'Firebrand' Trevison
other side of the partition intervened, but above it he could see the form
of the deputy. The man was stretched out in a chair, sideways to the
crevice in the wall, sleeping. A grin of huge satisfaction spread over
Trevison's face.
His movements were very deliberate and cautious. But in a quarter of an
hour he had pulled the board out until an opening was made in the
partition, and then propping the board back with a chair he reached
through and slowly shoved the box on the other side back far enough to
admit his body. Crawling through, he rose on the other side, crossed the
floor carefully, kneeled at the drawer where Judge Lindman had concealed
the record, pulled it out and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers,
in front, his eyes glittering with exultation. Then he began to back
toward the opening in the partition. At the instant he was preparing to
stoop to crawl back into the bank building, the deputy in the chair
yawned, stretched and opened his eyes, staring stupidly at him. There was
no mistaking the dancing glitter in Trevison's eyes, no possible
misinterpretation of his tense, throaty whisper: "One chirp and you're a
dead one!" And the deputy stiffened in the chair, dumb with astonishment
and terror.
The deputy had not seen the opening in the partition, for it was partly
hidden from his view by the box which Trevison had encountered in
entering, and before the man had an opportunity to look toward the place,
Trevison commanded him again, in a sharp, cold whisper:
"Get up and turn your back to me--quick! Any noise and I'll plug you!
Move!"
The deputy obeyed. Then he received an order to walk to the door without
looking back. He readied the door--halted.
"Now open it and get out!"
The man did as bidden; diving headlong out into the darkness, swinging the
door shut behind him. His yell to his companions mingled with the roar of
Trevison's pistol as he shattered the kerosene lamp. The bullet hit the
neck of the glass bowl, a trifle below the burner, the latter describing a
parabola in the air and falling into the ruin of the bowl. The chimney
crashed, the flame from the wick touched the oil and flared up
brilliantly.
Trevison was half way through the wall by the time the oil ignited, and he
grinned coldly at the sight. Haste was important now. He slipped through
the opening, pulled the chair from between the board and wall, letting the
board snap back, and placing the chair against it. He felt certain that
the deputies would think that in some manner he had run their barricade
and entered the building through the door.
He heard voices outside, a fusillade of shots, the tinkle of breaking
glass; against the pine boards at his side came the wicked thud of
bullets, the splintering of wood as they tore through the partition and
embedded themselves in the outside wall. He ducked low and ran to the rear
door, swinging it open. Braman's body bothered him; he could not leave it
there, knowing the building would soon be in flames. He dragged the body
outside, to a point several feet distant from the building, dropping it at
last and standing erect for the first time to fill his lungs and look
about him. Looking back as he ran down the tracks toward the shed where he
had left Nigger, he saw shadowy forms of men running around the
courthouse, which was now dully illuminated, the light from within dancing
fitfully through the window shades. Flaming streaks rent the night from
various points--thinking him still in the building the deputies were
shooting through the windows. Manti, rudely awakened, was pouring its
population through its doors in streams. Shouts, hoarse, inquisitive,
drifted to Trevison's ears. Lights blazed up, flickering from windows like
giant fireflies. Doors slammed, dogs were barking, men were running.
Trevison laughed vibrantly as he ran. But his lips closed tightly when he
saw two or three shadowy figures darting toward him, coming from various
directions--one from across the street; another coming straight down the
railroad track, still another advancing from his right. He bowed his head
and essayed to pass the first figure. It reached out a hand and grasped
his shoulder, arresting his flight.
"What's up?"
"Let go, you damned fool!"
The man still clung to him. Trevison wrenched himself free and struck,
viciously. The man dropped with a startled cry. Another figure was upon
Trevison. He wanted no more trouble at that minute.
"Hell to pay!" he panted as the second man loomed close to him in the
darkness; "Trevison's in the courthouse!"
He heard the other gasp; saw him lunge forward. He struck again, bitterly,
and the man went to his knees. He was up again instantly, as Trevison fled
into the darkness, crying resonantly:
"This way, boys--here he is!"
"Corrigan!" breathed Trevison. He ducked as a flame-spurt split the night;
reaching a corner of the shed where he had left his horse as a succession
of reports rattled behind him. Corrigan was firing at him. He dared not
use his own pistol, lest its flash reveal his whereabouts, and he knew he
would have no chance against the odds that were against him. Nor was he
intent on murder. He flung himself into the saddle, and for the first time
since he had come into Trevison's possession Nigger knew the bite of spurs
earnestly applied. He snorted, leaped, and plunged forward, the clatter of
his hoofs bringing lancelike streaks of fire out of the surrounding
blackness. Behind him Trevison heard Corrigan raging impotently,
profanely. There came another scattering volley. Trevison reeled, caught
himself, and then hung hard to the saddle-horn, as Nigger fled into the
night, running as a coyote runs from the daylight.
