Presently Corrigan lit a cigar, biting the end off carefully, to keep it from coming in contact with his bruised lips. When the cigar was going well, he looked at Braman.

“What is Trevison?”

Pale, still dizzy from the effects of the blow on the head, Braman, who was leaning heavily on the counter, smiled wryly:

“He’s a holy terror – you ought to know that. He’s a reckless, don’t-give-a-damn fool who has forgotten there’s such a thing as consequences. ‘Firebrand’ Trevison, they call him. And he lives up to what that means. The folks in this section of the country swear by him.”

Corrigan made a gesture of impatience. “I mean – what does he do? Of course I know he owns some land here. But how much land does he own?”

“You saw the figure on the check, didn’t you? He owns five thousand acres.”

“How long has he been here?”

“You’ve got me. More than ten years, I guess, from what I can gather.”

“What was he before he came here?”

“I couldn’t even surmise that – he don’t talk about his past. From the way he waded into you, I should judge he was a prize fighter before becoming a cow-puncher.”

Corrigan glared at the banker. “Yes; it’s damned funny,” he said. “How did he get his land?”

“Proved on a quarter-section. Bought the rest of it – and bought it mighty cheap.” Braman’s eyes brightened. “Figure on attacking his title?”

Corrigan grunted. “I notice he asked you for cash. You’re not his banker, evidently.”

“He banks in Las Vegas, I guess.”

“What about his cattle?”

“He shipped three thousand head last season.”

“How big is his outfit?”

“He’s got about twenty men. They’re all hard cases – like him, and they’d shoot themselves for him.”

Corrigan got up and walked to the window, from where he looked out at Manti. The town looked like an army camp. Lumber, merchandise, supplies of every description, littered the street in mounds and scattered heaps, awaiting the erection of tent-house and building. But there was none of that activity that might have been expected from the quantity of material on hand; it seemed that the owners were waiting, delaying in anticipation of some force that would give them encouragement. They were reluctant to risk their money in erecting buildings on the strength of mere rumor. But they had come, hoping.

Corrigan grinned at Braman. “They’re afraid to take a chance,” he said, meaning Manti’s citizens.

“Don’t blame them. I’ve spread the stuff around – as you told me. That’s all they’ve heard. They’re here on a forlorn hope. The boom they are looking for, seems, from present conditions, to be lurking somewhere in the future, shadowed by an indefiniteness that to them is vaguely connected with somebody’s promise of a dam, agricultural activity to follow, and factories. They haven’t been able to trace the rumors, but they’re here, and they’ll make things hum if they get a chance.”

“Sure,” grinned Corrigan. “A boom town is always a graft for first arrivals. That is, boom towns have been. But Manti – ” He paused.

“Yes, different,” chuckled the banker. “It must have cost a wad to shove that water grant through.”

“Benham kicked on the price – it was enough.”

“That maximum rate clause is a pippin. You can soak them the limit right from the jump.”

“And scare them out,” scoffed Corrigan. “That isn’t the game. Get them here, first. Then – ”

The banker licked his lips. “How does old Benham take it?”

“Mr. Benham is enthusiastic because everything will be done in a perfectly legitimate way – he thinks.”

“And the courts?”

“Judge Lindman, of the District Court now in Dry Bottom, is going to establish himself here. Benham pulled that string.”

“Good!” said Braman. “When is Lindman coming?”

Corrigan’s smile was crooked; it told eloquently of conscious power over the man he had named.

“He’ll come whenever I give the word. Benham’s got something on him.”

“You always were a clever son-of-a-gun!” laughed the banker, admiringly.

Ignoring the compliment, Corrigan walked into the rear room, where he gazed frowningly at his reflection in a small glass affixed to the wall. Re-entering the banking room he said:

“I’m in no condition to face Miss Benham. Go down to the car and tell her that I shall be very busy here all day, and that I won’t be able to see her until late tonight.”

