'Firebrand' Trevison
"It is a rather dramatic bid for your interest, isn't it, Miss Benham?" he
said.
His voice came during a lull that followed the applause. It reached
Rosalind, full and resonant. It carried to the rider of the black horse,
and glancing sidelong at him, Rosalind saw his face whiten under the deep
tan upon it. It carried, too, to the other side of the street, and the
girl saw faces grow suddenly tense; noted the stiffening of bodies. The
flat, ominous silence that followed was unreal and oppressive. Out of it
came the rider's voice as he urged the black to a point within three or
four paces of Corrigan and sat in the saddle, looking at him. And now for
the first time Rosalind had a clear, full view of the rider's face and a
quiver of trepidation ran over her. For the lean jaws were corded, the
mouth was firm and set--she knew his teeth were clenched; it was the face
of a man who would not be trifled with. His chin was shoved forward
slightly; somehow it helped to express the cold humor that shone in his
narrowed, steady eyes. His voice, when he spoke to Corrigan, had a
metallic quality that rang ominously in the silence that had continued:
"Back up your play or take it back," he said slowly.
Corrigan had not changed his position. He stared fixedly at the rider; his
only sign of emotion over the latter's words was a quickening of the eyes.
He idly tapped with his fingers on the sleeve of his khaki shirt, where
the arm passed under them to fold over the other. His voice easily matched
the rider's in its quality of quietness:
"My conversation was private. You are interfering without cause."
Watching the rider, filled with a sudden, breathless premonition of
impending tragedy, Rosalind saw his eyes glitter with the imminence of
physical action. Distressed, stirred by an impulse to avert what
threatened, she took a step forward, speaking rapidly to Corrigan:
"Mr. Corrigan, this is positively silly! You know you were hardly
discreet!"
Corrigan smiled coldly, and the girl knew that it was not a question of
right or wrong between the two men, but a conflict of spirit. She did not
know that hatred had been born here; that instinctively each knew the
other for a foe, and that this present clash was to be merely one battle
of the war that would be waged between them if both survived.
Not for an instant did Corrigan's eyes wander from those of the rider. He
saw from them that he might expect no further words. None came. The
rider's right hand fell to the butt of the pistol that swung low on his
right hip. Simultaneously, Corrigan's hand dropped to his hip pocket.
Rosalind saw the black horse lunge forward as though propelled by a sudden
spring. A dust cloud rose from his hoofs, and Corrigan was lost in it.
When the dust swirled away, Corrigan was disclosed to the girl's view,
doubled queerly on the ground, face down. The black horse had struck him
with its shoulder--he seemed to be badly hurt.
For a moment the girl stood, swaying, looking around appealingly, startled
wonder, dismay and horror in her eyes. It had happened so quickly that she
was stunned. She had but one conscious emotion--thankfulness that neither
man had used his pistol.
No one moved. The girl thought some of them might have come to Corrigan's
assistance. She did not know that the ethics forbade interference, that a
fight was between the fighters until one acknowledged defeat.
Corrigan's face was in the dust; he had not moved. The black horse stood,
quietly now, several feet distant, and presently the rider dismounted,
walked to Corrigan and turned him over. He worked the fallen man's arms
and legs, and moved his neck, then knelt and listened at his chest. He got
up and smiled mirthlessly at the girl.
"He's just knocked out, Miss Benham. It's nothing serious. Nigger--"
"You coward!" she interrupted, her voice thick with passion.
His lips whitened, but he smiled faintly.
"Nigger--" he began again.
"Coward! Coward!" she repeated, standing rigid before him, her hands
clenched, her lips stiff with scorn.
He smiled resignedly and turned away. She stood watching him, hating him,
hurling mental anathemas after him, until she saw him pass through the
doorway of the bank. Then she turned to see Corrigan just getting up.
Not a man in the group across the street had moved. They, too, had watched
Trevison go into the bank, and now their glances shifted to the girl and
Corrigan. Their sympathies, she saw plainly, were with Trevison; several
of them smiled as the easterner got to his feet.
Corrigan was pale and breathless, but he smiled at her and held her off
when she essayed to help him brush the dust from his clothing. He did that
himself, and mopped his face with a handkerchief.
"It wasn't fair," whispered the girl, sympathetically. "I almost wish that
you had killed him!" she added, vindictively.
"My, what a fire-eater!" he said with a broad smile. She thought he looked
handsomer with the dust upon him, than he had ever seemed when polished
and immaculate.
"Are you badly hurt?" she asked, with a concern that made him look quickly
at her.
He laughed and patted her arm lightly. "Not a bit hurt," he said. "Come,
those men are staring."
He escorted her to the step of the private car, and lingered a moment
there to make his apology for his part in the trouble. He told her
frankly, that he was to blame, knowing that Trevison's action in riding
him down would more than outweigh any resentment she might feel over his
mistake in bringing about the clash in her presence.
She graciously forgave him, and a little later she entered the car alone;
he telling her that he would be in presently, after he returned from the
station where he intended to send a telegram. She gave him a smile,
standing on the platform of the car, dazzling, eloquent with promise. It
made his heart leap with exultation, and as he went his way toward the
station he voiced a sentiment:
"Entirely worth being ridden down for."
