'Firebrand' Trevison
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.
"Don't you think that a trip East--"
"I shall not go home this summer!" declared Rosalind, vehemently. And
noting the flash in the girl's eyes, belligerent and defiant; her swelling
breast, the warning brilliance of her eyes, misty with pent-up emotion,
Agatha wisely subsided and the meal was finished in a strained silence.
Later, Rosalind went out, alone, upon the porch where, huddled in a big
rocker, she gazed gloomily at the lights of Manti, dim and distant.
Something of the turmoil and the tumult of the town in its young strength
and vigor, assailed her, contrasting sharply with the solemn peace of her
own surroundings. Life had been a very materialistic problem to her,
heretofore. She had lived it according to her environment, a mere
onlooker, detached from the scheme of things. Something of the meaning of
life trickled into her consciousness as she sat there watching the
flickering lights of the town--something of the meaning of it all--the
struggle of these new residents twanged a hidden chord of sympathy and
understanding in her. She was able to visualize them as she sat there.
Faces flashed before her--strong, stern, eager; the owner of each a-thrill
with his ambition, going forward in the march of progress with definite
aim, planning, plotting, scheming--some of them winning, others losing,
but all obsessed with a feverish desire of success. The railroad, the
town, the ranches, the new dam, the people--all were elements of a
conflict, waged ceaselessly. She sat erect, her blood tingling. Blows were
being struck, taken.
"Oh," she cried, sharply; "it's a game! It's the spirit of the nation--to
fight, to press onward, to win!" And in that moment she was seized with a
throbbing sympathy for Trevison, and filled with a yearning that he might
win, in spite of Corrigan, Hester Harvey, and all the others--even her
father. For he was a courageous player of this "game." In him was typified
the spirit of the nation.
* * * * *
Rosalind might have added something to her thoughts had she known of the
passions that filled Trevison when, while she sat on the porch of the Bar
B ranchhouse, he mounted Nigger and sent him scurrying through the mellow
moonlight toward Manti. He was playing the "game," with justice as his
goal. The girl had caught something of the spirit of it all, but she had
neglected to grasp the all-important element of the relations between men,
without which laws, rules, and customs become farcical and ridiculous. He
was determined to have justice. He knew well that Judge Graney's mission
to Washington would result in failure unless the deed to his property
could be recovered, or the original record disclosed. Even then, with a
weak and dishonest judge on the bench the issue might be muddled by a mass
of legal technicalities. The court order permitting Braman to operate a
mine on his property goaded him to fury.
He stopped at Hanrahan's saloon, finding Lefingwell there and talking with
him for a few minutes. Lefingwell's docile attitude disgusted him--he said
he had talked the matter over with a number of the other owners, and they
had expressed themselves as being in favor of awaiting the result of his
appeal. He left Lefingwell, not trusting himself to argue the question of
the man's attitude, and went down to the station, where he found a
telegram awaiting him. It was from Judge Graney:
Coming home. Case sent back to Circuit Court for hearing. Depend on
you to get evidence.
Trevison crumpled the paper and shoved it savagely into a pocket. He stood
for a long time on the station platform, in the dark, glowering at the
lights of the town, then started abruptly and made his way into the
gambling room of the _Plaza_, where he somberly watched the players. The
rattle of chips, the whir of the wheel, the monotonous drone of the faro
dealer, the hum of voices, some eager, some tense, others exultant or
grumbling, the incessant jostling, irritated him. He went out the front
door, stepped down into the street, and walked eastward. Passing an open
space between two buildings he became aware of the figure of a woman, and
he wheeled as she stepped forward and grasped his arm. He recognized her
and tried to pass on, but she clung to him.
"Trev!" she said, appealingly; "I want to talk with you. It's very
important--really. Just a minute, Trev. Won't you talk _that_ long! Come
to my room--where--"
"Talk fast," he admonished, holding her off,"--and talk here."
She struggled with him, trying to come closer, twisting so that her body
struck his, and the contact brought a grim laugh out of him. He seized her
by the shoulders and held her at arm's length. "Talk from there--it's
safer. Now, if you've anything important--"
"O Trev--please--" She laughed, almost sobbing, but forced the tears back
when she saw derision blazing in his eyes.
"I told you it was all over!" He pushed her away and started off, but he
had taken only two steps when she was at his side again.
"I saw you from my window, Trev. I--I knew it was you--I couldn't mistake
you, anywhere. I followed you--saw you go into the _Plaza_. I came to warn
you. Corrigan has planned to goad you into doing some rash thing so that
he will have an excuse to jail or kill you!"
"Where did you hear that?"
"I--I just heard it. I was in the bank today, and I overheard him talking
to a man--some officer, I think. Be careful, Trev--very careful, won't
you?"
"Careful as I can," he laughed, lowly. "Thank you." He started on again,
and she grasped his arm. "Trev," she pleaded.
"What's the use, Hester?" he said; "it can't be."
"Well, God bless you, anyway, dear," she said chokingly.
He passed on, leaving her in the shadows of the buildings, and walked far
out on the plains. Making a circuit to avoid meeting the woman again, he
skirted the back yards, stumbling over tin cans and debris in his
progress. When he got to the shed where he had hitched Nigger he mounted
and rode down the railroad tracks toward the cut, where an hour later he
was joined by Clay Levins, who came toward him, riding slowly and
cautiously.
* * * * *
Patrick Carson had wooed sleep unsuccessfully. For hours he lay on his cot
in the tent, staring out through the flap at the stars. A vague unrest had
seized him. He heard the hilarious din of Manti steadily decrease in
volume until only intermittent noises reached his ears. But even when
comparative peace came he was still wide awake.
"I'll be gettin' the willies av I lay here much longer widout slape," he
confided to his pillow. "Mebbe a turn down the track wid me dujeen wud do
the thrick." He got up, lighted his pipe and strode off into the
semi-gloom of the railroad track. He went aimlessly, paying little
attention to objects around him. He passed the tents wherein the laborers
lay--and smiled as heavy snores smote his ears. "They slape a heap harder
than they worruk, bedad!" he observed, grinning. "Nothin' c'ud trouble a
ginney's conscience, annyway," he scoffed. "But, accordin' to that they
must be a heap on me own!" Which observation sent his thoughts to
Corrigan. "Begob, there's a man! A domned rogue, if iver they was one!"
He passed the tents, smoking thoughtfully. He paused when he came to the
small buildings scattered about at quite a distance from the tents, then
left the tracks and made his way through the deep alkali dust toward
them.
"Whativer wud Corrigan be askin' about the dynamite for? 'How much do ye
kape av it?' he was askin'. As if it was anny av his business!"
He stopped puffing at his pipe and stood rigid, watching with bulging
eyes, for he saw the door of the dynamite shed move outward several
inches, as though someone inside had shoved it. It closed again, slowly,
and Carson was convinced that he had been seen. He was no coward, but a
cold sweat broke out on him and his knees doubled weakly. For any man who
would visit the dynamite shed around midnight, in this stealthy manner,
must be in a desperate frame of mind, and Carson's virile imagination drew
lurid pictures of a gun duel in which a stray shot penetrated the wall of
the shed. He shivered at the roar of the explosion that followed; he even
drew a gruesome picture of stretchers and mangled flesh that brought a
groan out of him.
But in spite of his mental stress he lunged forward, boldly, though his
breath wheezed from his lungs in great gasps. His body lagged, but his
will was indomitable, once he quit looking at the pictures of his