Miss Benham’s name was on the tip of the banker’s tongue, but, glancing at Corrigan’s face, he decided that it was no time for that particular brand of levity. He grabbed his hat and stepped out of the front door.

Left alone, Corrigan paced slowly back and forth in the room, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Trevison had become an important figure in his mind. Corrigan had not hinted to Braman, to Trevison, or to Miss Benham, of the actual situation – nor would he. But during his first visit to town that morning he had stood in one of the front windows of a saloon across the street. He had not been getting acquainted, as he had told Miss Benham, for the saloon had been the first place that he had entered, and after getting a drink at the bar he had sauntered to the window. From there he had seen “Brand” Trevison ride into town, and because Trevison made an impressive figure he had watched him, instinctively aware that in the rider of the black horse was a quality of manhood that one meets rarely. Trevison’s appearance had caused him a throb of disquieting envy.

He had noticed Trevison’s start upon getting his first glimpse of the private car on the siding. He had followed Trevison’s movements carefully, and with increased disquiet. For, instead of dismounting and going into a saloon or a store, Trevison had urged the black on, past the private car, which he had examined leisurely and intently. The clear morning air made objects at a distance very distinct, and as Trevison had ridden past the car, Corrigan had seen a flutter at one of the windows; had caught a fleeting glimpse of Rosalind Benham’s face. He had seen Trevison ride away, to return for a second view of the car a few minutes later. At breakfast, Corrigan had not failed to note Miss Benham’s lingering glances at the black horse, and again, in the bank, with her standing at the door, he had noticed her interest in the black horse and its rider. His quickly-aroused jealousy and hatred had driven him to the folly of impulsive action, a method which, until now, he had carefully evaded. Yes, he had found “Brand” Trevison a worthy antagonist – Braman had him appraised correctly.

Corrigan’s smile was bitter as he again walked into the rear room and surveyed his reflection in the glass. Disgusted, he turned to one of the windows and looked out. From where he stood he could see straight down the railroad tracks to the cut, down the wall of which, some hours before, Trevison had ridden the black horse. The dinky engine, with its train of flat-cars, was steaming toward him. As he watched, engine and cars struck the switch and ran onto the siding, where they came to a stop. Corrigan frowned and looked at his watch. It lacked fully three hours to quitting time, and the cars were empty, save for the laborers draped on them, their tools piled in heaps. While Corrigan watched, the laborers descended from the cars and swarmed toward their quarters – a row of tent-houses near the siding. A big man – Corrigan knew him later as Patrick Carson – swung down from the engine-cab and lumbered toward the little frame station house, in a window of which the telegrapher could be seen, idly scanning a week-old newspaper. Carson spoke shortly to the telegrapher, at which the latter motioned toward the bank building and the private car. Then Carson came toward the bank building. An instant later, Carson came in the front door and met Corrigan at the wire netting.

“Hullo,” said the Irishman, without preliminaries; “the agent was tellin’ me I’d find a mon named Corrigan here. You’re in charge, eh?” he added at Corrigan’s affirmative. “Well, bedad, somebody’s got to be in charge from now on. The Willie-boy engineer from who I’ve been takin’ me orders has sneaked away to Dry Bottom for a couple av days, shovin’ the raysponsibility on me – an’ I ain’t feelin’ up to it. I’m a daisy construction boss, if I do say it meself, but I ain’t enough of a fightin’ mon to buck the business end av a six-shooter.”

“What’s up?”

“Mebbe you’d know – he said you’d be sure to. I’ve been parleyin’ wid a fello’ named ‘Firebrand’ Trevison, an’ I’m that soaked wid perspiration that me boots is full av it, after me thryin’ to urge him to be dacently careful wid his gun!”

“What happened?” asked Corrigan, darkly.

