"The thing cuts with both edges, and the farmer only sees one of them,"
he said. "That beast's about as difficult to mistake as my black is."
Then he returned to the loghouse, and presently put on Winston's old
fur coat and tattered fur cap. Had Winston seen his unpleasant smile
as he did it, he would probably have wheeled the black horse and
returned at a gallop, but the farmer was sweeping across the waste of
whitened grass at least a league away by this time. Now and then a
half-moon blinked down between wisps of smoky cloud, but for the most
part gray dimness hung over the prairie, and the drumming of hoofs rang
stridently through the silence. Winston knew a good horse, and had
bred several of them--before a blizzard which swept the prairie killed
off his finest yearlings as well as their pedigree sire--and his
spirits rose as the splendid beast swung into faster stride beneath him.
For two weeks at least he would be free from anxiety, and the monotony
of his life at the lonely homestead had grown horribly irksome.
Winston was young, and now, when for a brief space he had left his
cares behind, the old love of adventure which had driven him out from
England once more awakened and set his blood stirring. For the first
time in six years of struggle he did not know what lay before him, and
he had a curious, half-instinctive feeling that the trait he was
traveling would lead him farther than Montana. It was borne in upon
him that he had left the old hopeless life behind, and stirred by some
impulse he broke into a little song he had sung in England and long
forgotten.
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