The Impostor Part 8

It was dark, and very cold, when they reached the wooden building, but Witham's step was lighter, and his spirits more buoyant than they had been for some months when, handing the sleigh over to an orderly, he walked into the guard-room, where bronzed men in uniform glanced at him curiously. Then he was shown into a bare, log-walled hall, where a young man in blue uniform with a weather-darkened face was writing at a table.

"I've been partly expecting a visit," he said. "I'm glad to see you, Mr. Courthorne."

Witham laughed with a very good imitation of the outlaw's recklessness, and wondered the while because it cost him no effort. He who had, throughout the last two adverse seasons, seldom smiled at all, and then but grimly, experienced the same delight in an adventure that he had done when he came out to Canada.

"I don't know that I can return the compliment just yet," he said. "I have one or two things to ask you."

The young soldier smiled good-humouredly, as he flung a cigar case on the table. "Oh, sit down and shake those furs off," he said. "I'm not a worrying policeman, and we're white men, anyway. If you'd been twelve months in this forsaken place you'd know what I'm feeling. Take a smoke, and start in with your questions when you feel like it."

Witham lighted a cigar, flung himself down in a hide chair, and stretched out his feet towards the stove. "In the first place, I want to know why your boys are shadowing me. You see, you couldn't arrest me unless our folks in the Dominion had got their papers through."

The officer nodded. "No. We couldn't lay hands on you, and we only had orders to see where you went to when you left this place, so the folks there could corral you if they got the papers. That's about the size of it at present, but, as I've sent a trooper over to Regent, I'll know more to-morrow."

Witham laughed. "It may appear a little astonishing, but I haven't the faintest notion why the police in Canada should worry about me. Is there any reason you shouldn't tell me?"

The officer looked at him thoughtfully. "Bluff? I'm quite smart at it myself," he said.

"No," and Witham shook his head. "It's a straight question. I want to know."

"Well," said the other, "it couldn't do much harm if I told you. You were running whisky a little while ago, and, though the folks didn't seem to suspect it, you had a farmer or a rancher for a partner--it appears he has mixed up things for you."

"Witham?" and the farmer turned to roll the cigar which did not need it between his fingers.

"That's the man," said his companion. "Well, though I guess it's no news to you, the police came down upon your friends at a river-crossing, and farmer Witham put a bullet into a young trooper, Shannon, I fancy."

Witham sat upright, and the blood that surged to his forehead sank from it suddenly, and left his face grey with anger.

"Good Lord!" he said hoa.r.s.ely. "He killed him?"

"Yes, sir," said the officer, "Killing's not quite the word, because one shot would have been enough to free him of the lad, and the rancher fired twice into him. They figured, from the way the trooper was lying and the footprints, that he meant to finish him."

The farmer's face was very grim as he said, "They were sure it was Witham?"

"Yes," and the soldier watched him curiously. "Anyway, they were sure of his horse, and it was Witham's rifle. Another trooper nearly got him, and he left it behind him. It wasn't killing, for the trooper don't seem to have had a show at all, and I'm glad to see it makes you kind of sick. Only that one of the troopers allows he was trailing you at a time which shows you had no hand in the thing, you wouldn't be sitting there smoking that cigar."

It was almost a minute before Witham could trust his voice. Then he said slowly, "And what do they want me for?"

"I guess they don't quite know whether they do or not," said the officer. "They crawl slow in Canada. In the meanwhile they wanted to know where you were, so they could take out papers if anything turned up against you."

"And Witham?" said the farmer.

"Got away with a trooper close behind him. The rest of them had headed him off from the prairie, and he took to the river. Went through the ice and drowned himself, though as there was a blizzard n.o.body quite saw the end of him, and in case there was any doubt they've got a warrant out. Farmer Witham's dead, and if he isn't he soon will be, for the troopers have got their net right across the prairie, and the Canadians don't fool time away as we do when it comes to hanging anybody. The tale seems to have worried you."

Witham sat rigidly still and silent for almost a minute. Then he rose up with a curious little shake of his shoulders.

"And farmer Witham's dead. Well he had a hard life. I knew him rather well," he said. "Thank you for the story. On my word this is the first time I've heard it, and now it's time I was going."

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."

