lliams 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 pi