Part 3 (1/2)

”Then,” and Sergeant Stimson raised his voice a trifle, ”you will ride at once to the rise a league outside the settlement, and watch the Montana trail. Courthorne will probably be coming over from Winston's soon after you get there, riding the big black, and you'll keep out of sight and follow him. If he heads for Carson's Crossing, ride for Graham's at a gallop, where you'll find me with the rest. If he makes for the bridge, you will overtake him if you can and find out what he's after. It's quite likely he'll tell you nothing, and you will not arrest him, but bearing in mind that every minute he spends there will be a loss to the rustlers you'll keep him as long as you can. Trooper Shannon, you'll ride at once to the bluff above Graham's Pool and watch the trail. Stop any man who rides that way, and if it's Courthorne keep him until the rest of the boys come up with me. You've got your duty quite straight, both of you?”

The lads saluted, and went out, while the sergeant smiled a little as he glanced at the farmer and the men who were dressing.

”It's steep chances we'll have Mr. Courthorne's company to-morrow, boys,” he said. ”Fill up the kettle, Tom, and serve out a pint of coffee. There are reasons why we shouldn't turn out too soon. We'll saddle in an hour or so.”

Two of the men went out, and the stinging blast that swept in through the open door smote a smoky smear across the blinking lamp and roused a sharper crackling from the stove. Then one returned with the kettle and there was silence, when the fusty heat resumed its sway. Now and then a tired trooper murmured in his sleep, or there was a snapping in the stove, while the icy wind moaned about the building and the kettle commenced a soft sibilation, but n.o.body moved or spoke. Three shadowy figures in uniform sat just outside the light, soaking in the grateful warmth while they could, for they knew that they might spend the next night unsheltered from the arctic cold of the wilderness. The Sergeant sat with thoughtful eyes and wrinkled forehead, where the flickering radiance forced up his lean face and silhouetted his spare outline on the rough boarding behind him, and close by the farmer sucked silently at his pipe, waiting with a stony calm that sprang from fierce impatience the reckoning with the man who had brought black shame upon him.

It was about this time when Winston stood s.h.i.+vering a little with the bridle of a big black horse in his hand just outside the door of his homestead. A valise and two thick blankets were strapped to the saddle, and he had donned the fur cap and coat Courthorne usually wore.

Courthorne himself stood close by smiling at him sardonically.

”If you keep the cap down and ride with your stirrups long, as I've fixed them, anybody would take you for me,” said he. ”Go straight through the settlement, and let any man you come across see you. His testimony would come in useful if Stimson tries to fix a charge on me.

You know your part of the bargain. You're to be Lance Courthorne for a fortnight from to-day.”

”Yes,” said Winston dryly. ”I wish I was equally sure of yours.”

Courthorne laughed. ”I'm to be rancher Winston until to-morrow night, any way. Don't worry about me. I'll borrow those books of yours and improve my mind. Possible starvation is the only thing that threatens me, and it's unfortunate you've left nothing fit to eat behind you.”

Winston swung himself into the saddle, a trifle awkwardly, for Courthorne rode with longer stirrup leathers than he was accustomed to, then he raised one hand, and the other man laughed a little as he watched him sink into the darkness of the shadowy prairie. When the drumming of hoofs was lost in the moaning of the wind he strode towards the stable, and taking up the lantern surveyed Winston's horse thoughtfully.

”The thing cuts with both edges, and the farmer only sees one of them,”

he said. ”That beast's about as difficult to mistake as my black is.”

Then he returned to the loghouse, and presently put on Winston's old fur coat and tattered fur cap. Had Winston seen his unpleasant smile as he did it, he would probably have wheeled the black horse and returned at a gallop, but the farmer was sweeping across the waste of whitened gra.s.s at least a league away by this time. Now and then a half-moon blinked down between wisps of smoky cloud, but for the most part gray dimness hung over the prairie, and the drumming of hoofs rang stridently through the silence. Winston knew a good horse, and had bred several of them--before a blizzard which swept the prairie killed off his finest yearlings as well as their pedigree sire--and his spirits rose as the splendid beast swung into faster stride beneath him.

For two weeks at least he would be free from anxiety, and the monotony of his life at the lonely homestead had grown horribly irksome.

Winston was young, and now, when for a brief s.p.a.ce he had left his cares behind, the old love of adventure which had driven him out from England once more awakened and set his blood stirring. For the first time in six years of struggle he did not know what lay before him, and he had a curious, half-instinctive feeling that the trait he was traveling would lead him farther than Montana. It was borne in upon him that he had left the old hopeless life behind, and stirred by some impulse he broke into a little song he had sung in England and long forgotten. He had a clear voice, and the words, which were filled with the hope of youth, rang bravely through the stillness of the frozen wilderness until the horse blundered, and Winston stopped with a little smile.

”It's four long years since I felt as I do to-night,” he said.

Then he drew bridle and checked the horse as the lights of the settlement commenced to blink ahead, for the trail was rutted deep and frozen into the likeness of adamant, but when the first frame houses flung tracks of yellow radiance across the whitened gra.s.s he dropped his left arm a trifle, and rode in at a canter as he had seen Courthorne do. Winston did not like Courthorne, but he meant to keep his bargain.

As he pa.s.sed the hotel more slowly a man who came out called to him.

”h.e.l.lo, Lance! Taking the trail?” he said. ”Well, it kind of strikes me it's time you did. One of Stimson's boys was down here, and he seemed quite anxious about you.”

Winston knew the man, and was about to urge the horse forward, but in place of it drew bridle, and laughed with a feeling that was wholly new to him as he remembered that his neighbors now and then bantered him about his English, and that Courthorne only used the Western colloquialism when it suited him.

”Sergeant Stimson is an enterprising officer, but there are as keen men as he is,” he said. ”You will, in case he questions you, remember when you met me.”

”Oh, yes,” said the other. ”Still, I wouldn't fool too much with him--and where did you get those mittens from? That's the kind of outfit that would suit Winston.”

Winston nodded, for though he had turned his face from the light the hand he held the bridle with was visible, and his big fur gloves were very old.

”They are his. The fact is, I've just come from his place,” he said.

”Well, you can tell Stimson you saw me starting out on the Montana trail.”

He shook the bridle, laughed softly as the frame houses flitted by, and then grew intent when the darkness of the prairie once more closed down. It was, he knew, probable that some of Stimson's men would be looking out for him, and he had not sufficient faith in Courthorne's a.s.surances to court an encounter with them.