“This mon Trevison came down through the cut this mornin’, goin’ to town. He was pleasant as a mon who’s had a raise in wages, an’ he was joshin’ wid us. A while ago he comes back from town, an’ he’s that cold an’ polite that he’d freeze ye while he’s takin’ his hat off to ye. One av his arms is busted, an’ he’s got a welt or two on his face. But outside av that he’s all right. He rides down into the cut where we’re all workin’ fit to kill ourselves. He halts his big black horse about forty or fifty feet away from the ol’ rattle-box that runs the steam shovel, an’ he grins like a tiger at me an’ says:

“‘Carson, I’m wantin’ you to pull your min off. I can’t permit anny railroad min on the Diamond K property. You’re a friend av mine, an’ all that, but you’ll have to pull your freight. You’ve got tin minutes.’

“‘I’ve got me orders to do this work,’ I says – begging his pardon.

“‘Here’s your orders to stop doin’ it!’ he comes back. An’ I was inspectin’ the muzzle av his six-shooter.

“‘Ye wudn’t shoot a mon for doin’ his duthy?’ I says.

“‘Thry me,’ he says. ‘You’re trespassers. The railroad company didn’t come through wid the coin for the right-of-way. Your mon, Corrigan, has got an idee that he’s goin’ to bluff me. I’m callin’ his bluff. You’ve got tin minutes to get out av here. At the end av that time I begin to shoot. I’ve got six cattridges in the gun, an’ fifty more in the belt around me middle. An’ I seldom miss whin I shoot. It’s up to you whether I start a cemetery here or not,’ he says, cold an’ ca’mlike.

“The ginneys knowed somethin’ was up, an’ they crowded around. I thought Trevison was thryin’ to run a bluff on me, an’ I give orders for the ginneys to go back to their work.

“Trevison didn’t say another word, but at the end av the tin minutes he grins that tiger grin av his an’ busts the safety valve on the rattle-box wid a shot from his pistol. He smashes the water-gauge wid another, an’ jammed one shot in the ol’ rattle-box’s entrails, an’ she starts to blow off steam – shriekin’ like a soul in hell. The ginneys throwed down their tools an’ started to climb up the walls of the cut like a gang av monkeys, Trevison watchin’ thim with a grin as cold as a barrow ful ov icicles. Murph’, the engineer av the dinky, an’ his fireman, ducks for the engine-cab, l’avin’ me standin’ there to face the music. Trevison yells at the engineer av the rattle-box, an’ he disappears like a rat into a hole. Thin Trevison swings his gun on me, an’ I c’u’d feel me knees knockin’ together. ‘Carson,’ he says, ‘I hate like blazes to do it, but you’re the boss here, an’ these min will do what you tell thim to do. Tell thim to get to hell out of here an’ not come back, or I’ll down you, sure as me name’s Trevison!’

“I’m old enough to know from lookin’ at a mon whether he manes business or not, an’ Trevison wasn’t foolin’. So I got the bhoys away, an’ here we are. If you’re in charge, it’s up to you to smooth things out. Though from the looks av your mug ‘Firebrand’s’ been maulin’ you some, too!”

Corrigan’s answer was a cold glare. “You quit without a fight, eh?” he taunted; “you let one man bluff half a hundred of you!”

Carson’s eyes brightened. “My recollection is that ‘Firebrand’ is still holdin’ the forrt. Whin I got me last look at him he was sittin’ on the top av the cut, like he was intendin’ to stay there indefinite. If ye think he’s bluffin’, mebbe it’d be quite an idee for you to go out there yourself, an’ call it. I’d be willin’ to give ye me moral support.”

“I’ll call him when I get ready.” Corrigan went to the desk and sat in the chair, ignoring Carson, who watched him narrowly. Presently he turned and spoke to the man:

“Put your men at work trueing up the roadbed on the next section back, until further orders.”

“An’ let ‘Firebrand’ hold the forrt?”

“Do as you’re told!”

Carson went out to his men. Near the station platform he turned and looked back at the bank building, grinning. “There’s two bulldogs comin’ to grips in this deal or I’m a domn poor prophet!” he said.

