Out of Rosalind Benham’s resentment against Trevison for the Hester Harvey incident grew a sudden dull apathy – which presently threatened to become an aversion – for the West. Its crudeness, the uncouthness of its people; the emptiness, the monotony, began to oppress her. Noticing the waning of her enthusiasm, Agatha began to inject energetic condemnations of the country into her conversations with the girl, and to hint broadly of the contrasting allurements of the East.

But Rosalind was not yet ready to desert the Bar B. She had been hurt, and her interest in the country had dulled, but there were memories over which one might meditate until – until one could be certain of some things. This was hope, insistently demanding delay of judgment. The girl could not forget the sincere ring in Trevison’s voice when he had told her that he would never go back to Hester Harvey. Arrayed against this declaration was the cold fact of Hester’s visit, and Hester’s statement that Trevison had sent for her. In this jumble of contradiction hope found a fertile field.

If Corrigan had anticipated that the knowledge of Hester’s visit to Trevison would have the effect of centering Rosalind’s interest on him, he had erred. Corrigan was magnetic; the girl felt the lure of him. In his presence she was continually conscious of his masterfulness, with a dismayed fear that she would yield to it. She knew this sensation was not love, for it lacked the fire and the depth of the haunting, breathless surge of passion that she had felt when she had held Trevison off the day when he had declared his love for her – that she felt whenever she thought of him. But with Trevison lost to her – she did not know what would happen, then. For the present her resentment was sufficient to keep her mind occupied.

She had a dread of meeting Corrigan this morning. Also, Agatha’s continued deprecatory speeches had begun to annoy her, and at ten o’clock she ordered one of the men to saddle her horse.

She rode southward, following a trail that brought her to Levins’ cabin. The cabin was built of logs, smoothly hewn and tightly joined, situated at the edge of some timber in a picturesque spot at a point where a shallow creek doubled in its sweep toward some broken country west of Manti.

Rosalind had visited Mrs. Levins many times. The warmth of her welcome on her first visit had resulted in a quick intimacy which, with an immediate estimate of certain needs by Rosalind, had brought her back in the rôle of Lady Bountiful. “Chuck” and “Sissy” Levins welcomed her vociferously as she splashed across the river to the door of the cabin this morning.

“You’re clean spoilin’ them, Miss Rosalind!” declared the mother, watching from the doorway; “they’ve got so they expect you to bring them a present every time you come.”

Sundry pats and kisses sufficed to assuage the pangs of disappointment suffered by the children, and shortly afterward Rosalind was inside the cabin, talking with Mrs. Levins, and watching Clay, who was painstakingly mending a breach in his cartridge belt.

Rosalind had seen Clay once only, and that at a distance, and she stole interested glances at him. There was a certain attraction in Clay’s lean face, with its cold, alert furtiveness, but it was an attraction that bred chill instead of warmth, for his face revealed a wild, reckless, intolerant spirit, remorseless, contemptuous of law and order. Several times she caught him watching her, and his narrowed, probing glances disconcerted her. She cut her visit short because of his presence, and when she rose to go he turned in his chair.

“You like this country, ma’am?”

“Well – yes. But it is much different, after the East.”

“Some smoother there, eh? Folks are slicker?”

She eyed him appraisingly, for there was an undercurrent of significance in his voice. She smiled. “Well – I suppose so. You see, competition is keener in the East, and it rather sharpens one’s wits, I presume.”

“H’m. I reckon you’re right. This railroad has brought some mighty slick ones here. Mighty slick an’ gally.” He looked at her truculently. “Corrigan’s one of the slick ones. Friend of yours, eh?”

“Clay!” remonstrated his wife, sharply.

He turned on her roughly. “You keep out of this! I ain’t meanin’ nothin’ wrong. But I reckon when anyone’s got a sneakin’ coyote for a friend an’ don’t know it, it’s doin’ ’em a good turn to spit things right out, frank an’ fair.

“This Corrigan ain’t on the level, ma’am. Do you know what he’s doin’? He’s skinnin’ the folks in this country out of about a hundred thousand acres of land. He’s clouded every damn title. He’s got a fake bill of sale to show that he bought the land years ago – which he didn’t – an’ he’s got a little beast of a judge here to back him up in his play. They’ve done away with the original record of the land, an’ rigged up another, which makes Corrigan’s title clear. It’s the rankest robbery that any man ever tried to pull off, an’ if he’s a friend of yourn you ought to cut him off your visitin’ list!”

