'Firebrand' Trevison
great jam around Trevison; he was shaking hands right and left. Voices
shouted that he was "all there!" As he started away he was forced to shove
his way through the press around him.
Benham had been watching closely this evidence of Trevison's popularity;
he linked it with some words that his daughter had written to him
regarding the man, and as a thought formed in his mind he spoke it.
"I'd reconsider about hooking up with that man Trevison, Corrigan. He's
one of those fellows that win popularity easily, and it won't do you any
good to antagonize him."
"That's all right," laughed Corrigan, coldly.
CHAPTER XI
FOR THE "KIDDIES"
Trevison dropped from Nigger at the dooryard of Levins' cabin, and looked
with a grim smile at Levins himself lying face downward across the saddle
on his own pony. He had carried Levins out of the _Belmont_ and had thrown
him, as he would have thrown a sack of meal, across the saddle, where he
had lain during the four-mile ride, except during two short intervals in
which Trevison had lifted him off and laid him flat on the ground, to
rest. Trevison had meditated, not without a certain wry humor, upon the
strength and the protracted potency of Manti's whiskey, for not once
during his home-coming had Levins shown the slightest sign of returning
consciousness. He was as slack as a meal sack now, as Trevison lifted him
from the pony's back and let him slip gently to the ground at his feet. A
few minutes later, Trevison was standing in the doorway of the cabin, his
burden over his shoulder, the weak glare of light from within the cabin
stabbing the blackness of the night and revealing him to the white-faced
woman who had answered his summons.
Her astonishment had been of the mute, agonized kind; her eyes, hollow,
eloquent with unspoken misery and resignation, would have told Trevison
that this was not the first time, had he not known from personal
observation. She stood watching, gulping, shame and mortification bringing
patches of color into her cheeks, as Trevison carried Levins into a
bedroom and laid him down, removing his boots. She was standing near the
door when Trevison came out of the bedroom; she was facing the blackness
of the desert night--a blacker future, unknowingly--and Trevison halted on
the threshold of the bedroom door and set his teeth in sympathy. For the
woman deserved better treatment. He had known her for several years--since
the time when Levins, working for him, had brought her from a ranch on the
other side of the Divide, announcing their marriage. It had been a
different Levins, then, as it was a different wife who stood at the door
now. She had faded; the inevitable metamorphosis wrought by neglect, worry
and want, had left its husks--a wan, tired-looking woman of thirty who had
only her hopes to nourish her soul. There were children, too--if that were
any consolation. Trevison saw them as he glanced around the cabin. They
were in another bed; through an archway he could see their chubby faces.
His lungs filled and his lips straightened.
But he grinned presently, in an effort to bring cheer into the cabin,
reaching into a pocket and bringing out the money he had recovered for
Levins.
"There are nearly a thousand dollars here. Two tin-horn gamblers tried to
take it from Clay, but I headed them off. Tell Clay--"
Mrs. Levins' face whitened; it was more money than she had ever seen at
one time.
"Clay's?" she interrupted, perplexedly. "Why, where--"
"I haven't the slightest idea--but he had it, they tried to take it away
from him--it's here now--it belongs to you." He shoved it into her hands
and stepped back, smiling at the stark wonder and joy in her eyes. He saw
the joy vanish--concern and haunting worry came into her eyes.
"They told me that Clay shot--killed--a man yesterday. Is it true?" She
cast a fearing look at the bed where the children lay.
"The damned fools!"
"Then it's true!" She covered her face with her hands, the money in them.
Then she took the hands away and looked at the money in them, loathingly.
"Do you think Clay--"
"No!" he said shortly, anticipating. "That couldn't be. For the man Clay
killed had this money on him. Clay accused him of picking his pocket. Clay
gave the bartender in the _Plaza_ the number of each bill before he saw
them after taking the bills out of the pickpocket's clothing. So it can't
be as you feared."
She murmured incoherently and pressed both hands to her breast. He laughed
and walked to the door.
"Well, you need it, you and the kiddies. I'm glad to have been of some
service to you. Tell Clay he owes me something for cartage. If there is
anything I can do for you and Clay and the kiddies I'd be only too glad."
"Nothing--now," said the woman, gratitude shining from her eyes, mingling
with a worried gleam. "Oh!" she added, passionately; "if Clay was only
different! Can't you help him to be strong, Mr. Trevison? Like you? Can't
you be with him more, to try to keep him straight for the sake of the
children?"
"Clay's odd, lately," Trevison frowned. "He seems to have changed a lot.
I'll do what I can, of course." He stepped out of the door and then looked
back, calling: "I'll put Clay's pony away. Good night." And the darkness
closed around him.
* * * * *
Over at Blakeley's ranch, J. C. Benham had just finished an inspection of
the interior and had sank into the depths of a comfortable chair facing
his daughter. Blakeley and his wife had retired, the deal that would place
the ranch in possession of Benham having been closed. J. C. gazed
critically at his daughter.
"Like it here, eh?" he said. "Well, you look it." He shook a finger at
her. "Agatha has been writing to me rather often, lately," he added. There
followed no answer and J. C. went on, narrowing his eyes at the girl. "She
tells me that this fellow who calls himself 'Brand' Trevison has proven
himself a--shall we say, persistent?--escort on your trips of inspection
around the ranch."
Rosalind's face slowly crimsoned.
"H'm," said Benham.
"I thought Corrigan--" he began. The girl's eyes chilled.
"H'm," said Benham, again.
CHAPTER XII
EXPOSED TO THE SUNLIGHT
It was a month before Trevison went to town, again. Only once during that
time did he see Rosalind Benham, for the Blakeleys had vacated, and goods
and servants had arrived from the East and needed attention. Rosalind
presided at the Bar B ranchhouse, under Agatha's chaperonage, and she had
invited Trevison to visit her whenever the mood struck him. He had been in
the mood many times, but had found no opportunity, for the various
activities of range work claimed his attention. After a critical survey of
Manti and vicinity, J. C. had climbed aboard his private car to be whisked
to New York, where he reported to his Board of Directors that Manti would
one day be one of the greatest commercial centers of the West.
Vague rumors of a legal tangle involving the land around Manti had reached
Trevison's ears, and this morning he had jumped on Nigger, determined to
run the rumors down. He made a wide swing, following the river, which took
him miles from his own property and into the enormous basin which one day
the engineers expected to convert into a mammoth lake from which the
thirst of many dry acres of land was to be slaked; and halting Nigger near
the mouth of the gorge, watched the many laborers, directed by various
grades of bosses, at work building the foundation of the dam. Later, he
crossed the basin, followed the well-beaten trail up the slope to the
level, and shortly he was in Hanrahan's saloon across the street from
Braman's bank, listening to the plaint of Jim Lefingwell, the Circle Cross
owner, whose ranch was east of town. Lefingwell was big, florid, and
afflicted with perturbation that was almost painful. So exercised was he
that he was at times almost incoherent.
"She's boomin', ain't she? Meanin' this man's town, of course. An' a man's
got a right to cash in on a boom whenever he gits the chance. Well, I'd
figgered to cash in. I ain't no hawg an' I got savvy enough to perceive
without the aid of any damn fortune-teller that cattle is done in this
country--considered as the main question. I've got a thousand acres of
land--which I paid for in spot cash to Dick Kessler about eight years ago.
If Dick was here he'd back me up in that. But he ain't here--the doggone
fool went an' died about four years ago, leavin' me unprotected. Well,
now, not digressin' any, I gits the idea that I'm goin' to unload
consid'able of my thousand acres on the sufferin' fools that's yearnin' to
come into this country an' work their heads off raisin' alfalfa an' hawgs,
an' cabbages an' sons with Pick-a-dilly collars to be eddicated East an'
come back home some day an' lift the mortgage from the old
homestead--which job they always falls down on--findin' it more to their
likin' to mortgage their souls to buy jew'l'ry for fast wimmin. Well, not
digressin' any, I run a-foul of a guy last week which was dead set on
investin' in ten acres of my land, skirtin' one of the irrigation ditches
which they're figgerin' on puttin' in. The price I wanted was a heap
satisfyin' to the guy. But he suggests that before he forks over the coin
we go down to the courthouse an' muss up the records to see if my title is
clear. Well, not digressin' any, she ain't! She ain't even nowheres clear
a-tall--she ain't even there! She's wiped off, slick an' clean! There
ain't a damned line to show that I ever bought my land from Dick Kessler,
an' there ain't nothin' on no record to show that Dick Kessler ever owned
it! What in hell do you think of that?
"Now, not digressin' any," he went on as Trevison essayed to speak; "that
ain't the worst of it. While I was in there, talkin' to Judge Lindman,
this here big guy that you fit with--Corrigan--comes in. I gathers from
the trend of his remarks that I never had a legal title to my land--that
it belongs to the guy which bought it from the Midland Company--which is
him. Now what in hell do you think of that?"
"I knew Dick Kessler," said Trevison, soberly. "He was honest."
"Square as a dollar!" violently affirmed Lefingwell.
"It's too bad," sympathized Trevison. "That places you in a mighty bad
fix. If there's anything I can do for you, why--"
"Mr. 'Brand' Trevison?" said a voice at Trevison's elbow. Trevison turned,
to see a short, heavily built man smiling mildly at him.
"I'm a deputy from Judge Lindman's court," announced the man. "I've got a
summons for you. Saw you coming in here--saves me a trip to your place."
He shoved a paper into Trevison's hands, grinned, and went out. For an
instant Trevison stood, looking after the man, wondering how, since the
man was a stranger to him, he had recognized him--and then he opened the
paper to discover that he was ordered to appear before Judge Lindman the
following day to show cause why he should not be evicted from certain
described property held unlawfully by him. The name, Jefferson Corrigan,
appeared as plaintiff in the action.
Lefingwell was watching Trevison's face closely, and when he saw it
whiten, he muttered, understandingly:
"You've got it, too, eh?"
"Yes." Trevison shoved the paper into a pocket. "Looks like you're not
going to be skinned alone, Lefingwell. Well, so-long; I'll see you
later."
He strode out, leaving Lefingwell slightly stunned over his abrupt
leave-taking. A minute later he was in the squatty frame courthouse,
towering above Judge Lindman, who had been seated at his desk and who had
risen at his entrance.
Trevison shoved the summons under Lindman's nose.
"I just got this," he said. "What does it mean?"
"It is perfectly understandable," the Judge smiled with forced affability.