'Firebrand' Trevison
counted. But the first man's hand wabbled, and the rider of the black
horse came on like a demon astride a black bolt, a laugh of bitter
derision on his lips. The black did not swerve. Straight and true in his
headlong flight he struck the other horse. They went down in a smother of
dust, the two horses grunting, scrambling and kicking. The girl had seen
the rider of the black horse lunge forward at the instant of impact; he
had thrown himself at the other man as she had seen football players
launch themselves at players of the opposition, and they had both reeled
out of their saddles to disappear in the smother of dust.
Men left the fringe of the living wall flanking the open space and seized
the two horses, leading them away. The smother drifted, and the girl
screamed at sight of the two raging things that rolled and burrowed in the
deep dust of the street.
* * * * *
They got up as she watched them, springing apart hesitating for an awful
instant to sob breath into their lungs; then they rushed together,
striking bitter, sledge-hammer blows that sounded like the smashing of
flat rocks, falling from a great height, on the surface of water. She
shrieked once, wildly, beseeching someone to stop them, but no man paid
any attention to her cry. They sat on their horses, silent, tense, grim,
and she settled into a coma of terror, an icy paralysis gripping her. She
heard her father muttering incoherently at her side, droning and puling
something over and over in a wailing monotone--she caught it after a
while; he was calling upon his God--in an hour that could not have been
were it not for his own moral flaccidness.
The dust under the feet of the fighting men leveled under their shifting,
dragging feet; it bore the print of their bodies where they had lain and
rolled in it; erupting volcanoes belched it heavily upward; it caught and
gripped their legs to the ankles, making their movements slow and sodden.
This condition favored the larger man. He lashed out a heavy fist that
caught Trevison full and fair on the jaw, and the latter's face turned
ashy white as he sank to his knees. Corrigan stopped to catch his breath
before he hurled himself forward, and this respite, brief as it was,
helped the other to shake off the deadening effect of the blow. He moved
his head slightly as Corrigan swung at it, and the blow missed, its force
pulling the big man off his feet, so that he tumbled headlong over his
adversary. He was up again in a flash though, for he was fresher than his
enemy. They clinched, and stood straining, matching strength against
strength, sheer, without trickery, for the madness of murder was in the
heart of one and the desperation of fear in the soul of the other, and
they thought of nothing but to crush and batter and pound.
Corrigan's strength was slightly the greater, but it was offset by the
other's fury. In the clinch the big man's right hand came up, the heel of
the palm shoved with malignant ferocity against Trevison's chin.
Corrigan's left arm was around Trevison's waist, squeezing it like a vise,
and the whole strength of Corrigan's right arm was exerted to force the
other's head back. Trevison tried to slip his head sideways to escape the
hold, but the effort was fruitless. Changing his tactics, his breath
lagging in his throat from the terrible pressure on it, Trevison worked
his right hand into the other's stomach with the force and regularity of a
piston rod. The big man writhed under the punishment, dropping his hand
from Trevison's chin to his waist, swung him from his feet and threw him
from him as a man throws a bag of meal.
He was after him before he landed, but the other writhed and wriggled in
the air like a cat, and when the big man reached for him, trying again to
clinch, he evaded the arm and landed a crushing blow on the other's chin
that snapped his head back as though it were swung from a hinge, and sent
him reeling, to his knees in the dust.
The watching girl saw the ring of men around the fighters contract; she
saw Trevison dive headlong at the kneeling man; with fingers working in a
fury of impotence she swayed at the iron rail, leaning far over it, her
eyes strained, her breath bated, constricting her lungs as though a steel
band were around them. For she seemed to feel that the end was near.
She saw them, locked in each other's embrace, stagger to their feet.
Corrigan's head was wabbling. He was trying to hold the other to him that
he might escape the lashing blows that were driven at his head. The girl
saw his hold broken, and as he reeled, catching another blow in the mouth,
he swung toward her and she saw that his lips were smashed, the blood from
them trickling down over his chin. There was a gleam of wild, despairing
terror in his eyes--revealing the dawning consciousness of approaching
defeat, complete and terrible. She saw Trevison start another blow,
swinging his fist upward from his knee. It landed with a sodden squish on
the big man's jaw. His eyes snapped shut, and he dropped soundlessly, face
down in the dust.
For a space Trevison stood, swaying drunkenly, looking down at his beaten
enemy. Then he drew himself erect with a mighty effort and swept the crowd
with a glance, the fires of passion still leaping and smoldering in his
eyes. He seemed for the first time to see the Vigilantes, to realize the
significance of their presence, and as he wheeled slowly his lips parted
in a grin of bitter satisfaction. He staggered around the form of his
fallen enemy, his legs bending at the knees, his feet dragging in the
dust. It seemed to the girl that he was waiting for Corrigan to get up
that he might resume the fight, and she cried out protestingly. He wheeled
at the sound of her voice and faced her, rocking back and forth on his
heels and toes, and the glow of dull astonishment in his eyes told her
that he was now for the first time aware of her presence. He bowed to her,
gravely, losing his balance in the effort, reeling weakly to recover it.
