'Firebrand' Trevison

Corrigan’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said shortly, and turned away.

Trevison’s appearance in Manti created a stir. He had achieved a double result by his deed, for besides destroying the property and making it impossible for Corrigan to resume work for a considerable time, he had caused Manti’s interest to center upon him sharply, having shocked into the town’s consciousness a conception of the desperate battle that was being waged at its doors. For Manti had viewed the devastated butte early that morning, and had come away, seething with curiosity to get a glimpse of the man whom everybody secretly suspected of being the cause of it. Many residents of the town had known Trevison before – in half an hour after his arrival he was known to all. Public opinion was heavily in his favor and many approving comments were heard.

“I ain’t blamin’ him a heap,” said a man in the Belmont. “If things is as you say they are, there ain’t much more that a man could do!”

“The laws is made for the guys with the coin an’ the pull,” said another, vindictively.

“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.

“Carson’ll be ravin’ today for forgettin’ his pipe. He must have left it layin’ on the table this mornin’ – him bein’ in such a rush to get down, to the explosion.”

“It’s Carson’s, eh?” Corrigan surveyed it with casual interest. “Well,” after taking a few puffs “ – I’ll say for Carson that he knows how to take care of it.”

He left shortly afterward, laying the pipe on the table where he had found it. Five minutes later he was in Judge Lindman’s presence, leaning over the desk toward the other.

“I want you to issue a warrant for Patrick Carson. I want him brought in here for examination. Charge him with being an accessory before the fact, or anything that seems to fit the case. But throw him into the cooler – and keep him there until he talks. He knows who broke into the dynamite shed, and therefore he knows who did the dynamiting. He’s friendly with Trevison, and if we can make him admit he saw Trevison at the shed, we’ve got the goods. He warned Trevison the other day, when I had the deputies lined up at the butte, and I found his pipe this morning near the door of the dynamite shed. We’ll make him talk, damn him!”

Banker Braman had closed the door between the front and rear rooms, pulled down the shades of the windows, lighted the kerosene lamp, and by its wavering flicker was surveying his reflection in the small mirror affixed to one of the walls of the building. He was pleased, as the fatuous self-complacence of his look indicated, and carefully, almost fastidiously dressed, and he could not deny himself this last look into the mirror, even though he was now five minutes late with his appointment. The five minutes threatened to become ten, for, in adjusting his tie-pin it slipped from his fingers, struck the floor and vanished, as though an evil fate had gobbled it.

He searched for it frenziedly, cursing lowly, but none the less viciously. It was quite by accident that when his patience was strained almost to the breaking point, he struck his hand against a board that formed part of the partition between his building and the courthouse next door, and tore a huge chunk of skin from the knuckles. He paid little attention to the injury, however, for the agitating of the board disclosed the glittering recreant, and he pounced upon it with the precision of a hawk upon its prey, snarling triumphantly.

“I’ll nail that damned board up, some day!” he threatened. But he knew he wouldn’t, for by lying on the floor and pulling the board out a trifle, he could get a clear view of the interior of the courthouse, and could hear quite plainly, in spite of the presence of a wooden box resting against the wall on the other side. And some of the things that Braman had already heard through the medium of the loose board were really interesting, not to say instructive, to him.

He was ten minutes late in keeping his appointment. He might have been even later without being in danger of receiving the censure he deserved. For the lady received him in a loose wrapper and gracefully disordered hair, a glance at which made Braman gasp in unfeigned admiration.

“What’s this?” he demanded with a pretense of fatherly severity, which he imagined became him very well in the presence of women. “Not ready yet, Mrs. Harvey?”

The woman waved him to a chair with unsmiling unconcern; dropped into another, crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, her hands folded across the back of her head, her sleeves, wide and flaring, sliding down below her elbows. She caught Braman’s burning stare of interest in this revelation of negligence, and smiled at him in faint derision.

“I’m tired, Croft. I’ve changed my mind about going to the First Merchants’ Ball. I’d much rather sit here and chin you – if you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit!” hastily acquiesced the banker. “In fact, I like the idea of staying here much better. It is more private, you know.” He grinned significantly, but the woman’s smile of faint derision changed merely to irony, which held steadily, making Braman’s cheeks glow crimson.

“Well, then,” she laughed, exulting in her power over him; “let’s get busy. What do you want to chin about?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve wet my whistle,” said the banker, gayly. “I’m dry as a bone in the middle of the Sahara desert!”

“I’ll take mine ‘straight,’” she laughed.

Braman rang a bell. A waiter with glasses and a bottle appeared, entered, was paid, and departed, grinning without giving the banker any change from a ten dollar bill.

The woman laughed immoderately at Braman’s wolfish snarl.

