His companion made a little gesture of comprehension as he moved away, and Courthorne leaned back in his chair with his eyes half-closed.  He could now understand his whisky-smuggling comrade’s letter, for it was evident that Winston was going to Silverdale.  Indeed, Courthorne could not see what other course was open to the rancher, if he wished to preserve his safety.  Still, Courthorne was aware that farming, as carried on at Silverdale, was singularly unprofitable, and he had a somewhat curious confidence in the honesty of the man he had deceived.  Winston, he decided, no doubt believed that he was drowned the night Trooper Shannon died, and had been traced as Courthorne by some Winnipeg lawyer acting for the executors.

Then Clouston came in to announce that supper was ready, and Courthorne took his place among the rest.  The men were store-keepers of the settlement, though there were among them frost-bronzed ranchers and cattle-boys who had come in for provisions or their mail, and some of them commenced rallying one of their comrades who sat near the head of the table on his approaching wedding.  The latter bore it good-humoredly, and made a sign of recognition when Courthorne glanced at him.  He was a big man, with pleasant blue eyes and a genial, weather-darkened face, though he was known as a daring rider and successful breaker of vicious horses.

Courthorne sat at the bottom of the table, at some distance from him, while by and by the man at his side laughed when a girl with a tray stopped behind them.  She was a very pretty girl with big black eyes, in which, however, there lurked a somewhat curious gravity.

“Fresh pork or steak?  Fried potatoes,” she said.

Courthorne, who could not see her as he was sitting, started involuntarily.  The voice was, at least, very like one he had often listened to, and the resemblance brought him a little shock of disgust as well as uneasiness.  Gambler and outcast as he was, there was a certain fastidiousness in him, and it did not seem fitting that a girl with a voice like the one he remembered should have to ask whether one would take pork or steak in a little fourth-rate hotel.

“Take them right along, Ailly,” said the man next to him.  “Why don’t you begin at the top where Potter’s waiting?”

Then Courthorne looked around and for a moment; set his lips tight, while the girl would have dropped the tray had he not stretched out a hand and seized it.  A dark flush swept into her face and then as suddenly faded out of it, leaving her very pale.  She stood gazing at him, and the fingers of one hand quivered on the tray, which he still held.  He was, as it happened, the first to recover himself, and there was a little sardonic gleam in his eyes as he lifted down one of the plates.

“Well,” he said, “I guess Potter will have to wait.  I’ll take steak.”