“How do you know that? Who told you?” asked the girl, her face whitening, for the man’s vehemence and evident earnestness were convincing.

“‘Brand’ Trevison told me. It hits him mighty damned hard. He had a deed to his land. Corrigan broke open his office an’ stole it. Trevison’s certain sure his deed was on the record, for he went to Dry Bottom with Buck Peters – the man he bought the land from – an’ seen it wrote down on the record!” He laughed harshly. “There’s goin’ to be hell to pay here. Trevison won’t stand for it – though the other gillies are advisin’ caution. Caution hell! I’m for cleanin’ the scum out! Do you know what Corrigan done, yesterday? He got thirty or so deputies – pluguglies that he’s hired – an’ hid ’em behind some flat-cars down on the level where they’re erectin’ some minin’ machinery. He laid a trap for ‘Firebrand,’ expectin’ him to come down there, rippin’ mad because they was puttin’ the minin’ machinery up on his land, wi’out his permission. They was goin’ to shoot him – Corrigan put ’em up to it. That Carson fello’ heard it an’ put ‘Firebrand’ wise. An’ the shootin’ didn’t come off. But that’s only the beginnin’!”

“Did Trevison tell you to tell me this?” The girl was stunned, amazed, incredulous. For her father was concerned in this, and if he had any knowledge that Corrigan was stealing land – if he was stealing it – he was guilty as Corrigan. If he had no knowledge of it, she might be able to prevent the steal by communicating with him.

“Trevison tell me?” laughed Levins, scornfully; “‘Firebrand’ ain’t no pussy-kitten fighter which depends on women standin’ between him an’ trouble. I’m tellin’ you on my own hook, so’s that big stiff Corrigan won’t get swelled up, thinkin’ he’s got a chance to hitch up with you in the matrimonial wagon. That guy’s got murder in his heart, girl. Did you hear of me shootin’ that sneak, Marchmont?” The girl had heard rumors of the affair; she nodded, and Levins went on. “It was Corrigan that hired me to do it – payin’ me a thousand, cash.” His wife gasped, and he spoke gently to her. “That’s all right, Ma; it wasn’t no cold-blooded affair – Jim Marchmont knowed a sister of mine pretty intimate, when he was out here years ago, an’ I settled a debt that I thought I owed to her, that’s all. I ain’t none sorry, neither – I knowed him soon as Corrigan mentioned his name. But I hadn’t no time to call his attention to things – I had to plug him, sudden. I’m sorry I’ve said this, ma’am, now that it’s out,” he said in a changed voice, noting the girl’s distress; “but I felt you ought to know who you’re dealin’ with.”

Rosalind went out, swaying, her knees shaking. She heard Levins’ wife reproving him; heard the man replying gruffly. She felt that it must be so. She cared nothing about Corrigan, beyond a certain regret, but a wave of sickening fear swept over her at the growing conviction that her father must know something of all this. And if, as Levins said, Corrigan was attempting to defraud these people, she felt that common justice required that she head him off, if possible. By defeating Corrigan’s aim she would, of course, be aiding Trevison, and through him Hester Harvey, whom she had grown to despise, but that hatred should not deter her. She mounted her horse in a fever of anxiety and raced it over the plains toward Manti, determined to find Corrigan and force him to tell her the truth.

Half way to town she saw a rider coming, and she slowed her own horse, taking the rider to be Corrigan, coming to the Bar B. She saw her mistake when the rider was within a hundred feet of her. She blushed, then paled, and started to pass the rider without speaking, for it was Trevison. She looked up when he urged Nigger against her animal, blocking the trail, frowning.

“Look here,” he said; “what’s wrong? Why do you avoid me? I saw you on the Diamond K range the other day, and when I started to ride toward you you whipped up your horse. You tried to pass me just now. What have I done to deserve it?”

She could not tell him about Hester Harvey, of course, and so she was silent, blushing a little. He took her manner as an indication of guilt, and gritted his teeth with the pain that the discovery caused him, for he had been hoping, too – that his suspicions of her were groundless.

“I do not care to discuss the matter with you.” She looked fairly at him, her resentment flaming in her eyes, fiercely indignant over his effrontery in addressing her in that manner, after his affair with Hester Harvey. She was going to help him, but that did not mean that she was going to blind herself to his faults, or to accept them mutely. His bold confidence in himself – which she had once admired – repelled her now; she saw in it the brazen egotism of the gross sensualist, seeking new victims.

