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special car, talking with Corrigan. He was just under sixty-five years,

and their weight seemed to rest heavily upon him. His eyes were slightly

bleary, and had a look of weariness, as though he had endured much and was

utterly tired. His mouth was flaccid, the lips pouting when he compressed

his jaws, giving his face the sullen, indecisive look of the brooder

lacking the mental and physical courage of independent action and

initiative. The Judge could be led; Corrigan was leading him now, and the

Judge was reluctant, but his courage had oozed, back in Dry Bottom, when

Corrigan had mentioned a culpable action which the Judge had regretted

many times.



Some legal records of the county were on the table between the two men.

The Judge had objected when Corrigan had secured them from the compartment

where the others were piled.



"It isn't regular, Mr. Corrigan," he had said; "no one except a legally

authorized person has the right to look over those books."



"We'll say that I am legally authorized, then," grinned Corrigan. The look

in his eyes was one of amused contempt. "It isn't the only irregular thing

you have done, Lindman."



The Judge subsided, but back in his eyes was a slumbering hatred for this

man, who was forcing him to complicity in another crime. He regretted that

other crime; why should this man deliberately remind him of it?



After looking over the records, Corrigan outlined a scheme of action that

made the Judge's face blanch.



"I won't be a party to any such scurrilous undertaking!" he declared when,

he could trust his voice; "I--I won't permit it!"



Corrigan stretched his legs out under the table, shoved his hands into his

trousers' pockets and laughed.



"Why the high moral attitude, Judge? It doesn't become you. Refuse if you

like. When we get to Manti I shall wire Benham. It's likely he'll feel

pretty sore. He's got his heart set on this. And I have no doubt that

after he gets my wire he'll jump the next train for Washington, and--"



The Judge exclaimed with weak incoherence, and a few minutes later he was

bending over the records with Corrigan--the latter making sundry copies on

a pad of paper, which he placed in a pocket when the work was completed.



At noon the special car was in Manti. Corrigan, the Judge, and Braman,

carried the Judge's effects and stored them in the rear room of the bank

building. "I'll build you a courthouse, tomorrow," he promised the Judge;

"big enough for you and a number of deputies. You'll need deputies, you

know." He grinned as the Judge shrank. Then, leaving the Judge in the room

with his books and papers, Corrigan drew Braman outside.



"I got hell from Benham for destroying Trevison's check--he wired me to

attend to my other deals and let him run the railroad--the damned old

fool! You must have taken the cash to Trevison--I see the gang's working

again."



"The cash went," said the banker, watching Corrigan covertly, "but I

didn't take it. J. C. wired explicit orders for his daughter to act."



Corrigan cursed viciously, his face dark with wrath as he turned to look

at the private car, on the switch. The banker watched him with secret,

vindictive enjoyment. Miss Benham had judged Braman correctly--he was

cold, crafty, selfish, and wholly devoid of sympathy. He was for Braman,

first and last--and in the interim.



"Miss Benham went to the cut--so I hear," he went on, smoothly. "Trevison

wasn't there. Miss Benham went to the Diamond K." His eyes gleamed as

Corrigan's hands clenched. "Trevison rode back to the car with her--which

she had ordered taken to the cut," went on the banker. "And this morning

about ten o'clock Trevison came here with a led horse. He and Miss Benham

rode away together. I heard her tell her aunt they were going to

Blakeley's ranch--it's about eight miles from here."



Corrigan's face went white. "I'll kill him for that!" he said.



"Jealous, eh?" laughed the banker. "So, that's the reason--"



Corrigan turned and struck bitterly. The banker's jaws clacked

sharply--otherwise he fell silently, striking his head against the edge of

the step and rolling, face down, into the dust.



When he recovered and sat up, Corrigan had gone. The banker gazed

foolishly around at a world that was still reeling--felt his jaw

carefully, wonder and astonishment in his eyes.



"What do you know about that?" he asked of the surrounding silence. "I've

kidded him about women before, and he never got sore. He must be in

love!"



* * * * *



Riding through a saccaton basin, the green-brown tips so high that they

caught at their stirrups as they rode slowly along; a white, smiling sky

above them and Blakeley's still three miles away, Miss Benham and Trevison

were chatting gayly at the instant the banker had received Corrigan's

blow.



