CHAPTER II
IN WHICH HATRED IS BORN
For some persons romance dwells in the new and the unusual, and for otherpersons it dwells not at all. Certain of Rosalind Benham's friends wouldhave been able to see nothing but the crudities and squalor of Manti,viewing it as Miss Benham did, from one of the windows of her father'sprivate car, which early that morning had been shunted upon a switch atthe outskirts of town. Those friends would have seen nothing but a newtown of weird and picturesque buildings, with more saloons than seemed tobe needed in view of the noticeable lack of citizens. They would haveshuddered at the dust-windrowed street, the litter of refuse, the dismallonesomeness, the forlornness, the utter isolation, the desolation. Thosefriends would have failed to note the vast, silent reaches of green-brownplain that stretched and yawned into aching distances; the wonderfullyblue and cloudless sky that covered it; they would have overlooked thetimber groves that spread here and there over the face of the land, withtheir lure of mystery. No thoughts of the bigness of this country wouldhave crept in upon them--except as they might have been reminded of thedreary distance from the glitter and the tinsel of the East. Themountains, distant and shining, would have meant nothing to them; thestrong, pungent aroma of the sage might have nauseated them.
But Miss Benham had caught her first glimpse of Manti and the surroundingcountry from a window of her berth in the car that morning just at dawn,and she loved it. She had lain for some time cuddled up in her bed,watching the sun rise over the distant mountains, and the breath of thesage, sweeping into the half-opened window, had carried with it somethingstronger--the lure of a virgin country.
Aunt Agatha Benham, chaperon, forty--maiden lady from choice--variousuncharitable persons hinted humorously of pursued eligibles--foundRosalind gazing ecstatically out of the berth window when she stirred andawoke shortly after nine. Agatha climbed out of her berth and sat on itsedge, yawning sleepily.
"This is Manti, I suppose," she said acridly, shoving the curtain asideand looking out of the window. "We should consider ourselves fortunate notto have had an adventure with Indians or outlaws. We have _that_ to bethankful for, at least."
Agatha's sarcasm failed to penetrate the armor of Rosalind's unconcern--asAgatha's sarcasms always did. Agatha occupied a place in Rosalind'saffections, but not in her scheme of enjoyment. Since she _must_ bechaperoned, Agatha was acceptable to her. But that did not mean that shemade a confidante of Agatha. For Agatha was looking at the world throughthe eyes of Forty, and the vision of Twenty is somewhat more romantic.
"Whatever your father thought of in permitting you to come out here is amystery to me," pursued Agatha severely, as she fussed with her hair. "Itwas like him, though, to go to all this trouble--for me--merely to satisfyyour curiosity about the country. I presume we shall be returningshortly."
"Don't be impatient, Aunty," said the girl, still gazing out of thewindow. "I intend to stretch my legs before I return."
"Mercy!" gasped Agatha; "such language! This barbaric country has affectedyou already, my dear. Legs!" She summoned horror into her expression, butit was lost on Rosalind, who still gazed out of the window. Indeed, from acertain light in the girl's eyes it might be adduced that she took somedelight in shocking Agatha.
"I shall stay here quite some time, I think," said Rosalind. "Daddy saidthere was no hurry; that he might come out here in a month, himself. And Ihave been dying to get away from the petty conventionalities of the East.I am going to be absolutely human for a while, Aunty. I am going to 'roughit'--that is, as much as one can rough it when one is domiciled in aprivate car. I am going to get a horse and have a look at the country. AndAunty--" here the girl's voice came chokingly, as though some deep emotionagitated her "--I am going to ride 'straddle'!"
She did not look to see whether Agatha had survived this second shock--butAgatha had survived many such shocks. It was only when, after a silence ofseveral minutes, Agatha spoke again, that the girl seemed to rememberthere was anybody in the compartment with her. Agatha's voice was ladenwith contempt:
"Well, I don't know what you see in this outlandish place to compensatefor what you miss at home."
The girl did not look around. "A man on a black horse, Aunty," she said."He has passed here twice. I have never seen such a horse. I don'tremember to have ever seen a man quite like the rider. He lookspositively--er--_heroish_! He is built like a Roman gladiator, he ridesthe black horse as though he had been sculptured on it, and his head has aset that makes one feel he has a mind of his own. He has furnished me withthe only thrill that I have felt since we left New York!"
"He hasn't seen _you_!" said Agatha, coldly; "of course you made sure of_that_?"