When Braman returned from his errand he found Corrigan staring out of the window. The banker announced that Miss Benham had received Corrigan’s message with considerable equanimity, and was rewarded for his levity with a frown.

“What’s Carson and his gang doing in town?” he queried.

Corrigan told him, briefly. The banker whistled in astonishment, and his face grew long. “I told you he is a tough one!” he reminded.

Corrigan got to his feet. “Yes – he’s a tough one,” he admitted. “I’m forced to alter my plans a little – that’s all. But I’ll get him. Hunt up something to eat,” he directed; “I’m hungry. I’m going to the station for a few minutes.”

He went out, and the banker watched him until he vanished around the corner of a building. Then Braman shook his head. “Jeff’s resourceful,” he said. “But Trevison – ” His face grew solemn. “What a damned fool I was to trip him with that broom!” He drew a pistol from a pocket and examined it intently, then returned it to the pocket and sat, staring with unseeing eyes beyond the station at the two lines of steel that ran out upon the plains and stopped in the deep cut on the crest of which he could see a man on a black horse.

Down at the station Corrigan was leaning on a rough wooden counter, writing on a yellow paper pad. When he had finished he shoved the paper over to the telegrapher, who had been waiting:

J. Chalfant Benham, B – Building, New York.

Unexpected opposition developed. Trevison. Give Lindman removal order immediately. Communicate with me at Dry Bottom tomorrow morning. Corrigan.

Corrigan watched the operator send the message and then he returned to the bank building, where he found Braman setting out a meager lunch in the rear room. The two men talked as they ate, mostly about Trevison, and the banker’s face did not lose its worried expression. Later they smoked and talked and watched while the afternoon sun grew mellow; while the somber twilight descended over the world and darkness came and obliterated the hill on which sat the rider of the black horse.

Shortly after dark Corrigan sent the banker on another errand, this time to a boarding-house at the edge of town. Braman returned shortly, announcing: “He’ll be ready.” Then, just before midnight Corrigan climbed into the cab of the engine which had brought the private car, and which was waiting, steam up, several hundred feet down the track from the car.

“All right!” said Corrigan briskly, to the engineer, as he climbed in and a flare from the fire-box suffused his face; “pull out. But don’t make any fuss about it – I don’t want those people in the car to know.” And shortly afterwards the locomotive glided silently away into the darkness toward that town in which a judge of the United States Court had, a few hours before, received orders which had caused him to remark, bitterly: “So does the past shape the future.”

CHAPTER V
A TELEGRAM AND A GIRL

Banker Braman went to bed on the cot in the back room shortly after Corrigan departed from Manti. He stretched himself out with a sigh, oppressed with the conviction that he had done a bad day’s work in antagonizing Trevison. The Diamond K owner would repay him, he knew. But he knew, too, that he need have no fear that Trevison would sneak about it. Therefore he did not expect to feel Trevison at his throat during the night. That was some satisfaction.

He dropped to sleep, thinking of Trevison. He awoke about dawn to a loud hammering on the rear door, and he scrambled out of bed and opened the door upon the telegraph agent. That gentleman gazed at him with grim reproof.

“Holy Moses!” he said; “you’re a hell of a tight sleeper! I’ve been pounding on this door for an age!” He shoved a sheet of paper under Braman’s nose. “Here’s a telegram for you.”

Braman took the telegram, scanning it, while the agent talked on, ramblingly. A sickly smile came over Braman’s face when he finished reading, and then he listened to the agent:

“I got a wire a little after midnight, asking me if that man, Corrigan, was still in Manti. The engineer told me he was taking Corrigan back to Dry Bottom at midnight, and so I knew he wasn’t here, and I clicked back ‘No.’ It was from J. C. He must have connected with Corrigan at Dry Bottom. That guy Trevison must have old Benham’s goat, eh?”

Braman re-read the telegram; it was directed to him:

Send my daughter to Trevison with cash in amount of check destroyed by Corrigan yesterday. Instruct her to say mistake made. No offense intended. Hustle. J. C. Benham.

