LANCE COURTHORNE
It was late when Witham reached his log-built house, but he set out
once more with his remaining horse before the lingering daylight crept
out of the east, to haul the wagon home. He also spent most of the day
in repairing it, because occupation of any kind that would keep him
from unpleasant reflections appeared advisable, and to allow anything
to fall out of use was distasteful to him, although as the wagon had
been built for two horses he had little hope of driving it again. It
was a bitter, grey day, with a low, smoky sky, and seemed very long to
Witham; but evening came at last, and he was left with nothing between
him and his thoughts.
He lay in a dilapidated chair beside the stove, and the little bare
room through which its pipe ran was permeated with the smell of fresh
shavings, hot iron, and the fumes of indifferent tobacco. A
carpenter's bench ran along one end of it, and was now occupied by a
new wagon pole the man had fashioned out of a slender birch. A Marlin
rifle, an axe, and a big saw hung beneath the head of an antelope on
the wall above the bench, and all of them showed signs of use and
glistened with oil. Opposite to them a few shelves were filled with
simple crockery and cooking utensils, and these also shone spotlessly.
There was a pair of knee boots in one corner with a patch partly sewn
on to one of them, and the harness in another showed traces of careful
repair. A bookcase hung above them, and its somewhat tattered contents
indicated that the man who had chosen and evidently handled them
frequently possessed tastes any one who did not know that country
would scarcely have expected to find in a prairie farmer. A table and
one or two rude chairs made by their owner's hands completed the
furniture; but while all hinted at poverty, it also suggested
neatness, industry, and care, for the room bore the impress of its
occupier's individuality, as rooms not infrequently do.
It was not difficult to see that he was frugal, though possibly from
necessity rather than taste, not sparing of effort, and had a keen eye
for utility, and if that suggested the question why, with such
capacities, he had not attained to greater comfort, the answer was
simple. Witham had no money, and the seasons had fought against him.
He had done his uttermost with the means at his disposal, and now he
knew he was beaten.
A doleful wind moaned about the lonely building and set the roof
shingles rattling overhead. Now and then the stove crackled, or the
lamp flickered, and any one unused to the prairie would have felt the
little loghouse very desolate and lonely. There was no other human
habitation within a league, only a great waste of whitened grass
relieved about the homestead by the raw clods of the fall ploughing;
for, while his scattered neighbours, for the most part, put their
trust in horses and cattle, Witham had been among the first to realize
the capacities of that land as a wheat-growing country.
Now, clad in well-worn jean trousers and an old deerskin jacket, he
looked down at the bundle of documents on his knee, accounts unpaid, a
banker's intimation that no more cheques would be honoured and a
mortgage deed. They were not pleasant reading, and the man's face
clouded as he pencilled notes on some of them, but there was no
weakness or futile protest in it. Defeat was plain between the lines
of all he read, but he was going on stubbornly until the struggle was
ended, as others of his kind had done, there at the western limit of
the furrows of the plough and in the great province further east which
is one of the world's granaries. They went under and were forgotten,
but they showed the way, and while their guerdon was usually six feet
of prairie soil, the wheat-fields, mills, and railroads came, for it
is written plainly on the new North-West that no man may live and
labour 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, Witham 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.
Witham 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 to-night," 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 Witham, 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 Witham, with polite indifference.
Courthorne made a little gesture of deprecation.
"I'm back again with the rustlers."
Witham'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 owners' 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 Witham.
Courthorne appeared to consider a moment, and there was a curious
little glint which did not escape his companion's attention in his
eyes, 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, Witham, that you
were not unlike me?"
Witham 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 Witham's eyes were grey and his companion's an
indefinite blue that approached the former colour, but there the
resemblance, which was not more than discernible, ended. Witham 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
Witham's, and there were men who had seen the wild devil that was born
in Courthorne look out of them. Witham 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 many estimable
qualities from your point of view, but if they all didn't go quite
straight they never went slow, and they had a few prejudices, which is
why I found it advisable to leave the old country. Still, I've had my
fill of all that life can offer most folks out here, while you
scarcely seem to have found virtue pay you. They told me at the
settlement things were bad with you."
