one cartridge still in the breech. Replacing his revolver in
its holster he rose above the rocks, ready to swing the rifle to his
shoulder. Up where the outlaws lay, a man was standing in the trail. He
was making no effort to conceal himself, and did not see Philip until
he was within fifty paces of him. Even then he did not show surprise.
Apparently he was unarmed, and Philip dropped the muzzle of his carbine.
The man motioned for him to advance, standing with a spread hand resting
on either hip. He was hatless and coatless. His hair was long. His face
was covered with a scraggly growth of red beard, too short to hide his
sunken cheeks. He might have been a man half starved, and yet there was
strength in his bony frame and his eyes were as keen as a serpent's.
“Got in just in time to miss the fun after all,” he said coolly. “Queer
game, wasn't it? I was ahead of you up as far as the water hole. Saw
what happened there.”
Philip's hand dropped on the butt of his revolver.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Me? I'm Blackstone--Jim Blackstone, from over beyond the elbow. I guess
everybody for fifty miles round here knows me. And I guess I'm the only
one who knows what's happened--and why.” He had stepped behind a huge
rock that shut out the lower trail from them and Philip followed, his
hand still on his revolver.
“They're both dead,” added the stranger, signifying with a nod of his
head that he meant the outlaws. “One of them was alive when I came up,
but I ran my knife between his ribs, and he's dead now.”
“The devil!” cried Philip, half drawing his revolver at the ferocious
leer in the other's face.
“Wait,” exclaimed the man, “and see if I'm not right. The man who was
responsible for the wreck back there is my deadliest enemy--has been for
years, and now I'm even up with him. And I guess in the eyes of the law
I've got the right to it. What do you say?”
“Go on,” said Philip.
The snake-like eyes of the man burned with a dull flame and yet he spoke
calmly.
“He came out here from England four years ago,” he went on. “He
was forced to come. Understand? He was such a devil back among his
people--half a criminal even then--that he was sent out here on a
regular monthly remittance. After that everything went the way of his
younger brother. His father married again, and the second year he became
even less cut off. He was bad--bad from the start, and he went from bad
to worse out here. He gambled, fought, robbed, and became the head of
a gang of scoundrels as dangerous as himself. He brooded over what
he considered his wrongs until he went a little mad. He lived only to
avenge himself. At the first opportunity he was prepared to kill his
father and his step-mother. Then, a few weeks ago, he learned that these
two were coming to America and that on their way to Vancouver they
would pass through Bleak House Station. He went completely mad then, and
planned to destroy them, and rob the train. You know how he and his gang
did the job. After it was over and they had got the money, he let his
gang go on ahead of him while he went back to the wreck of the sleeper.
He wanted to make sure that they were dead. Do you see?”
“Yes,” said Philip tensely, “go on.”
“And when he got there,” continued the other, bowing his head as he
filled an old briar pipe with tobacco, “he found some one else. It's
strange--and you may wonder how I know it all. But it's true. Back in
England he had worshipped a young girl. Like the others, she detested
him; and yet he loved her and would have died for her. And in the wreck
of the sleeper he found her and her father--both dead. He brought her
out, and when no one was near carried her through the night to his
horse. The knowledge that he had killed her--the only creature in the
world that he loved--brought him back to sanity. It filled him with a
new desire for vengeance--but vengeance of another kind. To achieve
this vengeance he was compelled to leave her dead body miles out on the
prairie. Then he hurried to overtake his comrades. As their leader he
had kept possession of the money they had taken from the express car.
The division was to be made at the water hole. The gang was waiting for
him there. The money was divided, and two of the gang rode ahead. The
other two were to go in another direction so as to divide the pursuit.
The remittance man remained with them, and when the others had gone a
distance he killed them both. He was sane now, you understand. He had
committed a great crime and he was employing his own method of undoing
it. Then he was going back to bury--her.”
The man's voice broke. A great sob shook his frame. When he looked up,
Philip had drawn his revolver.
“And the remittance man--” he began.
“Is myself--Jim Blackstone--at your service.”
The man turned his back to Philip, hunched over, as if bent in grief.
For a moment he stood thus. There followed in that same moment the loud
report of a pistol, and when Philip leaped to catch his tottering form
the glaze of death was in the outlaw's eyes.
“I was going to do this--back there--beside her,” he gasped faintly. A
shiver ran through him and his head dropped limply forward.
Philip laid him with his face toward a rock and stepped out from his
concealment. The girl had heard the pistol shot and was running up the
trail.
“What was that?” she asked, when he had hurried to her.
“The last shot, sweetheart,” he answered softly, catching her in his
arms. “We're going back to Billinger now, and then---home.”