lives up to what that means. The folks in this section of the country swear by him.”
Corrigan made a gesture of impatience. “I mean—what does he do? Of course I know he owns some land here. But how much land does he own?”
“You saw the figure on the check, didn’t you? He owns five thousand acres.”
“How long has he been here?”
“You’ve got me. More than ten years, I guess, from what I can gather.”
“What was he before he came here?”
“I couldn’t even surmise that—he don’t talk about his past. From the way he waded into you, I should judge he was a prize fighter before becoming a cow-puncher.”
Corrigan glared at the banker. “Yes; it’s damned funny,” he said. “How did he get his land?”
“Proved on a quarter-section. Bought the rest of it—and bought it mighty cheap.” Braman’s eyes brightened. “Figure on attacking his title?”
Corrigan grunted. “I notice he asked you for cash. You’re not his banker, evidently.”
“He banks in Las Vegas, I guess.”
“What about his cattle?”
“He shipped three thousand head last season.”
“How big is his outfit?”
“He’s got about twenty men. They’re all hard cases—like him, and they’d shoot themselves for him.”
Corrigan got up and walked to the window, from where he looked out at Manti. The town looked like an army camp. Lumber, merchandise, supplies of every description, littered the street in mounds and scattered heaps, awaiting the erection of tent-house and building. But there was none of that activity that might have been expected from the quantity of material on hand; it seemed that the owners were waiting, delaying in anticipation of some force that would give them encouragement. They were reluctant to risk their money in erecting buildings on the strength of mere rumor. But they had come, hoping.
Corrigan grinned at Braman. “They’re afraid to take a chance,” he said, meaning Manti’s citizens.
“Don’t blame them. I’ve spread the stuff around—as you told me. That’s all they’ve heard. They’re here on a forlorn hope. The boom they are looking for, seems, from present conditions, to be lurking somewhere in the future, shadowed by an indefiniteness that to them is vaguely connected with somebody’s promise of a dam, agricultural activity to follow, and factories. They haven’t been able to trace the rumors, but they’re here, and they’ll make things hum if they get a chance.”
“Sure,” grinned Corrigan. “A boom town is always a graft for first arrivals. That is, boom towns have been. But Manti—” He paused.
“Yes, different,” chuckled the banker. “It must have cost a wad to shove that water grant through.”
“Benham kicked on the price—it was enough.”
“That maximum rate clause is a pippin. You can soak them the limit right from the jump.”
“And scare them out,” scoffed Corrigan. “That isn’t the game. Get them here, first. Then—”
The banker licked his lips. “How does old Benham take it?”
“Mr. Benham is enthusiastic because everything will be done in a perfectly legitimate way—he thinks.”
“And the courts?”
“Judge Lindman, of the District Court now in Dry Bottom, is going to establish himself here. Benham pulled that string.”
“Good!” said Braman. “When is Lindman coming?”
Corrigan’s smile was crooked; it told eloquently of conscious power over the man he had named.
“He’ll come whenever I give the word. Benham’s got something on him.”
“You always were a clever son-of-a-gun!” laughed the banker, admiringly.
Ignoring the compliment, Corrigan walked into the rear room, where he gazed frowningly at his reflection in a small glass affixed to the wall. Re-entering the banking room he said:
“I’m in no condition to face Miss Benham. Go down to the car and tell her that I shall be very busy here all day, and that I won’t be able to see her until late tonight.”
Miss Benham’s name was on the tip of the banker’s tongue, but, glancing at Corrigan’s face, he decided that it was no time for that particular brand of levity. He grabbed his hat and stepped out of the front door.
Left alone, Corrigan paced slowly back and forth in the room, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Trevison had become an important figure in his mind. Corrigan had not hinted to Braman, to Trevison, or to Miss Benham, of the actual situation—nor would he. But during his first visit to town that morning he had stood in one of the front windows of a saloon across the street. He had not been getting acquainted, as he had told Miss Benham, for the saloon had been the first place that he had entered, and after getting a drink at the bar he had sauntered to the window. From there he had seen “Brand” Trevison ride into town, and because Trevison made an impressive figure he had watched him, instinctively aware that in the rider of the black horse was a quality of manhood that one meets rarely. Trevison’s appearance had caused him a throb of disquieting envy.
He had noticed Trevison’s start upon getting his first glimpse of the private car on the siding. He had followed Trevison’s movements carefully, and with increased disquiet. For, instead of dismounting and going into a saloon or a store, Trevison had urged the black on, past the private car, which he had examined leisurely and intently. The clear morning air made objects at a distance very distinct, and as Trevison had ridden past the car, Corrigan had seen a flutter at one of the windows; had caught a fleeting glimpse of Rosalind Benham’s face. He had seen Trevison ride away, to return for a second view of the car a few minutes later. At breakfast, Corrigan had not failed to note Miss Benham’s lingering glances at the black horse, and again, in the bank, with her standing at the door, he had noticed her interest in the black horse and its rider. His quickly-aroused jealousy and hatred had driven him to the folly of impulsive action, a method which, until now, he had carefully evaded. Yes, he had found “Brand” Trevison a worthy antagonist—Braman had him appraised correctly.
Corrigan’s smile was bitter as he again walked into the rear room and surveyed his reflection in the glass. Disgusted, he turned to one of the windows and looked out. From where he stood he could see straight down the railroad tracks to the cut, down the wall of which, some hours before, Trevison had ridden the black horse. The dinky engine, with its train of flat-cars, was steaming toward him. As he watched, engine and cars struck the switch and ran onto the siding, where they came to a stop. Corrigan frowned and looked at his watch. It lacked fully three hours to quitting time, and the cars were empty, save for the laborers draped on them, their tools piled in heaps. While Corrigan watched, the laborers descended from the cars and swarmed toward their quarters—a row of tent-houses near the siding. A big man—Corrigan knew him later as Patrick Carson—swung down from the engine-cab and lumbered toward the little frame station house, in