“I am in a hurry,” she said, stiffly; “you will pardon me if I proceed.”

He jumped Nigger off the trail and watched with gloomy, disappointed eyes, her rapid progress toward Manti. Then he urged Nigger onward, toward Levins’ cabin. “I’ll have to erect another monument to my faith in women,” he muttered. And certain reckless, grim thoughts that had rioted in his mind since the day before, now assumed a definiteness that made his blood leap with eagerness.

Later, when Rosalind sat opposite Corrigan at his desk, she found it hard to believe Levins’ story. The big man’s smooth plausibility made Levins’ recital seem like the weird imaginings of a disordered mind, goaded to desperation by opposition. And again, his magnetism, his polite consideration for her feelings, his ingenuous, smiling deference – so sharply contrasted with Trevison’s direct bluntness – swayed her, and she sat, perplexed, undecided, when he finished the explanation she had coldly demanded of him.

“It is the invariable defense of these squatters,” he added; “that they are being robbed. In this case they have embellished their hackneyed tale somewhat by dragging the court into it, and telling you that absurd story about the shooting of Marchmont. Could you tell me what possible interest I could have in wanting Marchmont killed? Don’t you think, Miss Rosalind, that Levins’ reference to his sister discloses the real reason for the man’s action? Levins’ story that I paid him a thousand dollars is a fabrication, pure and simple. I paid Jim Marchmont a thousand dollars that morning, which was the balance due him on our contract. The transaction was witnessed by Judge Lindman. After Marchmont was shot, Levins took the money from him.”

“Why wasn’t Levins arrested?”

“It seems that public opinion was with Levins. A great many people here knew of the ancient trouble between them.” He passed from that, quickly. “The tale of the robbery of Trevison’s office is childlike, for the reason that Trevison had no deed. Judge Lindman is an honored and respected official. And – ” he added as a last argument “ – your father is the respected head of a large and important railroad. Is it logical to suppose that he would lend his influence and his good name to any such ridiculous scheme?”

She sighed, almost convinced. Corrigan went on, earnestly:

“This man Trevison is a disturber – he has always been that. He has no respect for the law or property. He associates with the self-confessed murderer, Levins. He is a riotous, reckless, egotistical fool who, because the law stands in the way of his desires, wishes to trample it under foot and allow mob rule to take its place. Do you remember you mentioned that he once loved a woman named Hester Keyes? Well, he has brought Hester here – ”

She got up, her chin at a scornful angle. “I do not care to hear about his personal affairs.” She went out, mounted her horse, and rode slowly out the Bar B trail. From a window Corrigan watched her, and as she vanished into the distance he turned back to his desk, meditating darkly.

“Trevison put Levins up to that. He’s showing yellow.”

CHAPTER XX
AND RIDES AGAIN – IN VAIN

Rosalind’s reflections as she rode toward the Bar B convinced her that there had been much truth in Corrigan’s arraignment of Trevison. Out of her own knowledge of him, and from his own admission to her on the day they had ridden to Blakeley’s the first time, she adduced evidence of his predilection for fighting, of his utter disregard for accepted authority – when that authority disagreed with his conception of justice; of his lawlessness when his desires were in question. His impetuosity was notorious, for it had earned him the sobriquet “Firebrand,” which he could not have acquired except through the exhibition of those traits that she had enumerated.

She was disappointed and spiritless when she reached the ranchhouse, and very tired, physically. Agatha’s questions irritated her, and she ate sparingly of the food set before her, eager to be alone. In the isolation of her room she lay dumbly on the bed, and there the absurdity of Levins’ story assailed her. It must be as Corrigan had said – her father was too great a man to descend to such despicable methods. She dropped off to sleep.

When she awoke the sun had gone down, and her room was cheerless in the semi-dusk. She got up, washed, combed her hair, and much refreshed, went downstairs and ate heartily, Agatha watching her narrowly.

“You are distraught, my dear,” ventured her relative. “I don’t think this country agrees with you. Has anything happened?”

The girl answered evasively, whereat Agatha compressed her lips.

“Don’t you think that a trip East – ”

“I shall not go home this summer!” declared Rosalind, vehemently. And noting the flash in the girl’s eyes, belligerent and defiant; her swelling breast, the warning brilliance of her eyes, misty with pent-up emotion, Agatha wisely subsided and the meal was finished in a strained silence.

