“Yes, I should.  A trial of the kind you describe isn’t quite fair.  Acute presence of mind in an emergency is not a supreme test of anything except of itself; least of all, perhaps, is it a test of courage—­I mean courage of that quality which endures to-day and faces without flinching the threatening to-morrow.”

“And you think the man who might be surprised into doing something very disgraceful on the spur of the moment might still have that other kind of courage, Miss Faith?”

“Certainly.”  She was far enough from making any personal application of the test case suggested by the superintendent.  But in a world which took its keynote from the harsh discords of the Red Desert, these little thoughtful talks with a man who was most emphatically not of the Red Desert were refreshing.  And she could scarcely have been Martha Dawson’s daughter or Frederic Dawson’s sister without having a thoughtful cast of mind.

Lidgerwood rose and felt in his pockets for his after-dinner cigar.

“You are much more charitable than most women, Miss Dawson,” he said gravely; after which he left abruptly, and went back to his desk in the Crow’s Nest.

As we have seen, this bit of confidential talk between the superintendent and Faith Dawson fell in the period of the jesting horse-laugh; fell, as it chanced, on a day when the horse-laugh was at its height.  Later, after the storm broke, there were no more quiet evenings on the cottage porch for a harassed superintendent.  Lidgerwood came and went as before, when the rapidly recurring wrecks did not keep him out on the line, but he scrupulously left his troubles behind him when he climbed to the cottage on the mesa.

Quite naturally, his silence on the one topic which was stirring the Red Desert from the Crosswater Hills to Timanyoni Canyon was a poor mask.  The increasing gravity of the situation wrote itself plainly enough in his face, and Faith Dawson was sorry for him, giving him silent sympathy, unasked, if not wholly unexpected.  The town talk of Angels, what little of it reached the cottage, was harshly condemnatory of the new superintendent; and public opinion, standing for what it was worth, feared no denial when it asserted that Lidgerwood was doing what he could to earn his newer reputation.

After the mysterious disappearance of the switching-engine, mystery still unsolved and apparently unsolvable, he struck fast and hard, searching painstakingly for the leaders in the rebellion, reprimanding, suspending, and discharging until McCloskey warned him that, in addition to the evil of short-handing the road, he was filling Angels with a growing army of ex-employees, desperate and ripe for anything.

“I can’t help it, Mac,” was his invariable reply.  “Unless they put me out of the fight I shall go on as I have begun, staying with it until we have a railroad in fact, or a forfeited charter.  Do the best you can, but let it be plainly and distinctly understood that the man who isn’t with us is against us, and the man who is against us is going to get a chance to hunt for a new job every time.”