“Be a sport, Croft. Don’t begrudge a poor waiter a few honestly earned dollars!”

“And now, what has the loose-board telephone told you?” she asked, two hours later when flushed of face from frequent attacks on the bottle – Braman rather more flushed than she – they relaxed in their chairs after a tilt at poker in which the woman had been the victor.

“You’re sure you don’t care for Trevison any more – that you’re only taking his end of this because of what he’s been to you in the past?” demanded the banker, looking suspiciously at her.

“He told me he didn’t love me any more. I couldn’t want him after that, could I?”

“I should think not.” Braman’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. But he hesitated, yielding when she smiled at him. “Damn it, I’d knife Corrigan for you!” he vowed, recklessly.

“Save Trevison – that’s all I ask. Tell me what you heard.”

“Corrigan suspects Trevison of blowing up the stuff at the butte – as everybody does, of course. He’s determined to get evidence against him. He found Carson’s pipe at the door of the dynamite shed this morning. Carson is a friend of Trevison’s. Corrigan is going to have Judge Lindman issue a warrant for the arrest of Carson – on some charge – and they’re going to jail Carson until he talks.”

The woman cursed profanely, sharply. “That’s Corrigan’s idea of a square deal. He promised me that no harm should come to Trevison.” She got up and walked back and forth in the room, Braman watching her with passion lying naked in his eyes, his lips loose and moist.

She stopped in front of him, finally. “Go home, Croft – there’s a good boy. I want to think.”

“That’s cruelty to animals,” he laughed in a strained voice. “But I’ll go,” he added at signs of displeasure on her face. “Can I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’ll let you know.” She held the door open for him, and permitted him to take her hand for an instant. He squeezed it hotly, the woman making a grimace of repugnance as she closed the door.

Swiftly she changed from her loose gown to a simple, short-skirted affair, slipped on boots, a felt hat, gloves. Leaving the light burning, she slipped out into the hall and called to the waiter who had served her and Braman. By rewarding him generously she procured a horse, and a few minutes later she emerged from the building by a rear door, mounting the animal and sending it clattering out into the night.

Twice she lost her way and rode miles before she recovered her sense of direction, and when she finally pulled the beast to a halt at the edge of the Diamond K ranchhouse gallery, midnight was not far away. The ranchhouse was dark. She smothered a gasp of disappointment as she crossed the gallery floor. She was about to hammer on the door when it swung open and Trevison stepped out, peered closely at her and laughed shortly.

“It’s you, eh?” he said. “I thought I told you – ”

She winced at his tone, but it did not lessen her concern for him.

“It isn’t that, Trev! And I don’t care how you treat me – I deserve it! But I can’t see them punish you – for what you did last night!” She felt him start, his muscles stiffen.

“Something has turned up, then. You came to warn me? What is it?”

“You were seen last night! They’re going to arrest – ”

“So she squealed, did she?” he interrupted. He laughed lowly, bitterly, with a vibrant disappointment that wrung the woman’s heart with sympathy. But her brain quickly grasped the significance of his words, and longing dulled her sense of honor. It was too good an opportunity to miss. “Bah! I expected it. She told me she would. I was a fool to dream otherwise!” He turned on Hester and grasped her by the shoulders, and her flesh deadened under his fingers.

“Did she tell Corrigan?”

“Yes.” The woman told the lie courageously, looking straight into his eyes, though she shrank at the fire that came into them as he released her and laughed.

“Where did you get your information?” His voice was suddenly sullen and cold.

“From Braman.”

He started, and laughed in humorous derision.

“Braman and Corrigan are blood brothers in this deal. You must have captivated the little sneak completely to make him lose his head like that!”

“I did it for you, Trev – for you. Don’t you see? Oh, I despise the little beast! But he dropped a hint one day when I was in the bank, and I deliberately snared him, hoping I might be able to gain information that would benefit you. And I have, Trev!” she added, trembling with a hope that his hasty judgment might result to her advantage. And how near she had come to mentioning Carson’s name! If Trevison had waited for just another second before interrupting her! Fortune had played favorably into her hands tonight!

“For you, boy,” she said, slipping close to him, sinuously, whispering, knowing the “she” he had mentioned must be Rosalind Benham. “Old friends are best, boy. At least they can be depended upon not to betray one. Trev; let me help you! I can, and I will! Why, I love you, Trev! And you need me, to help you fight these people who are trying to ruin you!”

“You don’t understand.” Trevison’s voice was cold and passionless. “It seems I can’t make you understand. I’m grateful for what you have done for me tonight – very grateful. But I can’t live a lie, woman. I don’t love you!”

“But you love a woman who has delivered you into the hands of your enemies,” she moaned.

