rtridge belt. Smoothly, without panting, stooping in the loose lope
of the Indian, he swung along.

He was whistling less frequently, conserving his breath for a possible
three-mile race; but his head kept turning to listen.

Presently a great sigh of relief, like a sob, fluttered between his
lips. Almost at the edge of the clearing along the grade he slowed
down.

And then, running so quietly, the ugly little pinto, Whiskers--the
marks of the pinto long since gone before the half breed's doctoring
hand--was cantering at his side. Without a break in his stride Blue
Pete leaped to the bare back, one hand dropping to pat the arched neck.

"Bully ole gal, Whiskers! I knowed yuh'd hear. Yer ears is allus
skinned fer the whistle, ain't they--an' eyes like a cat's, same as yer
boss, eh? Yuh got to git some now, ole gal. Yuh ain't had a real run
fer so long mebbe yuh're gittin' a bit seedy, like me. Well, yuh got a
coupla miles right on yer tip-toes. Git goin', ole gal."

Close along the grade the little pinto lay low to its stride, and the
halfbreed's feet seemed to be brushing the ground as he leaned forward
to whisper encouragement in the flicking ears.

CHAPTER XXVI

SERGEANT MAHON'S VISION

For the fifth time Sergeant Mahon and Helen had firmly expressed their
intention of retiring; the hour, they agreed, was unseemly, when now
weeks of almost unbroken association stretched ahead of them. Yet for
the fifth time they had failed to act on their convictions.

For one thing they were impressed with the selfishness of retiring while
still Constable Williams sat with never a flicker of sleep in his eyes.
They owed him a lot for his attentions of the past few days, and there
were few opportunities of squaring the account. In the rude chair he had
salved from the village wreckage the big fellow was content to sit to any
hour of the night, merely smoking and listening, face beaming, pleased as
a child when he found something to say. For two years he had been locked
there in the wilds, with never a woman but Tressa Torrance to whom he
could speak without a blush. And, looking into the clear eyes of Mrs.
Mahon, he blushed a little now at memories of her predecessors in that
infamous end-of-steel village--blond-haired, flashing eyed, bejewelled,
strident voiced hussies who had worn out their welcome in society less
base.

For the sixth time Mahon consulted his watch and shook his head
self-reprovingly.