'Firebrand' Trevison
serious. But Agatha, who knew Rosalind better than Corrigan knew her, was
aware that the girl was merely demurely sarcastic.
"Love and hatred are next," he said, slowly.
"You would place money-making before love?" Rosalind bantered.
"Money adds the proper flavor to love," laughed Corrigan. The laugh was
laden with subtle significance and he looked straight at the girl, a deep
fire slumbering in his eyes. "Yes," he said slowly, "money-making is a
great passion. I have it. But I can hate, and love. And when I do either,
it will be strongly. And then--"
Agatha cleared her throat impatiently. Corrigan colored slightly, and Miss
Benham smothered something, artfully directing the conversation into less
personal channels:
"You are going to build manufactories, organize banks, build municipal
power-houses, speculate in real estate, and such things, I suppose?"
"And build a dam. We already have a bank here, Miss Benham."
"Will father be interested in those things?"
"Silently. You understand, that being president of the railroad, your
father must keep in the background. The actual promoting of these
enterprises will be done by me."
Miss Benham looked dreamily out of the window. Then she turned to Corrigan
and gazed at him meditatively, though the expression in her eyes was so
obviously impersonal that it chilled any amorous emotion that Corrigan
might have felt.
"I suppose you are right," she said. "It must be thrilling to feel a
conscious power over the destiny of a community, to direct its progress,
to manage it, and--er--figuratively to grab industries by their--" She
looked slyly at Agatha "--lower extremities and shake the dollars out of
them. Yes," she added, with a wistful glance through the window; "that
must be more exciting than being merely in love."
Agatha again followed Rosalind's gaze and saw the black horse standing in
front of a store. She frowned, and observed stiffly:
"It seems to me that the people in these small places--such as Manti--are
not capable of managing the large enterprises that Mr. Corrigan speaks
of." She looked at Rosalind, and the girl knew that she was deprecating
the rider of the black horse. Rosalind smiled sweetly.
"Oh, I am sure there must be _some_ intelligent persons among them!"
"As a rule," stated Corrigan, dogmatically, "the first citizens of any
town are an uncouth and worthless set."
"The Four Hundred would take exception to that!" laughed Rosalind.
Corrigan laughed with her. "You know what I mean, of course. Take Manti,
for instance. Or any new western town. The lowest elements of society are
represented; most of the people are very ignorant and criminal."
The girl looked sharply at Corrigan, though he was not aware of the
glance. Was there a secret understanding between Corrigan and Agatha? Had
Corrigan also some knowledge of the rider's pilgrimages past the car
window? Both had maligned the rider. But the girl had seen intelligence on
the face of the rider, and something in the set of his head had told her
that he was not a criminal. And despite his picturesque rigging, and the
atmosphere of the great waste places that seemed to envelop him, he had
made a deeper impression on her than had Corrigan, darkly handsome,
well-groomed, a polished product of polite convention and breeding, whom
her father wanted her to marry.
"Well," she said, looking at the black horse; "I intend to observe Manti's
citizens more closely before attempting to express an opinion."
Half an hour later, in response to Corrigan's invitation, Rosalind was
walking down Manti's one street, Corrigan beside her. Corrigan had donned
khaki clothing, a broad, felt hat, boots, neckerchief. But in spite of the
change of garments there was a poise, an atmosphere about him, that hinted
strongly of the graces of civilization. Rosalind felt a flash of pride in
him. He was big, masterful, fascinating.
Manti seemed to be fraudulent, farcical, upon closer inspection. For one
thing, its crudeness was more glaring, and its unpainted board fronts
looked flimsy, transient. Compared to the substantial buildings of the
East, Manti's structures were hovels. Here was the primitive town in the
first flush of its creation. Miss Benham did not laugh, for a mental
picture rose before her--a bit of wild New England coast, a lowering sky,
a group of Old-world pilgrims shivering around a blazing fire in the open,
a ship in the offing. That also was a band of first citizens; that picture
and the one made by Manti typified the spirit of America.
There were perhaps twenty buildings. Corrigan took her into several of
them. But, she noted, he did not take her into the store in front of which
was the black horse. She was introduced to several of the proprietors.
Twice she overheard parts of the conversation carried on between Corrigan
and the proprietors. In each case the conversation was the same:
"Do you own this property?"
"The building."
"Who owns the land?"
"A company in New York."
Corrigan introduced himself as the manager of the company, and spoke of
erecting an office. The two men spoke about their "leases." The latter
seemed to have been limited to two months.
"See me before your lease expires," she heard Corrigan tell the men.
"Does the railroad own the town site?" asked Rosalind as they emerged from
the last store.
"Yes. And leases are going to be more valuable presently."
"You don't mean that you are going to extort money from them--after they
have gone to the expense of erecting buildings?"
His smile was pleasant. "They will be treated with the utmost
consideration, Miss Benham."