“I can’t help it,” he declared hoarsely. “I don’t deny it. I would love her if she sent me to the gallows, and stood there, watching me die!”

The woman bowed her head, and dropped her hands listlessly to her sides. In this instant she was thinking almost the same words that Rosalind Benham had murmured on her ride to Blakeley’s, when she had discovered Trevison’s identity: “I wonder if Hester Keyes knows what she has missed.”

CHAPTER XXII

A MAN ERRS – AND PAYS

For a time Trevison stood on the gallery, watching the woman as she faded into the darkness toward Manti, and then he laughed mirthlessly and went into the house, emerging with a rifle and saddle. A few minutes later he rode Nigger out of the corral and headed him southwestward. Shortly after midnight he was at the door of Levins’ cabin. The latter grinned with feline humor after they held a short conference.

“That’s right,” he said; “you don’t need any of the boys to help you pull that off – they’d mebbe go to actin’ foolish an’ give the whole snap away. Besides, I’m a heap tickled to be let in on that sort of a jamboree!” There followed an interval, during which his grin faded. “So she peached on you, eh? She told my woman she wouldn’t. That’s a woman, ain’t it? How’s a man to tell about ’em?”

“That’s a secret of my own that I am not ready to let you in on. Don’t tell your wife where you are going tonight.”

“I ain’t reckonin’ to. I’ll be with you in a jiffy!” He vanished into the cabin, reappeared, ran to the stable, and rode out to meet Trevison. Together they were swallowed up by the plains.

At eight o’clock in the morning Corrigan came out of the dining-room of his hotel and stopped at the cigar counter. He filled his case, lit one, and stood for a moment with an elbow on the glass of the show case, smoking thoughtfully.

“That was quite an accident you had at your mine. Have you any idea who did it?” asked the clerk, watching him furtively.

Corrigan glanced at the man, his lips curling.

“You might guess,” he said through his teeth.

“That fellow Trevison is a bad actor,” continued the clerk. “And say,” he went on, confidentially; “not that I want to make you feel bad, but the majority of the people of this town are standing with him in this deal. They think you are not giving the land-owners a square deal. Not that I’m ‘knocking’ you,” the clerk denied, flushing at the dark look Corrigan threw him. “That’s merely what I hear. Personally, I’m for you. This town needs men like you, and it can get along without fellows like Trevison.”

“Thank you,” smiled Corrigan, disgusted with the man, but feeling that it might be well to cultivate such ingratiating interest. “Have a cigar.”

“I’ll go you. Yes, sir,” he added, when he had got the weed going; “this town can get along without any Trevisons. These sagebrush rummies out here give me a pain. What this country needs is less brute force and more brains!” He drew his shoulders erect as though convinced that he was not lacking in the particular virtue to which he had referred.

“You are right,” smiled Corrigan, mildly. “Brains are all important. A hotel clerk must be well supplied. I presume you see and hear a great many things that other people miss seeing and hearing.” Corrigan thought this thermometer of public opinion might have other information.

“You’ve said it! We’ve got to keep our wits about us. There’s very little escapes us.” He leered at Corrigan’s profile. “That’s a swell Moll in number eleven, ain’t it?”

“What do you know about her?” Corrigan’s face was inexpressive.

“Oh say now!” The clerk guffawed close to Corrigan’s ear without making the big man wink an eyelash. “You don’t mean to tell me that you ain’t on! I saw you steer to her room one night – the night she came here. And once or twice, since. But of course us hotel clerks don’t see anything! She is down on the register as Mrs. Harvey. But say! You don’t see any married women running around the country dressed like her!”

“She may be a widow.”

“Well, yes, maybe she might. But she shows speed, don’t she?” He whispered. “You’re a pretty good friend of mine, now, and maybe if I’d give you a tip you’d throw something in my way later on – eh?”

“What?”

“Oh, you might start a hotel here – or something. And I’m thinking of blowing this joint. This town’s booming, and it can stand a swell hotel in a few months.”

“You’re on – if I build a hotel. Shoot!”

The clerk leaned closer, whispering: “She receives other men. You’re not the only one.”

“Who?”

The clerk laughed, and made a funnel of one hand. “The banker across the street – Braman.”

Corrigan bit his cigar in two, and slowly spat that which was left in his mouth into a cuspidor. He contrived to smile, though it cost him an effort, and his hands were clenched.

“How many times has he been here?”

“Oh, several.”

“When was he here last?”

“Last night.” The clerk laughed. “Looked half stewed when he left. Kinda hectic, too. Him and her must have had a tiff, for he left early. And after he’d gone – right away after – she sent one of the waiters out for a horse.”

“Which way did she go?”

“West – I watched her; she went the back way, from here.”