Braman slipped his clothes on and ran down the track to the private car. He had known J. C. Benham several years and was aware that when he issued an order he wanted it obeyed, literally. The negro autocrat of the private car met him at the platform and grinned amply at the banker’s request.

“Miss Benham done tol’ me she am not to be disturbed till eight o’clock,” he objected. But the telegram in Braman’s hands had instant effect upon the black custodian of the car, and shortly afterward Miss Benham was looking at the banker and his telegram in sleepy-eyed astonishment, the door of her compartment open only far enough to permit her to stick her head out.

Braman was forced to do much explaining, and concluded by reading the telegram to her. She drew everything out of him except the story of the fight.

“Well,” she said in the end, “I suppose I shall have to go. So his name is ‘Brand’ Trevison. And he won’t permit the men to work. Why did Mr. Corrigan destroy the check?”

Braman evaded, but the girl thought she knew. Corrigan had yielded to an impulse of obstinacy provoked by Trevison’s assault on him. It was not good business – it was almost childish; but it was human to feel that way. She felt a slight disappointment in Corrigan, though; the action did not quite accord with her previous estimate of him. She did not know what to think of Trevison. But of course any man who would deliberately and brutally ride another man down, would naturally not hesitate to adopt other lawless means of defending himself.

She told Braman to have the money ready for her in an hour, and at the end of that time with her morocco handbag bulging, she emerged from the front door of the bank and climbed the steps of the private car, which had been pulled down to a point in front of the station by the dinky engine, with Murphy presiding at the throttle.

Carson was standing on the platform when Miss Benham climbed to it, and he grinned and greeted her with:

“If ye have no objections, ma’am, I’ll be ridin’ down to the cut with ye. Me name’s Patrick Carson, ma’am.”

“I have no objection whatever,” said the lady, graciously. “I presume you are connected with the railroad?”

“An’ wid the ginneys that’s buildin’ it, ma’am,” he supplemented. “I’m the construction boss av this section, an’ I’m the mon that had the unhappy experience av lookin’ into the business end av ‘Firebrand’s’ six-shooter yisterday.”

“‘Firebrand’s’?” she said, with a puzzled look at him.

“Thot mon, Trevison, ma’am; that’s what they call him. An’ he fits it bedad – beggin’ your pardon.”

“Oh,” she said; “then you know him.” And she felt a sudden interest in Carson.

“Enough to be certain he ain’t to be monkeyed with, ma’am.”

She seemed to ignore this. “Please tell the engineer to go ahead,” she told him. “And then come into the car – I want to talk with you.”

A little later, with the car clicking slowly over the rail-joints toward the cut, Carson diffidently followed the negro attendant into a luxurious compartment, in which, seated in a big leather-covered chair, was Miss Benham. She motioned Carson to another chair, and in the conversation that followed Miss Benham received a comprehensive estimate of Trevison from Carson’s viewpoint. It seemed unsatisfying to her – Carson’s commendation did not appear to coincide with Trevison’s performances.

“Have you heard what happened in Manti yesterday?” she questioned. “This man, Trevison, jumped his horse against Mr. Corrigan and knocked him down.”

“I heard av it,” grinned Carson. “But I didn’t see it. Nor did I see the daisy scrap that tuk place right after.”

“Fight?” she exclaimed.

Carson reddened. “Sure, ye haven’t heard av it, an’ I’m blabbin’ like a kid.”

“Tell me about it.” Her eyes were aglow with interest.

“There’s devilish little to tell – beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. But thim that was in at the finish is waggin’ their tongues about it bein’ a dandy shindy. Judgin’ from the talk, nobuddy got licked – it was a fair dhraw. But I sh’ud judge, lookin’ at Corrigan’s face, that it was a darlin’ av a scrap.”

She was silent, gazing contemplatively out of the car window. Corrigan had returned, after escorting her to the car, to engage in a fight with Trevison. That was what had occupied him; that was why he had gone away without seeing her. Well, Trevison had given him plenty of provocation.

