The Impostor

“Back your horse clear of the trail,” he said; and there was a rattle as he flung his carbine across the saddle. “With Hilton behind him, he’ll ride straight into our hands.”

He wheeled his horse in among the birches, and then sat still, with fingers that quivered a little on the carbine stock, until a faint drumming rose from the prairie.

“He’s coming!” said the trooper. “Hilton’s hanging on to him!”

Payne made no answer, and the sound that rang more loudly every moment through the greyness of the early daylight was not pleasant to hear. Man’s vitality is near its lowest about that hour, and the troopers had ridden furiously the long night through, while one of them, who knew Lance Courthorne, surmised that there was grim work before him. Still, though he shivered as a little chilly wind shook the birch twigs, he set his lips, and once more remembered the comrade who had ridden far and kept many a lonely vigil with him.

Then a mounted man appeared in the space between the trees. His horse was jaded, and he rode loosely, swaying once or twice in his saddle; but he came straight on, and there was a jingle and rattle as the troopers swung out into the trail. The man saw them, for he glanced over his shoulder, as if at the rider who appeared behind, and then sent the spurs in again.

“Pull him up,” cried Corporal Payne, and his voice was a little strained. “Stop right where you are before we fire on you!”

The man must have seen the carbines, for he raised himself a trifle, and Payne saw his face under the flapping hat. It was drawn and grey, but there was no sign of yielding or consternation in the half-closed eyes. Then he lurched in his saddle, as from exhaustion or weariness, and straightened himself again with both hands on the bridle. Payne saw his heels move and the spurs drip red, and slid his left hand further along the carbine stock. The trail was steep and narrow. A horseman could scarcely turn in it, and the stranger was coming on at a gallop.

“He will have it,” said the trooper hoarsely. “If he rides one of us down he may get away.”

“We have got to stop him,” said Corporal Payne.

Once more the swaying man straightened himself, flung his head back, and with a little breathless laugh drove his horse furiously at Payne. He was very close now, and his face showed livid under the smearing dust; but his lips were drawn up in a little bitter smile as he rode straight upon the levelled carbines. Payne at least understood it, and the absence of flung-up hand or cry. Courthorne’s inborn instincts were strong to the end.

There was a hoarse shout from the trooper, and no answer, and a carbine flashed. Then Courthorne loosed the bridle, reeled sideways from the saddle, rolled half round with one foot in the stirrup and his head upon the ground, and was left behind, while the riderless horse and pursuer swept past the two men who, avoiding them by a hairsbreadth, sat motionless a moment in the thin drifting smoke.

Then Corporal Payne swung himself down, and, while the trooper followed, stooped over the man who lay, a limp huddled object, in the trail. He blinked up at them out of eyes that were almost closed.

“I think you have done for me,” he said.

Payne glanced at his comrade. “Push on to the settlement,” he said. “They’ve a doctor there. Bring him and Harland the magistrate out.”

The trooper seemed glad to mount and ride away, and Payne once more bent over the wounded man.

“Very sorry,” he said. “Still, you see, you left me no other means of stopping you. Now, is there anything I can do for you?”

A little wry smile crept into Courthorne’s face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I had no wish to wait for the jury, and you can’t get at an injury that’s inside me.”

He said nothing more, and it seemed a very long while to Corporal Payne and Trooper Hilton, who rejoined him, before a wagon with two men in it beside the trooper came jolting up the trail. They got out, and one of them, who was busy with Courthorne for some minutes, nodded to Payne.

“Any time in the next twelve hours. He may last that long,” he said. “Nobody’s going to worry him now, but I’ll see if I can revive him a little when we get to Adamson’s. It can’t be more than a league away.”

They lifted Courthorne, who appeared insensible, into the wagon, and Payne signed to Trooper Hilton. “Take my horse and tell Colonel Barrington. Let him understand there’s no time to lose. Then you can bring Stimson.”

The tired lad hoisted himself into his saddle and groaned a little as he rode away, but he did his errand, and late that night Barrington and Dane drove up to a lonely homestead. A man led them into a room where a limp figure was lying on a bed.

“Been kind of sleeping most of the day, but the doctor has given him something that has wakened him,” he said.

