Straight Talk

: 'firebrand' Trevison

Ten years of lonesomeness, of separation from all the things he held dear,

with nothing for his soul to feed upon except the bitterness he got from a

contemplation of the past; with nothing but his pride and his

determination to keep him from becoming what he had seen many men in this

country become--dissolute irresponsibles, drifting like ships without

rudders--had brought into Trevison's heart a great longing. He was like a

man who for a long time has been deprived of the solace of good tobacco,

and--to use a simile that he himself manufactured--he yearned to capture

someone from the East, sit beside him and fill his lungs, his brain, his

heart, his soul, with the breath, the aroma, the spirit of the land of his

youth. The appearance of Miss Benham at Manti had thrilled him. For ten

years he had seen no eastern woman, and at sight of her the old hunger of

the soul became acute in him, aroused in him a passionate worship that

made his blood run riot. It was the call of sex to sex, made doubly

stirring by the girl's beauty, her breeziness, her virile, alluring

womanhood--by the appeal she made to the love of the good and the true in

his character. His affection for Hester Keyes, he had long known, had been

merely the vanity-tickling regard of the callow youth--the sex attraction

of adolescence, the "puppy" love that smites all youth alike. For Rosalind

Benham a deeper note had been struck. Its force rocked him, intoxicated

him; his head rang with the music it made.



During the three weeks of her stay at Blakeley's they had been much

together. Rosalind had accepted his companionship as a matter of course.

He had told her many things about his past, and was telling her many more

things, as they sat today on an isolated excrescence of sand and rock and

bunch grass surrounded by a sea of sage. From where they sat they could

see Manti--Manti, alive, athrob, its newly-come hundreds busy as ants with

their different pursuits.



The intoxication of the girl's presence had never been so great as it was

today. A dozen times, drunken with the nearness of her, with the delicate

odor from her hair, as a stray wisp fluttered into his face, he had come

very near to catching her in his arms. But he had grimly mastered the

feeling, telling himself that he was not a savage, and that such an action

would be suicidal to his hopes. It cost him an effort, though, to restrain

himself, as his flushed face, his burning eyes and his labored breath,

told.



His broken wrist had healed. His hatred of Corrigan had been kept alive by

a recollection of the fight, by a memory of the big man's quickness to

take advantage of the banker's foul trick, and by the passion for revenge

that had seized him, that held him in a burning clutch. Jealousy of the

big man he would not have admitted; but something swelled his chest when

he thought of Corrigan coming West in the same car with the girl--a vague,

gnawing something that made his teeth clench and his facial muscles cord.



Rosalind had not told him that she had recognized him, that during the ten

years of his exile he had been her ideal, but she could close her eyes at

this minute and imagine herself on the stair-landing at Hester Keyes'

party, could feel the identical wave of thrilling admiration that had

passed over her when her gaze had first rested on him. Yes, it had

survived, that girlhood passion, but she had grown much older and

experienced, and she could not let him see what she felt. But her

curiosity was keener than ever; in no other man of her acquaintance had

she felt this intense interest.



"I remember you telling me the other day that your men would have used

their rifles, had the railroad company attempted to set men to work in the

cut. I presume you must have given them orders to shoot. I can't

understand you. You were raised in the East, your parents are wealthy; it

is presumed they gave you advantages--in fact, you told me they had sent

you to college. You must have learned respect for the law while there. And

yet you would have had your men resist forcibly."



"I told you before that I respected the law--so long as the law is just

and the fellow I'm fighting is governed by it. But I refuse to fight under

a rule that binds one of my hands, while my opponent sails into me with

both hands free. I've never been a believer in the doctrine of 'turn the

other cheek.' We are made with a capacity for feeling, and it boils,

unrestrained, in me. I never could play the hypocrite; I couldn't say 'no'

when I thought 'yes' and make anybody believe it. I couldn't lie and evade

and side-step, even to keep from getting licked. I always told the truth

and expressed my feelings in language as straight, simple, and direct as I

could. It wasn't always the discreet way. Perhaps it wasn't always the

wise way. I won't argue that. But it was the only way I knew. It caused me

a lot of trouble--I was always in trouble. My record in college would make

a prize fighter turn green with envy. I'm not proud of what I've made of

my life. But I haven't changed. I do what my heart prompts me to do, and I

say what I think, regardless of consequences."



"That would be a very good method--if everybody followed it," said the

girl. "Unfortunately, it invites enmity. Subtlety will take you farther in

the world." She was smitten with an impulse, unwise, unconventional. But

the conventions! The East seemed effete and far. Besides, she spoke

lightly:



"Let us be perfectly frank, then. I think that perhaps you take yourself

too seriously. Life is a tragedy to the tragic, a joke to the humorous, a

drab canvas to the unimaginative. It all depends upon what temperament one

sees it through. I dare say that I see you differently than you see

yourself. 'O wad some power the giftie gi'e us to see oursel's as ithers

see us'," she quoted, and laughed at the queer look in his eyes, for his

admiration for her had leaped like a living thing at her bubbling spirits,

and he was, figuratively, forced to place his heel upon it. "I confess it

seems to me that you take a too tragic view of things," she went on. "You

are like D'Artagnan, always eager to fly at somebody's throat. Possibly,

you don't give other people credit for unselfish motives; you are too

suspicious; and what you call plain talk may seem impertinence to

others--don't you think? In any event, people don't like to hear the truth

told about themselves--especially by a big, earnest, sober-faced man who

seems to speak with conviction, and, perhaps, authority. I think you look

for trouble, instead of trying to evade it. I think, too," she said,

looking straight at him, "that you face the world in a too physical

fashion; that you place too much dependence upon brawn and fire. That,

following your own method of speaking your mind, is what I think of you. I

tremble to imagine what you think of me for speaking so plainly."



He laughed, his voice vibrating, and bold passion gleamed in his eyes. He

looked fairly at her, holding her gaze, compelling it with the intensity

of his own, and she drew a deep, tremulous breath of understanding. There

followed a tense, breathless silence. And then--



"You've brought it on yourself," he said. "I love you. You are going to

marry me--someday. That's what I think of you!"



She got to her feet, her cheeks flaming, confused, half-frightened, though

a fierce exultation surged within her. She had half expected this, half

dreaded it, and now that it had burst upon her in such volcanic fashion

she realized that she had not been entirely prepared. She sought refuge in

banter, facing him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dancing.



"'Firebrand,'" she said. "The name fits you--Mr. Carson was right. I

warned you--if you remember--that you placed too much dependence on brawn

and fire. You are making it very hard for me to see you again."



He had risen too, and stood before her, and he now laughed frankly.



"I told you I couldn't play the hypocrite. I have said what I think. I

want you. But that doesn't mean that I am going to carry you away to the

mountains. I've got it off my mind, and I promise not to mention it

again--until you wish it. But don't forget that some day you are going to

love me."



"How marvelous," said she, tauntingly, though in her confusion she could

not meet his gaze, looking downward. "How do you purpose to bring it

about?"



"By loving you so strongly that you can't help yourself."



"With your confidence--" she began. But he interrupted, laughing:



"We're going to forget it, now," he said. "I promised to show you that

Pueblo, and we'll have just about time enough to make it and back to the

Bar B before dark."



And they rode away presently, chatting on indifferent subjects. And,

keeping his promise, he said not another word about his declaration. But

the girl, stealing glances at him, wondered much--and reached no

decision.



When they reached the abandoned Indian village, many of its houses still

standing, he laughed. "That would make a dandy fort."



"Always thinking of fighting," she mocked. But her eyes flashed as she

looked at him.



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