“And the courts?”
“Judge Lindman, of the District Court now in Dry Bottom, is going to establish himself here. Benham pulled that string.”
“Good!” said Braman. “When is Lindman coming?”
Corrigan’s smile was crooked; it told eloquently of conscious power over the man he had named.
“He’ll come whenever I give the word. Benham’s got something on him.”
“You always were a clever son-of-a-gun!” laughed the banker, admiringly.
Ignoring the compliment, Corrigan walked into the rear room, where he gazed frowningly at his reflection in a small glass affixed to the wall. Re-entering the banking room he said:
“I’m in no condition to face Miss Benham. Go down to the car and tell her that I shall be very busy here all day, and that I won’t be able to see her until late tonight.”
Miss Benham’s name was on the tip of the banker’s tongue, but, glancing at Corrigan’s face, he decided that it was no time for that particular brand of levity. He grabbed his hat and stepped out of the front door.
Left alone, Corrigan paced slowly back and forth in the room, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Trevison had become an important figure in his mind. Corrigan had not hinted to Braman, to Trevison, or to Miss Benham, of the actual situation—nor would he. But during his first visit to town that morning he had stood in one of the front windows of a saloon across the street. He had not been getting acquainted, as he had told Miss Benham, for the saloon had been the first place that he had entered, and after getting a drink at the bar he had sauntered to the window. From there he had seen “Brand” Trevison ride into town, and because Trevison made an impressive figure he had watched him, instinctively aware that in the rider of the black horse was a quality of manhood that one meets rarely. Trevison’s appearance had caused him a throb of disquieting envy.