“Wire Billinger I’m coming,” called back Philip as Gunn started him off with a running shove.

Chapter XVI.  A Lock Of Golden Hair

As the sun was rising in a burning August glare over the edge of the parched prairie, Philip saw ahead of him the unpainted board shanty that was called Bleak House Station, and a few moments later he saw a man run out into the middle of the track and stare down at him from under the shade of his hands.  It was Billinger, his English-red face as white as he had left Gunn’s, his shirt in rags, arms bare, and his tremendous blond mustaches crisped and seared by fire.  Close to the station, fastened to posts, were two saddlehorses.  A mile beyond these things a thin film of smoke clouded the sky.  As the jigger stopped Philip jumped from his seat and held out a blistered hand.  “I’m Steele—­Philip Steele, of the Northwest Mounted.”

“And I’m Billinger—­agent,” said the other.

Philip noticed that the hand that gripped his own was raw and bleeding.  “I got your word, and I’ve received instructions from the department to place myself at your service.  My wife is at the key.  I’ve found the trail, and I’ve got two horses.  But there isn’t another man who’ll leave up there for love o’ God or money.  It’s horrible!  Two hours ago you’d ’ave heard their screams from where you’re standing—­the hurt, I mean.  They won’t leave the wreck—­not a man, and I don’t blame ’em.”

A pretty, brown-haired young woman had come to the door and Billinger ran to her.

“Good-by,” he cried, taking her for a moment in his big arms.  “Take care of the key!” He turned as quickly to the horses, talking as they mounted.  “It was robbery,” he said—­and they set off at a canter, side by side.  “There was two hundred thousand in currency in the express car, and it’s gone.  I found their trail this morning, going into the North.  They’re hitting for what we call the Bad Lands over beyond the Coyote, twenty miles from here.  I don’t suppose there’s any time to lose—­”

“No,” said Philip.  “How many are there?”

“Four—­mebby more.”

Billinger started his horse into a gallop and Philip purposely held his mount behind to look at the other man.  The first law of MacGregor’s teaching was to study men, and to suspect.

It was the first law of the splendid service of which he was a part—­and so he looked hard at Billinger.  The Englishman was hatless.  His sandy hair was cropped short, and his mustaches floated out like flexible horns from the sides of his face.  His shirt was in tatters.  In one place it was ripped clean of the shoulder and Philip saw a purplish bruise where the flesh was bare.  He knew these for the marks of Billinger’s presence at the wreck.  Now the man was equipped for other business.  A huge “forty-four” hung at his waist, a short carbine swung at his saddle-bow; and there was something in the manner of his riding, in the hunch of his shoulders, and in the vicious sweep of his long mustaches, that satisfied Philip he was a man who could use them.  He rode up alongside of him with a new confidence.  They were coming to the top of a knoll; at the summit Billinger stopped and pointed down into a hollow a quarter of a mile away.