But his jaws set savagely as he approached the station. He did not go into
the station, but around the outside wall of it, passing between it and
another building and coming at last to the front of the bank building. He
had noted that the black horse was still standing in front of the bank
building, and that the group of men had dispersed. The street was
deserted.
Corrigan's movements became quick and sinister. He drew a heavy revolver
out of a hip pocket, shoved its butt partly up his sleeve and concealed
the cylinder and barrel in the palm of his hand. Then he stepped into the
door of the bank. He saw Trevison standing at one of the grated windows of
the wire netting, talking with Braman. Corrigan had taken several steps
into the room before Trevison heard him, and then Trevison turned, to find
himself looking into the gaping muzzle of Corrigan's pistol.
"You didn't run," said the latter. "Thought it was all over, I suppose.
Well, it isn't." He was grinning coldly, and was now deliberate and
unexcited, though two crimson spots glowed in his cheeks, betraying the
presence of passion.
"Don't reach for that gun!" he warned Trevison. "I'll blow a hole through
you if you wriggle a finger!" Watching Trevison, he spoke to Braman: "You
got a back room here?"
The banker stepped around the end of the counter and opened a door behind
the wire netting. "Right here," he directed.
Corrigan indicated the door with a jerking movement of the head. "Move!"
he said shortly, to Trevison. The latter's lips parted in a cold, amused
grin, and he hesitated slightly, yielding presently.
An instant later the three were standing in the middle of a large room,
empty except for a cot upon which Braman slept, some clothing hanging on
the walls, a bench and a chair. Corrigan ordered the banker to clear the
room. When that had been done, Corrigan spoke again to the banker:
"Get his gun."
A snapping alertness of the eyes indicated that Trevison knew what was
coming. That was the reason he had been so quiescent this far; it was why
he made no objection when Braman passed his hands over his clothing in
search of other weapons, after his pistol had been lifted from its holster
by the banker.
"Now get out of here and lock the doors!" ordered Corrigan. "And let
nobody come in!"
Braman retired, grinning expectantly.
Then Corrigan backed away until he came to the wall. Reaching far up, he
hung his revolver on a nail.
"Now," he said to Trevison, his voice throaty from passion; "take off your
damned foolish trappings. I'm going to knock hell out of you!"
CHAPTER III
BEATING A GOOD MAN
Trevison had not moved. He had watched the movements of the other closely,
noting his huge bulk, his lithe motions, the play of his muscles as he
backed across the room to dispose of the pistol. At Corrigan's words
though, Trevison's eyes glowed with a sudden fire, his teeth gleamed, his
straight lips parting in a derisive smile. The other's manner toward him
had twanged the chord of animosity that had been between them since the
first exchange of glances, and he was as eager as Corrigan for the clash
that must now come. He had known that the first conflict had been an
unfinished thing. He laughed in sheer delight, though that delight was
tempered with savage determination.
"Save your boasts," he taunted.
Corrigan sneered. "You won't look so damned attractive when you leave this
room." He took off his hat and tossed it into a corner, then turned to
Trevison with an ugly grin.
"Ready?" he said.
"Quite." Trevison had not accepted Corrigan's suggestion about taking off
his "damned foolish trappings," and he still wore them--cartridge belt,
leather chaps, spurs. But now he followed Corrigan's lead and threw his
hat from him. Then he crouched and faced Corrigan.
They circled cautiously, Trevison's spurs jingling musically. Then
Trevison went in swiftly, jabbing with his left, throwing off Corrigan's
vicious counter with the elbow, and ripping his right upward. The fist met
Corrigan's arm as the latter blocked, and the shock forced both men back a
step. Corrigan grinned with malicious interest and crowded forward.
"That's good," he said; "you're not a novice. I hope you're not a quitter.
I've quite a bit to hand you for riding me down."
Trevison grinned derisively, but made no answer. He knew he must save his
wind for this man. Corrigan was strong, clever; his forearm, which had
blocked Trevison's uppercut, had seemed like a bar of steel.
Trevison went in again with the grim purpose of discovering just how
strong his antagonist was. Corrigan evaded a stiff left jab intended for
his chin, and his own right cross missed as Trevison ducked into a clinch.
With arms locked they strained, legs braced, their lungs heaving as they
wrestled, doggedly.
Corrigan stood like a post, not giving an inch. Vainly Trevison writhed,
seeking a position which would betray a weakened muscle, but though he
exerted every ounce of his own mighty strength Corrigan held him even.
They broke at last, mutually, and Corrigan must have felt the leathery
quality of Trevison's muscles, for his face was set in serious lines. His
eyes glittered malignantly as he caught a confident smile on Trevison's
lips, and he bored in silently, swinging both hands.
Trevison had been the cool boxer, carefully trying out his opponent. He
had felt little emotion save that of self-protection. At the beginning of
the fight he would have apologized to Corrigan--with reservations. Now he
was stirred with the lust of battle. Corrigan's malignance had struck a
responsive passion in him, and the sodden impact of fist on flesh, the
matching of strength against strength, the strain of iron muscles, the
contact of their bodies, the sting and burn of blows, had aroused the