'Firebrand' Trevison. Charles Alden Seltzer

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.”

      She had wondered much over the rifles in the hands of his men at the cut. “Would your men have used their guns?” she asked.

      He had turned to go to the house, and he wheeled quickly, astonished. “Certainly!” he said; “why not?”

      “That would be lawlessness, would it not?” It made her shiver slightly to hear him so frankly confess to murderous designs.

      “It was not my quarrel,” he said, looking at her narrowly, his brows contracted. “Law is all right where everybody accepts it as a governor to their actions. I accept it when it deals fairly with me—when it’s just. Certain rights are mine, and I’ll fight for them. This situation was brought on by Corrigan’s obstinacy. We had a fight, and it peeved him because I wouldn’t permit him to hammer my head off. He destroyed the check, and as the company’s option expired yesterday it was unlawful for the company to trespass on my land.”

      “Well,” she smiled, affected by his vehemence; “we shall have peace now, presumably. And—” she reddened again “—I want to ask your pardon on my own account, for speaking to you as I did yesterday. I thought you brutal—the way you rode your horse over Mr. Corrigan. Mr. Carson assured me that the horse was to blame.”

      “I am indebted to Carson,” he laughed, bowing. Rosalind watched him go into the house, and then turned and inspected her surroundings. The house was big, roomy, with a massive hip roof. A paved gallery stretched the entire length of the front—she would have liked to rest for a few minutes in the heavy rocker that stood in its cool shadows. No woman lived here, she was certain, because there was a lack of evidence of woman’s handiwork—no filmy curtains at the windows—merely shades; no cushion was on the chair—which, by the way, looked lonesome—but perhaps that was merely her imagination. Much dust had gathered on the gallery floor and on the sash of the windows—a woman would have had things looking differently. And so she divined that Trevison was not married. It surprised her to discover that that thought had been in her mind, and she turned to continue her inspection, filled with wonder that it had been there.

      She got an impression of breadth and spaciousness out of her survey of the buildings and the surrounding country. The buildings were in good condition; everything looked substantial and homelike and her contemplation of it aroused in her a yearning for a house and land in this section of the country, it was so peaceful and dignified in comparison with the life she knew.

      She watched Trevison when he emerged from the house, and smiled when he returned the empty handbag. He went to a small building near a fenced enclosure—the corral, she learned afterward—and came out carrying a saddle, which he hung on the fence while he captured the black horse, which she had already observed. The animal evaded capture, playfully, but in the end it trotted mincingly to Trevison and permitted him to throw the bridle on. Then, shortly afterward he mounted the black and together they rode back toward the cut.

      As they rode the girl’s curiosity for the man who rode beside her grew acute. She was aware—she had been aware all along—that he was far different from the other men of Manti—there was about him an atmosphere of refinement and quiet confidence that mingled admirably with his magnificent physical force, tempering it, suggesting reserve power, hinting of excellent mental capacity. She determined to know something about him. And so she began subtly:

      “In a section of country so large as this it seems that our American measure of length—a mile—should be stretched to something that would more adequately express size. Don’t you think so?”

      He looked quickly at her. “That is an odd thought,” he laughed, “but it inevitably attacks the person who views the yawning distances here for the first time. Why not use the English mile if the American doesn’t satisfy?”

      “There is a measure that exceeds that, isn’t there? Wasn’t there a Persian measure somewhat longer, fathered by Herodotus or another of the ancients? I am sure there was—or is—but I have forgotten?”

      “Yes,” he said, “—a parasang.” He looked narrowly at her and saw her eyes brighten.

      She had made progress; she felt much satisfaction.

      “You are not a native,” she said.

      “How do you know?”

      “Cowboys do not commonly measure their distances with parasangs,” she laughed.

      “Nor do ordinary women try to shake off ennui by coming West in private cars,” he drawled.

      She started and looking quickly at him. “How did you know that was what happened to me?” she demanded.

      “Because you’re too spirited and vigorous to spend your life dawdling in society. You yearn for action, for the broad, free life of the open. You’re in love with this country right now.”

      “Yes, yes,” she said, astonished; “but how do you know?”

      “You might have sent a man here in your place—Braman, for instance; he could be trusted. You came yourself, eager for adventure—you came on a borrowed horse. When you were looking at the country from the horse in front of my house, I saw you sigh.”

      “Well,” she said, with flushed face and glowing eyes; “I have decided to live out here—for a time, at least. So you were watching me?”

      “Just a glance,” he defended, grinning; “I couldn’t help it. Please forgive me.”

      “I suppose I’ll have to,” she laughed, delighted, reveling in this freedom of speech, in his directness. His manner touched a spark somewhere in her, she felt strangely elated, exhilarated. When she reflected that this was only their second meeting and that she had not been conventionally introduced to him, she was amazed. Had a stranger of her set talked to her so familiarly she would have resented it. Out here it seemed to be perfectly natural.

      “How do you know I borrowed a horse to come here?” she asked.

      “That’s easy,” he grinned; “there’s the Diamond K brand on his hip.”

      “Oh.”

      They rode on a little distance in silence, and then she remembered that she was still curious about him. His frankness had affected her; she did not think it impertinent to betray curiosity.

      “How long have you lived out here?” she asked.

      “About ten years.”

      “You weren’t born here, of course—you have admitted that. Then where did you come from?”

      “This is a large country,” he returned, unsmilingly.