The dismal¹ afternoon was drawing in when Winston, driving home from the railroad, came into sight of a lonely farm. It lifted itself out of the prairie, a blur² of huddled³ buildings on the crest⁴ of a long rise, but at first sight Winston scarcely noticed it. He was gazing abstractedly down the sinuous⁵ smear⁶ of trail which unrolled itself like an endless ribbon across the great white desolation, and his brain was busy. Four months had passed since he came to Silverdale, and they had left their mark on him.  
At first there had been the constant fear of detection, and when that had lessened⁷ and he was accepted as Lance Courthorne, the latter's unfortunate record had met him at every turn. It accounted for the suspicions of Colonel Barrington, the reserve of his niece, and the aloofness⁸ of some of his neighbors, while there had been times when Winston found Silverdale almost unendurable. He was, however, an obstinate⁹ man, and there was on the opposite side the gracious kindliness¹⁰ of the little gray-haired lady, who had from the beginning been his champion, and the friendship of Dane, and one or two of the older men. Winston had also proved his right to be listened to, and treated, outwardly at least, with due civility, while something in his resolute¹¹ quietness rendered an impertinence impossible. He knew by this time that he could hold his own at Silverdale, and based his conduct on the fact, but that was only one aspect of the question, and he speculated as to the consummation.
 
It was, however, evident that in the meanwhile he must continue to pose as Courthorne, and he felt, rightly or wrongly, that the possession of his estate was, after all, a small reparation for the injury the outlaw¹² had done him, but the affair was complicated by the fact that, in taking Courthorne's inheritance, he had deprived Maud Barrington of part of hers. The girl's coldness stung him, but her unquestionable beauty and strength of character had not been without their effect, and the man winced¹³ as he remembered that she had no pity for anything false or mean. He had decided¹⁴ only upon two things, first that he would vindicate¹⁵ himself in her eyes, and, since nobody else could apparently¹⁶ do it, pull the property that should have been hers out of the ruin it had been drifting into under her uncle's guardianship¹⁷. When this had been done, and the killing¹⁸ of Trooper Shannon forgotten, it would be time for him to slip back into the obscurity he came from.
 
Then the fact that the homestead was growing nearer forced itself upon his perceptions, and he glanced doubtfully across the prairie as he approached the forking of the trail. A gray dimness was creeping across the wilderness¹⁹ and the smoky sky seemed to hang lower above the dully gleaming snow, while the moaning wind flung little clouds of icy dust about him. It was evident that the snow was not far away, and it was still two leagues to Silverdale, but Winston, who had been to Winnipeg, had business with the farmer, and had faced a prairie storm before. Accordingly he swung the team into the forking trail and shook the reins²⁰. There was, he knew, little time to lose, and in another five minutes he stood, still wearing his white-sprinkled furs, in a room of the birch-log building.
 
"Here are your accounts, Macdonald, and while we've pulled up our losses, I can't help thinking we have just got out in time," he said. "The market is but little stiffer yet, but there is less selling, and before a few months are over we're going to see a sharp recovery."
 
The farmer glanced at the documents, and smiled with contentment as he took the check. "I'm glad I listened to you," he said. "It's unfortunate for him and his niece that Barrington wouldn't--at least, not until he had lost the opportunity."
 
"I don't understand," said Winston.
 
"No," said the farmer, "you've been away. Well, you know it takes a long while to get an idea into the Colonel's head, but once it's in, it's even harder to get it out again. Now Barrington looked down on wheat jobbing, but money's tight at Silverdale, and when he saw what you were making, he commenced to think. Accordingly, he's going to sell, and, as he seems convinced that wheat will not go up again, let half the acreage lie fallow this season. The worst of it is, the others will follow him, and he controls Maud Barrington's property as well as his own."
 
Winston's face was grave. "I heard In Winnipeg that most of the smaller men, who had lost courage, were doing the same thing. That means a very small crop of western hard, and millers²¹ paying our own prices. Somebody must stop the Colonel."
 
"Well," said Macdonald dryly, "I wouldn't like to be the man, and after all, it's only your opinion. As you have seen, the small men here and in Minnesota are afraid to plow²²."
 
Winston laughed softly. "The man who makes the dollars is the one who sees farther than the crowd. Any way, I found the views of one or two men who make big deals were much the same as mine, and I'll speak to Miss Barrington."
 
"Then, if you wait a little, you will have an opportunity. She is here, you see."
 
Winston looked disconcerted. "She should not have been. Why didn't you send her home? There'll be snow before she reaches Silverdale."
 
Macdonald laughed. "I hadn't noticed the weather, and, though my wife wished her to stay, there is no use in attempting to persuade Miss Barrington to do anything when she does not want to. In some respects she is very like the Colonel."
 
The farmer led the way into another room, and Winston flushed a little when the girl returned his greeting in a fashion which he fancied the presence of Mrs. Macdonald alone rendered distantly cordial. Still, a glance through the windows showed him that delay was inadvisable.
 
"I think you had better stay here all night, Miss Barrington," he said. "There is snow coming."
 
"I am sorry our views do not coincide," said the girl. "I have several things to attend to at the Grange."
 
"Then Macdonald will keep your team, and I will drive you home," said Winston. "Mine are the best horses at Silverdale, and I fancy we will need all their strength."
 
Miss Barrington looked up sharply. There had been a little ring in Winston's voice, but there was also a solicitude²³ in his face which almost astonished her, and when Macdonald urged her to comply she rose leisurely²⁴.
 
"I will be ready in ten minutes," she said.
 
