He laid a cigar case on the table, and though well worn it was of costly make, with a good deal of silver about it, while Witham, who lighted one, knew that the cigars were good. He had no esteem for his visitor, but men are not censorious upon the prairie, and Western hospitality is always free.
“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 Witham, with polite indifference.
Courthorne made a little gesture of deprecation.
“I’m back again with the rustlers.”
Witham’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 owners’ 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 Witham.
Courthorne appeared to consider a moment, and there was a curious little glint which did not escape his companion’s attention in his eyes, 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, Witham, that you were not unlike me?”