Supper was cooking when Lance Courthorne sat beside the glowing stove in the comfortless general room of a little wooden hotel in a desolate1 settlement of Montana. He had a good many acquaintances in the straggling town, where he now and then ran a faro game, though it was some months since he had last been there, and he had ridden a long way to reach it that day. He was feeling comfortably tired after the exposure to the bitter frost, and blinked drowsily2 at the young rancher who sat opposite him across the stove. The latter, who had come out some years earlier from the old country, was then reading a somewhat ancient English newspaper.
"What has been going on here lately?" asked Courthorne.
The other man laughed. "Does anything ever happen in this place? One would be almost thankful if a cyclone4 or waterspout came along, if it were only to give the boys something to talk about. Still, one of the girls here is going to get married. I'm not sure old man Clouston finds it helps his trade quite as much as he fancied it would when he fired his Chinamen and brought good-looking waitresses in. This is the third of them who has married one of the boys and left him."
"What could he expect!" and Courthorne yawned. "Who's the man, and have I seen the girl?"
"I don't think you have. So far as I remember, she came since you were here last, and that must be quite a while ago. Nobody seems to know where Clouston got her from, and she's by no means communicative about her antecedents; but she's pretty enough for any man, and Potter is greatly stuck on her. He sold out a week or two ago--got quite a pile for the ranch3, and I understand he's going back to the old country. Any way, the girl has a catch. Potter's a straight man, and most of us like him."
He turned over his paper with a little laugh. "It doesn't interest you? Well, if you had lived out at Willow5 six years as I have you'd be glad of anything to talk about, if it was only the affairs of one of Clouston's waitresses."
Courthorne yawned again openly and took from his pocket a letter that he had received the day before at another little town to which, in accordance with directions given, it had been forwarded him. It was from one of his whisky-running comrades and had somewhat puzzled him.
"There's about one hundred dollars due you, and we're willing to pay up," it ran. "Still, now we hear you're going back east to the Silverdale settlement it's quite likely you won't want them as much as the rest of us do. It's supposed to be quite a big farm you have come into."
Courthorne was a little troubled, as well as perplexed6. He had certainly not gone to Silverdale and had no notion of doing so, though he had distant relatives there, while, so far as he knew, nobody had left him a farm of any kind. He had promised the whisky runners a guide on the night of Trooper Shannon's death, and as it was dark when, muffled7 in Winston's furs, he met the men--who were, as it happened, for the most part new adherents8, it seemed probable that they had not recognized him or had any reason to believe it was not Winston himself who was responsible for the trooper's death. It was not a very unusual thing for one of the smaller farmers to take a part in a smuggling9 venture now and then. Still, the letter left him with an unpleasant uncertainty10.
By and by his companion looked up from his paper again.
"You came from my part of the old country, I think?" he said, "I see a man of your name has died there lately, and he seems to have left a good deal of property. Here's a list of the bequests11."
He stopped a moment, and with another glance at it handed Courthorne the paper. "I notice your own name among them, and it's not a common one."
Courthorne stretched out his hand for the paper, and his face became intent as he read: "It is with regret many of our readers will hear of the death of Mr. Geoffrey Courthorne, well known in this vicinity as a politician with Imperialistic12 views and a benefactor13 of charitable schemes. Among the bequests are . . .and one of the farms in the Silverdale colony he established in Western Canada to Lance Courthorne."
He laid down the paper and sat rigidly14 still for a minute or two, while his companion glanced at him curiously15.
"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 decided16, no doubt believed that he was drowned the night Trooper Shannon died, and had been traced as Courthorne by some Winnipeg lawyer acting17 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 genial18, weather-darkened face, though he was known as a daring rider and successful breaker of vicious horses.
Courthorne sat at the bottom of the table, at some distance from him, while by and by the man at his side laughed when a girl with a tray stopped behind them. She was a very pretty girl with big black eyes, in which, however, there lurked19 a somewhat curious gravity.
"Fresh pork or steak? Fried potatoes," she said.
Courthorne, who could not see her as he was sitting, started involuntarily. The voice was, at least, very like one he had often listened to, and the resemblance brought him a little shock of disgust as well as uneasiness. Gambler and outcast as he was, there was a certain fastidiousness in him, and it did not seem fitting that a girl with a voice like the one he remembered should have to ask whether one would take pork or steak in a little fourth-rate hotel.
"Take them right along, Ailly," said the man next to him. "Why don't you begin at the top where Potter's waiting?"
Then Courthorne looked around and for a moment; set his lips tight, while the girl would have dropped the tray had he not stretched out a hand and seized it. A dark flush swept into her face and then as suddenly faded out of it, leaving her very pale. She stood gazing at him, and the fingers of one hand quivered on the tray, which he still held. He was, as it happened, the first to recover himself, and there was a little sardonic20 gleam in his eyes as he lifted down one of the plates.
"Well," he said, "I guess Potter will have to wait. I'll take steak."
The others had their backs to the girl, and by the time one or two of them turned round she was quietly helping21 Courthorne's companion; but it was a moment or two before Courthorne commenced to eat, for the waitress was certainly Ailly Blake. It was as certain that she had recognized him, which was, however, by no means astonishing, and this promised another complication, for he was commencing to realize that since Winston had gone to Silverdale it would be convenient that Courthorne as such should cease to exist. He fancied that should any of the men he was acquainted with happen to come across Winston at Silverdale--which was, however, most unlikely--they might be deceived by the resemblance between himself and the farmer; but it was hardly to be expected that Ailly Blake would fail to be sure of him in any circumstances and anywhere. He accordingly decided that he must have an interview with her as soon as possible, and, since he had been in many tight places before, in the meanwhile went on tranquilly22 with his supper.
The meal was over, and the men clustered around the stove when he gathered up one or two of the plates and laid them ready as the girl moved along the table. She glanced at him for a moment, with startled eyes. A spot of crimson23 showed in her cheek.
"I want a word with you," he said.
Ailly Blake flashed a swift glance round the room, and Courthorne noticed with a little smile that it was one man in particular her gaze rested on; but neither Potter nor any of the others seemed to be observing them at that moment.
"Then open the second door down the corridor in about twenty minutes," she said.
She moved away and left him to join the others about the stove, until the time she mentioned had elapsed, when he sauntered out of the room and opened the door she had indicated. It led into a little room apparently24 used as a household store. Here Ailly Blake was standing25, while a litter of forks, spoons, and nickeled knives showed what her occupation had been. Courthorne sat down on a table and lo............