The stranger laughed dryly. “I guess you needn’t worry. I don’t fight because I’m fond of it, and you’re not the man.”
“Not the man?” said Witham.
“No, sir,” said the other. “Not like him, now I can see you better. Well, I’m kind of sorry I started a circus here.”
A suspicion of the truth flashed upon Witham. “What sort of a man was the one you mistook for me?”
“Usual British waster. Never done a day’s work in his life, and never wanted to; too tired to open his eyes more than half-way when he looked at you, but if he ever fools round the saloon again, he’ll know what he is before I’m through with him.”
Witham laughed. “I wouldn’t be rash or you may get another astonishment. We really know one or two useful things in the old country, but you can’t fetch the settlement before morning, and we’ll put you up if you like.”
“No, sir,” said the other dryly. “I’m not fond of Englishmen, and we might get arguing, while I’ve had ’bout enough of you for one night.”
He rode away, and Witham went back into the house very thoughtfully, wondering whether he would be called upon to answer for more of Courthorne’s doings.
It was two or three days later when Maud Barrington returned with her aunt from a visit to an outlying farm, where, because an account of what took place in the saloon had by some means been spread about, she heard a story brought in from the settlement. It kept her silent during the return journey, and Miss Barrington said nothing, but when the Colonel met them in the hall he glanced at his niece.
“I see Mrs. Carndall has been telling you both a tale,” he said. “It would have been more fitting if she had kept it to herself.”