Barrington returned Payne’s greeting and sat down with Dane close beside him, while, when the wounded man raised his head, the doctor spoke softly to the magistrate from the settlement a league or two away.

“I fancy he can talk to you, but you had better be quick if you wish to ask him anything,” he said.

Courthorne seemed to have heard him, for he smiled a little as he glanced at Barrington. “I’m afraid it will hurt you to hear what I have to tell this gentleman,” he said. “Now, I want you to listen carefully, and every word put down. Doctor, a little more brandy.”

Barrington apparently would have spoken, but while the doctor held a glass to the bloodless lips the magistrate, who took up a strip of paper, signed to him.

“We’ll have it in due form. Give him that book, doctor,” he said. “Now, repeat after me, and then we’ll take your testimony.”

It was done, and a flicker of irony showed in Courthorne’s half-closed eyes.

“You feel more sure of me after that?” he said, in a voice that was very faint and strained. “Still, you see, I could gain nothing by deviating from the truth now. Well, I shot Trooper Shannon. You’ll have the date in the warrant. Don’t know if it will seem strange to you, but I forget it. I borrowed Farmer Witham’s horse and rifle without his knowledge, though I had paid him a trifle to personate me and draw the troopers off the whisky-runners. That was Witham’s only complicity. The troopers, who fancied they were chasing him, followed me until his horse which I was riding went through the ice; but Witham was in Montana at the time, and did not know that I was alive until a very little while ago. Now, you can straighten that up and read it out to me.”

The magistrate’s pen scratched noisily in the stillness of the room, but before he had finished, Sergeant Stimson, hot and dusty, came in. Then he raised his hand, and for a while his voice rose and fell monotonously until Courthorne nodded.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll sign.”

The doctor raised him a trifle, and moistened his lips with brandy as he gave him the pen. It scratched for a moment or two, and then fell from his relaxing fingers, while the man who took the paper wrote across the foot of it, and then would have handed it to Colonel Barrington, but that Dane quietly laid his hand upon it.

“No,” he said. “If you want another witness, take me.”

Barrington thanked him with a gesture; and Courthorne, looking round, saw Stimson.

“You have been very patient, Sergeant, and it’s rough on you that the one man you can lay your hands upon is slipping away from you,” he said. “You’ll see by my deposition that Witham thought me as dead as the rest of you did.”

Stimson nodded to the magistrate. “I heard what was read, and it is confirmed by the facts I have picked up,” he said.

Then Courthorne turned to Barrington. “I sympathize with you, sir,” he said, “This must be horribly mortifying; but, you see, Witham once stopped my horse backing over a bridge into a gully when just to hold his hand would have rid him of me. You will not grudge me the one good turn I have probably done any man, when I shall assuredly not have the chance of doing another.”

Barrington winced a little, for he recognized the irony in the failing voice; but he rose and moved towards the bed.

“Lance,” he said, a trifle hoarsely, “it is not that which makes what has happened horrible to me, and I am only glad that you have righted this man. Your father had many claims on me, and things might have gone differently if, when you came out to Canada, I had done my duty by his son.”

Courthorne smiled a little, but without bitterness. “It would have made no difference, sir; and, after all, I led the life that suited me. By and by you will be grateful to me. I sent you a man who will bring prosperity to Silverdale.”

Then he turned to Stimson, and his voice sank almost beyond hearing as he said, “Sergeant, remember Witham fancied I was dead.”

He moved his head a trifle, and the doctor, stooping over him, signed to the rest, who went out except Barrington.

It was some hours later, and very cold, when Barrington came softly into the room where Dane lay half asleep in a big chair. The latter glanced at him with a question in his eyes, and the Colonel nodded very gravely.

“Yes,” he said. “He has slipped out of the troopers’ hands and beyond our reproaches – but I think the last thing he did will count for a little.”

