'Firebrand' Trevison
If Trevison heard his first words he had paid no attention to them. He
could not have heard the last words, for Nigger had lunged forward,
running with great, long, catlike leaps in the direction of Manti.
"Good God!" yelled Barkwell to some of the men who had ridden up; "the
damn fool is goin' to town! They'll salivate him, sure as hell! Some of
you stay here--two's enough! The rest of you come along with me!"
They were after Trevison within a few seconds, but the black horse was far
ahead, running without hitch or stumble, as straight toward Manti as his
willing muscles and his loyal heart could take him.
* * * * *
Corrigan had seen the black bolt that had rushed toward him out of the
spot where the blot had been. He cursed hoarsely and drove the spurs deep
into the flanks of his horse, and the animal, squealing with pain and
fury, leaped down the side of the arroyo, crossed the bottom in two or
three bounds and stretched away toward Manti.
A cold fear had seized the big man's heart. It made a sweat break out on
his forehead, it caused his hand to tremble as he flung it around to his
hip in search of his pistol. He tried to shake the feeling off, but it
clung insistently to him, making him catch his breath. His horse was big,
rangy, and strong, but he forced it to such a pace during the first mile
of the ride that he could feel its muscles quivering under the saddle
skirts. And he looked back at the end of the mile, to see the black horse
at about the same distance from him; possibly the distance had been
shortened. It seemed to Corrigan that he had never seen a horse that
traveled as smoothly and evenly as the big black, or that ran with as
little effort. He began to loathe the black with an intensity equaled only
by that which he felt for his rider.
He held his lead for another mile. Glancing back a little later he noted
with a quickening pulse that the distance had been shortened by several
hundred feet, and that the black seemed to be traveling with as little
effort as ever. Also, for the first time, Corrigan noticed the presence of
other riders, behind Trevison. They were topping a slight rise at the
instant he glanced back, and were at least a mile behind his pursuer.
At first, mingled with his fear, Corrigan had felt a slight disgust for
himself in yielding to his sudden panic. He had never been in the habit of
running. He had been as proud of his courage as he had been of his
cleverness and his keenness in planning and plotting. It had been his
mental boast that in every crisis his nerve was coldest. But now he nursed
a vagrant, furtive hope that waiting for him at Manti would be some of
those men whom he had hired at his own expense to impersonate deputies.
The presence of the hope was as inexplicable as the fear that had set him
to running from Trevison. Two or three weeks ago he would have faced both
Trevison and his men and brazened it out. But of late a growing dread of
the man had seized him. Never before had he met a man who refused to be
beaten, or who had fought him as recklessly and relentlessly.
He jeered at himself as he rode, telling himself that when Trevison got
near enough he would stand and have it out with him--for he knew that the
fight had narrowed down between them until it was as Trevison had said,
man to man--but as he rode his breath came faster, his backward glances
grew more frequent and fearful, and the cold sweat on his forehead grew
clammy. Fear, naked and shameful, had seized him.
* * * * *
Behind him, lean, gaunt, haggard; seeing nothing but the big man ahead of
him, feeling nothing but an insane desire to maim or slay him, rode a man
who in forty-eight hours had been transformed from a frank, guileless,
plain-speaking human, to a rage-drunken savage--a monomaniac who, as he
leaned over Nigger's mane, whispered and whined and mewed, as his
forebears, in some tropical jungle, voiced their passions when they set
forth to slay those who had sought to despoil them.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE DREGS
When the Benham private car came to a stop on the switch, Rosalind swung
up the steps and upon the platform just as J. C., ruddy, smiling and
bland, opened the door. She was in his arms in an instant, murmuring her
joy. He stroked her hair, then held her off for a good look at her, and
inquired, unctuously:
"What are you doing in town so early, my dear?"
"Oh!" She hid her face on his shoulder, reluctant to tell him. But she
knew he must be told, and so she steeled herself, stepping back and
looking at him, her heart pounding madly.
"Father; these people have discovered that Corrigan has been trying to
cheat them!"
She would have gone on, but the sickly, ghastly pallor of his face
frightened her. She swayed and leaned against the railing of the platform,
a sinking, deadly apprehension gnawing at her, for it seemed from the
expression of J. C.'s face that he had some knowledge of Corrigan's
intentions. But J. C. had been through too many crises to surrender at the
first shot in this one. Still he got a good grip on himself before he
attempted to answer, and then his voice was low and intoned with casual
surprise:
"Trying to cheat them? How, my dear?"
"By trying to take their land from them. You had no knowledge of it,
Father?"
"Who has been saying that?" he demanded, with a fairly good pretense of
righteous anger.
"Nobody. But I thought--I--Oh, thank God!"
"Well, well," he bluffed with faint reproach; "things are coming to a
pretty pass when one's own daughter is the first to suspect him of
wrong-doing."
"I didn't, Father. I was merely--I don't know what I _did_ think! There
has been so much excitement! Everything is _so_ upset! They have blown up
the mining machinery, burned the bank and the courthouse; Judge Lindman
was abducted and found; Braman was killed--choked to death; the Vigilantes
are--"
"Good God!" Benham interrupted her, staggering back against the rear of
the coach. "Who has been at the bottom of all this lawlessness?"
