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.