pt in on the wires. It called for Philip
Steele at Hymers.

It commanded him in the name of Inspector MacGregor of the Royal Mounted
to reach Bleak House Station without delay. What he was to do when he
arrived at the scene of the wreck was left to his own judgment. The wire
from MacGregor aroused Philip from the stupor of horror into which he
had fallen. Gunn's girlish face was as white as a sheet.

"I've got a jigger," he said, "and you can take it. It's forty miles to
Bleak House and you can make it in three hours. There won't be a train
for six."

Philip scribbled a few words for MacGregor and shoved them into Gunn's
nervous hand. While the operator was sending them off he rolled a
cigarette, lighted it, and buckled on his revolver belt. Then Gunn
hurried him through the door and they lifted the velocipede on the
track.

"Wire Billinger I'm coming," called back Philip as Gunn started him off
with a running shove.

Chapter XVI. A Lock Of Golden Hair

As the sun was rising in a burning August glare over the edge of the
parched prairie, Philip saw ahead of him the unpainted board shanty that
was called Bleak House Station, and a few moments later he saw a man run
out into the middle of the track and stare down at him from under the
shade of his hands. It was Billinger, his English-red face as white as
he had left Gunn's, his shirt in rags, arms bare, and his tremendous
blond mustaches crisped and seared by fire. Close to the station,
fastened to posts, were two saddlehorses. A mile beyond these things a
thin film of smoke clouded the sky. As the jigger stopped Philip jumped
from his seat and held out a blistered hand. "I'm Steele--Philip Steele,
of the Northwest Mounted."

"And I'm Billinger--agent," said the other.

Philip noticed that the hand that gripped his own was raw and bleeding.
"I got your word, and I've received instructions from the department
to place myself at your service. My wife is at the key. I've found the
trail, and I've got two horses. But there isn't another man who'll leave
up there for love o' God or money. It's horrible! Two hours ago you'd
'ave heard their screams from where you're standing--the hurt, I mean.
They won't leave the wreck--not a man, and I don't blame 'em."

A pretty, brown-haired young woman had come to the door and Billinger
ran to her.

"Good-by," he cried, taking her for a moment in his big arms. "Take
care of the key!" He turned as quickly to the horses, tal