“Trevison’s horse knockin’ Corrigan down was what started it, they’ve been tellin’ me,” said Carson. “But thim that know Trevison’s black knows that Trevison wasn’t to blame.”

“Not to blame?” she asked; “why not?”

“For the simple rayson thot in a case like thot the mon has no control over the baste, ma’am. ‘Firebrand’ told me only yisterday mornin’ thot there was no holdin’ the black whin somebuddy tried to shoot wid him on his back.”

The girl remembered how Trevison had tried to speak to her immediately after the upsetting of Corrigan, and she knew now, that he had wanted to explain his action. Reviewing the incident in the light of Carson’s explanation, she felt that Corrigan was quite as much at fault as Trevison. Somehow, that knowledge was vaguely satisfying.

She did not succeed in questioning Carson further about Trevison, though there were many points over which she felt a disturbing curiosity, for Agatha came in presently, and after nodding stiffly to Carson, seated herself and gazed aloofly out of a window.

Carson, ill at ease in Agatha’s presence, soon invented an excuse to go out upon the platform, leaving Rosalind to explain his presence in the car.

“What on earth could you have to say to a section boss – or he to you?” demanded Agatha. “You are becoming very – er – indiscreet, Rosalind.”

The girl smiled. It was a smile that would have betrayed the girl had Agatha possessed the physiognomist’s faculty of analyzation, for in it was much relief and renewed faith. For the rider of the black horse was not the brutal creature she had thought him.

When the private car came to a stop, Rosalind looked out of the window to see the steep wall of the cut towering above her. Aunt Agatha still sat near, and when Rosalind got up Agatha rose also, registering an objection:

“I think your father might have arranged to have some man meet this outlaw. It is not, in my opinion, a proper errand for a girl. But if you are determined to go, I presume I shall have to follow.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Rosalind. But Agatha set her lips tightly. And when the girl reached the platform Agatha was close behind her.

But both halted on the platform as they were about to descend the steps. They heard Carson’s voice, loud and argumentative:

“There’s a lady aboored, I tell ye! If ye shoot, you’re a lot of damned rapscallions, an’ I’ll come up there an’ bate the head off ye!”

“Stow your gab an’ produce the lady!” answered a voice. It came from above, and Rosalind stepped down to the floor of the cut and looked upward. On the crest of the southern wall were a dozen men – cowboys – armed with rifles, peering down at the car. They shifted their gaze to her when she stepped into view, and one of them laughed.

“Correct, boys,” he said; “it’s a lady.” There was a short silence; Rosalind saw the men gather close – they were talking, but she could not hear their voices. Then the man who had spoken first stepped to the edge of the cut and called: “What do you want?”

The girl answered: “I want to speak with Mr. Trevison.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” came back the voice; “but Trevison ain’t here – he’s at the Diamond K.”

Rosalind reached a decision quickly. “Aunty,” she said; “I am going to the Diamond K.”

“I forbid you!” said Agatha sternly. “I would not trust you an instant with those outlaws!”

“Nonsense,” smiled Rosalind. “I am coming up,” she called to the man on the crest; “do you mind?”

The man laughed. “I reckon not, ma’am.”

Rosalind smiled at Carson, who was watching her admiringly, and to the smile he answered, pointing eastward to where the slope of the hill melted into the plains: “You’ll have to go thot way, ma’am.” He laughed. “You’re perfectly safe wid thim min, ma’am – they’re Trevison’s – an’ Trevison wud shoot the last mon av thim if they’d harm a hair av your pretty head. Go along, ma’am, an’ God bless ye! Ye’ll be savin’ a heap av throuble for me an’ me ginneys, an’ the railroad company.” He looked with bland derision at Agatha who gave him a glance of scornful reproof as she followed after her charge.

