When this had been done, and the killing of Trooper Shannon forgotten, it would be time for him to slip back into the obscurity he came from.
Then the fact that the homestead was growing nearer forced itself upon his perceptions, and he glanced doubtfully across the prairie as he approached the forking of the trail.

A gray dimness was creeping across the wilderness and the smoky sky seemed to hang lower above the dully gleaming snow, while the moaning wind flung little clouds of icy dust about him.

It was evident that the snow was not far away, and it was still two leagues to Silverdale, but Winston, who had been to Winnipeg, had business with the farmer, and had faced a prairie storm before.

Accordingly he swung the team into the forking trail and shook the reins.

There was, he knew, little time to lose, and in another five minutes he stood, still wearing his white-sprinkled furs, in a room of the birch-log building.
"Here are your accounts, Macdonald, and while we've pulled up our losses, I can't help thinking we have just got out in time," he said.
"The market is but little stiffer yet, but there is less selling, and before a few months are over we're going to see a sharp recovery." The farmer glanced at the documents, and smiled with contentment as he took the check.