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Updated: September 10, 2025
The Englishman's teeth gleamed for an instant between his seared mustaches as he heeled his mount into a canter along the back of the ridge. Five minutes later the knoll dipped again into the plain and at the foot of it Billinger stopped his horse for a second and pointed to fresh hoof-marks in the prairie sod. Philip jumped from his horse and examined the ground.
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.
"Unless one or more of the scoundrels searching for valuables in there during the excitement, saw her and carried her off with their other booty. It's up to us, Billinger!" Billinger had reached inside his shirt, and now he drew forth a small paper parcel. "I don't know why but I kept the tress of hair," he said. "See "
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