It stained the
blanket entirely red. At this sight the entire group broke apart, only a
few remaining to witness the rest of the scene.
I do not attempt to explain this illusion, or whatever it was. I do not
know how long it lasted; but presently, as I may testify, I saw Orme
rise and kick at the wetted, bloodstained blanket. He lifted it, heavy
with dripping blood. I saw the blood fall from its corners upon the
ground.
"Ah," he remarked, calmly, "it's getting dry now. Here is your knife, my
good fellow."
I looked about me, almost disposed to rub my eyes, as were, perhaps, the
others of our party. The same great plains were there, the same wide
shimmering stream, rippling in the sunlight, the same groups of animals
grazing on the bluff, the same sentinels outlined against the sky. Over
all shone the blinding light of the Western mid-day sun. Yet, as Orme
straightened out this blanket, it was white as it had been before!
Auberry looked at his knife blade as though he would have preferred to
throw it away, but he sheathed it and it fitted the sheath as before.
Orme smiled at us all pleasantly. "Do you believe in the Indian
telegraph now?" he inquired.
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