He ushered her into the bank. Like the other buildings, the bank was of
frame construction. Its only resemblance to a bank was in the huge safe
that stood in the rear of the room, and a heavy wire netting behind which
ran a counter. Some chairs and a desk were behind the counter, and at the
desk sat a man of probably forty, who got up at the entrance of his
visitors and approached them, grinning and holding out a hand to
Corrigan.
"So you're here at last, Jeff," he said. "I saw the car on the switch this
morning. The show will open pretty soon now, eh?" He looked inquiringly at
Rosalind, and Corrigan presented her. She heard the man's name, "Mr.
Crofton Braman," softly spoken by her escort, and she acknowledged the
introduction formally and walked to the door, where she stood looking out
into the street.
Braman repelled her--she did not know why. A certain crafty gleam of his
eyes, perhaps, strangely blended with a bold intentness as he had looked
at her; a too effusive manner; a smoothly ingratiating smile--these
evidences of character somehow made her link him with schemes and plots.
She did not reflect long over Braman. Across the street she saw the rider
of the black horse standing beside the animal at a hitching rail in front
of the store that Corrigan had passed without entering. Viewed from this
distance, the rider's face was more distinct, and she saw that he was
good-looking--quite as good-looking as Corrigan, though of a different
type. Standing, he did not seem to be so tall as Corrigan, nor was he
quite so bulky. But he was lithe and powerful, and in his movements, as he
unhitched the black horse, threw the reins over its head and patted its
neck, was an ease and grace that made Rosalind's eyes sparkle with
admiration.
The rider seemed to be in no hurry to mount his horse. The girl was
certain that twice as he patted the animal's neck he stole glances at her,
and a stain appeared in her cheeks, for she remembered the car window.
And then she heard a voice greet the rider. A man came out of the door of
one of the saloons, glanced at the rider and raised his voice, joyously:
"Well, if it ain't ol' 'Brand'! Where in hell you been keepin' yourself? I
ain't seen you for a week!"
Friendship was speaking here, and the girl's heart leaped in sympathy. She
watched with a smile as the other man reached the rider's side and wrung
his hand warmly. Such effusiveness would have been thought hypocritical in
the East; humanness was always frowned upon. But what pleased the girl
most was this evidence that the rider was well liked. Additional evidence
on this point collected quickly. It came from several doors, in the shapes
of other men who had heard the first man's shout, and presently the rider
was surrounded by many friends.
The girl was deeply interested. She forgot Braman, Corrigan--forgot that
she was standing in the doorway of the bank. She was seeing humanity
stripped of conventionalities; these people were not governed by the
intimidating regard for public opinion that so effectively stifled warm
impulses among the persons she knew.
She heard another man call to him, and she found herself saying: "'Brand'!
What an odd name!" But it seemed to fit him; he was of a type that one
sees rarely--clean, big, athletic, virile, magnetic. His personality
dominated the group; upon him interest centered heavily. Nor did his
popularity appear to destroy his poise or make him self-conscious. The
girl watched closely for signs of that. Had he shown the slightest trace
of self-worship she would have lost interest in him. He appeared to be a
trifle embarrassed, and that made him doubly attractive to her. He
bantered gayly with the men, and several times his replies to some quip
convulsed the others.
And then while she dreamily watched him, she heard several voices insist
that he "show Nigger off." He demurred, and when they again insisted, he
spoke lowly to them, and she felt their concentrated gaze upon her. She
knew that he had declined to "show Nigger off" because of her presence.
"Nigger," she guessed, was his horse. She secretly hoped he would overcome
his prejudice, for she loved the big black, and was certain that any
performance he participated in would be well worth seeing. So, in order to
influence the rider she turned her back, pretending not to be interested.
But when she heard exclamations of satisfaction from the group of men she
wheeled again, to see that the rider had mounted and was sitting in the
saddle, grinning at a man who had produced a harmonica and was rubbing it
on a sleeve of his shirt, preparatory to placing it to his lips.
The rider had gone too far now to back out, and Rosalind watched him in
frank curiosity. And in the next instant, when the strains of the
harmonica smote the still morning air, Nigger began to prance.
What followed reminded the girl of a scene in the ring of a circus. The
horse, proud, dignified, began to pace slowly to the time of the
accompanying music, executing difficult steps that must have tried the
patience of both animal and trainer during the teaching period; the rider,
lithe, alert, proud also, smiling his pleasure.
Rosalind stood there long, watching. It was a clever exhibition, and she
found herself wondering about the rider. Had he always lived in the West?
The animal performed a dozen feats of the circus arena, and the girl was
so deeply interested in him that she did not observe Corrigan when he
emerged from the bank, stepped down into the street and stood watching the
rider. She noticed him though, when the black, forced to her side of the
street through the necessity of executing a turn, passed close to the
easterner. And then, with something of a shock, she saw Corrigan smiling
derisively. At the sound of applause from the group on the opposite side
of the street, Corrigan's derision became a sneer. Miss Benham felt
resentment; a slight color stained her cheeks. For she could not
understand why Corrigan should show displeasure over this clean and clever
amusement. She was looking full at Corrigan when he turned and caught her
gaze. The light in his eyes was positively venomous.