A well-worn trail, beaten down by transient rangerss big revolver showing over his horse’s ears.  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.  Billinger’s yellow-mustached face, pallid and twisted with pain, looked over them as Philip galloped across the open and sprang out of his saddle.  With a terrible grimace he raised himself to his knees, anticipating the question on Philip’s lips.

“Nothing very bad, Steele,” he said.  “One of the cusses pinked me through the leg, and broke it, I guess.  Painful, but not killing.  Now look at that!”

He nodded to the two men lying with their faces turned up to the hot glare of the sun.  One glance was enough to tell Philip that they were dead, and that it was not Billinger who had killed them.  Their bearded faces had stiffened in the first agonies of death.  Their breasts were soaked with blood and their arms had been drawn down close to their sides.  As he looked the gleam of a metal buckle on the belt of the dead man nearest him, caught Philip’s eye.  He took a step nearer to examine it and then drew back.  This bit of metal told the story—­it bore the letters R.N.W.M.P.

“I thought so,” he muttered with a slight catch in his voice.  “You didn’t follow my good advice, Bucky Nome, and now you reap the harvest of your folly.  You have paid your debt to M’sieur Janette.”

Then Philip turned quickly and looked back at Billinger.  In his hand the agent held a paper package, which he had torn open.  A second and similar package lay in the sand in front of him.

“Currency!” he gasped.  “It’s a part of the money stolen from the express car.  The two hundred thousand was done up in five packages, and here are two of ’em.  Those men were dead when I came, and each had a package lying on his breast.  The fellow who pinked me was just leaving the dip!”

He dropped the package and began ripping down his trouser leg with a knife.  Philip dropped on his knees beside him, but Billinger motioned him back.

“It’s not bleeding bad,” he said.  “I can fix it alone.”

“You’re certain, Billinger—­”

“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.  “I did rotten work with it, and the other fellow fixed me with a pistol.  That’s why I’m not bleeding very much.”