"An' dynamite ain't carin' who's usin' it," said another, slyly. Both grinned. The universal sympathy for the "under dog" oppressed by Justice perverted or controlled, had here found expression. It was so all over Manti. Admiring glances followed Trevison; though he said no word concerning the incident; nor could any man have said, judging from the expression of his face, that he was elated. He had business in Manti--he completed it, and when he was ready to go he got on Nigger and loped out of town. "That man's nerve is as cold as a naked Eskimo at the North Pole," commented an admirer. "If I'd done a thing like that I'd be layin' low to see if any evidence would turn up against me." "I reckon there ain't a heap of evidence," laughed his neighbor. "I expect everybody knows he done it, but knowin' an' provin' is two different things." A mile out of town Trevison met Corrigan. The latter halted his horse when he saw Trevison and waited for him to come up. The big man's face wore an ugly, significant grin. "You did a complete job," he said, eyeing the other narrowly. "And there doesn't seem to be any evidence. But look out! When a thing like that happens there's always somebody around to see it, and if I can get evidence against you I'll send you up for it!" He noted a slight quickening of Trevison's eyes at his mention of a witness, and a fierce exultation leaped within him. Trevison laughed, looking the other fairly between the eyes. Rosalind Benham hadn't informed on him. However, the day was not yet gone. "Get your evidence before you try to do any bluffing," he challenged. He spurred Nigger on, not looking back at his enemy. Corrigan rode to the laborers' tents, where he talked for a time with the cook. In the mess tent he stood with his back to a rough, pine-topped table, his hands on its edge. The table had not yet been cleared from the morning meal, for the cook had been interested in the explosion. He tried to talk of it with Corrigan, but the latter adroitly directed the conversation otherwise. The cook would have said they had a pleasant talk. Corrigan seemed very companionable this morning. He laughed a little; he listened attentively when the cook talked. After a while Corrigan fumbled in his pockets. Not finding a cigar, he looked eloquently at the cook's pipe, in the latter's mouth, belching much smoke. "Not a single cigar," he said. "I'm dying for a taste of tobacco." The cook took his pipe from his mouth and wiped the stem hastily on a sleeve. "If you don't mind I've been suckin' on it," he said, extending it. "I wouldn't deprive you of it for the world." Corrigan shifted his position, looked down at the table and smiled. "Luck, eh?" he said, picking up a black brier that lay on the table behind him. "Got plenty of tobacco?" The cook dove for a box in a corner and returned with a cloth sack, bulging. He watched while Corrigan filled the pipe, and grinned while his guest was lighting it.