nto 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:

"Gone!"

Mahon stared past her into the empty stalls.

CHAPTER XXVII

AN IRISHMAN AND AN ENGLISHMAN

Constable Williams cursed fervently, forgetting Helen. It was his way
of rendering first aid. Mahon's mind was too busy for his lips.
Therein lay the foundation of their respective ranks. In ten seconds
he was running for the street.

Throwing the flash ahead of him as he ran, he wriggled at top speed
down the winding path that led through the village; and Constable
Williams stumbled behind. As the last of the deserted shacks fell
behind, a luminous spot ahead led them straight to Murphy's tent. From
forty yards Mahon shouted:

"How long to get steam up, Murphy? It's life and death, and we need
the engine."

A bewhiskered face thrust itself through the opening, carefully pulling
the flap below to cut off a fleeting glimpse of bare legs and loose
shirt.

"What ye take us for? Night nurses? Think we're taking shifts keeping
Mollie snuggled up warm o' nights? Go away and change yeer dhrinks.
What's the hullabaloo anyway? Short o' tobacco? Or has the newest
tenderfoot discovered the one lone flea in all this lousy village?"

"The bohunks are attacking the trestle! They've stolen our horses."

Murphy asked no more foolish questions; he was busy with his overalls.

"Dunno about getting you there right away," he grunted, tugging at a
suspender, "but sure the next instan