'Firebrand' Trevison
"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?"