spite of a thousand deputies! Remember
that!"

He stalked out, leaving behind him a white-faced, trembling old man who
was facing a crisis which made the future look very black and dismal. He
was wondering if, after all, hanging wouldn't be better than the sunlight
shining on a deed which each day he regretted more than on the preceding
day. And Trevison, riding Nigger out of town, was estimating the probable
effect of his crowd-drawing action upon Judge Lindman, and considering
bitterly the perfidy of the woman who had cleverly drawn him on, to betray
him.

CHAPTER XIII

ANOTHER LETTER

That afternoon, Corrigan rode to the Bar B. The ranchhouse was of the
better class, big, imposing, well-kept, with a wide, roofed porch running
across the front and partly around both sides. It stood in a grove of
fir-balsam and cottonwood, on a slight eminence, and could be seen for
miles from the undulating trail that led to Manti. Corrigan arrived
shortly after noon, to find Rosalind gone, for a ride, Agatha told him,
after she had greeted him at the edge of the porch.

Agatha had not been pleased over Rosalind's rides with Trevison as a
companion. She was loyal to her brother, and she did not admire the bold
recklessness that shone so frankly and unmistakably in Trevison's eyes.
Had she been Rosalind she would have preferred the big, sleek,
well-groomed man of affairs who had called today. And because of her
preference for Corrigan, she sat long on the porch with him and told him
many things--things that darkened the big man's face. And when, as they
were talking, Rosalind came, Agatha discreetly retired, leaving the two
alone.

For a time after the coming of Rosalind, Corrigan sat in a big rocking
chair, looking thoughtfully down the Manti trail, listening to the girl
talk of the country, picturing her on a distant day--not too distant,
either, for he meant to press his suit--sitting beside him on the porch of
another house that he meant to build when he had achieved his goal. These
thoughts thrilled him as they had never thrilled him until the entrance of
Trevison into his scheme of things. He had been sure of her then. And now
the knowledge that he had a rival, filled him with a thousand emotions,
the most disturbing of which was jealousy. The rage in him was deep and
malignant as he coupled the mental pictures of his imagination with the
material record of Rosalind's movements with his rival, as related by
Agath