The girl looked mischievously at the older woman. She ran her fingersthrough her hair--brown and vigorous-looking--then shaded her eyes withher hands and gazed at her reflection in a mirror near by. In deshabilleshe looked fresh and bewitching. She had looked like a radiant goddess to"Brand" Trevison, when he had accidentally caught a glimpse of her face atthe window while she had been watching him. He had not known that the ladyhad just awakened from her beauty sleep. He would have sworn that sheneeded no beauty sleep. And he had deliberately ridden past the car again,hoping to get another glimpse of her. The girl smiled.
"I am not so positive about that, Aunty. Let us not be prudish. If he sawme, he made no sign, and therefore he is a gentleman." She looked out ofthe window and smiled again. "There he is now, Aunty!"
It was Agatha who parted the curtains, this time. The horseman's face wastoward the window, and he saw her. An expression of puzzled astonishmentglowed in his eyes, superseded quickly by disappointment, whereat Rosalindgiggled softly and hid her tousled head in a pillow.
"The impertinent brute! Rosalind, he dared to look directly at me, and Iam sure he would have winked at me in another instant! A gentleman!" shesaid, coldly.
"Don't be severe, Aunty. I'm sure he is a gentleman, for all hiscuriosity. See--there he is, riding away without so much as lookingback!"
Half an hour later the two women entered the dining-room just as a big,rather heavy-featured, but handsome man, came through the opposite door.He greeted both ladies effusively, and smilingly looked at his watch.
"You over-slept this morning, ladies--don't you think? It's after ten.I've been rummaging around town, getting acquainted. It's rather anunfinished place, after the East. But in time--" He made a gesture,perhaps a silent prophecy that one day Manti would out-strip New York, andbowed the ladies to seats at table, talking while the colored waiter movedobsequiously about them.
"I thought at first that your father was over-enthusiastic about Manti,Miss Benham," he continued. "But the more I see of it the firmer becomesmy conviction that your father was right. There are tremendouspossibilities for growth. Even now it is a rather fertile country. Weshall make it hum, once the railroad and the dam are completed. It is alogical site for a town--there is no other within a hundred miles in anydirection."
"And you are to anticipate the town's growth--isn't that it, Mr.Corrigan?"
"You put it very comprehensively, Miss Benham; but perhaps it would bebetter to say that I am the advance agent of prosperity--that soundsrather less mercenary. We must not allow the impression to get abroad thatmere money is to be the motive power behind our efforts."
"But money-making is the real motive, after all?" said Miss Benham,dryly.
"I submit there are several driving forces in life, and that money-makingis not the least compelling of them."
"The other forces?" It seemed to Corrigan that Miss Benham's face was veryserious. But Agatha, who knew Rosalind better than Corrigan knew her, wasaware 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 wasladen with subtle significance and he looked straight at the girl, a deepfire slumbering in his eyes
. "Yes," he said slowly, "money-making is agreat 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 MissBenham smothered something, artfully directing the conversation into lesspersonal channels:
"You are going to build manufactories, organize banks, build municipalpower-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, yourfather must keep in the background. The actual promoting of theseenterprises will be done by me."
Miss Benham looked dreamily out of the window. Then she turned to Corriganand gazed at him meditatively, though the expression in her eyes was soobviously impersonal that it chilled any amorous emotion that Corriganmight have felt.
"I suppose you are right," she said. "It must be thrilling to feel aconscious power over the destiny of a community, to direct its progress,to manage it, and--er--figuratively to grab industries by their--" Shelooked slyly at Agatha "--lower extremities and shake the dollars out ofthem. Yes," she added, with a wistful glance through the window; "thatmust be more exciting than being merely in love."
Agatha again followed Rosalind's gaze and saw the black horse standing infront of a store. She frowned, and observed stiffly:
"It seems to me that the people in these small places--such as Manti--arenot capable of managing the large enterprises that Mr. Corrigan speaksof." She looked at Rosalind, and the girl knew that she was deprecatingthe 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 anytown 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 arerepresented; most of the people are very ignorant and criminal."
The girl looked sharply at Corrigan, though he was not aware of theglance. Was there a secret understanding between Corrigan and Agatha? HadCorrigan also some knowledge of the rider's pilgrimages past the carwindow? Both had maligned the rider. But the girl had seen intelligence onthe face of the rider, and something in the set of his head had told herthat he was not a criminal. And despite his picturesque rigging, and theatmosphere of the great waste places that seemed to envelop him, he hadmade a deeper impression on her than had Corrigan, darkly handsome,well-groomed, a polished product of polite convention and breeding, whomher father wanted her to marry.
