Harold Bindloss - The Impostor

“I’m glad he hadn’t, Pat,” said Payne. “What was the end of it?”

“I remembered,” said the other with a groan, “remembered I was Trooper Shannon, an’ dropped the carbine into the wagon. Courthorne wheels the black horse round, an’ I saw the red line across the face of him.

“‘You’ll be sorry for this, my lad,’ says he.”

“He’s a dangerous man,” Payne said thoughtfully. “Pat, you came near being a – ass that day. Anyway, it’s time we went in, and as Larry’s here I shouldn’t wonder if we saw Courthorne again before the morning.”

The icy cold went through them to the bone as they left the stables, and it was a relief to enter the loghouse, which was heated to fustiness by the glowing stove. A lamp hung from a rough birch beam, and its uncertain radiance showed motionless figures wrapped in blankets in the bunks round the walls. Two men were, however, dressing, and one already in uniform sat at a table talking to another swathed in furs, who was from his appearance a prairie farmer. The man at the table was lean and weather-bronzed, with grizzled hair and observant eyes. They were fixed steadily upon the farmer, who knew that very little which happened upon the prairie escaped the vigilance of Sergeant Stimson.

“It’s straight talk you’re giving me, Larry? What do you figure on making by it?” he said.

The farmer laughed mirthlessly. “Not much, anyway, beyond the chance of getting a bullet in me back or me best steer lifted one dark night. ’Tis not forgiving the rustlers are, and Courthorne’s the divil,” he said. “But listen now, Sergeant; I’ve told ye where he is, and if ye’re not fit to corral him I’ll ride him down meself.”

Sergeant Stimson wrinkled his forehead. “If anybody knows what they’re after, it should be you,” he said, watching the man out of the corner of his eyes. “Still, I’m a little worried as to why, when you’ll get nothing for it, you’re anxious to serve the State.”

The farmer clenched a big hand. “Sergeant, you that knows everything, will ye drive me mad, an’ to – with the State!” he said. “Sure, it’s gospel I’m telling ye, an’ as you’re knowing well, it’s me could tell where the boys who ride at midnight drop many a keg. Well, if ye will have your reason, it was Courthorne who put the black shame on me an’ mine.”

Sergeant Stimson nodded, for he had already suspected this.

“Then,” he said dryly, “we’ll give you a chance of helping us to put the handcuffs on him. Now, because they wouldn’t risk the bridge, and the ice is not thick yet everywhere, there are just two ways they could bring the stuff across, and I figure we’d be near the thing if we fixed on Graham’s Pool. Still, Courthorne’s no kind of fool, and just because that crossing seems the likeliest he might try the other one. You’re ready for duty, Trooper Payne?”

The lad stood straight. “I can turn out in ten minutes, sir,” he said.

“Then,” and Sergeant Stimson raised his voice a trifle, “you will ride at once to the rise a league outside the settlement, and watch the Montana trail. Courthorne will probably be coming over from Witham’s soon after you get there, riding the big black, and you’ll keep out of sight and follow him. If he heads for Carson’s Crossing ride for Graham’s at a gallop, where you’ll find me with the rest. If he makes for the bridge, you will overtake him if you can and find out what he’s after. It’s quite likely he’ll tell you nothing, and you will not arrest him, but bearing in mind that every minute he spends there will be a loss to the rustlers you’ll keep him so long as you can. Trooper Shannon, you’ll ride at once to the bluff above Graham’s Pool, and watch the trail. Stop any man who rides that way, and if it’s Courthorne keep him until the rest of the boys come up with me. You’ve got your duty quite straight, both of you?”

The lads saluted, and went out, while the Sergeant smiled a little as he glanced at the farmer, and the men who were dressing.

“It’s steep chances we’ll have Mr. Courthorne’s company to-morrow, boys,” he said. “Fill up the kettle, Tom, and serve out a pint of coffee. There are reasons why we shouldn’t turn out too soon. We’ll saddle in an hour or so.”

Two of the men went out, and the stinging blast that swept in through the open door smote a smoky smear across the blinking lamp and roused a sharper crackling from the stove. Then one returned with the kettle and there was silence, when the fusty heat resumed its sway. Now and then a tired trooper murmured in his sleep, or there was a snapping in the stove, while the icy wind moaned about the building and the kettle commenced a soft sibilation, but nobody moved or spoke. Three shadowy figures in uniform sat just outside the light soaking in the grateful warmth while they could, for they knew that they might spend the next night unsheltered from the Arctic cold of the wilderness. The Sergeant sat with thoughtful eyes and wrinkled forehead where the flickering radiance forced up his lean face and silhouetted his spare outline on the rough boarding behind him, and close by the farmer sucked silently at his pipe, waiting, with a stony calm that sprang from fierce impatience, the reckoning with the man who had brought back shame upon him.

It was about this time when Witham stood shivering a little with the bridle of a big black horse in his hand just outside the door of his homestead. A valise and two thick blankets were strapped to the saddle, and he had donned the fur cap and coat Courthorne usually wore. Courthorne himself stood close by, smiling at him sardonically.

“If you keep the cap down and ride with your stirrups long, as I’ve fixed them, anybody would take you for me,” said he. “Go straight through the settlement, and let any man you come across see you. His testimony would come in useful if Stimson tries to fix a charge on me. You know your part of the bargain. You’re to be Lance Courthorne for a fortnight from to-day.”

“Yes,” said Witham dryly. “I wish I was equally sure of yours.”

Courthorne laughed. “I’m to be Rancher Witham until to-morrow night, anyway. Don’t worry about me. I’ll borrow those books of yours and improve my mind. Possible starvation is the only thing that threatens me, and it’s unfortunate you’ve left nothing fit to eat behind you.”

Witham swung himself into the saddle, a trifle awkwardly, for Courthorne rode with longer stirrup leathers than he was accustomed to, then he raised one hand, and the other man laughed a little as he watched him sink into the darkness of the shadowy prairie. When the drumming of hoofs was lost in the moaning of the wind he strode towards the stable, and taking up the lantern surveyed Witham’s horse thoughtfully.

“The thing cuts with both edges, and the farmer only sees one of them,” he said. “That beast’s about as difficult to mistake as my black is.”

Then he returned to the loghouse, and presently put on Witham’s old fur coat and tattered fur cap. Had Witham seen his unpleasant smile as he did it, he would probably have wheeled the black horse and returned at a gallop, but the farmer was sweeping across the waste of whitened grass at least a league away by this time. Now and then a half-moon blinked down between wisps of smoky cloud, but for the most part grey dimness hung over the prairie, and the drumming of hoofs rang stridently through the silence. Witham knew a good horse, and had bred several of them – before a blizzard which swept the prairie killed off his finest yearlings as well as their pedigree sire – and his spirits rose as the splendid beast swung into faster stride beneath him.

For two weeks at least he would be free from anxiety, and the monotony of his life at the lonely homestead had grown horribly irksome. Witham was young, and, now when for a brief space he had left his cares behind, the old love of adventure which had driven him out from England once more awakened and set his blood stirring. For the first time in six years of struggle he did not know what lay before him, and he had a curious, half-instinctive feeling that the trail he was travelling would lead him farther than Montana. It was borne in upon him that he had left the old hopeless life behind, and, stirred by some impulse, he broke into a little song he had sung in England, long and forgotten. He had a clear voice, and the words, which were filled with the hope of youth, rang bravely through the stillness of the frozen wilderness until the horse blundered, and Witham stopped with a little smile.