"I'll put my horse in the stable while I've got my furs on. It's a
bitter night," he said.
Winston nodded. "You know where the lantern is," he said. "There's
some chop in the manger, and you needn't spare the oats in the bin. At
present prices it doesn't pay to haul them in."
The man closed the door silently, and it was ten minutes before he
returned and, sloughing off his furs, dropped into a chair beside the
stove. "I got supper at Broughton's, and don't want anything but
shelter tonight," he said. "Shake that pipe out, and try one of these
instead."
He laid a cigar case on the table, and though well worn it was of
costly make with a good deal of silver about it, while Winston, who
lighted one, knew that the cigars were good. He had no esteem for his
visitor, but men are not censorious upon the prairie, and Western
hospitality is always free.
"Where have you come from, Courthorne?" he said quietly.
The other man laughed a little. "The long trail," he said. "The
Dakotas, Colorado, Montana. Cleaned up one thousand dollars at Regent,
and might have got more, but some folks down there seemed tired of me.
The play was quite regular, but they have apparently been getting
virtuous lately."
"And now?" said Winston, with polite indifference.
Courthorne made a little gesture of deprecation.
"I'm back again with the rustlers."
Winston's nod signified comprehension, for the struggle between the
great range-holders across the frontier and the smaller settlers who
with legal right invaded their cattle runs was just over.
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