Later, Rosalind went out, alone, upon the porch where, huddled in a big rocker, she gazed gloomily at the lights of Manti, dim and distant. Something of the turmoil and the tumult of the town in its young strength and vigor, assailed her, contrasting sharply with the solemn peace of her own surroundings. Life had been a very materialistic problem to her, heretofore. She had lived it according to her environment, a mere onlooker, detached from the scheme of things. Something of the meaning of life trickled into her consciousness as she sat there watching the flickering lights of the town – something of the meaning of it all – the struggle of these new residents twanged a hidden chord of sympathy and understanding in her. She was able to visualize them as she sat there. Faces flashed before her – strong, stern, eager; the owner of each a-thrill with his ambition, going forward in the march of progress with definite aim, planning, plotting, scheming – some of them winning, others losing, but all obsessed with a feverish desire of success. The railroad, the town, the ranches, the new dam, the people – all were elements of a conflict, waged ceaselessly. She sat erect, her blood tingling. Blows were being struck, taken.

“Oh,” she cried, sharply; “it’s a game! It’s the spirit of the nation – to fight, to press onward, to win!” And in that moment she was seized with a throbbing sympathy for Trevison, and filled with a yearning that he might win, in spite of Corrigan, Hester Harvey, and all the others – even her father. For he was a courageous player of this “game.” In him was typified the spirit of the nation.

Rosalind might have added something to her thoughts had she known of the passions that filled Trevison when, while she sat on the porch of the Bar B ranchhouse, he mounted Nigger and sent him scurrying through the mellow moonlight toward Manti. He was playing the “game,” with justice as his goal. The girl had caught something of the spirit of it all, but she had neglected to grasp the all-important element of the relations between men, without which laws, rules, and customs become farcical and ridiculous. He was determined to have justice. He knew well that Judge Graney’s mission to Washington would result in failure unless the deed to his property could be recovered, or the original record disclosed. Even then, with a weak and dishonest judge on the bench the issue might be muddled by a mass of legal technicalities. The court order permitting Braman to operate a mine on his property goaded him to fury.

He stopped at Hanrahan’s saloon, finding Lefingwell there and talking with him for a few minutes. Lefingwell’s docile attitude disgusted him – he said he had talked the matter over with a number of the other owners, and they had expressed themselves as being in favor of awaiting the result of his appeal. He left Lefingwell, not trusting himself to argue the question of the man’s attitude, and went down to the station, where he found a telegram awaiting him. It was from Judge Graney:

Coming home. Case sent back to Circuit Court for hearing. Depend on you to get evidence.

Trevison crumpled the paper and shoved it savagely into a pocket. He stood for a long time on the station platform, in the dark, glowering at the lights of the town, then started abruptly and made his way into the gambling room of the Plaza, where he somberly watched the players. The rattle of chips, the whir of the wheel, the monotonous drone of the faro dealer, the hum of voices, some eager, some tense, others exultant or grumbling, the incessant jostling, irritated him. He went out the front door, stepped down into the street, and walked eastward. Passing an open space between two buildings he became aware of the figure of a woman, and he wheeled as she stepped forward and grasped his arm. He recognized her and tried to pass on, but she clung to him.

“Trev!” she said, appealingly; “I want to talk with you. It’s very important – really. Just a minute, Trev. Won’t you talk that long! Come to my room – where – ”

“Talk fast,” he admonished, holding her off,“ – and talk here.”

She struggled with him, trying to come closer, twisting so that her body struck his, and the contact brought a grim laugh out of him. He seized her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Talk from there – it’s safer. Now, if you’ve anything important – ”

“O Trev – please – ” She laughed, almost sobbing, but forced the tears back when she saw derision blazing in his eyes.

“I told you it was all over!” He pushed her away and started off, but he had taken only two steps when she was at his side again.

“I saw you from my window, Trev. I – I knew it was you – I couldn’t mistake you, anywhere. I followed you – saw you go into the Plaza. I came to warn you. Corrigan has planned to goad you into doing some rash thing so that he will have an excuse to jail or kill you!”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I – I just heard it. I was in the bank today, and I overheard him talking to a man – some officer, I think. Be careful, Trev – very careful, won’t you?”

“Careful as I can,” he laughed, lowly. “Thank you.” He started on again, and she grasped his arm. “Trev,” she pleaded.

“What’s the use, Hester?” he said; “it can’t be.”

“Well, God bless you, anyway, dear,” she said chokingly.