Miss Benham had spent the night thinking of Trevison, and she had spent

much of her time during the present ride stealing glances at him. She had

discovered something about him that had eluded her the day before--an

impulsive boyishness. It was hidden behind the manhood of him, so that the

casual observer would not be likely to see it; men would have failed to

see it, because she was certain that with men he would not let it be seen.

But she knew the recklessness that shone in his eyes, the energy that

slumbered in them ready to be applied any moment in response to any whim

that might seize him, were traits that had not yet yielded to the stern

governors of manhood--nor would they yield in many years to come--they

were the fountains of virility that would keep him young. She felt the

irresistible appeal of him, responsive to the youth that flourished in her

own heart--and Corrigan, older, more ponderous, less addicted to impulse,

grew distant in her thoughts and vision. The day before yesterday her

sympathies had been with Corrigan--she had thought. But as she rode she

knew that they were threatening to desert him. For this man of heroic mold

who rode beside her was disquietingly captivating in the bold recklessness

of his youth.



They climbed the far slope of the basin and halted their horses on the

crest. Before them stretched a plain so big and vast and inviting that it

made the girl gasp with delight.



"Oh," she said, awed; "isn't it wonderful?"



"I knew you'd like it."



"The East has nothing like this," she said, with a broad sweep of the

hand.



"No," he said.



She turned on him triumphantly. "There!" she declared; "you have committed

yourself. You are from the East!"



"Well," he said; "I've never denied it."



Something vague and subtle had drawn them together during the ride,

bridging the hiatus of strangeness, making them feel that they had been

acquainted long. It did not seem impertinent to her that she should ask

the question that she now put to him--she felt that her interest in him

permitted it:



"You are an easterner, and yet you have been out here for about ten years.

Your house is big and substantial, but I should judge that it has no

comforts, no conveniences. You live there alone, except for some men, and

you have male servants--if you have any. Why should you bury yourself

here? You are educated, you are young. There are great opportunities for

you in the East!"



She paused, for she saw a cynical expression in his eyes.



"Well?" she said, impatiently, for she had been very much in earnest.



"I suppose I've got to tell you," he said, soberly. "I don't know what has

come over me--you seem to have me under a spell. I've never spoken about

it before. I don't know why I should now. But you've got to know, I

presume."



"Yes."



"On your head rest the blame," he said, his grin still cynical; "and upon

mine the consequences. It isn't a pretty story to tell; it's only virtue

is its brevity. I was fired out of college for fighting. The fellows I

licked deserved what they got--and I deserved what I got for breaking

rules. I've always broken rules. I may have broken laws--most of us have.

My father is wealthy. The last time I saw him he said I was incorrigible

and a dunce. I admit the former, but I'm going to make him take the other

back. I told him so. He replied that he was from Missouri. He gave me an

opportunity to make good by cutting off my allowance. There was a girl.

When my allowance was cut off she made me feel cold as an Eskimo. Told me

straight that she had never liked me in the way she'd led me to believe

she did, and that she was engaged to a real man. She made the mistake of

telling me his name, and it happened to be one of the fellows I'd had

trouble with at college. The girl lost her temper and told me things he'd

said about me. I left New York that night, but before I hopped on the

train I stopped in to see my rival and gave him the bulliest trimming that

I had ever given anybody. I came out here and took up a quarter-section of

land. I bought more--after a while. I own five thousand acres, and about a

thousand acres of it is the best coal land in the United States. I

wouldn't sell it for love or money, for when your father gets his railroad

running, I'm going to cash in on ten of the leanest and hardest and

lonesomest years that any man ever put in. I'm going back some day. But I

won't stay. I've lived in this country so long that it's got into my heart

and soul. It's a golden paradise."



She did not share his enthusiasm--her thoughts were selfishly personal,

though they included him.



"And the girl!" she said. "When you go back, would you--"



"Never!" he scoffed, vehemently. "That would convince me that I am the

dunce my father said I was!"



The girl turned her head and smiled. And a little later, when they were

riding on again, she murmured softly:



"Ten years of lonesomeness and bitterness to save his pride! I wonder if

Hester Keyes knows what she has missed?"