I understand, Trevison has always been a disturber," resumed
Corrigan. "He disgraced himself at college, and afterwards--to such an
extent that his father cut him off. He hasn't changed, apparently; he is
still doing the same old tricks. He had some sort of a love affair before
coming West, your father told me. God help the girl who marries him!"

The girl flushed at the last sentence; she replied to the preceding one:

"Yes. Hester Keyes threw him over, after he broke with his father."

She did not see Corrigan's eyes quicken, for she was wondering if, after
all, Hester Keyes had not acted wisely in breaking with Trevison.
Certainly, Hester had been in a position to know him better than some of
those critics who had found fault with her for her action--herself, for
instance. She sighed, for the memory of her ideal was dimming. A figure
that represented violence and bloodshed had come in its place.

"Hester Keyes," said Corrigan, musingly. "Did she marry a fellow named
Harvey--afterwards? Winslow Harvey, if I remember rightly. He died soon
after?"

"Yes--do you know her?"

"Slightly." Corrigan laughed. "I knew her father. Well, well. So Trevison
worshiped there, did he? Was he badly hurt--do you know?"

"I do not know."

"Well," said Corrigan, getting up, and speaking lightly, as though
dismissing the subject from his mind; "I presume he was--and still is, for
that matter. A person never forgets the first love." He smiled at her.
"Won't you go with me for a short ride?"

The ride was taken, but a disturbing question lingered in Rosalind's mind
throughout, and would not be solved. Had Trevison forgotten Hester Keyes?
Did he think of her as--as--well, as she, herself, sometimes thought of
Trevison--as she thought of him now--with a haunting tenderness that made
his faults recede, as the shadows vanish before the sunshine?

What Corrigan thought was expressed in a satisfied chuckle, as later, he
loped his horse toward Manti. That night he wrote a letter and sent it
East. It was addressed to Mrs. Hester Harvey, and was subscribed: "Your
old friend, Jeff."

CHAPTER XIV

A RUMBLE OF WAR

The train that carried Corrigan's letter eastward bore, among its few
other passengers, a young man with a jaw set like a steel trap, who leaned
forward in his seat, gripping the back of the seat in front of him; an
eager, smoldering light in his eyes, who rose at each stop the train made
and glared belligerently and i