He knew already that there
were two doors to the saloon, and his fingers closed on the neck of a
decanter. Next moment it smote the new-comer on the chest, and while
he staggered backwards with the fluid trickling from him, Courthorne
departed through the opposite entrance. Once outside, he mounted
leisurely, but nobody came out from the hotel, and shaking the bridle
with a little laugh he cantered out of the settlement.
In the meanwhile the other man carefully wiped his garments, and then
turned to his companion.
"Now what's all this about?" he asked.
The girl told him, and the man ruminated for a minute or two. "Well,
he's gone, and I don't know that I'm sorry there wasn't a circus here,"
he said. "I figured there was something not square about that fellow
any way. Registered as Guyler from Minnesota, but I've seen somebody
like him among the boys from Silverdale. Guess I'll find out when I
ride over about the horse, and then I'll have a talk with him quietly."
In the meanwhile, the police trooper who had handed him the packet
returned to the outpost, and, as it happened, found the grizzled
Sergeant Stimson, who appeared astonished to see him back so soon,
there.
"I met Courthorne near his homestead, and gave him the papers, sir," he
said.
"You did?" said the Sergeant. "Now that's kind of curious, because
he's at the bridge."
"It couldn't have been anybody else, because he took the documents and
signed for them," said the trooper.
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