Part 42 (1/2)

”Sorry. Of course you are right,” he said. ”It will be better that they should acquit you.”

No one moved for a few more minutes, and then with a trooper behind him Sergeant Stimson came in, and laid his hand on Winston's shoulder.

”I have a warrant for your apprehension, farmer Winston,” he said.

”You probably know the charge against you.”

”Yes,” said Winston simply. ”I hope to refute it. I will come with you.”

He went out, and Barrington stared at the men about him. ”I did not catch the name before. That was the man who shot the police trooper in Alberta?”

”No, sir,” said Dane, very quietly. ”Nothing would induce me to believe it of him!”

Barrington looked at him in bewilderment. ”But he must have done--unless,” he said, and ended with a little gasp. ”Good Lord!

There was the faint resemblance, and they changed horses--it is horrible.”

Dane's eyes were very compa.s.sionate as he laid his hand gently on his leader's shoulder.

”Sir,” he said, ”you have our sympathy, and I am sorry that to offer it is all we can do. Now, I think we have stayed too long already.”

They went out, and left Colonel Barrington sitting alone with a gray face at the head of the table.

It was a minute or two later when Winston swung himself into the saddle at the door of the Grange. All the vehicles had not left as yet, and there was a little murmur of sympathy when the troopers closed in about him. Still, before they rode away one of the men wheeled his horse aside, and Winston saw Maud Barrington standing bareheaded by his stirrup. The moonlight showed that her face was impa.s.sive but curiously pale.

”We could not let you go without a word, and you will come back to us with your innocence made clear,” she said.

Her voice had a little ring in it that carried far, and her companions heard her. What Winston said they could not hear, and he did not remember it, but he swung his hat off, and those who saw the girl at his stirrup recognized with confusion that she alone had proclaimed her faith, while they had stood aside from him. Then the Sergeant raised his hand and the troopers rode forward with their prisoner.

In the meanwhile, Courthorne was pressing south for the American frontier, and daylight was just creeping across the prairie when the pursuers, who had found his trail and the ranch he obtained a fresh horse at, had sight of him. There were three of them, riding wearily, grimed with dust, when a lonely mounted figure showed for a moment on the crest of a rise. In another minute, it dipped into a hollow, and Corporal Payne smiled grimly.

”I think we have him now. The creek can't be far away, and he's west of the bridge,” he said. ”While we try to head him off you'll follow behind him, Hilton.”

One trooper sent the spurs in, and, while the others swung off, rode straight on. Courthorne was at least a mile from them, but they were nearer the bridge, and Payne surmised that his jaded horse would fail him if he essayed to ford the creek and climb the farther side of the deep ravine it flowed through. They saw nothing of him when they swept across the rise, for here and there a grove of willows stretched out across the prairie from the sinuous band of trees in front of them.

These marked the river hollow, and Payne, knowing that the chase might be ended in a few more minutes, did not spare the spur. He also remembered, as he tightened his grip on the bridle, the white face of Trooper Shannon flecked with the drifting snow.

The bluff that rose steadily higher came back to them, willow and straggling birch flashed by, and at last Payne drew bridle where a rutted trail wound down between the trees to the bridge in the hollow.

A swift glance showed him that a mounted man could scarcely make his way between them, and he smiled dryly as he signed to his companion.

”Back your horse clear of the trail,” he said, and there was a rattle as he flung his carbine across the saddle. ”With Hilton behind him, he'll ride straight into our hands.”

He wheeled his horse in among the birches, and then sat still, with fingers that quivered a little on the carbine-stock, until a faint drumming rose from the prairie.

”He's coming!” said the trooper. ”Hilton's hanging on to him.”

Payne made no answer, and the sound that rang more loudly every moment through the grayness of the early daylight was not pleasant to hear.

Man's vitality is near its lowest about that hour, and the troopers had ridden furiously the long night through, while one of them, who knew Lance Courthorne, surmised that there was grim work before him. Still, though he s.h.i.+vered as a little chilly wind shook the birch twigs, he set his lips, and once more remembered the comrade who had ridden far and kept many a lonely vigil with him.

Then a mounted man appeared in the s.p.a.ce between the trees. His horse was jaded, and he rode loosely, swaying once or twice in his saddle, but he came straight on, and there was a jingle and rattle as the troopers swung out into the trail. The man saw them, for he glanced over his shoulder, as if at the rider who appeared behind, and then sent the spurs in again.

”Pull him up,” cried Corporal Payne, and his voice was a little strained. ”Stop right where you are before we fire on you!”