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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.
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.
"A woman in the gang," he laughed as Philip mounted. They started out at a canter, Billinger still holding the bit of linen close under his eyes. After a little he passed it back to Philip who was riding close beside him. "Something happened last night," he said, looking straight ahead of him, "that I can't understand. I didn't tell my wife. I haven't told any one. But I guess you ought to know.
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 "
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.
I could have sworn, too, that there was color in her face, but it must have been something in the lantern light and the red-gold of her hair, for when I spoke, and then reached up, she was cold." Billinger shivered and urged his horse into a faster gait. "I went out and helped with the injured then. I guess it must have been two hours later when I returned to take out her body.
"There are five in the gang, Billinger," he said shortly "All of them were galloping but one." He looked up to catch Billinger leaning over the pommel of his saddle staring at something almost directly under his horse's feet. "What's that?" he demanded. "A handkerchief?"
"Did you ever hear that story about the man from the West?" asked Billinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate the interior of the Powhatan Club. "Doubtless," said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room. Billinger was used to having his stories insulted and would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go away from anywhere.
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 was mopping his face again, leaving streaks of char-black where the perspiration had started. "Pinned up there in the mass of twisted steel and broken wood was a woman," he went on. "She was the most beautiful thing I have ever looked upon.
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