adiance across the whitened grass 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 passed the hotel more slowly a man who came out called to him.
"Hello, 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
assurances to court an encounter with them.

The lights had faded, and the harsh grass was crackling under the
drumming hoofs when the blurred outline of a mounted man showed up on
the crest of a rise, and a shout came down.

"Hello! Pull up there a moment, stranger."

There was nothing alarming in the greeting, but Winston recognized the
ring of command, as well as the faint jingle of steel which had
preceded it, and pressed his heels home. The black swung forward
faster, and Winston glancing over his shoulder saw the dusky shape was
now moving down the incline. Then the voice rose again more
commandingly.

"Pull up, I want a talk with you."

Winston turned his head a moment, and remembering Courthorne's English
flung back the answer, "Sorry I haven't time."

The faint musical jingle grew pla