"You will, in case he questions you, remember when you met me." "Oh, yes," said the other.

"Still, I wouldn't fool too much with him--and where did you get those mittens from?
That's the kind of outfit that would suit Winston." Winston nodded, for though he had turned his face from the light the hand he held the bridle with was visible, and his big fur gloves were very old.
"They are his.

The fact is, I've just come from his place," he said.
"Well, you can tell Stimson you saw me starting out on the Montana trail." He shook the bridle, laughed softly as the frame houses flitted by, and then grew intent when the darkness of the prairie once more closed down.

It was, he knew, probable that some of Stimson's men would be looking out for him, and he had not sufficient faith in Courthorne's assurances to court an encounter with them.
The lights had faded, and the harsh grass was crackling under the drumming hoofs when the blurred outline of a mounted man showed up on the crest of a rise, and a shout came down.
"Hello! Pull up there a moment, stranger." There was nothing alarming in the greeting, but Winston recognized the ring of command, as well as the faint jingle of steel which had preceded it, and pressed his heels home.

The black swung forward faster, and Winston glancing over his shoulder saw the dusky shape was now moving down the incline.