The Impostor

“I think,” she said, “I can answer for Mr. Courthorne’s silence. Still, when I have an opportunity, I am going to lecture you.”

Witham turned with a twinkle he could not quite repress in his eyes, and with a flutter of her dress the girl whisked away.

“I’m afraid this makes me an accessory, but I can only neglect my manifest duty, which would be to warn her mother,” said Maud Barrington.

“Is it a duty?” asked Witham, feeling that the further he drifted away from the previous topic, the better it would be for him.

“Some people would fancy so,” said his companion. “Lily will have a good deal of money by and by, and she is very young. Atterly has nothing but an unprofitable farm; but he is an honest lad, and I know she is very fond of him.”

“And would that count against the dollars?”

Maud Barrington laughed a little. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I think it would if the girl is wise. Even now such things do happen; but I fancy it is time I went back again.”

She moved away, but Witham stayed where he was until the lad came in with a cigar in his hand.

“Hallo, Courthorne!” he said. “Did you notice anybody pass the window a little while ago?”

“You are the first come in through it,” said Witham dryly. “The kind of things you wear admit of climbing.”

The lad glanced at him with a trace of embarrassment.

“I don’t quite understand you; but I meant a man,” he said. “He was walking curiously, as if he was half asleep, but he slipped round the corner of the building, and I lost him.”

Witham laughed. “There’s a want of finish in the tale, but you needn’t worry about me. I didn’t see a man.”

“There’s rather less wisdom than usual in your remarks to-night; but I tell you I saw him,” said the lad.

He passed on, and a minute later there was a cry from the inner room. “It’s there again! Can’t you see the face at the window?”

Witham was in the larger room next moment, and saw, as a startled girl had evidently done, a face that showed distorted and white to ghastliness through the window. He also recognized it, and running back through the hall was outside in another few seconds. Courthorne was leaning against one of the casements as though faint with weakness or pain, and collapsed when Witham dragged him backwards into the shadow. He had scarcely laid him down when the window was opened and Colonel Barrington’s shoulders showed black against the light.

“Come outside alone, sir,” said Witham. Barrington did so, and Witham stood so that no light fell on the pallid face in the grass. “It’s a man I have dealings with,” he said. “He has evidently ridden out from the settlement and fallen from his horse.”

“Why should he fall?” asked the Colonel.

Witham laughed. “There is a perfume about him that is tolerably conclusive. I was, however, on the point of going, and if you will tell your hired man to get my wagon out, I’ll take him away quietly. You can make light of the affair to the others.”

“Yes,” said Barrington. “Unless you think the man is hurt, that would be best, but we’ll keep him if you like.”

“No, sir. I couldn’t trouble you,” said Witham hastily. “Men of his kind are also very hard to kill.”

Five minutes later he and the hired man hoisted Courthorne into the wagon and packed some hay about him, while, soon after the rattle of wheels sank into the silence of the prairie, the girl Maud Barrington had spoken to rejoined her companion.

“Could Courthorne have seen you coming in?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the girl, blushing. “He did.”

“Then it can’t be helped, and, after all, Courthorne wouldn’t talk, even if he wasn’t what he is,” said the lad. “You don’t know why, and I’m not going to tell you, but it wouldn’t become him.”

“You don’t mean Maud Barrington?” asked his companion.

“No,” said the lad with a laugh. “Courthorne is not like me. He has no sense. It’s quite another kind of girl, you see.”

CHAPTER XXI – COLONEL BARRINGTON IS CONVINCED

It was not until early morning that Courthorne awakened from the stupor he sank into, soon after Witham conveyed him into his homestead. First, however, he asked for a little food, and ate it with apparent difficulty. When Witham came in, he looked up from the bed where he lay, with the dust still white upon his clothing, and his face showed grey and haggard in the creeping light.

“I’m feeling a trifle better now,” he said; “still, I scarcely fancy I could get up just yet. I gave you a little surprise last night?”

Witham nodded. “You did. Of course, I knew how much your promise was worth, but in view of the risks you ran, I had not expected you to turn up at the Grange.”

“The risks!” said Courthorne with an unpleasant smile.

“Yes,” said Witham wearily; “I have a good deal on hand I would like to finish here, and it will not take me long, but I am quite prepared to give myself up now, if it is necessary.”

Courthorne laughed. “I don’t think you need, and it wouldn’t be wise. You see, even if you made out your innocence, which you couldn’t do, you rendered yourself an accessory by not denouncing me long ago. I fancy we can come to an understanding which would be pleasanter to both of us.”

“The difficulty,” said Witham, “is that an understanding is useless when made with a man who never keeps his word.”

“Well,” said Courthorne dryly, “we shall gain nothing by paying each other compliments, and whether you believe it or otherwise, it was not by intention I turned up at the Grange. I was coming here from a place west of the settlement and you can see that I have been ill if you look at me. I counted too much on my strength, couldn’t find a homestead where I could get anything to eat, and the rest may be accounted for by the execrable brandy I had with me. Anyway, the horse threw me and made off, and after lying under some willows a good deal of the day, I dragged myself along until I saw a house.”

“That,” said Witham, “is beside the question. What do you want of me? Dollars, in all probability. Well, you will not get them.”

“I’m afraid I’m scarcely fit for a discussion now,” said Courthorne. “The fact is, it hurts me to talk, and there’s an aggressiveness about you which isn’t pleasant to a badly-shaken man. Wait until this evening, but there is no necessity for you to ride to the outpost before you have heard me.”

“I’m not sure it would be advisable to leave you here,” said Witham dryly.

Courthorne smiled ironically. “Use your eyes. Would any one expect me to get up and indulge in a fresh folly? Leave me a little brandy – I need it – and go about your work. You’ll certainly find me here when you want me.”

Witham, glancing at the man’s face, considered this very probable, and went out. He found his cook, who could be trusted, and said to him, “The man yonder is tolerably sick, and you’ll let him have a little brandy, and something to eat when he asks for it. Still, you’ll bring the decanter away with you, and lock him in whenever you go out.”

The man nodded, and making a hasty breakfast, Witham, who had business at several outlying farms, mounted and rode away. It was evening before he returned, and found Courthorne lying in a big chair with a cigar in his hand, languidly debonair but apparently ill. His face was curiously pallid, and his eyes dimmer than they had been, but there was a sardonic twinkle in them.

“You take a look at the decanter,” said the man, who went up with Witham, carrying a lamp. “He’s been wanting brandy all the time, but it doesn’t seem to have muddled him.”

Witham dismissed the man and sat down in front of Courthorne.

“Well?” he said.

Courthorne laughed. “You ought to be a witty man, though one would scarcely charge you with that. You surmised correctly this morning. It is dollars I want.”

“You had my answer.”

“Of course. Still, I don’t want very many in the meanwhile, and you haven’t heard what led up to the demand, or why I came back to you. You are evidently not curious, but I’m going to tell you. Soon after I left you, I fell very sick, and lay in the saloon of a little desolate settlement for days. The place was suffocating, and the wind blew the alkali dust in. They had only horrible brandy, and bitter water to drink it with, and I lay there on my back, panting, with the flies crawling over me. I knew if I stayed any longer it would finish me, and when there came a merciful cool day I got myself into the saddle and started off to find you. I don’t quite know how I made the journey, and during a good deal of it I couldn’t see the prairie, but I knew you would feel there was an obligation on you to do something for me. Of course, I could put it differently.”

Witham had as little liking for Courthorne as he had ever had, but he remembered the time when he had lain very sick in his lonely log hut. He also remembered that everything he now held belonged to this man.

“You made the bargain,” he said, less decisively.