Winston of the Prairie | Page 6

it is written plainly
on the new Northwest that no man may live and labor for himself alone,
and there are many who realizing it instinctively ask very little and
freely give their best for the land that but indifferently shelters them.
Presently, however, there was a knocking at the door, and though this
was most unusual Winston only quietly moved his head when a bitter
blast came in, and a man wrapped in furs stood in the opening.
"I'll put my horse in the stable while I've got my furs on. It's a bitter
night," he said.
Winston nodded. "You know where the lantern is," he said. "There's
some chop in the manger, and you needn't spare the oats in the bin. At
present prices it doesn't pay to haul them in."
The man closed the door silently, and it was ten minutes before he
returned and, sloughing off his furs, dropped into a chair beside the
stove. "I got supper at Broughton's, and don't want anything but shelter
tonight," he said. "Shake that pipe out, and try one of these instead."
He laid a cigar case on the table, and though well worn it was of costly
make with a good deal of silver about it, while Winston, who lighted
one, knew that the cigars were good. He had no esteem for his visitor,
but men are not censorious upon the prairie, and Western hospitality is
always free.
"Where have you come from, Courthorne?" he said quietly.
The other man laughed a little. "The long trail," he said. "The Dakotas,

Colorado, Montana. Cleaned up one thousand dollars at Regent, and
might have got more, but some folks down there seemed tired of me.
The play was quite regular, but they have apparently been getting
virtuous lately."
"And now?" said Winston, with polite indifference.
Courthorne made a little gesture of deprecation.
"I'm back again with the rustlers."
Winston's nod signified comprehension, for the struggle between the
great range-holders across the frontier and the smaller settlers who with
legal right invaded their cattle runs was just over. It had been fought
out bitterly with dynamite and rifles, and when at last with the aid of
the United States cavalry peace was made, sundry broken men and
mercenaries who had taken the pay of both parties, seeing their
occupation gone, had found a fresh scope for their energies in
smuggling liquor, and on opportunity transferring cattle, without their
owner's sanction, across the frontier. That was then a prohibition
country, and the profits and risks attached to supplying it and the
Blackfeet on the reserves with liquor were heavy.
"Business this way?" said Winston.
Courthorne appeared to consider a moment, and there was a curious
little glint in his eyes which did not escape his companion's attention,
but he laughed.
"Yes, we're making a big run," he said, then stopped and looked
straight at the rancher. "Did it ever strike you, Winston, that you were
not unlike me?"
Winston smiled, but made a little gesture of dissent as he returned the
other's gaze. They were about the same height and had the same
English type of face, while Winston's eyes were gray and his
companion's an indefinite blue that approached the former color, but
there the resemblance, which was not more than discernible, ended.

Winston was quietly-spoken and somewhat grim, a plain prairie farmer
in appearance, while a vague but recognizable stamp of breeding and
distinction still clung to Courthorne. He would have appeared more in
place in the States upon the southern Atlantic seaboard, where the
characteristics the Cavalier settlers brought with them are not extinct,
than he did upon the Canadian prairie. His voice had even in his
merriment a little imperious ring, his face was refined as well as
sensual, and there was a languid gracefulness in his movements and a
hint of pride in his eyes. They, however, lacked the steadiness of
Winston's, and there were men who had seen the wild devil that was
born in Courthorne look out of them. Winston knew him as a pleasant
companion, but surmised from stories he had heard that there were men,
and more women, who bitterly rued the trust they had placed in him.
"No," he said dryly. "I scarcely think I am like you, although only last
night Nettie at the settlement took me for you. You see, the kind of life
I've led out here has set its mark on me, and my folks in the old country
were distinctly middle-class people. There is something in heredity."
Courthorne did not parry the unexpressed question. "Oh yes," he said,
with a little sardonic smile. "I know. The backbone of the
nation--solemn, virtuous and slow. You're like them, but my folks were
different, as you surmise. I don't think they had