"Well," she said, looking at the black horse; "I intend to observe Manti'scitizens more closely before attempting to express an opinion."
Half an hour later, in response to Corrigan's invitation, Rosalind waswalking down Manti's one street, Corrigan beside her. Corrigan had donnedkhaki clothing, a broad, felt hat, boots, neckerchief. But in spite of thechange of garments there was a poise, an atmosphere about him, that hintedstrongly of the graces of civilization. Rosalind felt a flash of pride inhim. He was big, masterful, fascinating.
Manti seemed to be fraudulent, farcical, upon closer inspection. For onething, its crudeness was more glaring, and its unpainted board frontslooked flimsy, transient. Compared to the substantial buildings of theEast, Manti's structures were hovels. Here was the primitive town in thefirst flush of its creation. Miss Benham did not laugh, for a mentalpicture 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 pictureand the one made by Manti typified the spirit of America.
There were perhaps twenty buildings. Corrigan took her into several ofthem. But, she noted, he did not take her into the store in front of whichwas the black horse. She was introduced to several of the proprietors.Twice she overheard parts of the conversation carried on between Corriganand 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 oferecting an office. The two men spoke about their "leases." The latterseemed 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 fromthe 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 theyhave gone to the expense of erecting buildings?"
His smile was pleasant. "They will be treated with the utmostconsideration, Miss Benham."
He ushered her into the bank. Like the other buildings, the bank was offrame construction. Its only resemblance to a bank was in the huge safethat stood in the rear of the room, and a heavy wire netting behind whichran a counter. Some chairs and a desk were behind the counter, and at thedesk sat a man of probably forty, who got up at the entrance of hisvisitors and approached them, grinning and holding out a hand toCorrigan.
"So you're here at last, Jeff," he said. "I saw the car on the switch thismorning. The show will open pretty soon now, eh?" He looked inquiringly atRosalind, and Corrigan presented her. She heard the man's name, "Mr.Crofton Braman," softly spoken by her escort, and she acknowledged theintroduction formally and walked to the door, where she stood looking outinto the street.
Braman repelled her--she did not know why. A certain crafty gleam of hiseyes, perhaps, strangely blended with a bold intentness as he had lookedat her; a too effusive manner; a smoothly ingratiating smile--theseevidences of character somehow made her link him with schemes and plots.
She did not reflect long over Braman. Across the street she saw the riderof the black horse standing beside the animal at a hitching rail in frontof the store that Corrigan had passed without entering. Viewed from thisdistance, the rider's face was more distinct, and she saw that he wasgood-looking--quite as good-looking as Corrigan, though of a differenttype. Standing, he did not seem to be so tall as Corrigan, nor was hequite so bulky. But he was lithe and powerful, and in his movements, as heunhitched the black horse, threw the reins over its head and patted itsneck, was an ease and grace that made Rosalind's eyes sparkle withadmiration.
The rider seemed to be in no hurry to mount his horse. The girl wascertain 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 ofone 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? Iain't seen you for a week!"
Friendship was speaking here, and the girl's heart leaped in sympathy. Shewatched with a smile as the other man reached the rider's side and wrunghis hand warmly. Such effusiveness would have been thought hypocritical inthe East; humanness was always frowned upon. But what pleased the girlmost was this evidence that the rider was well liked. Additional evidenceon this point collected quickly. It came from several doors, in the shapesof other men who had heard the first man's shout, and presently the riderwas surrounded by many friends.
The girl was deeply interested. She forgot Braman, Corrigan--forgot thatshe was standing in the doorway of the bank. She was seeing humanitystripped of conventionalities; these people were not governed by theintimidating regard for public opinion that so effectively stifled warmimpulses 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 onesees rarely--clean, big, athletic, virile, magnetic. His personalitydominated the group; upon him interest centered heavily. Nor did hispopularity appear to destroy his poise or make him self-conscious. Thegirl watched closely for signs of that. Had he shown the slightest traceof self-worship she would have lost interest in him. He appeared to be atrifle embarrassed, and that made him doubly attractive to her. Hebantered gayly with the men, and several times his replies to some quipconvulsed the others.
