The officer laughed a little.  “Sit right down again.  Now, there’s something about you that makes me like you, and as I can’t talk to the boys, I’ll give you the best supper we can raise in the whole forsaken country, and you can camp here until to-morrow.  It’s an arrangement that will meet the views of everybody, because I’ll know whether the Canadians want you or not, in the morning.”

Winston did not know what prompted him to agree, but it all seemed part of a purpose that impelled him against his reasoning will, and he sat still beside the stove, while his host went out to give orders respecting supper and the return of the sleigh.  He was also glad to be alone a while, for now and then a fit of anger shook him as he saw how he had been duped by Courthorne.  He had heard Shannon’s story, and, remembering it, could fancy that Courthorne had planned the trooper’s destruction with a devilish cunning that recognized by what means the blame could be laid upon a guiltless man.  Winston’s face became mottled with gray again as he realized that if he revealed his identity he had nothing but his word to offer in proof of his innocence.

Still, it was anger and not fear that stirred him, for nobody could arrest a man who was dead, and there was no reason that would render it undesirable for him to remain so.  His farm would when sold realize the money borrowed upon it, and the holder of the mortgage had received a profitable interest already.  Had the unforeseen not happened, Winston would have held out to the end of the struggle, but now he had no regret that this was out of the question.  Fate had been too strong for him as farmer Winston, but it might deal more kindly with him as the outlaw Courthorne.  He could also make a quick decision, and when the officer returned to say that supper was ready, he rose with a smile.

They sat down to a meal that was barbaric in its simplicity and abundance, for men live and eat in Homeric fashion in the Northwest, and when the green tea was finished and the officer pushed the whisky across, his guest laughed as he filled his glass.

“Here’s better fortune to farmer Winston!” he said.

The officer stared at him.  “No, sir,” he said.  “If the old folks taught me right, Winston’s in ——­”

A curious smile flickered in the farmer’s eyes.  “No,” he said slowly.  “He was tolerably near it once or twice when he was alive, and, because of what he went through then, there may be something better in store for him.”

His companion appeared astonished, but said nothing further until he brought out the cards.  They played for an hour beside the snapping stove, and then, when, Winston flung a trump away, the officer groaned.

“I guess,” he said disgustedly, “you’re not well tonight or something is worrying you.”

Winston looked up with a little twinkle in his eyes.  “I don’t know that there’s very much wrong with me.”