Jackson kept calling and the sequence was the same.
"All right, Red, I've got it. There's trouble."
"What is it?"
"It's Thora sending. We started in the middle of a word. Her spelling isn't exactly American. K-O-M-E Q-U-I-K. Come quick. That's what she's saying over and over again. Get your second gun, Red, and mine. It's on the shelf over my bed. Fill up my cartridge belt and yours. I'll tell her we understand."
His shaving mirror was circular, swinging in a frame of heavy nickel that also made up the handle. One glass magnified, the other side gave ordinary reflection. He used the first, tilting the glass to catch the image of the sun, shooting up a flash and then losing it as he shifted angles.
Two-three. Three-two (O. K.) he signaled, time after time, not certain whether Thora would understand the abbreviation. Then she flashed it back to him. O. K.
Jackson came hurrying with the extra guns, with the cartridge belts and a box of cartridges to fill any vacancies in the webs.
"We can shove 'em in as we go," he said briefly and jumped for his saddle. The mare was fresh. Sheridan set foot in stirrup, one hand in mane, the other on his horn. As he left ground the mare swerved in a sudden volte of a quarter-circle calculated to upset the careless rider. It was spirit more than temper. Sheridan stood with his weight in stirrup, his body close to her withers. At the
