little glint in his eyes which did not escape his companion's
attention, but he laughed.

"Yes, we're making a big run," he said, then stopped and looked
straight at the rancher. "Did it ever strike you, Winston, that you
were not unlike me?"

Winston smiled, but made a little gesture of dissent as he returned the
other's gaze. They were about the same height and had the same English
type of face, while Winston's eyes were gray and his companion's an
indefinite blue that approached the former color, but there the
resemblance, which was not more than discernible, ended. Winston was
quietly-spoken and somewhat grim, a plain prairie farmer in appearance,
while a vague but recognizable stamp of breeding and distinction still
clung to Courthorne. He would have appeared more in place in the
States upon the southern Atlantic seaboard, where the characteristics
the Cavalier settlers brought with them are not extinct, than he did
upon the Canadian prairie. His voice had even in his merriment a
little imperious ring, his face was refined as well as sensual, and
there was a languid gracefulness in his movements and a hint of pride
in his eyes. They, however, lacked the steadiness of Winston's, and
there were men who had seen the wild devil that was born in Courthorne
look out of them. Winston knew him as a pleasant companion, but
surmised from stories he had heard that there were men, and more women,
who bitterly rued the trust they had placed in him.

"No," he said dryly. "I scarcely think I am like you, although only
last night Nettie at the settlement took me for you. You see, the kind
of life I've led out here has set its mark on me, and my folks in the
old country were distinctly middle-class people. There is something in