He passed on, leaving her in the shadows of the buildings, and walked far out on the plains. Making a circuit to avoid meeting the woman again, he skirted the back yards, stumbling over tin cans and debris in his progress. When he got to the shed where he had hitched Nigger he mounted and rode down the railroad tracks toward the cut, where an hour later he was joined by Clay Levins, who came toward him, riding slowly and cautiously.

Patrick Carson had wooed sleep unsuccessfully. For hours he lay on his cot in the tent, staring out through the flap at the stars. A vague unrest had seized him. He heard the hilarious din of Manti steadily decrease in volume until only intermittent noises reached his ears. But even when comparative peace came he was still wide awake.

“I’ll be gettin’ the willies av I lay here much longer widout slape,” he confided to his pillow. “Mebbe a turn down the track wid me dujeen wud do the thrick.” He got up, lighted his pipe and strode off into the semi-gloom of the railroad track. He went aimlessly, paying little attention to objects around him. He passed the tents wherein the laborers lay – and smiled as heavy snores smote his ears. “They slape a heap harder than they worruk, bedad!” he observed, grinning. “Nothin’ c’ud trouble a ginney’s conscience, annyway,” he scoffed. “But, accordin’ to that they must be a heap on me own!” Which observation sent his thoughts to Corrigan. “Begob, there’s a man! A domned rogue, if iver they was one!”

He passed the tents, smoking thoughtfully. He paused when he came to the small buildings scattered about at quite a distance from the tents, then left the tracks and made his way through the deep alkali dust toward them.

“Whativer wud Corrigan be askin’ about the dynamite for? ‘How much do ye kape av it?’ he was askin’. As if it was anny av his business!”

He stopped puffing at his pipe and stood rigid, watching with bulging eyes, for he saw the door of the dynamite shed move outward several inches, as though someone inside had shoved it. It closed again, slowly, and Carson was convinced that he had been seen. He was no coward, but a cold sweat broke out on him and his knees doubled weakly. For any man who would visit the dynamite shed around midnight, in this stealthy manner, must be in a desperate frame of mind, and Carson’s virile imagination drew lurid pictures of a gun duel in which a stray shot penetrated the wall of the shed. He shivered at the roar of the explosion that followed; he even drew a gruesome picture of stretchers and mangled flesh that brought a groan out of him.

But in spite of his mental stress he lunged forward, boldly, though his breath wheezed from his lungs in great gasps. His body lagged, but his will was indomitable, once he quit looking at the pictures of his imagination. He was at the door of the shed in a dozen strides.

The lock had been forced; the hasp was hanging, suspended from a twisted staple. Carson had no pistol – it would have been useless, anyway.

Carson hesitated, vacillating between two courses. Should he return for help, or should he secrete himself somewhere and watch? The utter foolhardiness of attempting the capture of the prowler single handed assailed him, and he decided on retreat. He took one step, and then stood rigid in his tracks, for a voice filtered thinly through the doorway, hoarse, vibrant:

“Don’t forget the fuses.”

Carson’s lips formed the word: “Trevison!”

Carson’s breath came easier; his thoughts became more coherent, his recollection vivid; his sympathies leaped like living things. When his thoughts dwelt upon the scene at the butte during Trevison’s visit while the mining machinery was being erected – the trap that Corrigan had prepared for the man – a grim smile wreathed his face, for he strongly suspected what was meant by Trevison’s visit to the dynamite shed.

He slipped cautiously around a corner of the shed, making no sound in the deep dust surrounding it, and stole back the way he had come, tingling.

“Begob, I’ll slape now – a little while!”

As Carson vanished down the tracks a head was stuck out through the doorway of the shed and turned so that its owner could scan his surroundings.

“All clear,” he whispered.

“Get going, then,” said another voice, and two men, their faces muffled with handkerchiefs, bearing something that bulked their pockets oddly, slipped out of the door and fled noiselessly, like gliding shadows, down the track toward the cut.

Rosalind had been asleep in the rocker. A cool night breeze, laden with the strong, pungent aroma of sage, sent a shiver over her and she awoke, to see that the lights of Manti had vanished. An eerie lonesomeness had settled around her.

“Why, it must be nearly midnight!” she said. She got up, yawning, and stepped toward the door, wondering why Agatha had not called her. But Agatha had retired, resenting the girl’s manner.

