“It will be a loss of time to go down there,” he said, “and it will do no good.  See that thing that looks like a big log in the river?  That’s the top of the day coach.  It went in right side up, and the conductor—­who wasn’t hurt—­says there were twenty people in it.  We watched it settle from the shore, and we couldn’t do a thing—­while they were dying in there like so many caged rats!  The other coach burned, and that heap of stuff you see there is what’s left of the Pullman and the baggage car.  There’s twenty-seven dead stretched out along the track, and a good many hurt.  Great Heavens, listen to that!”

He shuddered, and Philip shuddered, at the wailing sound of grief and pain that came up to them.

“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.

“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.  It’s interesting, anyway—­and has made a wreck of my nerves.”  He wiped his face with a blackened rag which he drew from his hip pocket.  “We were working hard to get