"Then," said the latter, "it's you!"
"It is," said Courthorne dryly. "I'm much obliged to you for showing
me the thing, but I'd be still more obliged if you wouldn't worry me
with any questions just now."
His companion made a little gesture of comprehension as he moved away,
and Courthorne leaned back in his chair with his eyes half-closed. He
could now understand his whisky-smuggling comrade's letter, for it was
evident that Winston was going to Silverdale. Indeed, Courthorne could
not see what other course was open to the rancher, if he wished to
preserve his safety. Still, Courthorne was aware that farming, as
carried on at Silverdale, was singularly unprofitable, and he had a
somewhat curious confidence in the honesty of the man he had deceived.
Winston, he decided, no doubt believed that he was drowned the night
Trooper Shannon died, and had been traced as Courthorne by some
Winnipeg lawyer acting for the executors.
Then Clouston came in to announce that supper was ready, and Courthorne
took his place among the rest. The men were store-keepers of the
settlement, though there were among them frost-bronzed ranchers and
cattle-boys who had come in for provisions or their mail, and some of
them commenced rallying one of their comrades who sat near the head of
the table on his approaching wedding. The latter bore it
good-humoredly, and made a sign of recognition when Courthorne glanced
at him. He was a big man, with pleasant blue eyes and a genial,
weather-darkened face, though he was known as a daring rider and
successful breaker of vicious horses.
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