Part 43 (1/2)

”You feel more sure of me after that?” he said, in a voice that was very faint and strained. ”Still, you see, I could gain nothing by deviating from the truth now. Well, I shot Trooper Shannon. You'll have the date in the warrant. Don't know if it will seem strange to you, but I forget it. I borrowed farmer Winston's horse and rifle without his knowledge, though I had paid him a trifle to personate me and draw the troopers off the whisky-runners. That was Winston's only complicity. The troopers, who fancied they were chasing him, followed me until his horse which I was riding went through the ice, but Winston was in Montana at the time, and did not know that I was alive until a very little while ago. Now, you can straighten that up and read it out to me.”

The magistrate's pen scratched noisily in the stillness of the room, but, before he had finished, Sergeant Stimson, hot and dusty, came in.

Then he raised his hand, and for a while his voice rose and fell monotonously, until Courthorne nodded.

”That's all right,” he said. ”I'll sign.”

The doctor raised him a trifle, and moistened his lips with brandy as he gave him the pen. It scratched for a moment or two, and then fell from his relaxing fingers, while the man who took the paper wrote across the foot of it, and then would have handed it to Colonel Barrington, but that Dane quietly laid his hand upon it.

”No,” he said. ”If you want another witness take me.”

Barrington thanked him with a gesture, and Courthorne, looking round, saw Stimson.

”You have been very patient, Sergeant, and it's rough on you that the one man you can lay your hands upon is slipping away from you,” he said. ”You'll see by my deposition that Winston thought me as dead as the rest of you did.”

Stimson nodded to the magistrate. ”I heard what was read, and it is confirmed by the facts I have picked up,” he said.

Then Courthorne turned to Barrington. ”I sympathize with you, sir,” he said. ”This must be horribly mortifying, but, you see, Winston once stopped my horse backing over a bridge into a gully when just to hold his hand would have rid him of me. You will not grudge me the one good turn I have probably done any man, when I shall a.s.suredly not have the chance of doing another.”

Barrington winced a little, for he recognized the irony in the failing voice, but he rose and moved towards the bed.

”Lance,” he said, a trifle hoa.r.s.ely, ”it is not that which makes what has happened horrible to me, and I am only glad that you have righted this man. Your father had many claims on me, and things might have gone differently if, when you came out to Canada, I had done my duty by his son.”

Courthorne smiled a little, but without bitterness. ”It would have made no difference, sir, and, after all, I led the life that suited me.

By and by you will be grateful to me. I sent you a man who will bring prosperity to Silverdale.”

Then he turned to Stimson, and his voice sank almost beyond hearing as he said, ”Sergeant, remember, Winston fancied I was dead.”

He moved his head a trifle, and the doctor stooping over him signed to the rest, who went out except Barrington.

It was some hours later, and very cold, when Barrington came softly into the room where Dane lay half-asleep in a big chair. The latter glanced at him with a question in his eyes, and the Colonel nodded very gravely.

”Yes,” he said. ”He has slipped out of the troopers' hands and beyond our reproaches--but I think the last thing he did will count for a little.”

CHAPTER XXVI

WINSTON RIDES AWAY

The first of the snow was driving across the prairie before a bitter wind, when Maud Barrington stood by a window of the Grange looking out into the night. The double cas.e.m.e.nts rattled, the curtains behind her moved with the icy draughts, until, growing weary of watching the white flakes whirl past, she drew them to and walked slowly towards a mirror.

Then a faint tinge of pink crept into her cheek, and a softness that became her into her eyes. They, however, grew critical as she smoothed back a tress of l.u.s.trous hair a trifle from her forehead, straightened the laces at neck and wrist, and shook into more flowing lines the long black dress. Maud Barrington was not unduly vain, but it was some time before she seemed contented, and one would have surmised that she desired to appear her best that night.

The result was beyond cavil in its artistic simplicity, for the girl, knowing the significance that trifles have at times, had laid aside every adornment that might hint at wealth, and the somber draperies alone emphasized the polished whiteness of her face and neck. Still, and she did not know whether she was pleased or otherwise at this, the mirror had shown the stamp which revealed itself even in pa.s.sive pose and poise of head. It was her birthright, and would not be disguised.

Then she drew a low chair towards the stove, and once more the faint color crept into her face as she took up a note. It was laconic, and requested permission to call at the Grange, but Maud Barrington was not deceived, and recognized the consideration each word had cost the man who wrote it. Afterwards she glanced at her watch, raised it with a little gesture of impatience to make sure it had not stopped, and sat still, listening to the moaning of the wind, until the door opened and Miss Barrington came in. She glanced at her niece, who felt that her eyes had noticed each detail of her somewhat unusual dress, but said nothing until the younger woman turned to her.

”They would scarcely come to-night, aunt,” she said. Miss Barrington, listening a moment, heard the wind that whirled the snow about the lonely building, but smiled incredulously.

”I fancy you are wrong, and I wish my brother were here,” she said.

”We could not refuse Mr. Winston permission to call, but whatever pa.s.ses between us will have more than its individual significance.