Billie had quickly secured paper and pencil, but instead of taking them, Singleton motioned for her to write the message.
Adolf Conrad, Granados Ranch, Granados Junction, Arizona. Regret to report September shipment horses developed ailment aboard vessel, fifty per cent dead, balance probably of no military use,
Ogden, Burns & Co.
Word by word Singleton took the message and word by word Billie wrote it down, while they stared at each other.
“Developed ailment aboard vessel!” repeated Singleton. “Then there was something wrong on shipboard, for there certainly is not here. We have no sick horses on the ranch, never do have!”
“But these people?” and Billie pointed to the signature.
“Oh, they are the men who buy stock for the Allies, agents for the French. They paid for the horses on delivery. They are safe, substantial people. I can’t understand–––”
But Billie caught his arm with a gasp of horror and enlightenment.
“Papa Phil! Think––think what Kit Rhodes said! ‘Ground glass in the feed at the other end of the road! Conrad’s game––Herrara knows!’ Papa Phil,––Miguel Herrara was killed––killed! And Conrad tried to kill Kit! Oh he did, he did! None of the Mexicans thought he would get well, but Tia Luz cured him. And Cap Pike never went out of sight of that adobe until Conrad had left the ranch, and I know Kit was right. I know it, I know it! Oh, my horses, my beautiful horses!”
“There, there! Why, child you’re hysterical over this, which is––is too preposterous for belief!”
“Nothing is too preposterous for belief. You know that. Everybody knows it in these days! Is Belgium too preposterous? Is that record of poison and powdered glass in hospital supplies too preposterous? In hospital supplies! If they do that to wounded men, why not to cavalry horses? Why Papa Phil–––”