He was
no longer the hot-blooded lad who had come out from the old country,
for he had felt the bonds of discipline, and been taught restraint and
silence on the lonely marches of the prairie.
"I have," he said tentatively, "fancied there was something a little
unusual about the thing."
Stimson nodded, but his next observation was apparently quite
unconnected with the topic. "You were a raw colt when I got you,
Payne, and the bit galled you now and then, but you had good hands on a
bridle, and somebody who knew his business had taught you to sit a
horse in the old country. Still, you were not as handy with brush and
fork at stable duty,"
The bronze seemed to deepen in the corporal's face, but it was turned
steadily towards his officer. "Sir," he said, "has that anything to do
with what you were speaking of?"
Stimson laughed softly. "That depends, my lad. Now, I've taught you
to ride straight, and to hold your tongue. I've asked you no
questions, but I've eyes in my head, and it's not without a purpose
you've been made corporal. You're the kind they give commissions to,
now and then--and your folks in the old country never raised you for a
police trooper."
"Can you tell me how to win one?" ask the corporal, and Stimson noticed
the little gleam in his eyes.
"There's one road to advancement, and you know where to find the
trooper's duty laid down plain," he said, with a dry smile. "Now, you
saw Lance Courthorne once or twice back there in Alberta?"
"Yes, sir, but never close to.
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