The Indian, blinded by the light, spoke rapidly:
"They're attackin'—right away—a hundred rifles—blow up the trestle—kill the girl an' th' others!"
Neither the ride nor the run was making him pant like that.
The Sergeant leaped across the light and struck. With digging heels the Indian swung the pinto on its hind legs, at the same time striking at the outstretched hand. But he was too late. Mahon's open palm fell on Whiskers' rump, and in the very midst of rearing about she leaped forward into the light.
Mahon rubbed his eyes. A wild laugh came to his lips. This was no pinto. No ugly blotches there—only a dead brown. Whiskers? As ridiculous as his other fancies of late. But it must be Whiskers' twin sister.
The Indian and his horse were gone, racing back at full speed. Mahon ran to the barracks. Once more he was the Mounted Policeman. In the doorway stood Helen.
"Whiskers!" she breathed in an awed voice.
"Blue—"
"Don't be foolish," he scoffed. "You saw the broncho. Not a blotch on it. For God's sake, don't start my dreams again, Helen."
Williams was already cramming his bandolier with cartridges and buckling it over his shoulder. Helen seized a flashlight and hurried through the back door to the stable. In thirty seconds they followed. They saw her reappear—they heard her startled call: