'Firebrand' Trevison

“You’ve done well – so far. But don’t give him up. Maybe he’ll change his mind. Stay here – I’ll stake you to the limit.” He laid a roll of bills on a stand – she did not look at them – and approached her in a second endeavor to console her. But she waved him away, saying: “Get out of here – I want to think!” And he obeyed, looking back before he closed the door.

“Selfish?” he muttered, going down the street. “Well, what of it? That’s a human weakness, isn’t it? Get what you want, and to hell with other people!”

Trevison had gone to his room for a much-needed rest. He had watched Hester Harvey go with no conscious regret, but with a certain grim pity, which was as futile as her visit. But, lying on the bed he fought hard against the bitter scorn that raged in him over the contemplation of Rosalind Benham’s duplicity. He found it hard to believe that she had been duping him, for during the weeks of his acquaintance with her he had studied her much – with admiration-weighted prejudice, of course, since she made a strong appeal to him – and he had been certain, then, that she was as free from guile as a child – excepting any girl’s natural artifices by which she concealed certain emotions that men had no business trying to read. He had read some of them – his business or not – and he had imagined he had seen what had fired his blood – a reciprocal affection. He would not have declared himself, otherwise.

He went to sleep, thinking of her. He awoke about noon, to see Barkwell standing at his side, shaking him.

“Have you got any understandin’ with that railroad gang that they’re to do any minin’ on the Diamond K range?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re gettin’ ready to do it. Over at the butte near the railroad cut. I passed there a while ago an’ quizzed the big guy – Corrigan – about a gang workin’ there. He says they’re goin’ to mine coal. I asked him if he had your permission an’ he said he didn’t need it. I reckon they ain’t none shy on gall where that guy come from!”

Trevison got out of bed and buckled on his cartridge belt and pistol. “The boys are working the Willow Creek range,” he said, sharply. “Get them, tell them to load up with plenty of cartridges, and join me at the butte.”

He heard Barkwell go leaping down the stairs, his spurs striking the step edges, and a few minutes later, riding Nigger out of the corral he saw the foreman racing away in a dust cloud. He followed the bed of the river, himself, going at a slow lope, for he wanted time to think – to gain control of the rage that boiled in his veins. He conquered it, and when he came in sight of the butte he was cool and deliberate, though on his face was that “mean” look that Carson had once remarked about to his friend Murphy, partly hidden by the “tiger” smile which, the Irishman had discovered, preceded action, ruthless and swift.

The level below the butte was a-buzz with life and energy. Scores of laborers were rushing about under the direction of a tall, thin, bespectacled man who seemed to be the moving spirit in all the activity. He shouted orders to Carson – Trevison saw the big figure of the Irishman dominating the laborers – who repeated them, added to them; sending men scampering hither and thither. Pausing at a little distance down the level, Trevison watched the scene. At first all seemed confusion, but presently he was able to discern that method ruled. For he now observed that the laborers were divided into “gangs.” Some were unloading the flat-cars, others were “assembling” a stationary engine near the wall of the butte. They had a roof over it, already. Others were laying tracks that intersected with the main line; still others were erecting buildings along the level. They were on Trevison’s land – there was no doubt of that. Moreover, they were erecting their buildings and apparatus at the point where Trevison himself had contemplated making a start. He saw Corrigan seated on a box on one of the flat-cars, smoking a cigar; another man, whom Trevison recognized as Gieger – he would have been willing to swear the man was one of those who had thwarted his plans in the courthouse – standing beside him, a Winchester rifle resting in the hollow of his left arm. Trevison urged Nigger along the level, down the track, and halted near Corrigan and Gieger. He knew that Corrigan had seen him, but it pleased the other to pretend that he had not.

“This is your work, Corrigan – I take it?” said Trevison, bluntly.

Corrigan turned slowly. He was a good actor, for he succeeded in getting a fairly convincing counterfeit of surprise into his face as his gaze fell on his enemy.

“You have taken it correctly, sir.” He smiled blandly, though there was a snapping alertness in his eyes that belied his apparent calmness. He turned to Gieger, ignoring Trevison. “Organization is the thing. Pickand is a genius at it,” he said.

Trevison’s eyes flamed with rage over this deliberate insult. But in it he saw a cold design to make him lose his temper. The knowledge brought a twisting smile to his face.

“You have permission to begin this work, I suppose?”

Corrigan turned again, as though astonished at the persistence of the other. “Certainly, sir. This work is being done under a court order, issued this morning. I applied for it yesterday. I am well within my legal rights, the court having as you are aware, settled the question of the title.”

“You know I have appealed the case?”

“I have not been informed that you have done so. In any event such an appeal would not prevent me mining the coal on the property, pending the hearing of the case in the higher court. Judge Lindman has appointed a receiver, who is bonded; and the work is to proceed under his direction. I am here merely as an onlooker.”

He looked fairly at Trevison, his eyes gleaming with cold derision. The expression maddened the other beyond endurance, and his eyes danced the chill glitter of meditated violence, unrecking consequences.

“You’re a sneaking crook, Corrigan, and you know it! You’re going too far! You’ve had Braman appointed in order to escape the responsibility! You’re hiding behind him like a coward! Come out into the open and fight like a man!”

Corrigan’s face bloated poisonously, but he made no hostile move. “I’ll kill you for that some day!” he whispered. “Not now,” he laughed mirthlessly as the other stiffened; “I can’t take the risk right now – I’ve too much depending on me. But you’ve been damned impertinent and troublesome, and when I get you where I want you I’m going to serve you like this!” And he took the cigar from his mouth, dropped it to the floor of the car and ground it to pieces under his heel. He looked up again, at Trevison, and their gaze met, in each man’s eyes glowed the knowledge of imminent action, ruthless and terrible.

Trevison broke the tension with a laugh that came from between his teeth. “Why delay?” he mocked. “I’ve been ready for the grinding process since the first day.”

“Enough of this!” Corrigan turned to Gieger with a glance of cold intolerance. “This man is a nuisance,” he said to the deputy. “Carry out the mandate of the court and order him away. If he doesn’t go, kill him! He is a trespasser, and has no right here!” And he glared at Trevison.

“You’ve got to get out, mister,” said the deputy. He tapped his rifle menacingly, betraying a quick accession of rage that he caught, no doubt, from Corrigan. Trevison smiled coldly, and backed Nigger a little. For an instant he meditated resistance, and dropped his right hand to the butt of his pistol. A shout distracted his attention. It came from behind him – it sounded like a warning, and he wheeled, to see Carson running toward him, not more than ten feet distant, waving his hands, a huge smile on his face.

“Domned if it ain’t Trevison!” he yelled as he lunged forward and caught Trevison’s right hand in his own, pulling the rider toward him. “I’ve been wantin’ to spake a word wid ye for two weeks now – about thim cows which me brother in Illinoy has been askin’ me about, an’ divvil a chance have I had to see ye!” And as he yanked Trevison’s shoulders downward with a sudden pressure that there was no resisting, he whispered, rapidly.

“Diputies – thirty av thim wid Winchesters – on the other side av the flat-cars. It’s a thrap to do away wid ye – I heard ’em cookin’ it!”

“An’ ye wudn’t be sellin’ ’em to me at twinty-five, eh?” he said, aloud. “Go ’long wid ye – ye’re a domned hold-up man, like all the rist av thim!” And he slapped the black horse playfully in the ribs and laughed gleefully as the animal lunged at him, ears laid back, mouth open.

His eyes cold, his lips hard and straight, Trevison spurred the black again to the flat-car.

“The bars are down between us, Corrigan; it’s man to man from now on. Law or no law, I give you twenty-four hours to get your men and apparatus off my land. After that I won’t be responsible for what happens!” He heard a shout behind him, a clatter, and he turned to see ten or twelve of his men racing over the level toward him. At the same instant he heard a sharp exclamation from Corrigan; heard Gieger issue a sharp order, and a line of men raised their heads above the flat-cars, rifles in their hands, which they trained on the advancing cowboys.

Nigger leaped; his rider holding up one hand, the palm toward his men, as a sign to halt, while he charged into them. Trevison talked fast to them, while the laborers, suspending work, watched, muttering; and the rifles, resting on the flat-cars, grew steadier in their owners’ hands. The silence grew deeper; the tension was so great that when somewhere a man dropped a shovel, it startled the watchers like a sudden bomb.

It was plain that Trevison’s men wanted to fight. It was equally plain that Trevison was arguing to dissuade them. And when, muttering, and casting belligerent looks backward, they finally drew off, Trevison following, there was a sigh of relief from the watchers, while Corrigan’s face was black with disappointment.

CHAPTER XIX

A WOMAN RIDES IN VAIN

Out of Rosalind Benham’s resentment against Trevison for the Hester Harvey incident grew a sudden dull apathy – which presently threatened to become an aversion – for the West. Its crudeness, the uncouthness of its people; the emptiness, the monotony, began to oppress her. Noticing the waning of her enthusiasm, Agatha began to inject energetic condemnations of the country into her conversations with the girl, and to hint broadly of the contrasting allurements of the East.

But Rosalind was not yet ready to desert the Bar B. She had been hurt, and her interest in the country had dulled, but there were memories over which one might meditate until – until one could be certain of some things. This was hope, insistently demanding delay of judgment. The girl could not forget the sincere ring in Trevison’s voice when he had told her that he would never go back to Hester Harvey. Arrayed against this declaration was the cold fact of Hester’s visit, and Hester’s statement that Trevison had sent for her. In this jumble of contradiction hope found a fertile field.

If Corrigan had anticipated that the knowledge of Hester’s visit to Trevison would have the effect of centering Rosalind’s interest on him, he had erred. Corrigan was magnetic; the girl felt the lure of him. In his presence she was continually conscious of his masterfulness, with a dismayed fear that she would yield to it. She knew this sensation was not love, for it lacked the fire and the depth of the haunting, breathless surge of passion that she had felt when she had held Trevison off the day when he had declared his love for her – that she felt whenever she thought of him. But with Trevison lost to her – she did not know what would happen, then. For the present her resentment was sufficient to keep her mind occupied.

She had a dread of meeting Corrigan this morning. Also, Agatha’s continued deprecatory speeches had begun to annoy her, and at ten o’clock she ordered one of the men to saddle her horse.

She rode southward, following a trail that brought her to Levins’ cabin. The cabin was built of logs, smoothly hewn and tightly joined, situated at the edge of some timber in a picturesque spot at a point where a shallow creek doubled in its sweep toward some broken country west of Manti.

Rosalind had visited Mrs. Levins many times. The warmth of her welcome on her first visit had resulted in a quick intimacy which, with an immediate estimate of certain needs by Rosalind, had brought her back in the rôle of Lady Bountiful. “Chuck” and “Sissy” Levins welcomed her vociferously as she splashed across the river to the door of the cabin this morning.

“You’re clean spoilin’ them, Miss Rosalind!” declared the mother, watching from the doorway; “they’ve got so they expect you to bring them a present every time you come.”

Sundry pats and kisses sufficed to assuage the pangs of disappointment suffered by the children, and shortly afterward Rosalind was inside the cabin, talking with Mrs. Levins, and watching Clay, who was painstakingly mending a breach in his cartridge belt.

Rosalind had seen Clay once only, and that at a distance, and she stole interested glances at him. There was a certain attraction in Clay’s lean face, with its cold, alert furtiveness, but it was an attraction that bred chill instead of warmth, for his face revealed a wild, reckless, intolerant spirit, remorseless, contemptuous of law and order. Several times she caught him watching her, and his narrowed, probing glances disconcerted her. She cut her visit short because of his presence, and when she rose to go he turned in his chair.

“You like this country, ma’am?”

“Well – yes. But it is much different, after the East.”

“Some smoother there, eh? Folks are slicker?”

She eyed him appraisingly, for there was an undercurrent of significance in his voice. She smiled. “Well – I suppose so. You see, competition is keener in the East, and it rather sharpens one’s wits, I presume.”

“H’m. I reckon you’re right. This railroad has brought some mighty slick ones here. Mighty slick an’ gally.” He looked at her truculently. “Corrigan’s one of the slick ones. Friend of yours, eh?”

“Clay!” remonstrated his wife, sharply.

He turned on her roughly. “You keep out of this! I ain’t meanin’ nothin’ wrong. But I reckon when anyone’s got a sneakin’ coyote for a friend an’ don’t know it, it’s doin’ ’em a good turn to spit things right out, frank an’ fair.

“This Corrigan ain’t on the level, ma’am. Do you know what he’s doin’? He’s skinnin’ the folks in this country out of about a hundred thousand acres of land. He’s clouded every damn title. He’s got a fake bill of sale to show that he bought the land years ago – which he didn’t – an’ he’s got a little beast of a judge here to back him up in his play. They’ve done away with the original record of the land, an’ rigged up another, which makes Corrigan’s title clear. It’s the rankest robbery that any man ever tried to pull off, an’ if he’s a friend of yourn you ought to cut him off your visitin’ list!”

“How do you know that? Who told you?” asked the girl, her face whitening, for the man’s vehemence and evident earnestness were convincing.

“‘Brand’ Trevison told me. It hits him mighty damned hard. He had a deed to his land. Corrigan broke open his office an’ stole it. Trevison’s certain sure his deed was on the record, for he went to Dry Bottom with Buck Peters – the man he bought the land from – an’ seen it wrote down on the record!” He laughed harshly. “There’s goin’ to be hell to pay here. Trevison won’t stand for it – though the other gillies are advisin’ caution. Caution hell! I’m for cleanin’ the scum out! Do you know what Corrigan done, yesterday? He got thirty or so deputies – pluguglies that he’s hired – an’ hid ’em behind some flat-cars down on the level where they’re erectin’ some minin’ machinery. He laid a trap for ‘Firebrand,’ expectin’ him to come down there, rippin’ mad because they was puttin’ the minin’ machinery up on his land, wi’out his permission. They was goin’ to shoot him – Corrigan put ’em up to it. That Carson fello’ heard it an’ put ‘Firebrand’ wise. An’ the shootin’ didn’t come off. But that’s only the beginnin’!”

“Did Trevison tell you to tell me this?” The girl was stunned, amazed, incredulous. For her father was concerned in this, and if he had any knowledge that Corrigan was stealing land – if he was stealing it – he was guilty as Corrigan. If he had no knowledge of it, she might be able to prevent the steal by communicating with him.

“Trevison tell me?” laughed Levins, scornfully; “‘Firebrand’ ain’t no pussy-kitten fighter which depends on women standin’ between him an’ trouble. I’m tellin’ you on my own hook, so’s that big stiff Corrigan won’t get swelled up, thinkin’ he’s got a chance to hitch up with you in the matrimonial wagon. That guy’s got murder in his heart, girl. Did you hear of me shootin’ that sneak, Marchmont?” The girl had heard rumors of the affair; she nodded, and Levins went on. “It was Corrigan that hired me to do it – payin’ me a thousand, cash.” His wife gasped, and he spoke gently to her. “That’s all right, Ma; it wasn’t no cold-blooded affair – Jim Marchmont knowed a sister of mine pretty intimate, when he was out here years ago, an’ I settled a debt that I thought I owed to her, that’s all. I ain’t none sorry, neither – I knowed him soon as Corrigan mentioned his name. But I hadn’t no time to call his attention to things – I had to plug him, sudden. I’m sorry I’ve said this, ma’am, now that it’s out,” he said in a changed voice, noting the girl’s distress; “but I felt you ought to know who you’re dealin’ with.”

Rosalind went out, swaying, her knees shaking. She heard Levins’ wife reproving him; heard the man replying gruffly. She felt that it must be so. She cared nothing about Corrigan, beyond a certain regret, but a wave of sickening fear swept over her at the growing conviction that her father must know something of all this. And if, as Levins said, Corrigan was attempting to defraud these people, she felt that common justice required that she head him off, if possible. By defeating Corrigan’s aim she would, of course, be aiding Trevison, and through him Hester Harvey, whom she had grown to despise, but that hatred should not deter her. She mounted her horse in a fever of anxiety and raced it over the plains toward Manti, determined to find Corrigan and force him to tell her the truth.

Half way to town she saw a rider coming, and she slowed her own horse, taking the rider to be Corrigan, coming to the Bar B. She saw her mistake when the rider was within a hundred feet of her. She blushed, then paled, and started to pass the rider without speaking, for it was Trevison. She looked up when he urged Nigger against her animal, blocking the trail, frowning.

“Look here,” he said; “what’s wrong? Why do you avoid me? I saw you on the Diamond K range the other day, and when I started to ride toward you you whipped up your horse. You tried to pass me just now. What have I done to deserve it?”

She could not tell him about Hester Harvey, of course, and so she was silent, blushing a little. He took her manner as an indication of guilt, and gritted his teeth with the pain that the discovery caused him, for he had been hoping, too – that his suspicions of her were groundless.

“I do not care to discuss the matter with you.” She looked fairly at him, her resentment flaming in her eyes, fiercely indignant over his effrontery in addressing her in that manner, after his affair with Hester Harvey. She was going to help him, but that did not mean that she was going to blind herself to his faults, or to accept them mutely. His bold confidence in himself – which she had once admired – repelled her now; she saw in it the brazen egotism of the gross sensualist, seeking new victims.

“I am in a hurry,” she said, stiffly; “you will pardon me if I proceed.”

He jumped Nigger off the trail and watched with gloomy, disappointed eyes, her rapid progress toward Manti. Then he urged Nigger onward, toward Levins’ cabin. “I’ll have to erect another monument to my faith in women,” he muttered. And certain reckless, grim thoughts that had rioted in his mind since the day before, now assumed a definiteness that made his blood leap with eagerness.

Later, when Rosalind sat opposite Corrigan at his desk, she found it hard to believe Levins’ story. The big man’s smooth plausibility made Levins’ recital seem like the weird imaginings of a disordered mind, goaded to desperation by opposition. And again, his magnetism, his polite consideration for her feelings, his ingenuous, smiling deference – so sharply contrasted with Trevison’s direct bluntness – swayed her, and she sat, perplexed, undecided, when he finished the explanation she had coldly demanded of him.

“It is the invariable defense of these squatters,” he added; “that they are being robbed. In this case they have embellished their hackneyed tale somewhat by dragging the court into it, and telling you that absurd story about the shooting of Marchmont. Could you tell me what possible interest I could have in wanting Marchmont killed? Don’t you think, Miss Rosalind, that Levins’ reference to his sister discloses the real reason for the man’s action? Levins’ story that I paid him a thousand dollars is a fabrication, pure and simple. I paid Jim Marchmont a thousand dollars that morning, which was the balance due him on our contract. The transaction was witnessed by Judge Lindman. After Marchmont was shot, Levins took the money from him.”

“Why wasn’t Levins arrested?”

“It seems that public opinion was with Levins. A great many people here knew of the ancient trouble between them.” He passed from that, quickly. “The tale of the robbery of Trevison’s office is childlike, for the reason that Trevison had no deed. Judge Lindman is an honored and respected official. And – ” he added as a last argument “ – your father is the respected head of a large and important railroad. Is it logical to suppose that he would lend his influence and his good name to any such ridiculous scheme?”

She sighed, almost convinced. Corrigan went on, earnestly:

“This man Trevison is a disturber – he has always been that. He has no respect for the law or property. He associates with the self-confessed murderer, Levins. He is a riotous, reckless, egotistical fool who, because the law stands in the way of his desires, wishes to trample it under foot and allow mob rule to take its place. Do you remember you mentioned that he once loved a woman named Hester Keyes? Well, he has brought Hester here – ”

She got up, her chin at a scornful angle. “I do not care to hear about his personal affairs.” She went out, mounted her horse, and rode slowly out the Bar B trail. From a window Corrigan watched her, and as she vanished into the distance he turned back to his desk, meditating darkly.

“Trevison put Levins up to that. He’s showing yellow.”

CHAPTER XX

AND RIDES AGAIN – IN VAIN

Rosalind’s reflections as she rode toward the Bar B convinced her that there had been much truth in Corrigan’s arraignment of Trevison. Out of her own knowledge of him, and from his own admission to her on the day they had ridden to Blakeley’s the first time, she adduced evidence of his predilection for fighting, of his utter disregard for accepted authority – when that authority disagreed with his conception of justice; of his lawlessness when his desires were in question. His impetuosity was notorious, for it had earned him the sobriquet “Firebrand,” which he could not have acquired except through the exhibition of those traits that she had enumerated.

She was disappointed and spiritless when she reached the ranchhouse, and very tired, physically. Agatha’s questions irritated her, and she ate sparingly of the food set before her, eager to be alone. In the isolation of her room she lay dumbly on the bed, and there the absurdity of Levins’ story assailed her. It must be as Corrigan had said – her father was too great a man to descend to such despicable methods. She dropped off to sleep.

When she awoke the sun had gone down, and her room was cheerless in the semi-dusk. She got up, washed, combed her hair, and much refreshed, went downstairs and ate heartily, Agatha watching her narrowly.

“You are distraught, my dear,” ventured her relative. “I don’t think this country agrees with you. Has anything happened?”

The girl answered evasively, whereat Agatha compressed her lips.