"Trevison."
He gasped, in spite of the fact that he had suspected what her answer
would be.
"Where is Corrigan? Where's Trevison?" He demanded, his hands shaking.
"Answer me! Where are they?"
"I don't know," the girl returned, dully. "They say Trevison is hiding in
a pueblo not far from the Bar B. And that Corrigan left here early this
morning, with a number of deputies, to try to capture him. And those
men--" She indicated the horsemen gathered in front of the _Belmont_, whom
he had not seen, "are organizing to go to Trevison's rescue. They have
discovered that Corrigan murdered Braman, though Corrigan accused
Trevison."
J. C. flattened himself against the rear wall of the coach and looked with
horror upon the armed riders. There were forty or fifty of them now, and
others were joining the group. "Where's Judge Lindman?" he faltered.
"Can't this lawlessness be stopped?"
"It is only a few minutes ago that Judge Lindman was dragged from a shed
into which he had been forced by Corrigan--after being beaten by him. He
made a public confession of his part in the attempted fraud, and charged
Corrigan with coercing him. Those men are aroused, Father. I don't know
what the end will be, but I am afraid--I'm afraid they'll--"
"I shall give the engineer orders to pull my car out of here!" J. C.'s
face was chalky white.
"No, no!" cried the girl, sharply. "That would make them think you
were--Don't _run_, Father!" she begged, omitting the word which she
dreaded to think might become attached to him should he go away, now that
some of them had seen him. "We'll stand our ground, Father. If Corrigan
has done those things he deserves to be punished!" Her lips, white and
stiff, closed firmly.
"Yes, yes," he said; "that's right--we won't run." But he drew her inside,
despite her objections, and from a window they watched the members of the
Vigilantes gathering, bristling with weapons, a sinister and ominous arm
of that law which is the dread and horror of the evil-doer.
There came a movement, concerted, accompanied by a low rumble as of waves
breaking on a rocky shore. It brought the girl out of her chair, through
the door and upon the car platform, where she stood, her hands clasped
over her breast, her breath coming gaspingly. His knees knocking together,
his face the ashen gray of death, Benham stumbled after her. He did not
want to go; did not care to see this thing--what might happen--what his
terror told him _would_ happen; but he was forced out upon the platform by
the sheer urge of a morbid curiosity that there was no denying; it had
laid hold of his soul, and though he cringed and shivered and tottered, he
went out, standing close to the iron rail, gripping it with hands that
grew blueish-white around the knuckles; watching with eyes that bulged,
his lips twitching over soundless words. For he could not hold himself
guiltless in this thing; it could not have happened had he tempered his
smug complacence with thoughts of justice. He groaned, gibbering, for he
stood on the brink at this minute, looking down at the lashing sea of
retribution.
The girl paid no attention to him. She was watching the men down the
street. The concerted movement had come from them. Nearly a hundred riders
were on the move. Lefingwell, huge, grim, led them down the street toward
the private car. For an instant the girl felt a throb of terror, thinking
that they might have designs on the man who stood at the railing near her,
unable to move--for he had the same thought. She murmured thankfully when
they wheeled, and without looking in her direction loped their horses
toward a wide, vacant space between some buildings, which led out into the
plains, and through which she had ridden often when entering Manti.
Watching the men, shuddering at the ominous aspect they presented, she saw
a tremor run through them--as though they all formed one body. They came
to a sudden stop. She heard a ripple of sound arise from them, amazement
and anticipation. And then, as though with preconcerted design, though she
had heard no word spoken, the group divided, splitting asunder with a
precision that deepened the conviction of preconcertedness, ranging
themselves on each side of the open space, leaving it gaping barrenly,
unobstructed--a stretch of windrowed alkali dust, deep, light and
feathery.
Silence, like a stroke, fell over the town. The girl saw people running
toward the open space, but they seemed to make no noise--they might have
been dream people. And then, noting that they all stared in one direction,
she looked over their heads. Not more than four or five hundred feet from
the open space, and heading directly toward it, thundered a rider on a
tall, strong, rangy horse. The beast's chest was foam-flecked, the white
lather that billowed around its muzzle was stained darkly. But it came on
with heart-breaking effort, giving its rider its all. Behind the first
rider came a second, not more than fifty feet distant from the other, on a
black horse which ran with no effort, seemingly, sliding along with great,
smooth undulations, his mighty muscles flowing like living things under
his glossy, somber coat.
The girl saw the man on his back leaning forward, a snarling, terrible
grin on his face. She saw the first rider wheel when he reached the edge
of the open space near the waiting Vigilantes, bring his horse to a
sliding halt and face toward his pursuer. He clawed at a hip pocket,
drawing a pistol that flashed in the first rays of the morning sun--it
belched fire and smoke in a continuous stream, seemingly straight at the
rider of the black horse. One--two--three--four--five--six times! The girl