Witham 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 for 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. Witham's face became mottled with grey again as he realized that if he revealed his ident.i.ty he had nothing but his word to offer in proof of his innocence.

Still, it was anger and not fear that stirred him, for n.o.body 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, Witham 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 Witham, 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 North-West, while when the green tea was finished and the officer pushed the whisky across, his guest laughed as he filled his gla.s.s.

"Here's better fortune to farmer Witham!" he said.

The officer stared at him. "No, sir," he said "If the old folks taught me aright, Witham'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 Witham flung a trump away, the officer groaned.

"I guess," he said disgustedly, "you're not well to-night, or something is worrying you."

Witham looked up with a little twinkle in his eyes. "I don't know that there's very much wrong with me."

"Then," said the officer decisively, "if the boys down at Regent know enough to remember what trumps are, you're not Lance Courthorne. Now after what I'd heard of you, I'd have put up fifty dollars for the pleasure of watching your game--and it's not worth ten cents when I've seen it."

Witham laughed. "Sit down and talk," he said. "One isn't always in his usual form, and there are folks who get famous too easily."

They talked until nearly midnight, sitting close to the stove, while a doleful wind that moaned without drove the dust of snow pattering against the windows, and the shadows grew darker in the corners of the great log-walled room each time the icy draughts set the lamp flickering. Then the officer, rising, expressed the feelings of his guest as he said, "It's a forsaken country, and I'm thankful one can sleep and forget it."

He had, however, an honourable calling, and a welcome from friend and kinsman awaiting him when he went East again, to revel in the life of the cities, but the man who followed him silently to the sleeping-room had nothing but a half-instinctive a.s.surance that the future could not well be harder or more lonely than the past had been. Still, farmer Witham was a man of courage with a quiet belief in himself, and in ten minutes he was fast asleep.

When he came down to breakfast his host was already seated with a bundle of letters before him, and one addressed to Courthorne lay unopened by Witham's plate. The officer nodded when he saw him.

"The trooper has come in with the mail, and your friends in Canada are not going to worry you," he said. "Now, if you feel like staying here a few days, it would be a favour to me."

Witham had in the meanwhile opened the envelope. He knew that when once the decision was made there could only be peril in half-measures, and his eyes grew thoughtful as he read. The letter had been written by a Winnipeg lawyer from a little town not very far away, and requested Courthorne to meet and confer with him respecting certain suggestions made by a Colonel Barrington. Witham decided to take the risk.

"I'm sorry, but I have got to go into Annerly at once," he said.

"Then," said the officer, "I'll drive you. I've some stores to get down there."

They started after breakfast, but it was dusk next day when they reached the little town, and Witham walked quietly into a private room of the wooden hotel, where a middle-aged man with a shrewd face sat waiting him. The big nickelled lamp flickered in the draughts that found their way in, and Witham was glad of it, though he was outwardly very collected. The stubborn patience and self-control with which he had faced the loss of his wheat crops and frozen stock stood him in good stead now. He fancied the lawyer seemed a trifle astonished at his appearance, and sat down wondering whether he had previously spoken to Courthorne, until the question was answered for him.

"Although I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, I have acted as Colonel Barrington's legal adviser ever since he settled at Silverdale, and am, therefore, well posted as to his affairs, which are, of course, connected with those of your own family," said the lawyer. "We can accordingly talk with greater freedom, and I hope without the acerbity which in your recent communications somewhat annoyed the Colonel!"

"Well," said Courthorne, who had never heard of Colonel Barrington, "I am ready to listen."

The lawyer drummed on the table. "It might be best to come to the point at once," he said. "Colonel Barrington does not deem it convenient that you should settle at Silverdale, and would be prepared to offer you a reasonable sum to relinquish your claim."

"My claim?" said Witham, who remembered having heard of the Silverdale Colony, which lay several hundred miles away.

"Of course," said the lawyer. "The legacy lately left you by Roger Courthorne. I have brought you a schedule of the wheat in store, and amounts due to you on various sales made. You will also find the acreage, stock, and implements detailed at a well-known appraiser's valuation, which you could, of course, confirm, and Colonel Barrington would hand you a cheque for half the total now. He however, asks four years to pay the balance, which would carry bank interest in the meanwhile, in."