Two of the men went out, and the stinging blast that swept in through
the open door smote a smoky smear across the blinking lamp and roused a
sharper crackling from the stove. Then one returned with the kettle
and there was silence, when the fusty heat resumed its sway. Now and
then a tired trooper murmured in his sleep, or there was a snapping in
the stove, while the icy wind moaned about the building and the kettle
commenced a soft sibilation, but nobody moved or spoke. Three shadowy
figures in uniform sat just outside the light, soaking in the grateful
warmth while they could, for they knew that they might spend the next
night unsheltered from the arctic cold of the wilderness. The Sergeant
sat with thoughtful eyes and wrinkled forehead, where the flickering
radiance forced up his lean face and silhouetted his spare outline on
the rough boarding behind him, and close by the farmer sucked silently
at his pipe, waiting with a stony calm that sprang from fierce
impatience the reckoning with the man who had brought black shame upon
him.

It was about this time when Winston stood shivering a little with the
bridle of a big black horse in his hand just outside the door of his
homestead. A valise and two thick blankets were strapped to the
saddle, and he had donned the fur cap and coat Courthorne usually wore.
Courthorne himself stood close by smiling at him sardonically.

"If you keep the cap down and ride with your stirrups long, as I've
fixed them, anybody would take you for me," said he. "Go straight
through the settlement, and let any man you come across see you. His
testimony would come in useful if Stimson tries to fix a charge on me.
You know your part of the bargain. You're to be Lance Courthorne for a
fortnight from to-day."