CHAPTER XXV – WITHAM RIDES AWAY

The first of the snow was driving across the prairie before a bitter wind when Maud Barrington stood by a window of the Grange looking out into the night. The double casements rattled, the curtains behind her moved with the icy draughts, until, growing weary of watching the white flakes whirl past, she drew them to and walked slowly towards a mirror. Then a faint tinge of pink crept into her cheeks, and a softness that became her into her eyes. They, however, grew critical as she smoothed back a tress of lustrous hair a trifle from her forehead, straightened the laces at neck and wrist, and shook into more flowing lines the long black dress. Maud Barrington was not unduly vain, but it was some time before she seemed contented, and one would have surmised that she desired to appear her best that night.

The result was beyond cavil in its artistic simplicity, for the girl, knowing the significance that trifles have at times, had laid aside every adornment that might hint at wealth, and the sombre draperies alone emphasized the polished whiteness of her face and neck. Still, and she did not know whether she was pleased or otherwise at this, the mirror had shown the stamp which revealed itself even in passive pose and poise of head. It was her birthright, and would not be disguised.

Then she drew a low chair towards the stove, and once more the faint colour crept into her face as she took up a note. It was laconic, and requested permission to call at the Grange, but Maud Barrington was not deceived, and recognized the consideration each word had cost the man who wrote it. Afterwards she glanced at her watch, raised it with a little gesture of impatience to make sure it had not stopped, and sat still, listening to the moaning of the wind, until the door opened, and Miss Barrington came in. She glanced at her niece, who felt that her eyes had noticed each detail of her somewhat unusual dress, but said nothing until the younger woman turned to her.

“They would scarcely come to-night, aunt,” she said.

Miss Barrington, listening a moment, heard the wind that whirled the snow about the lonely building, but smiled incredulously.

“I fancy you are wrong, and I wish my brother were here,” she said. “We could not refuse Mr. Witham permission to call, but whatever passes between us will have more than its individual significance. Anything we tacitly promise the others will agree to, and I feel the responsibility of deciding for Silverdale.”

Miss Barrington went out; but her niece, who understood her smile and that she had received a warning, sat with a strained expression in her eyes. The prosperity of Silverdale had been dear to her, but she knew she must let something that was dearer still slip away from her, or, since they must come from her, trample on her pride as she made the first advances. It seemed a very long while before there was a knocking at the outer door, and she rose with a little quiver when light steps came up the stairway.

In the meanwhile, two men stood beside the stove in the hall until an English maid returned to them.

“Colonel Barrington is away, but Miss Barrington and Miss Maud are at home,” she said. “Will you go forward into the morning-room when you have taken off your furs?”

“Did you know Barrington was not here?” asked Witham, when the maid moved away.

Dane appeared embarrassed. “The fact is, I did.”

“Then,” said Witham dryly, “I am a little astonished you did not think fit to tell me.”

Dane’s face flushed, but he laid his hand on his comrade’s arm. “No,” he said. “I didn’t. Now, listen to me for the last time, Witham. I’ve not been blind, you see; and, as I told you, your comrades have decided that they wish you to stay. Can’t you sink your confounded pride and take what is offered you?”

Witham shook his grasp off, and there was weariness in his face. “You need not go through it all again. I made my decision a long while ago.”

“Well,” said Dane, with a gesture of hopelessness, “I’ve done all I could and, since you are going on, I’ll look at that trace clip while you tell Miss Barrington. I mean the younger one.”

“The harness can wait,” said Witham. “You are coming with me.”

A little grim smile crept into Dane’s eyes. “I am not. I wouldn’t raise a finger to help you now,” he said, and retreated hastily.

It was five minutes later when Witham walked quietly into Maud Barrington’s presence, and sat down when the girl signed to him. He wondered if she guessed how his heart was beating.

“It is very good of you to receive me, but I felt I could not slip away without acknowledging the kindness you and Miss Barrington have shown me,” he said. “I did not know Colonel Barrington was away.”

The girl smiled a little. “Or you would not have come? Then we should have had no opportunity of congratulating you on your triumphant acquittal. You see it must be mentioned.”

“I’m afraid there was a miscarriage of justice,” said Witham quietly. “Still, though it is a difficult subject, the deposition of the man I supplanted went a long way, and the police did not seem desirous of pressing a charge against me. Perhaps I should have insisted on implicating myself, but you would scarcely have looked for that after what you now know of me.”