Almost to the door, Rosalind detected movement in the ghostly semi-light that flooded the plains between the porch and the picturesque spot, more than a mile away, on which Levins’ cabin stood. She halted at the door and watched, and when the moving object resolved into a horse, loping swiftly, she strained her eyes toward it. At first it seemed to have no rider, but when it had approached to within a hundred yards of her, she gasped, leaped off the porch and ran toward the horse. An instant later she stood at the animal’s head, voicing her astonishment.

“Why, it’s Chuck Levins! Why on earth are you riding around at this hour of the night?”

“Sissy’s sick. Maw wants you to please come an’ see what you can do – if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Trouble?” The girl laughed. “I should say not! Wait until I saddle my horse!”

She ran to the porch and stole silently into the house, emerging with a small medicine case, which she stuck into a pocket of her coat. Once before she had had occasion to use her simple remedies on Sissy – an illness as simple as her remedies; but she could feel something of Mrs. Levins’ concern for her offspring, and – and it was an ideal night for a gallop over the plains.

It was almost midnight by the Levins’ clock when she entered the cabin, and a quick diagnosis of her case with an immediate application of one of her remedies, brought results. At half past twelve Sissy was sleeping peacefully, and Chuck had dozed off, fully dressed, no doubt ready to re-enact his manly and heroic rôle upon call.

It was not until Rosalind was ready to go that Mrs. Levins apologized for her husband’s rudeness to his guest.

“Clay feels awfully bitter against Corrigan. It’s because Corrigan is fighting Trevison – and Trevison is Clay’s friend – they’ve been like brothers. Trevison has done so much for us.”

Rosalind glanced around the cabin. She had meant to ask Chuck why his father had not come on the midnight errand, but had forebore. “Mr. Levins isn’t here?”

“Clay went away about nine o’clock.” The woman did not meet Rosalind’s direct gaze; she flushed under it and looked downward, twisting her fingers in her apron. Rosalind had noted a strangeness in the woman’s manner when she had entered the cabin, but she had ascribed it to the child’s illness, and had thought nothing more of it. But now it burst upon her with added force, and when she looked up again Rosalind saw there was an odd, strained light in her eyes – a fear, a dread – a sinister something that she shrank from. Rosalind remembered the killing of Marchmont, and had a quick divination of impending trouble.

“What is it, Mrs. Levins? What has happened?”

The woman gulped hard, and clenched her hands. Evidently, whatever her trouble, she had determined to bear it alone, but was now wavering.

“Tell me, Mrs. Levins; perhaps I can help you?”

“You can!” The words burst sobbingly from the woman. “Maybe you can prevent it. But, oh, Miss Rosalind, I wasn’t to say anything – Clay told me not to. But I’m so afraid! Clay’s so hot-headed, and Trevison is so daring! I’m afraid they won’t stop at anything!”

“But what is it?” demanded Rosalind, catching something of the woman’s excitement.

“It’s about the machinery at the butte – the mining machinery. My God, you’ll never say I told you – will you? But they’re going to blow it up tonight – Clay and Trevison; they’re going to dynamite it! I’m afraid there will be murder done!”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” The girl stood rigid, white, breathless.

“Oh, I ought to,” moaned the woman. “But I was afraid you’d tell – Corrigan – somebody – and – and they’d get into trouble with the law!”

“I won’t tell – but I’ll stop it – if there’s time! For your sake. Trevison is the one to blame.”

She inquired about the location of the butte; the shortest trail, and then ran out to her horse. Once in the saddle she drew a deep breath and sent the animal scampering into the flood of moonlight.

Down toward the cut the two men ran, and when they reached a gully at a distance of several hundred feet from the dynamite shed they came upon their horses. Mounting, they rode rapidly down the track toward the butte where the mining machinery was being erected. They had taken the handkerchiefs off while they ran, and now Trevison laughed with the hearty abandon of a boy whose mischievous prank has succeeded.

“That was easy. I thought I heard a noise, though, when you backed against the door and shoved it open.”

“Nobody usually monkeys around a dynamite shed at night,” returned Levins. “Whew! There’s enough of that stuff there to blow Manti to Kingdom Come – wherever that is.”

They rode boldly across the level at the base of the butte, for they had reconnoitered after meeting on the plains just outside of town, and knew Corrigan had left no one on guard.

“It’s a cinch,” Levins declared as they dismounted from their horses in the shelter of a shoulder of the butte, about a hundred yards from where the corrugated iron building, nearly complete, loomed somberly on the level. “But if they’d ever get evidence that we done it – ”