CHAPTER XXIV
ANOTHER WOMAN LIES
Shortly before midnight Aunt Agatha Benham laid her book down, took off
her glasses, wiped her eyes and yawned. She sat for a time stretched out
in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, meditatively looking at the
flicker of the kerosene lamp, thinking of the conveniences she had given
up in order to chaperon a wilful girl who did not appreciate her services.
It was the selfishness of youth, she decided--nothing less. But still
Rosalind might understand what a sacrifice her aunt was making for her.
Thrilling with self-pity, she got up, blew out the light and ascended the
stairs to her room. She plumped herself in a chair at one of the front
windows before beginning to undress, that she might again feel the
delicious thrill, for that was the only consolation she got from a
contemplation of her sacrifice, Rosalind never offered her a word of
gratitude!
The thrill she anticipated was not the one she experienced--it was a
thrill of apprehension that seized her--for a glowing midnight sky met her
gaze as she stared in the direction of Manti, vast, extensive. In its
center, directly over the town, was a fierce white glare with off-shoots
of licking, leaping tongues of flame that reached skyward hungrily.
Agatha watched for one startled instant, and then she was in Rosalind's
room, leaning over the bed, shaking her. The girl got up, dressed in her
night clothes, and together they stood at one of the windows in the girl's
room, watching.
The fierce white center of the fire seemed to expand.
"It's a fire--in Manti!" said the girl. "See! Another building has caught!
Oh, I _do_ hope they can put it out!"
They stood long at the window. Once, when the glow grew more brilliant,
the girl exclaimed sharply, but after a time the light began to fade, and
she drew a breath of relief.
"They have it under control," she said.
"Well, come to bed," advised Agatha.
"Wait!" said the girl. She pressed her face against the window and peered
intently into the darkness. Then she threw up the sash, stuck her head out
and listened. She drew back, her face slowly whitening.
"Some one is coming, Aunty--and riding very fast!"
A premonition of tragedy, associated with the fire, had seized the girl at
her first glimpse of the light, though she had said nothing. The
appearance of a rider, approaching the house at breakneck speed had added
strength to her fears, and now, driven by the urge of apprehension that
had seized her she flitted out of the room before Agatha could restrain
her, and was down in the sitting-room in an instant, applying a match to
the lamp. As the light flared up she heard the thunder of hoofs just
outside the door, and she ran to it, throwing it open. She shrank back,
drawing her breath gaspingly, for the rider had dismounted and stepped
toward her, into the dim light of the open doorway.
"You!" she said.
A low laugh was her answer, and Trevison stepped over the threshold and
closed the door behind him. From the foot of the stairs Agatha saw him,
and she stood, nerveless and shaking with dread over the picture he made.
He had been more than forty-eight hours without sleep, the storm-center of
action had left its impression on him, and his face was gaunt and haggard,
with great, dark hollows under his eyes. The three or four days' growth of
beard accentuated the bold lines of his chin and jaw; his eyes were
dancing with the fires of passion; he held a Winchester rifle under his
right arm, the left, hanging limply at his side, was stained darkly. He
swayed as he stood looking at the girl, and smiled with faint derision at
the naked fear and wonder that had leaped into her eyes. But the derision
was tinged with bitterness, for this girl with both hands pressed over her
breast, heaving with the mingled emotions of modesty and dismay, was one
of the chief factors in the scheme to rob him. The knowledge hurt him
worse than the bullet which had passed through his arm. She had been
uppermost in his thoughts during his reckless ride from Manti, and he
would have cheerfully given his land, his ten years of labor, for the
assurance that she was innocent. But he knew guilt when he saw it, and
proof of it had been in her avoidance of him, in her ride to save
Corrigan's mining machinery, in her subsequent telling of his presence at
the butte on the night of the dynamiting, in her bitter declaration that
he ought to be punished for it. The case against her was strong. And yet
on his ride from Manti he had been irresistibly drawn toward the Bar B
ranchhouse. He had told himself as he rode that the impulse to visit her
this night was strong within him because on his way to the pueblo he was
forced to pass the house, but he knew better--he had lied to himself. He
wanted to talk with her again; he wanted to show her the land record,
which proved her fiance's guilt; he wanted to watch her as she looked at
the record, to learn from her face--what he might find there.
He stood the rifle against the wall near the door, while the girl and her
aunt watched him, breathlessly. His voice was vibrant and hoarse, but well
under control, and he smiled with straight lips as he set the rifle down
and drew the record from his waistband.
"I've something to show you, Miss Benham. I couldn't pass the house
without letting you know what has happened." He opened the book and
stepped to her side, swinging his left hand up, the index finger
indicating a page on which his name appeared.
"Look!" he said, sharply, and watched her face closely. He saw her cheeks
blanch, and set his lips grimly.
"Why," she said, after she had hurriedly scanned the page; "it seems to
prove your title! But this is a court record, isn't it?" She examined the
gilt lettering on the back of the volume, and looked up at him with wide,
luminous eyes. "Where did you get that book?"
"From the courthouse."
"Why, I thought people weren't permitted to take court records--"
"I've taken this one," he laughed.
She looked at the blood on his hand, shudderingly. "Why," she said;