Winston waited at least twenty, very impatiently, but when at last the girl appeared, handed her with quiet deference²⁵ into the sleigh, and then took his place, as far as the dimensions of the vehicle permitted, apart from her. Once he fancied she noticed it with faint amusement, but the horses knew what was coming, and it was only when he pulled them up to a trot²⁶ again on the slope of a rise that he found speech convenient.
 
"I am glad we are alone, though I feel a little diffidence in asking a favor of you because unfortunately when I venture to recommend anything you usually set yourself against it," he said. "This is, in the language of this country, tolerably straight."
 
Maud Barrington laughed. "I could find no fault with it on the score of ambiguity²⁷."
 
"Well," said Winston, "I believe your uncle is going to sell wheat for you, and let a good deal of your land go out of cultivation²⁸. Now, as you perhaps do not know, the laws which govern the markets are very simple and almost immutable²⁹, but the trouble is that a good many people do not understand their application."
 
"You apparently consider yourself an exception," said the girl.
 
Winston nodded. "I do just now. Still, I do not wish to talk about myself. You see, the people back there in Europe must be fed, and the latest news from wheat-growing countries does not promise more than an average crop, while half the faint-hearted farmers here are not going to sow much this year. Therefore when the demand comes for Western wheat there will be little to sell."
 
"But how is it that you alone see this? Isn't it a trifle egotistical?"
 
Winston laughed. "Can't we leave my virtues³⁰, or the reverse, out of the question? I feel that I am right, and want you to dissuade³¹ your uncle. It would be even better if, when I return to Winnipeg, you would empower me to buy wheat for you."
 
Maud Barrington looked at him curiously³². "I am a little perplexed³³ as to why you should wish me to."
 
"No doubt," said Winston. "Still, is there any reason why I should be debarred the usual privilege of taking an interest in my neighbor's affairs?"
 
"No," said the girl slowly. "But can you not see that it is out of the question that I should intrust you with this commission?"
 
Winston's hands closed on the reins, and his face grew a trifle grim as he said, "From the point of view you evidently take, I presume it is."
 
A flush of crimson³⁴ suffused³⁵ the girl's cheeks. "I never meant that, and I can scarcely forgive you for fancying I did. Of course I could trust you with--you have made me use the word--the dollars, but you must realize that I could not do anything in public opposition³⁶ to my uncle's opinion."
 
Winston was sensible of a great relief, but it did not appear advisable to show it. "There are so many things you apparently find it difficult to forgive me--and we will let this one pass," he said. "Still, I cannot help thinking that Colonel Barrington will have a good deal to answer for."
 
Maud Barrington made no answer, but she was sensible of a respect which appeared quite unwarranted for the dryly-spoken man, who, though she guessed her words stung him now and then, bore them without wincing³⁷. While she sat silent, shivering under her furs, darkness crept down. The smoky cloud dropped lower, the horizon closed in as the gray obscurity rolled up to meet them across a rapidly-narrowing strip of snow. Then she could scarcely see the horses, and the muffled³⁸ drumming of their hoofs³⁹ was lost in a doleful wail⁴⁰ of wind. It also seemed to her that the cold, which was already almost insupportable, suddenly increased, as it not infrequently does in that country before the snow. Then a white powder was whirled into her face, filling her eyes and searing the skin, while the horses were plunging⁴¹ at a gallop⁴² through a filmy haze⁴³, and Winston, whitened all over, leaned forward with lowered head hurling⁴⁴ hoarse⁴⁵ encouragement at them. His voice reached her fitfully through the roar of wind, until sight and hearing were lost alike as the white haze closed about them, and it was not until the wild gust⁴⁶ had passed she heard him again. He was apparently shouting, "Come nearer."
 
Maud Barrington was not sure whether she obeyed him or he seized and drew her towards him. She, however, felt the furs piled high about her neck and that there was an arm round her shoulder, and for a moment was sensible of an almost overwhelming revulsion from the contact. She was proud and very dainty, and fancied she knew what this man had been, while now she was drawn⁴⁷ in to his side, and felt her chilled blood respond to the warmth of his body. Indeed she grew suddenly hot to the neck, and felt that henceforward she could never forgive him or herself, but the mood passed almost as swiftly, for again the awful blast shrieked⁴⁸ about them and she only remembered her companion's humanity, as the differences of sex and character vanished under that destroying cold. They were no longer man and woman, but only beings of flesh and blood, clinging desperately⁴⁹ to the life that was in them, for the first rush of the Western snowstorm has more than a physical effect, and man exposed to its fury loses all but his animal instincts in the primitive⁵⁰ struggle with the elements.
 
Then, while the snow folded them closely in its white embrace during a lull⁵¹, the girl recovered herself, and her strained voice was faintly audible.
 
"This is my fault. Why don't you tell me so?" she said.
 
A hoarse laugh seemed to issue from the whitened object beside her, and she was drawn closer to it again. "We needn't go into that just now. You have one thing to do, and that is to keep warm."
 
One of the horses stumbled, the grasp that was around her became relaxed and she heard the swish of the whip followed by hoarse expletives, and did not resent it. The man, it seemed, was fighting for her life as well as his own, and even brutal⁵² virility⁵³ was necessary. After that, there was a space of oblivion while the storm raged about them, until, when the wind fell a trifle, it became evident that the horses had left the trail.
 
"You are off the track, and will never make the Grange unless you find it," she said.
 
Winston seemed to nod. "We are not going there," he said, and if he added anything, it was lost in the scream of a returning gust.
 
Again Maud Barrington's reason reasserted itself, and remembering the man's history she became sensible of a curious dismay, but it also passed and left her with the vague realization⁵⁴ that he and she were actuated alike only by the desire to esc............