As he rode away after Rodney, Benson looked back more than once, and saw them move slowly off up the street, arm in arm; the captain with expanding chest and twirling cane, and Mrs. Gibbs still plying her handkerchief; and this was the last he saw of them in many a long day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BENSON arrived in Salt Lake City in August. After three days of unsuccessful investigation he sought an interview with Governor Young, at his office. He was ushered into a plain, businesslike room, where he saw a large man with a handsome, florid face, seated before a desk littered with papers. He rose instantly as the lawyer entered the room.
“Mr. Benson?” he said inquiringly.
“Yes—this is Governor Young?” he was rather at a loss to know how to address this dignitary, whose peculiar functions were about evenly divided between the religious and civil; this ex-painter and glazier who, to some thousands of his fellows was a god in his own right, as well as prophet and ruler; who ran mills, and sold cordwood, or dealt in groceries; and who, in the midst of these activities found time to balk and insult a weak, vacillating Government at Washington, and drive its representatives out of the State he had founded in the desert, when they chanced to fall under his displeasure, as they were sure to do if they attempted to enforce the law they had been sent thither to uphold.
Standing there, square and broad, full personed and vital, with his ruddy cheeks and square chin, he looked the man he was; capable, magnetic, determined, and not too weakly scrupulous, perhaps not scrupulous at all.
Each devoted a moment to the scrutiny of the other.
“Well, sir, how can I be of use to you?” asked Young.