Witham, who was usually correct in his deductions, surmised that his
companion had an object, and expected something in return for this
confidence. There was also no need for reticence when every farmer in
the district knew all about his affairs, while something urged him to
follow Courthorne's lead.
"Yes," he said quietly. "They are. You see, when I lost my cattle in
the blizzard, I had to sell out or mortgage the place to the hilt, and
during the last two years I haven't made the interest. The loan falls
due in August, and they're going to foreclose on me."
"Then," said Courthorne, "what is keeping you here when the result of
every hour's work you put in will go straight into another's man's
pocket?"
Witham smiled a little. "In the first place, I've nowhere else to go,
and there's something in the feeling that one has held on to the end.
Besides, until a few days ago I had a vague hope that by working
double tides, I might get another crop in. Somebody might have
advanced me a little on it because the mortgage only claims the house
and land."
Courthorne looked at him curiously. "No. We are not alike," he said.
"There's a slow stubborn devil in you, Witham, and I think I'd be
afraid of you if I ever did you an injury. But go on."
"There's very little more. My team ran away down the ravine, and I had
to put one beast out of its misery. I can't do my ploughing with one
horse, and that leaves me stranded for the want of the dollars to buy
another with. It's usually a very little thing that turns the scale,
but now the end has come, I don't know that I'm sorry. I've never had
a good time, you see, and the struggle was slowly crushing the life
out of me."
Witham spoke quietly, without bitterness, but Courthorne, who had
never striven at all but stretched out his hand and taken what was
offered, the more willingly when it was banned alike by judicial and
moral law, dimly understood him. He was a fearless man, but he knew
his courage would not have been equal to the strain of that six years'
struggle against loneliness, physical fatigue, and adverse seasons,
during which disaster followed disaster. He looked at the bronzed
farmer as he said, "Still, you would do a little in return for a
hundred dollars that would help you to go on with the fight?"
A faint sparkle crept into Witham's eyes. It was not hope, but rather
the grim anticipation of the man offered a better weapon when standing
with his back to the wall.
"Yes," he said slowly. "I would do almost anything."
"Even if it was against the law?"
Witham sat silent for almost a minute, but there was no indecision in
his face, which slightly perplexed Courthorne. "Yes," he said. "Though
I kept it while I could, the law was made for the safe-guarding of
prosperous men, but with such as I am it is every man for his own hand
and the devil to care for the vanquished. Still, there is a
reservation."
Courthorne nodded. "It's unlawful, but not against the unwritten
code."
"Well," said Witham quietly, "when you tell me what you want I should
have a better opinion."
Courthorne laughed a little, though there was something unpleasant in
his eyes. "When I first came out to this country I should have
resented that," he said. "Now, it seems to me that I'm putting too
much in your hands if I make the whole thing clear before you commit
yourself in any way."
Witham nodded. "In fact, you have got to trust me. You can do so
safely."
"The assurance of the guileless is astonishing and occasionally hard
to bear," said Courthorne. "Why not reverse the position?"
Witham's gaze was steady, and free from embarrassment. "I am," he
said, "waiting for your offer."
"Then," said Courthorne dryly, "here it is. We are running a big load
through to the northern settlements and the reserves to-morrow, and
while there's a good deal of profit attached to the venture, I have a
notion that Sergeant Stimson has had word of it. Now, the Sergeant
knows just how I stand with the rustlers, though he can fasten no
charge on me, and he will have several of his troopers looking out for
me. Well, I want one of them to see and follow me south along the
Montana trail. There's no horse in the Government service can keep
pace with that black of mine, but it would not be difficult to pull
him and just keep the trooper out of carbine shot behind. When he
finds he can't overtake the black he'll go off for his comrades, and
the boys will run our goods across the river while they're picking up
the trail."
"You mentioned the horse, but not yourself," said Witham quietly.
