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.