Maud Barrington braced herself for an effort, though she was outwardly very calm. “No,” she said, “no one would have looked for it from any man placed as you were, and you are purposing to do more than is required of you. Why will you go away?”

“I am a poor man,” said Witham. “One must have means to live at Silverdale.”

“Then,” said the girl with a soft laugh which cost her a good deal, “it is because you prefer poverty, and you have at least one opportunity at Silverdale. Courthorne’s land was mine to all intents and purposes before it was his, and now it reverts to me. I owe him nothing, and he did not give it me. Will you stay and farm it on whatever arrangement Dane and Macdonald may consider equitable? My uncle’s hands are too full for him to attempt it.”

“No,” said Witham, and his voice trembled a little. “Your friends would resent it.”

“Then,” said the girl, “why have they urged you to stay?”

“A generous impulse. They would repent of it by and by. I am not one of them, and they know it now, as I did at the beginning. No doubt they would be courteous, but you see a half-contemptuous toleration would gall me.”

There was a little smile on Maud Barrington’s lips, but it was not in keeping with the tinge in her cheek and the flash in her eyes.

“I once told you that you were poor at subterfuge, and you know you are wronging them,” she said. “You also know that even if they were hostile to you, you could stay and compel them to acknowledge you. I fancy you once admitted as much to me. What has become of this pride of the democracy you showed me?”

Witham made a deprecatory gesture. “You must have laughed at me. I had not been long at Silverdale then,” he said dryly. “I should feel very lonely now. One man against long generations. Wouldn’t it be a trifle unequal?”

Maud Barrington smiled again. “I did not laugh, and this is not England, though what you consider prejudices do not count for so much as they used to there, while there is, one is told quite frequently, no limit to what a man may attain to here, if he dares sufficiently.”

A little quiver ran through Witham, and he rose and stood looking down on her, with one brown hand clenched on the table and the veins showing on his forehead.

“You would have me stay?” he said.

Maud Barrington met his eyes, for the spirit that was in her was the equal of his. “I would have you be yourself – what you were when you came here in defiance of Colonel Barrington, and again when you sowed the last acre of Courthorne’s land, while my friends, who are yours too, looked on wondering. Then you would stay – if it pleased you. Where has your splendid audacity gone?”

Witham slowly straightened himself and the girl noticed the damp the struggle had brought there on his forehead, for he understood that if he would stretch out his hand and take it what he longed for might be his.

“I do not know, any more than I know where it came from, for until I met Courthorne I had never made a big venture in my life,” he said. “It seems it has served its turn and left me – for now there are things I am afraid to do.”

“So you will go away and forget us?”

Witham stood very still a moment, and the girl, who felt her heart beating noticed that his face was drawn. Still, she could go no further. Then he said very slowly, “I should be under the shadow always if I stay, and my friends would feel it even more deeply than I would do. I may win the right to come back again if I go away.”

Maud Barrington made no answer, but both knew no further word could be spoken on that subject until, if fate ever willed it, the man returned again, and it was a relief when Miss Barrington came in with Dane. He glanced at his comrade keenly, and then, seeing the grimness in his face, quietly declined the white-haired lady’s offer of hospitality. Five minutes later the farewells were said and Maud Barrington stood with the stinging flakes whirling about her in the doorway, while the sleigh slid out into the filmy whiteness that drove across the prairie. When it vanished she turned back into the warmth and brightness with a little shiver and one hand tightly closed.

The great room seemed very lonely when, while the wind moaned outside, she and her aunt sat down to dinner. Neither of them appeared communicative, and both felt it a relief when the meal was over. Then Maud Barrington smiled curiously as she rose and stood with hands stretched out towards the stove.

“Aunt,” she said, “Twoinette has twice asked me to go back to Montreal, and I think I will. The prairie is very dreary in the winter.”

It was about this time when, as the whitened horses floundered through the lee of a bluff where there was shelter from the wind, the men in the sleigh found opportunity for speech.

“Now,” said Dane quietly, “I know that we have lost you, for a while at least. Will you ever come back, Witham?”

Witham nodded. “Yes,” he said. “When time has done its work and Colonel Barrington asks me, if I can buy land enough to give me a standing at Silverdale.”

