“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 Winston’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 as 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 black shame upon him.

It was about this time when Winston 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.”