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Updated: June 10, 2025
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.
Thus it was we knew that Colonel Billinger and Major Frey, officers from General Herkimer's force, who had been taken prisoners by some of the British during the battle of Oriskany, had been compelled, under threats of torture, to write a letter to Colonel Gansevoort, misrepresenting St. Leger's strength, and advising him to surrender.
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.
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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
"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.
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