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.
"Half-past eleven! Dissipation. And to-morrow we must dive deeper into
the records of those two speeders. I don't know that I'm quite fair,
Williams, but I imagine Torrance hasn't been taking us completely into
his confidence, though he seems thoroughly stirred over this. They have
me guessing--the most unlikely things, even to some silly club wager.
But there isn't a club within three hundred miles. I'm off to-morrow to
Mile 135. Torrance says the ticker is set up there. I want to talk to
Saskatoon."
Constable Williams shrugged his shoulders. "Those speeders were up to
something they're not telling Saskatoon or any one else that we're apt to
get any information from."
"That's what I'm going to find out. They couldn't go far without being
seen, and they'd have to stick to the railway. There's still a gang
clearing up at Mile 63, I think."
"That was where I spent the night, wasn't it?" asked his wife. "There's
an engineer there with his whole family and two women besides. It's a
long way to be from neighbours."
"One never speaks of neighbours out here, Mrs. Mahon," smiled Constable
Williams. "It makes one homesick. It's so long since we had neighbours
that we've gone a bit rusty on the amenities of society. There's so
little we can do for the first woman--"
"Williams, you're fishing." Mahon shook his head affectionately at his
subordinate. "If you'd heard my wife this morning--"
"If you don't mind, dear," interrupted Helen, "I prefer to give my own
thanks."
"But you just said this morning you couldn't--"
"Don't try, please," said Williams, with a grin. He drew a sigh. "I
suppose now I ought to forego a selfish pleasure and let you go to bed.
If I could only look sleepy! But I feel as if bed were an interruption,
a nasty, bad-dispositioned, irritating kill-joy. And you'll be heavy
with the chloroform of this rare air. Ah, me! Just when life begins--"
"It won't go down, Williams," teased Mahon. "The air up here has nothing
on Medicine Hat. Not even its wildest booster would claim for the Hat
the poison of a manufacturing town. Meteorologically it must be as far
from civilisation as Mile 127. The worst up here is trying to compete
with the sun in the matter of sleep. In the summer one would get about
three hours; in the winter there wouldn't be time to prepare meals.
Winter must be eerie. Even now I scent it--"
He shifted suddenly in his chair. Then with a dash he and Williams were
crowding through the open door with drawn revolvers.
Through the night came the thunder of racing hoofs.
Mahon knew that speed. Many a time he had ridden thus, the wind
whistling past his ears and the horse's mane flicking his stinging face.
He knew, too, that a master-hand directed the horse he heard.
Without a word the two Policemen separated and dropped into the shadows
on either side of the shaft of light from the doorway.
"Go into the other room, Helen." Mahon's order was sharp and low.
On came the racing horse, the pound of its hoofs echoing through the
trees like the charge of a troop, filling the vast silence with piercing
fancies. Echo and hoof-beats grew louder and louder; there was no other
sound. At the edge of the village the horse turned from the clearing
along the grade into the main street, and the echo, sharpened now by
crowding walls, sent the blood tingling through the Sergeant's veins.
Over the pounding hoofs broke a muttering voice.
In another five seconds the horse would cross the shaft of light. Mahon
and Williams raised their guns. The former edged out toward the narrow
path. He had no thought of warning the man--he wished to see him dash
into that shaft of light, that eyes might come to the aid of ears.
Another moment. . . .
With a slithering of hoofs the horse pulled up in mid-flight at the very
edge of the beams. A voice, husky with anxiety, shouted:
"Sergeant, Sergeant Mahon! Quick! For God's sake!"
At the first sound Mahon felt the blood rush to his head. His knees
shook. His left hand groped to his forehead. Then he wrenched himself
back to his duty.
"What is it?" His voice was quiet, but he avoided the light.
Slowly and soundlessly he was moving down the other edge of the light,
revolver poised, eyes straining into the darkness beyond. In the dim
fringe he made out the figure of a tall man leaning toward him, a pair of
Indian braids falling over his shoulders. Mahon's eyes moved on to the
horse. He started, and his teeth clicked. Surely there was something
familiar. . . . But his brain was tumbling madly--he would not trust it.
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:
"Gone!"
Mahon stared past her into the empty stalls.