It's a misfortune we've heard
nothing very reassuring about Courthorne."
CHAPTER VII
WINSTON'S DECISION
Farmer Winston crossed the frontier without molestation and spent one
night in a little wooden town, where several people he did not speak to
apparently recognized him. Then he pushed on southwards, and passed a
week in the especially desolate settlement he had been directed to. A
few dilapidated frame houses rose out of the white wilderness beside
the broad beaten trail, and, for here the prairie rolled south in long
rises like the waves of a frozen sea, a low wooden building on the
crest of one cut the skyline a league away. It served as outpost for a
squadron of United States cavalry, and the troopers daily maligned the
Government which had sent them into that desolation on police duty.
There was nothing else visible but a few dusky groves of willows and
the dazzling snow. The ramshackle wooden hotel was rather more than
usually badly-kept and comfortless, and Winston, who had managed to
conciliate his host, felt relieved one afternoon when the latter flung
down the cards disgustedly.
"I guess I've had enough," he said. "Playing for stakes of this kind
isn't good enough for you!"
Winston laughed a little to hide his resentment, as he said, "I don't
quite understand."
"Pshaw!" said the American, with a contemptuous gesture. "Three times
out of four I've spoiled your hand, and if I didn't know that black
horse I'd take you for some blamed Canadian rancher.
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