tall man leaning toward him

  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."