And then a crush of men blotted him out--the ring of Vigilantes had closed
around him. She saw Barkwell lunging through the press to gain Trevison's
side; she got a glimpse of him a minute later, near Trevison. The street
had become a sea of jostling, shoving men and prancing horses. She wanted
to get away--somewhere--to shut this sight from her eyes. For though one
horror was over, another impended. She knew it, but could not move. A
voice boomed hoarsely, commandingly, above the buzz of many others--it was
Lefingwell's, and she cringed at the sound of it. There was a concerted
movement; the Vigilantes were shoving the crowd back, clearing a space in
the center. In the cleared space two men were lifting Corrigan to his
feet. He was reeling in their grasp, his chin on his chest, his face
dust-covered, disfigured, streaked with blood. He was conquered, his
spirit broken, and her heart ached with pity for him despite her horror
for his black deeds. The loop of a rope swung out as she watched; it fell
with a horrible swish over Corrigan's head and was drawn taut, swiftly,
and a hoarse roar of approval drowned her shriek.
She heard Trevison's voice, muttering in protest, but his words, like her
shriek, were lost in the confusion of sound. She saw him fling his arms
wide, sending Barkwell and another man reeling from him; he reached for
the pistol at his side and leveled it at the crowd. Those nearest him
shrank, their faces blank with fear and astonishment. But the man with the
rope stood firm, as did Lefingwell, grim, his face darkening with wrath.
"This is the law actin' here, 'Firebrand,'" he said, his voice level.
"You've done your bit, an' you're due to step back an' let justice take a
hand. This here skunk has outraged every damned rule of decency an' honor.
He's tried to steal all our land; he's corrupted our court, nearly guzzled
Judge Lindman to death, killed Braman--an' Barkwell says the bunch of
pluguglies he hired to pose as deputies, has killed Clay Levins an' four
or five of the Diamond K men. That's plenty. We'd admire to give in to
you. We'll do anything else you say. But this has got to be done."
While Lefingwell had been talking two of the Vigilantes had slipped to the
rear of Trevison. As Lefingwell concluded they leaped. The arms of one man
went around Trevison's neck; the other man lunged low and pinned his arms
to his sides, one hand grasping the pistol and wrenching it from his hand.
The crowd closed again. The girl saw Corrigan lifted to the back of a
horse, and she shut her eyes and hung dizzily to the railing, while tumult
and confusion raged around her.
She opened her eyes a little later, to see Barkwell and another man
leading Trevison into the front door of the _Castle_. The street around
the car was deserted, save for two or three men who were watching her
curiously. She felt her father's arms around her, and she was led into the
car, her knees shaking, her soul sick with the horror of it all.
Half an hour later, as she sat at one of the windows, staring stonily out
in the shimmering sunlight of the street, she saw some of the Vigilantes
returning. She shrank back from the window, shuddering.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE CALM
The day seemed to endure for an age. Rosalind did not leave the car; she
did not go near her father, shut up alone in his apartment; she ate
nothing, ignoring the negro attendant when he told her that lunch was
served, huddled in a chair beside an open window she decided a battle. She
saw the forces of reason and justice rout the hosts of hatred and crime,
and she got up finally, her face pallid, but resolute, secure in the
knowledge that she had decided wisely. She pitied Corrigan. Had it been
within her power she would have prevented the tragedy. And yet she could
not blame these people. They were playing the game honestly, and their
patience had been sadly strained by one player who had persisted in
breaking the rules. He had been swept away by his peers, which was as fair
a way as any law--any human law--could deal with him. In her own East he
would have paid the same penalty. The method would have been more refined,
to be sure; there would have been a long legal squabble, with its tedious
delays, but in the end Corrigan would have paid. There was a retributive
justice for all those who infracted the rules of the game. It had found
Corrigan.
At three o'clock in the afternoon she washed her face. The cool water
refreshed her, and with reviving spirits she combed her hair, brushed the
dust from her clothing, and looked into a mirror. There were dark hollows
under her eyes, a haunting, dreading expression in them. For she could not
help thinking about what had happened there--down the street where the
Vigilantes had gone.
She dropped listlessly into another chair beside a window, this time
facing the station. She saw her horse, hitched to the rail at the station
platform, where she had left it that morning. _That_ seemed to have been
days ago! A period of aching calm had succeeded the tumult of the morning.
The street was soundless, deserted. Those men who had played leading parts
in the tragedy were not now visible. She would have deserted the town too,
had it not been for her father. The tragedy had unnerved him, and she must
stay with him until he recovered. She had asked the porter about him, and
the latter had reported that he seemed to be asleep.
A breeze carried a whisper to her as she sat at the window:
"Where's 'Firebrand' now?" said a voice.
"Sleepin'. The clerk in the _Castle_ says he's makin' up for lost time."
She did not bother to try to see the owners of the voices; her gaze was on
the plains, far and vast; and the sky, clear, with a pearly shimmer that