And then while she dreamily watched him, she heard several voices insistthat he "show Nigger off." He demurred, and when they again insisted, hespoke lowly to them, and she felt their concentrated gaze upon her. Sheknew that he had declined to "show Nigger off" because of her presence."Nigger," she guessed, was his horse. She secretly hoped he would overcomehis prejudice, for she loved the big black, and was certain that anyperformance he participated in would be well worth seeing. So, in order toinfluence the rider she turned her back, pretending not to be interested.But when she heard exclamations of satisfaction from the group of men shewheeled again, to see that the rider had mounted and was sitting in thesaddle, grinning at a man who had produced a harmonica and was rubbing iton 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 infrank curiosity. And in the next instant, when the strains of theharmonica smote the still morning air, Nigger began to prance.
What followed reminded the girl of a scene in the ring of a circus. Thehorse, proud, dignified, began to pace slowly to the time of theaccompanying music, executing difficult steps that must have tried thepatience 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 shefound 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 wasso deeply interested in him that she did not observe Corrigan when heemerged from the bank, stepped down into the street and stood watching therider. She noticed him though, when the black, forced to her side of thestreet through the necessity of executing a turn, passed close to theeasterner. And then, with something of a shock, she saw Corrigan smilingderisively. At the sound of applause from the group on the opposite sideof the street, Corrigan's derision became a sneer. Miss Benham feltresentment; a slight color stained her cheeks. For she could notunderstand why Corrigan should show displeasure over this clean and cleveramusement. She was looking full at Corrigan when he turned and caught hergaze. The light in his eyes was positively venomous.
"It is a rather dramatic bid for your interest, isn't it, Miss Benham?" hesaid.
His voice came during a lull that followed the applause. It reachedRosalind, full and resonant. It carried to the rider of the black horse,and glancing sidelong at him, Rosalind saw his face whiten under the deeptan upon it. It carried, too, to the other side of the street, and thegirl saw faces grow suddenly tense; noted the stiffening of bodies. Theflat, ominous silence that followed was unreal and oppressive. Out of itcame the rider's voice as he urged the black to a point within three orfour paces of Corrigan and sat in the saddle, looking at him. And now forthe first time Rosalind had a clear, full view of the rider's face and aquiver of trepidation ran over her. For the lean jaws were corded, themouth was firm and set--she knew his teeth were clenched; it was the faceof a man who would not be trifled with. His chin was shoved forwardslightly; somehow it helped to express the cold humor that shone in hisnarrowed, steady eyes. His voice, when he spoke to Corrigan, had ametallic quality that rang ominously in the silence that had continued:
"Back up your play or take it back," he said slowly.
Corrigan had not changed his position. He stared fixedly at the rider; hisonly sign of emotion over the latter's words was a quickening of the eyes.He idly tapped with his fingers on the sleeve of his khaki shirt, wherethe arm passed under them to fold over the other. His voice easily matchedthe rider's in its quality of quietness:
"My conversation was private. You are interfering without cause."
Watching the rider, filled with a sudden, breathless premonition ofimpending tragedy, Rosalind saw his eyes glitter with the imminence ofphysical action. Distressed, stirred by an impulse to avert whatthreatened, she took a step forward, speaking rapidly to Corrigan:
"Mr. Corrigan, this is positively silly! You know you were hardlydiscreet!"
Corrigan smiled coldly, and the girl knew that it was not a question ofright or wrong between the two men, but a conflict of spirit. She did notknow that hatred had been born here; that instinctively each knew theother for a foe, and that this present clash was to be merely one battleof the war that would be waged between them if both survived.
Not for an instant did Corrigan's eyes wander from those of the rider. Hesaw from them that he might expect no further words. None came. Therider's right hand fell to the butt of the pistol that swung low on hisright hip. Simultaneously, Corrigan's hand dropped to his hip pocket.
Rosalind saw the black horse lunge forward as though propelled by a suddenspring. A dust cloud rose from his hoofs, and Corrigan was lost in it.When the dust swirled away, Corrigan was disclosed to the girl's view,doubled queerly on the ground, face down. The black horse had struck himwith its shoulder--he seemed to be badly hurt.
For a moment the girl stood, swaying, looking around appealingly, startledwonder, dismay and horror in her eyes. It had happened so quickly that shewas stunned. She had but one conscious emotion--thankfulness that neitherman had used his pistol.
No one moved. The girl thought some of them might have come to Corrigan'sassistance. She did not know that the ethics forbade interference, that afight was between the fighters until one acknowledged defeat.
