As he passed the hotel more slowly a man who came out called to him.  “Hello, Lance!  Taking the trail?” he said.  “Well, it kind of strikes me it’s time you did.  One of Stimson’s boys was down here, and he seemed quite anxious about you.”

Winston knew the man, and was about to urge the horse forward, but in place of it drew bridle, and laughed with a feeling that was wholly new to him as he remembered that his neighbors now and then bantered him about his English, and that Courthorne only used the Western colloquialism when it suited him.

“Sergeant Stimson is an enterprising officer, but there are as keen men as he is,” he said.  “You will, in case he questions you, remember when you met me.”

“Oh, yes,” said the other.  “Still, I wouldn’t fool too much with him—­and where did you get those mittens from?  That’s the kind of outfit that would suit Winston.”

Winston nodded, for though he had turned his face from the light the hand he held the bridle with was visible, and his big fur gloves were very old.

“They are his.  The fact is, I’ve just come from his place,” he said.  “Well, you can tell Stimson you saw me starting out on the Montana trail.”

He shook the bridle, laughed softly as the frame houses flitted by, and then grew intent when the darkness of the prairie once more closed down.  It was, he knew, probable that some of Stimson’s men would be looking out for him, and he had not sufficient faith in Courthorne’s assurances to court an encounter with them.

The lights had faded, and the harsh grass was crackling under the drumming hoofs when the blurred outline of a mounted man showed up on the crest of a rise, and a shout came down.

“Hello!  Pull up there a moment, stranger.”

There was nothing alarming in the greeting, but Winston recognized the ring of command, as well as the faint jingle of steel which had preceded it, and pressed his heels home.  The black swung forward faster, and Winston glancing over his shoulder saw the dusky shape was now moving down the incline.  Then the voice rose again more commandingly.

“Pull up, I want a talk with you.”

Winston turned his head a moment, and remembering Courthorne’s English flung back the answer, “Sorry I haven’t time.”

The faint musical jingle grew plainer, there was a thud of hoofs behind, and the curious exhilaration returned to Winston as the big black horse stretched out at a gallop.  The soil was hard as granite, but the matted grasses formed a covering that rendered fast riding possible to a man who took the risks, and Winston knew there were few horses in the Government service to match the one he rode.  Still, it was evident that the trooper meant to overtake him, and recollecting his compact he tightened his grip on the bridle.  It was a long way to the ranch where he was to spend the night, and he knew that the further he drew the trooper on, the better it would suit Courthorne.