“There, there,” consoled Agatha; “your father wouldn’t permit—”
“No, no!” said the girl, vehemently; “he wouldn’t. But I can’t understand why Trevison fights so hard if—if he is in the wrong!”
“He is a desperado, my dear; a wild, reckless spirit who has no regard for law and order. Of course, if these men are after him, you will tell them he was here!”
“No!” said the girl, sharply; “I shan’t!”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” acquiesced Agatha. She patted the girl’s shoulder. “Maybe it would be for the best, dear—he may be in the right. And I think I understand why you went riding with him so much, dear. He may be wild and reckless, but he’s a man—every inch of him!”
The girl squeezed her relative’s hand and went to open the door, upon which had come a loud knock. Corrigan stood framed in the opening. She could see his face only dimly.
“There’s no occasion for alarm, Miss Benham,” he said, and she felt that he could see her better than she could see him, and thus must have discerned something of her emotion. “I must apologize for this noisy demonstration. I believe I’m a little excited, though. Has Trevison passed here within the last hour or so?”
“No,” she said, firmly.
He laughed shortly. “Well, we’ll get him. I’ve split my men up—some have gone to his ranch, the others have headed for Levins’ place.”
“What has happened?”