“That,” said Dane, “will need a good many dollars, and you insisted on flinging those you had away. How are you going to make them?”

“I don’t know,” said Witham simply. “Still, by some means it will be done.”

It was next day when he walked into Graham’s office at Winnipeg, and laughed when the broker who shook hands, passed the cigar box across to him.

“We had better understand each other first,” he said. “You have heard what has happened to me, and will not find me a profitable customer to-day.”

“These cigars are the best in the city, or I wouldn’t ask you to take one,” said Graham dryly. “You understand me, anyway. Wait until I tell my clerk that if anybody comes round I’m busy.”

A bell rang, a little window opened and shut again, and Witham smiled over his cigar.

“I want to make thirty thousand dollars as soon as I can, and it seems to me there are going to be opportunities in this business. Do you know anybody who would take me as clerk or salesman?”

Graham did not appear astonished.

“You’ll scarcely make them that way if I find you a berth at fifty a month,” he said.

“No,” said Witham. “Still, I wouldn’t purpose keeping it for more than six months or so. By that time I should know a little about the business.”

“Got any dollars now?”

“One thousand,” said Witham quietly.

Graham nodded. “Smoke that cigar out, and don’t worry me. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

Witham took up a journal, and laid it down again twenty minutes later. “Well,” he said, “you think it’s too big a thing?”

“No,” said Graham. “It depends upon the man, and it might be done. Knowing the business goes a good way, and so does having dollars in hand, but there’s something that’s born in one man in a thousand that goes a long way further still. I can’t tell you what it is, but I know it when I see it.”

“Then,” said Witham, “you have seen this thing in me?”

Graham nodded gravely. “Yes, sir, but you don’t want to get proud. You had nothing to do with the getting of it. It was given you. Now, we’re going to have a year that will not be forgotten by those who handle wheat and flour, and the men with the long heads will roll the dollars in. Well, I’ve no use for another clerk, and my salesman’s good enough for me, but if we can agree on the items I’ll take you for a partner.”

The offer was made and accepted quietly, and when a rough draft of the arrangement had been agreed upon, Graham nodded as he lighted another cigar.

“You may as well take hold at once, and there’s work ready now,” he said. “You’ve heard of the old St. Louis mills back on the edge of the bush country. Never did any good. Folks who had them were short of dollars, and didn’t know how they should be run. Well, I and two other men have bought them for a song, and while the place is tumbling in, the plant seems good. Now, I can get hold of orders for flour when I want them, and everybody with dollars to spare will plank them right into any concern handling food-stuffs this year. You go down to-morrow with an engineer, and, when you’ve got the mills running and orders coming in, we’ll sell out to a company if we don’t want them.”

Witham sat silent a space, turning over a big bundle of plans and estimates. Then he said, “You’ll have to lay out a pile of dollars.”

Graham laughed. “That’s going to be your affair. When you want them the dollars will be ready, and there’s only one condition. Every dollar we put down has got to bring another in.”

“But,” said Witham, “I don’t know anything about milling.”

“Then,” said Graham dryly, “you have got to learn. A good many men have got quite rich in this country running things they didn’t know much about when they took hold of them.”

“There’s one more point,” said Witham. “I must make those thirty thousand dollars soon, or they’ll be no great use to me, and when I have them I may want to leave you.”

“That’s all right,” said Graham. “By the time you’ve done it, you’ll have made sixty for me. We’ll go out and have some lunch to clinch the deal if you’re ready.”

It might have appeared unusual in England, but it was much less so in a country where the specialization of professions is still almost unknown, and the man who can adapt himself attains ascendency, and on the morrow Witham arrived at a big wooden building beside a pine-shrouded river. It appeared falling to pieces, and the engineer looked disdainfully at some of the machinery, but, somewhat against his wishes, he sat up with his companion most of the night in a little log hotel, and orders that occasioned one of Graham’s associates consternation were mailed to the city next morning. Then machines came out by the carload, and men with tools in droves. Some of them murmured mutinously when they found they were expected to do as much as their leader who was not a tradesman, but these were forthwith sent back again, and the rest were willing to stay and earn the premium he promised them for rapid work.