Corrigan's face was in the dust; he had not moved. The black horse stood,quietly now, several feet distant, and presently the rider dismounted,walked to Corrigan and turned him over. He worked the fallen man's armsand legs, and moved his neck, then knelt and listened at his chest. He gotup and smiled mirthlessly at the girl.
"He's just knocked out, Miss Benham. It's nothing serious. Nigger--"
"You coward!" she interrupted, her voice thick with passion.
His lips whitened, but he smiled faintly.
"Nigger--" he began again.
"Coward! Coward!" she repeated, standing rigid before him, her handsclenched, her lips stiff with scorn.
He smiled resignedly and turned away. She stood watching him, hating him,hurling mental anathemas after him, until she saw him pass through thedoorway of the bank. Then she turned to see Corrigan just getting up.
Not a man in the group across the street had moved. They, too, had watchedTrevison go into the bank, and now their glances shifted to the girl andCorrigan. Their sympathies, she saw plainly, were with Trevison; severalof them smiled as the easterner got to his feet.
Corrigan was pale and breathless, but he smiled at her and held her offwhen she essayed to help him brush the dust from his clothing. He did thathimself, and mopped his face with a handkerchief.
"It wasn't fair," whispered the girl, sympathetically. "I almost wish thatyou had killed him!" she added, vindictively.
"My, what a fire-eater!" he said with a broad smile. She thought he lookedhandsomer with the dust upon him, than he had ever seemed when polishedand immaculate.
"Are you badly hurt?" she asked, with a concern that made him look quicklyat her.
He laughed and patted her arm lightly. "Not a bit hurt," he said. "Come,those men are staring."
He escorted her to the step of the private car, and lingered a momentthere to make his apology for his part in the trouble. He told herfrankly, that he was to blame, knowing that Trevison's action in ridinghim down would more than outweigh any resentment she might feel over hismistake in bringing about the clash in her presence.
She graciously forgave him, and a little late
r she entered the car alone;he telling her that he would be in presently, after he returned from thestation where he intended to send a telegram. She gave him a smile,standing on the platform of the car, dazzling, eloquent with promise. Itmade his heart leap with exultation, and as he went his way toward thestation he voiced a sentiment:
"Entirely worth being ridden down for."
But his jaws set savagely as he approached the station. He did not go intothe station, but around the outside wall of it, passing between it andanother building and coming at last to the front of the bank building. Hehad noted that the black horse was still standing in front of the bankbuilding, and that the group of men had dispersed. The street wasdeserted.
Corrigan's movements became quick and sinister. He drew a heavy revolverout of a hip pocket, shoved its butt partly up his sleeve and concealedthe cylinder and barrel in the palm of his hand. Then he stepped into thedoor of the bank. He saw Trevison standing at one of the grated windows ofthe wire netting, talking with Braman. Corrigan had taken several stepsinto the room before Trevison heard him, and then Trevison turned, to findhimself looking into the gaping muzzle of Corrigan's pistol.
"You didn't run," said the latter. "Thought it was all over, I suppose.Well, it isn't." He was grinning coldly, and was now deliberate andunexcited, though two crimson spots glowed in his cheeks, betraying thepresence of passion.
"Don't reach for that gun!" he warned Trevison. "I'll blow a hole throughyou if you wriggle a finger!" Watching Trevison, he spoke to Braman: "Yougot a back room here?"
The banker stepped around the end of the counter and opened a door behindthe wire netting. "Right here," he directed.
Corrigan indicated the door with a jerking movement of the head. "Move!"he said shortly, to Trevison. The latter's lips parted in a cold, amusedgrin, and he hesitated slightly, yielding presently.
An instant later the three were standing in the middle of a large room,empty except for a cot upon which Braman slept, some clothing hanging onthe walls, a bench and a chair. Corrigan ordered the banker to clear theroom. When that had been done, Corrigan spoke again to the banker:
"Get his gun."
A snapping alertness of the eyes indicated that Trevison knew what wascoming. That was the reason he had been so quiescent this far; it was whyhe made no objection when Braman passed his hands over his clothing insearch of other weapons, after his pistol had been lifted from its holsterby the banker.
"Now get out of here and lock the doors!" ordered Corrigan. "And letnobody come in!"
Braman retired, grinning expectantly.
Then Corrigan backed away until he came to the wall. Reaching far up, hehung his revolver on a nail.
"Now," he said to Trevison, his voice throaty from passion; "take off yourdamned foolish trappings. I'm going to knock hell out of you!"
'Firebrand' Trevison Page 2
