At first there had been the constant fear of detection, and when that had lessened and he was accepted as Lance Courthorne, the latter’s unfortunate record had met him at every turn.  It accounted for the suspicions of Colonel Barrington, the reserve of his niece, and the aloofness of some of his neighbors, while there had been times when Winston found Silverdale almost unendurable.  He was, however, an obstinate man, and there was on the opposite side the gracious kindliness of the little gray-haired lady, who had from the beginning been his champion, and the friendship of Dane, and one or two of the older men.  Winston had also proved his right to be listened to, and treated, outwardly at least, with due civility, while something in his resolute quietness rendered an impertinence impossible.  He knew by this time that he could hold his own at Silverdale, and based his conduct on the fact, but that was only one aspect of the question, and he speculated as to the consummation.

It was, however, evident that in the meanwhile he must continue to pose as Courthorne, and he felt, rightly or wrongly, that the possession of his estate was, after all, a small reparation for the injury the outlaw had done him, but the affair was complicated by the fact that, in taking Courthorne’s inheritance, he had deprived Maud Barrington of part of hers.  The girl’s coldness stung him, but her unquestionable beauty and strength of character had not been without their effect, and the man winced as he remembered that she had no pity for anything false or mean.  He had decided only upon two things, first that he would vindicate himself in her eyes, and, since nobody else could apparently do it, pull the property that should have been hers out of the ruin it had been drifting into under her uncle’s guardianship.  When this had been done, and the killing of Trooper Shannon forgotten, it would be time for him to slip back into the obscurity he came from.

Then the fact that the homestead was growing nearer forced itself upon his perceptions, and he glanced doubtfully across the prairie as he approached the forking of the trail.  A gray dimness was creeping across the wilderness and the smoky sky seemed to hang lower above the dully gleaming snow, while the moaning wind flung little clouds of icy dust about him.  It was evident that the snow was not far away, and it was still two leagues to Silverdale, but Winston, who had been to Winnipeg, had business with the farmer, and had faced a prairie storm before.  Accordingly he swung the team into the forking trail and shook the reins.  There was, he knew, little time to lose, and in another five minutes he stood, still wearing his white-sprinkled furs, in a room of the birch-log building.

“Here are your accounts, Macdonald, and while we’ve pulled up our losses, I can’t help thinking we have just got out in time,” he said.  “The market is but little stiffer yet, but there is less selling, and before a few months are over we’re going to see a sharp recovery.”