"Nothing," said Winston 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 Winston, and keep the whole thing a secret from
everybody."

Winston 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 Winston
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 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 honor there is nothing beyond the risk of a few days'