Winston's face became
mottled with gray again as he realized that if he revealed his identity
he had nothing but his word to offer in proof of his innocence.
Still, it was anger and not fear that stirred him, for nobody could
arrest a man who was dead, and there was no reason that would render it
undesirable for him to remain so. His farm would when sold realize the
money borrowed upon it, and the holder of the mortgage had received a
profitable interest already. Had the unforeseen not happened, Winston
would have held out to the end of the struggle, but now he had no
regret that this was out of the question. Fate had been too strong for
him as farmer Winston, but it might deal more kindly with him as the
outlaw Courthorne. He could also make a quick decision, and when the
officer returned to say that supper was ready, he rose with a smile.
They sat down to a meal that was barbaric in its simplicity and
abundance, for men live and eat in Homeric fashion in the Northwest,
and when the green tea was finished and the officer pushed the whisky
across, his guest laughed as he filled his glass.
"Here's better fortune to farmer Winston!" he said.
The officer stared at him. "No, sir," he said. "If the old folks
taught me right, Winston's in ----"
A curious smile flickered in the farmer's eyes. "No," he said slowly.
"He was tolerably near it once or twice when he was alive, and, because
of what he went through then, there may be something better in store
for him.
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