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 nobody 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.
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