Courthorne laughed. "Yes," he said; "I will not be there. I'm offering
you one hundred dollars to ride the black for me. You can put my furs
on, and anybody who saw you and knew the horse would certify it was
me."
"And where will you be?"
"Here," said Courthorne dryly. "The boys will have no use for me until
they want a guide, but they'll leave an unloaded packhorse handy, and,
as it wouldn't suit any of us to make my connexion with them too
plain, it will be a night or two later when I join them. In the
meanwhile your part's quite easy. No trooper could ride you down
unless you wanted him to, and you'll ride straight on to Montana--I've
a route marked out for you. You'll stop at the places I tell you, and
the testimony of anybody who saw you on the black would be quite
enough to clear me if Stimson's men are too clever for the boys."
Witham sat still a moment, and it was not avarice which prompted him
when he said, "Considering the risk, one hundred dollars is very
little."
"Of course," said Courthorne. "Still, it isn't worth any more to me,
and there will be your expenses. If it doesn't suit you, I will do the
thing myself and find the boys another guide."
He spoke indifferently, but Witham was not a fool, and knew that he
was lying.
"Turn your face to the light," he said sharply.
A little ominous glint became visible in Courthorne's eyes, and there
was just a trace of darker colour in his forehead, but Witham saw it
and was not astonished. Still Courthorne did not move.
"What made you ask me that?" he said.
Witham watched him closely, but his voice betrayed no special interest
as he said, "I fancied I saw a mark across your cheek. It seemed to me
that it had been made by a whip."
The deeper tint was more visible on Courthorne's forehead, where the
swollen veins showed a trifle, and he appeared to swallow something
before he spoke. "Aren't you asking too many questions? What has a
mark on my face to do with you?"
"Nothing," said Witham quietly. "Will you go through the conditions
again?"
Courthorne nodded. "I pay you one hundred dollars--now," he said. "You
ride south to-morrow along the Montana trail and take the risk of the
troopers overtaking you. You will remain away a fortnight at my
expense, and pass in the meanwhile for me. Then you will return at
night as rancher Witham, and keep the whole thing a secret from
everybody."
Witham sat silent and very still again for more than a minute. He
surmised that the man who made the offer had not told him all and
there was more behind, but that was, after all, of no great
importance. He was prepared to do a good deal for one hundred dollars,
and his bare life of effort and self-denial had grown almost
unendurable. He had now nothing to lose, and while some impulse urged
him to the venture, he felt that it was possible fate had in store for
him something better than he had known in the past. In the meanwhile
the cigar he held went out, and the striking of a match as Courthorne
lighted another roused him suddenly from the retrospect he was sinking
into. The bitter wind still moaned about the ranch, emphasizing its
loneliness, and the cedar shingles rattled dolefully overhead, while
it chanced that as Witham glanced towards the roof his eyes rested on
the suspended piece of rancid pork which with a little flour and a few
potatoes had during the last few months provided him with a
sustenance. It was of course a trifle, but it tipped the beam, as
trifles often do, and the man who was tired of all it symbolized
straightened himself with a little mirthless laugh.
"On your word of honour there is nothing beyond the risk of a few
days' detention which can affect me?" he said.
"No," said Courthorne solemnly, knowing that he lied. "On my honour.
The troopers could only question you. Is it a deal?"
"Yes," said Witham simply, stretching out his hand for the roll of
bills the other flung down on the table, and, while one of the
contracting parties knew that the other would regret it bitterly, the
bargain was made.
Then Courthorne laughed in his usual indolent fashion as he said,
"Well, it's all decided, and I don't even ask your word. To-morrow
will see the husk sloughed off and for a fortnight you'll be Lance
Courthorne. I hope you feel equal to playing the role with credit,
because I wouldn't entrust my good fame to everybody."
Witham smiled dryly. "I fancy I shall," he said, and long afterwards
recalled the words. "You see, I had ambitions in my callow days, and
it's not my fault that hitherto I've never had a part to play."
Rancher Witham was, however, wrong in this. He had played the part of
an honest man with a courage which had brought him to ruin, but there
was now to be a difference.