his brown sea
all trace of the trail was lost from the saddle and both men dismounted.
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.
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. "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. Philip was
almost eagerly anxious for this opportunity, and scarcely had the other
gone when he drew the linen handkerchief and the crumpled lock of hair
from his pocket and held them in his hand as he looked after the agent.
Then, slowly, he raised the handkerchief to his face. For a full minute
he stood with the dainty fabric pressed to his lips and nose. Back
there--when he had first held the handkerchief--he thought that he
imagined. But now he was sure. Faintly the bit of soiled fabric breathed
to him the sweet scent of hyacinth. His eyes shone in an eager bloodshot
glare as he watched Billinger disappear over a roll in the prairie a
mile away.

"Making a fool of yourself again," he muttered, again winding the golden
hair about his fingers. "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. And twice--three
times he held the handkerchief to his face before he reached the rise
in the prairie over which Billinger