Corrigan smiled and went out. The expression of his face was such as to cause the clerk to mutter, dazedly: “He didn’t seem to be a whole lot interested. I guess I must have sized him up wrong.”

Corrigan stopped at his office in the bank, nodding curtly to Braman. Shortly afterward he got up and went to the courthouse. He had ordered Judge Lindman to issue a warrant for Carson the previous morning, and had intended to see that it was served. But a press of other matters had occupied his attention until late in the night.

He tried the front door of the courthouse, to find it locked. The rear door was also locked. He tried the windows – all were fastened securely. Thinking the Judge still sleeping he went back to his office and spent an hour going over some correspondence. At the end of that time he visited the courthouse again. Angered, he went around to the side and burst the flimsy door in, standing in the opening, glowering, for the Judge’s cot was empty, and the Judge nowhere to be seen.

Corrigan stalked through the building, cursing. He examined the cot, and discovered that it had been slept in. The Judge must have risen early. Obviously, there was nothing to do but to wait. Corrigan did that, impatiently. For a long time he sat in the chair at his desk, watching Braman, studying him, scowling, rage in his heart. “If he’s up to any dirty work, I’ll choke him until his tongue hangs out a yard!” was a mental threat that he repeated many times. “But he’s just mush-headed over the woman, I guess – he’s that kind of a fool!”

At ten o’clock Corrigan jumped on his horse and rode out to the butte where the laborers were working, clearing away the debris from the explosion. No one there had seen Judge Lindman. Corrigan rode back to town, fuming with rage. Finding some of the deputies he sent them out to search for the Judge. One by one they came in and reported their failure. At six-thirty, after the arrival of the evening train from Dry Bottom, Corrigan was sitting at his desk, his face black with wrath, reading for the third or fourth time a letter that he had spread out on the desk before him:

“Mr. Jefferson Corrigan:

“I feel it is necessary for me to take a short rest. Recent excitement in Manti has left me very nervous and unstrung. I shall be away from Manti for about two weeks, I think. During my absence any pending litigation must be postponed, of course.”

The letter was signed by Judge Lindman, and postmarked “Dry Bottom.”

Corrigan got up after a while and stuffed the letter into a pocket. He went out, and when he returned, Braman had gone out also – to supper, Corrigan surmised. When the banker came in an hour later, Corrigan was still seated at his desk. The banker smiled at him, and Corrigan motioned to him.

Corrigan’s voice was silky. “Where were you last night, Braman?”

The banker’s face whitened; his thoughts became confused, but instantly cleared when he observed from the expression of the big man’s face that the question was, apparently, a casual one. But he drew his breath tremulously. One could never be sure of Corrigan.

“I spent the night here – in the back room.”

“Then you didn’t see the Judge last night – or hear him?”

“No.”

Corrigan drew the Judge’s letter from the pocket and passed it over to Braman, watching his face steadily as he read. He saw a quick stain appear in the banker’s cheeks, and his own lips tightened.

The banker coughed before he spoke. “Wasn’t that a rather abrupt leave-taking?”

“Yes – rather,” said Corrigan, dryly. “You didn’t hear him walking about during the night?”

“No.”

“You’re rather a heavy sleeper, eh? There is only a thin board partition between this building and the courthouse.”

“He must have left after daylight. Of course, any noise he might have made after that I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“No, of course not,” said Corrigan, passionlessly. “Well – he’s gone.” He seemed to have dismissed the matter from his mind and Braman sighed with relief. But he watched Corrigan narrowly during the remainder of the time he stayed in the office, and when he went out, Braman shook a vindictive fist at his back.

“Worry, damn you!” he sneered. “I don’t know what was in Judge Lindman’s mind, but I hope he never comes back! That will help to repay you for that knockdown!”

Corrigan went over to the Castle and ate supper. He was preoccupied and deliberate, for he was trying to weave a complete fabric out of the threads of Braman’s visits to Hester Harvey; Hester’s ride westward, and Judge Lindman’s abrupt departure. He had a feeling that they were in some way connected.

At a little after seven he finished his meal, went upstairs and knocked at the door of Hester Harvey’s room. He stepped inside when she opened the door, and stood, both hands in the pockets of his trousers, looking at her with a smile of repressed malignance.

“Nice night for a ride, wasn’t it?” he said, his lips parting a very little to allow the words to filter through.

The woman flashed a quick, inquiring look at him, saw the passion in his eyes, the gleam of malevolent antagonism, and she set herself against it. For her talk with Trevison last night had convinced her of the futility of hope. She had gone out of his life as a commonplace incident slips into the oblivion of yesteryear. Worse – he had refused to recall it. It hurt her, this knowledge – his rebuff. It had aroused cold, wanton passions in her – she had become a woman who did not care. She met Corrigan’s gaze with a look of defiant mockery.