"What has happened has been a blow to me, and I am afraid I am scarcely equal to entertaining you tonight," he said. "I should, however, like Dane and Macdonald, and one or two of the older men to stay a while. There is still, I fancy, a good deal for us to do."
The others turned towards the door, but as they passed Winston, Miss Barrington turned and touched his shoulder. The man, looking up suddenly, saw her and her niece standing1 close beside her.
"Madam," he said hoarsely3, though it was Maud Barrington he glanced at, "the comedy is over. Well, I promised you an explanation, and now you have it you will try not to think too bitterly of me. I cannot ask you to forgive me."
The little white-haired lady pointed4 to the ears of wheat which stood gleaming ruddy bronze in front of him.
"That," she said, very quietly, "will make it easier."
Maud Barrington said nothing, but every one in the room saw her standing a moment beside the man, with a little flush on her face and no blame in her eyes. Then she passed on, but short as it was the pause had been very significant, for it seemed that whatever the elders of the community might decide, the two women, whose influence was supreme5 at Silverdale, had given the impostor absolution.
The girl could not analyze6 her feelings, but through them all a vague relief was uppermost, for whatever he had been it was evident the man had done one wrong only, and daringly, and that was a good deal easier to forgive than several incidents in Courthorne's past would have been. Then she was conscious that Miss Barrington's eyes were upon her.
"Aunt," she said, with a little tremor7 in her voice, "It is almost bewildering. Still, one seemed to feel that what that man has done could never have been the work of Lance Courthorne."
Miss Barrington made no answer, but her face was very grave, and just then those nearest it drew back a little from the door. A trooper stood outside it, his carbine glinting in the light, and another was silhouetted8 against the sky, sitting motionless in his saddle further back on the prairie.
"The police are still here," said somebody. One by one they passed out under the trooper's gaze, but there was the usual delay in harnessing and saddling, and the first vehicle had scarcely rolled away, when again the beat of hoofs9 and thin jingle10 of steel came portentously11 out of the silence. Maud Barrington shivered a little as she heard it.
In the meanwhile, the few who remained had seated themselves about Colonel Barrington. When there was quietness again, he glanced at Winston, who still sat at the foot of the table.
"Have you anything more to tell us?" he asked. "These gentlemen are here to advise me if necessary."
"Yes," said Winston quietly. "I shall probably leave Silverdale before morning, and have now to hand you a statement of my agreement with Courthorne and the result of my farming here, drawn12 up by a Winnipeg accountant. Here is also a document in which I have taken the liberty of making you and Dane my assigns. You will, as authorized13 by it, pay to Courthorne the sum due to him, and with your consent, which you have power to withhold14, I purpose taking one thousand dollars only of the balance that remains15 to me. I have it here now, and in the meanwhile surrender it to you. Of the rest, you will make whatever use that appears desirable for the general benefit of Silverdale. Courthorne has absolutely no claim upon it."
He laid a wallet on the table, and Dane glanced at Colonel Barrington, who nodded when he returned it unopened.
"We will pass it without counting. You accept the charge, sir?" he said.
"Yes," said Barrington gravely. "It seems it is forced on me. Well, we will glance through the statement."
For at least ten minutes nobody spoke16, and then Dane said. "There are prairie farmers who would consider what he is leaving behind him a competence17."
"If this agreement, which was apparently18 verbal, is confirmed by Courthorne, the entire sum rightfully belongs to the man he made his tenant," said Barrington, and Macdonald smiled gravely as he glanced at Winston.
"I think we can accept the statement that it was made without question, sir," he said.
Winston shook his head. "I claim one thousand dollars as the fee of my services, and they should be worth that much, but I will take no more."
"Are we not progressing a little too rapidly, sir?" said Dane. "It seems to me we have yet to decide whether it is necessary that the man who has done so much for us should leave Silverdale."
Winston smiled a trifle grimly. "I think," he said, "that question will very shortly be answered for you."
Macdonald held his hand up, and a rapid thud of hoofs came faintly through the silence.
"Troopers! They are coming here," he said.
"Yes," said Winston. "I fancy they will relieve you from any further difficulty."
Dane strode to one of the windows, and glanced at Colonel Barrington as he pulled back the catch. Winston, however, shook his head, and a little flush crept into Dane's bronzed face.
"Sorry. Of course you are right," he said. "It will be better that they should acquit19 you."
No one moved for a few more minutes, and then with a trooper behind him Sergeant20 Stimson came in, and laid his hand on Winston's shoulder.
"I have a warrant for your apprehension21, farmer Winston," he said. "You probably know the charge against you."
"Yes," said Winston simply. "I hope to refute it. I will come with you."
He went out, and Barrington stared at the men about him. "I did not catch the name before. That was the man who shot the police trooper in Alberta?"
"No, sir," said Dane, very quietly. "Nothing would induce me to believe it of him!"
Barrington looked at him in bewilderment. "But he must have done--unless," he said, and ended with a little gasp22. "Good Lord! There was the faint resemblance, and they changed horses--it is horrible."
Dane's eyes were very compassionate23 as he laid his hand gently on his leader's shoulder.
"Sir," he said, "you have our sympathy, and I am sorry that to offer it is all we can do. Now, I think we have stayed too long already."
They went out, and left Colonel Barrington sitting alone with a gray face at the head of the table.
It was a minute or two later when Winston swung himself into the saddle at the door of the Grange. All the vehicles had not left as yet, and there was a little murmur24 of sympathy when the troopers closed in about him. Still, before they rode away one of the men wheeled his horse aside, and Winston saw Maud Barrington standing bareheaded by his stirrup. The moonlight showed that her face was impassive but curiously25 pale.
"We could not let you go without a word, and you will come back to us with your innocence26 made clear," she said.
Her voice had a little ring in it that carried far, and her companions heard her. What Winston said they could not hear, and he did not remember it, but he swung his hat off, and those who saw the girl at his stirrup recognized with confusion that she alone had proclaimed her faith, while they had stood aside from him. Then the Sergeant raised his hand and the troopers rode forward with their prisoner.
In the meanwhile, Courthorne was pressing south for the American frontier, and daylight was just creeping across the prairie when the pursuers, who had found his trail and the ranch27 he obtained a fresh horse at, had sight of him. There were three of them, riding wearily, grimed with dust, when a lonely mounted figure showed for a moment on the crest28 of a rise. In another minute, it dipped into a hollow, and Corporal Payne smiled grimly.
"I think we have him now. The creek29 can't be far away, and he's west of the bridge," he said. "While we try to head him off you'll follow behind him, Hilton."
One trooper sent the spurs in, and, while the others swung off, rode straight on. Courthorne was at least a mile from them, but they were nearer the bridge, and Payne surmised30 that his jaded31 horse would fail him if he essayed to ford32 the creek and climb the farther side of the deep ravine it flowed through. They saw nothing of him when they swept across the rise, for here and there a grove33 of willows34 stretched out across the prairie from the sinuous36 band of trees in front of them. These marked the river hollow, and Payne, knowing that the chase might be ended in a few more minutes, did not spare the spur. He also remembered, as he tightened37 his grip on the bridle38, the white face of Trooper Shannon flecked with the drifting snow.
The bluff
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