The girl was panting when she reached the crest of the cut. Agatha was a little white, possibly more from apprehension than from indignation, though that emotion had its influence; but their reception could not have been more formal had it taken place in an eastern drawing-room. For every hat was off, and each man was trying his best to conceal his interest. And when men have not seen a woman for a long time, the appearance of a pretty one makes it rather hard to maintain polite poise. But they succeeded, which spoke well for their manliness. If they exchanged surreptitious winks over the appearance of Agatha, they are to be excused, for that lady’s demeanor was one of frigid haughtiness, which is never quite impressive to those who live close to nature.

In an exchange of words, brief and pointed, Rosalind learned that it was three miles to the Diamond K ranchhouse, and that Trevison had given orders not to be disturbed unless the railroad company attempted to continue work at the cut. Could she borrow one of their horses, and a guide?

“You bet!” emphatically returned the spokesman who, she learned later, was Trevison’s foreman. She should have the gentlest “cayuse” in the “bunch,” and the foreman would do the guiding, himself. At which word Agatha, noting the foreman’s enthusiasm, glared coldly at him.

But here Agatha was balked by the insurmountable wall of convention. She had ridden horses, to be sure, in her younger days; but when the foreman, at Rosalind’s request, offered her a pony, she sniffed scornfully and marched down the slope toward the private car, saying that if Rosalind was determined to persist she might persist without her assistance. For there was no side-saddle in the riding equipment of the outfit. And Rosalind, quite aware of the prudishness exhibited by her chaperon, and not unmindful of the mirth that the men were trying their best to keep concealed, rode on with the foreman, with something resembling thankfulness for the temporary freedom tugging at her heart.

Trevison had camped all night on the crest of the cut. It was only at dawn that Barkwell, the foreman who had escorted Rosalind, had appeared at the cut on his way to town, and discovered him, and then the foreman’s plans were changed and he was dispatched to the Diamond K for reinforcements. Trevison had ridden back to the Diamond K to care for his arm, which had pained him frightfully during the night, and at ten o’clock in the morning he was stretched out, fully dressed and wide awake on the bed in his room in the ranchhouse, frowningly reviewing the events of the day before.

He was in no good humor, and when he heard Barkwell hallooing from the yard near the house, he got up and looked out of a window, a scowl on his face.

Rosalind was not in the best of spirits, herself, for during the ride to the ranchhouse she had been sending subtly-questioning shafts at the foreman – questions that mostly concerned Trevison – and they had all fell, blunted and impotent, from the armor of Barkwell’s reticence. But a glance at Trevison’s face, ludicrous in its expression of stunned amazement, brought a broad smile to her own. She saw his lips form her name, and then she waited demurely until she saw him coming out of the ranchhouse door toward her.

He had quite recovered from his surprise, she noted; his manner was that of the day before, when she had seen him riding the black horse. When she saw him coming lightly toward her, she at first had eyes for nothing but his perfect figure, feeling the strength that his close-fitting clothing revealed so unmistakably, and an unaccountable blush glowed in her cheeks. And then she observed that his left arm was in a sling, and a flash of wondering concern swept over her – also unaccountable. And then he was at her stirrup, smiling up at her broadly and cordially.

“Welcome to the Diamond K, Miss Benham,” he said. “Won’t you get off your horse?”

“Thank you; I came on business and must return immediately. There has been a misunderstanding, my father says. He wired me, directing me to apologize, for him, for Mr. Corrigan’s actions of yesterday. Perhaps Mr. Corrigan over-stepped his authority – I have no means of knowing.” She passed the morocco bag over to him, and he took it, looking at it in some perplexity. “You will find cash in there to the amount named by the check that Mr. Corrigan destroyed. I hope,” she added, smiling at him, “that there will be no more trouble.”

“The payment of this money for the right-of-way removes the provocation for trouble,” he laughed. “Barkwell,” he directed, turning to the foreman; “you may go back to the outfit.” He looked after the foreman as the latter rode away, turning presently to Rosalind. “If you will wait a few minutes, until I stow this money in a safe place, I’ll ride back to the cut with you and pull the boys off.”