"Where have you come from, Courthorne?" he said quietly.

The other man laughed a little. "The long trail," he said. "The
Dakotas, Colorado, Montana. Cleaned up one thousand dollars at Regent,
and might have got more, but some folks down there seemed tired of me.
The play was quite regular, but they have apparently been getting
virtuous lately."

"And now?" said Winston, with polite indifference.

Courthorne made a little gesture of deprecation.

"I'm back again with the rustlers."

Winston's nod signified comprehension, for the struggle between the
great range-holders across the frontier and the smaller settlers who
with legal right invaded their cattle runs was just over. It had been
fought out bitterly with dynamite and rifles, and when at last with the
aid of the United States cavalry peace was made, sundry broken men and
mercenaries who had taken the pay of both parties, seeing their
occupation gone, had found a fresh scope for their energies in
smuggling liquor, and on opportunity transferring cattle, without their
owner's sanction, across the frontier. That was then a prohibition
country, and the profits and risks attached to supplying it and the
Blackfeet on the reserves with liquor were heavy.

"Business this way?" said Winston.

Courthorne appeared to consider a moment, and there was a curious