A Telegram And A Girl

: 'firebrand' Trevison

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

ight. 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."



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.



It was a reproof, certainly--Rosalind could go no farther in that

direction. But her words had brought a mystery into existence, thus

sharpening her interest in him. She was conscious, though, of a slight

pique--what possible reason could he have for evasion? He had not the

appearance of a fugitive from justice.



"So you're going to live out here?" he said, after an interval. "Where?"



"I heard father speak of buying Blakeley's place. Do you know where it

is?"



"It adjoins mine." There was a leaping note in his voice, which she did

not fail to catch. "Do you see that dark line over there?" He pointed

eastward--a mile perhaps. "That's a gully; it divides my land from

Blakeley's. Blakeley told me a month ago that he was dickering with an

eastern man. If you are thinking of looking the place over, and want a

trustworthy escort I should be pleased to recommend--myself." And he

grinned widely at her.



"I shall consider your offer--and I thank you for it," she returned. "I

feel positive that father will buy a ranch here, for he has much faith in

the future of Manti--he is obsessed with it."



He looked sharply at her. "Then your father is going to have a hand in the

development of Manti? I heard a rumor to the effect that some eastern

company was interested, had, in fact, secured the water rights for an

enormous section."



She remembered what Corrigan had told her, and blushingly dissembled:



"I put no faith in rumor--do you? Mr. Corrigan is the head of the company

which is to develop Manti. But of course that is an eastern company,

isn't it?"



He nodded, and she smiled at a thought that came to her. "How far is it to

Blakeley's ranchhouse?" she asked.



"About two parasangs," he answered gravely.



"Well," she said, mimicking him; "I could never walk there, could I? If

I go, I shall have to borrow a horse--or buy one. Could you recommend a

horse that would be as trustworthy as the escort you have promised me?"



"We shall go to Blakeley's tomorrow," he told her. "I shall bring you a

trustworthy horse at ten o'clock in the morning."



They were approaching the cut, and she nodded an acceptance. An instant

later he was talking to his men, and she sat near him, watching them as

they raced over the plains toward the Diamond K ranchhouse. One man

remained; he was without a mount, and he grinned with embarrassment when

Rosalind's gaze rested on him.



"Oh," she said; "you are waiting for your horse! How stupid of me!" She

dismounted and turned the animal over to him. When she looked around,

Trevison had also dismounted and was coming toward her, leading the black,

the reins looped through his arm. Rosalind flushed, and thought of Agatha,

but offered no objection.



It was a long walk down the slope of the hill and around its base to the

private car, but they made it still longer by walking slowly and taking

the most roundabout way. Three persons saw them coming--Agatha, standing

rigid on the platform; the negro attendant, standing behind Agatha in the

doorway, his eyes wide with interest; and Carson, seated on a boulder a

little distance down the cut, grinning broadly.



"Bedad," he rumbled; "the bhoy's made a hit wid her, or I'm a sinner! But

didn't I know he wud? The two bulldogs is goin' to have it now, sure as

I'm a foot high!"