The Sergeant leaned heavily against the table, staring into the darkness toward the familiar voice. He knew he was dreaming again, that haunting grief for his dead half breed friend had mastered him at last in a moment of excitement.
A cry of alarm from Torrance's room, and a succession of rifle shots, brought him to his senses. He hastened to investigate. Torrance had seen several men running across the grade. One dark lump on the ground gave proof. When he returned to the front room the Indian was still there.
"Any spare cartridges? I'm about cleaned out. Jes' two left. Gotta save them."
Mahon dropped a dozen in the extended hand. The Indian worked with them in the darkness for a moment and slammed them on the table with a curse.
"Shud 'a' knowed they wudn't fit. Where's Torrance's?"
But Torrance's likewise were the wrong size, and the Indian disappeared into Tressa's room. The brakesman entrusted with a rifle in that room paid no attention until a strong hand wrenched it from him.
"Yuh'll hurt yerself, sonny, playin' with a real gun. Yuh can have all
I shoot to eat."
When he returned to the living room, Mahon laid a hand on his shoulder.
"My God, who are you?"
A moment of silence, then: "Me Indian; no pale-face name."