“It'll be a loss of time—to go down,” repeated the agent.
“Yes, it would be a loss of time,” agreed Philip.
His blood was burning at fever heat when he raised his eyes from the scene below to Billinger's face. Every fighting fiber in his body was tingling for action, and at the responsive glare which he met in Billinger's eyes he thrust his hand half over the space that separated them.
“We'll get 'em, Billinger,” he cried. “By God, we'll get 'em!”
There was something ferocious in the crush of the other's hand. 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.
“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?”
Philip picked it up—a dainty bit of fine linen, crumpled and sodden by dew, and held it out between the forefinger and thumb of both hands.
“Yes, and a woman's handkerchief. Now what the devil—”
He stopped at the look in Billinger's face as he reached down for the handkerchief. The square jaws of the man were set like steel springs, but Philip noticed that his hand was trembling.