"
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 plainer, there was a thud of hoofs
behind, and the curious exhilaration returned to Winston as the big
black horse stretched out at a gallop.
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