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Updated: May 10, 2025
The simple question waiting to be solved was this: Having done as poorly for himself as under the circumstances he well could, what was Dirk Colson to do next? He had no idea; neither, apparently, had multitudes of Christian people engaged in praying that the Father's will might be done on earth, even as it was in heaven.
"Then I'm a goin', too," declared Stephen, with decision. "Dick, he thinks there won't none of us go if he don't; and I'd just like to show him that he must get up early in the mornin' if he wants to keep track of us." If Dirk Colson needed anything to strengthen his resolution, there was material in that last sentence which supplied it.
He is doubtless at this very instant at the wretched beer-shop at the corner of the common the haunt of all that is wicked, and corrupter of all that is frail, 'The Foaming Tankard'. It is there, in the noble game of Four Corners, that the man who aspires to the love of Hannah Colson passes his hours.
There are matters of interest that I might tell you, about "Mr. Colson" himself, young as he is; and about Mattie, who wears to-night a rose that she did not pick from the conservatory; but I don't mean to tell it. I have just one other bit of history to give you.
Many a man with less pretensions to the title would call himself a builder now-a-days, or "by'r lady," an architect, and put forth a flaming card, vaunting his accomplishments in the mason's craft, his skill in plans and elevations, and his unparalleled dispatch and cheapness in carrying his designs into execution. But John Colson was no new-fangled personage.
Dirk Colson and Stephen Crowley went off together; not that they were special friends, but their homes lay near together. For the distance of half a block they walked in silence; then Stephen Crowley spoke his mind: "Nimble Dick wasn't near as smart to-day as he thinks he was, accordin' to my way of thinkin'." "He was meaner than dirt!" burst forth Dirk, fiercely.
How do I know what she wanted you to have it for? Maybe she thought it matched your looks." There was a bitter sneer in Dirk's voice, yet all the time he heard the sweet, low voice saying, "That girl with the beautiful golden hair." Suppose he should tell Mart that? Why not? Let me tell you that Dirk Colson would not have repeated that sentence for the world! And yet he did not know why.
Two Navajo chiefs, called by white men Old Horse and Silver, were there for the first time in years. They were ready to gamble horse against horse. Cal Blinn and his riders of Durango had arrived; likewise Colson, Sticks, and Burthwait, old friends and rivals of Bostil's. For a while Brackton's was merry. There was some drinking and much betting.
"Let them try it," muttered Dirk, his face growing darker; "we'd make that street too hot to hold them in short order if they played at any such game as that, and I guess they know it." "Well, anyhow, I wouldn't be meaner and lower down than I had to be, Dirk Colson! It is bad enough as it is, a drunkard for a father, and we nothing more than beggars!
He came forward now, from the carriage where he had stood waiting, and laid a hand on Dirk's arm. "And you come home with me to-night, Colson," he said in a cordial tone, such as he might have used with any young friend; "then we shall have a chance to talk things over and make plans." "That is nice," Mrs. Roberts said, quickly, rejoicing in her heart over Ried's promptness to act.
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