'Firebrand' Trevison
"I always knew you weren't straight, Braman. But we won't quarrel about
that now. I just want you to know that when this arm of mine is right
again, we'll try to square things between us. Broom handles will be barred
that day."
Braman was silent and uneasy as he watched Trevison reach into a pocket
and withdraw a leather bill-book. From this he took a paper and tossed it
in through the opening of the wire netting.
"Cash it," he directed. "It's about the matter we were discussing when we
were interrupted by our bloodthirsty friend, there."
He looked at Corrigan while Braman examined the paper, his eyes alight
with the mocking, unfearing gleam that had been in them during the fight.
Corrigan scowled and Trevison grinned at him--the indomitable, mirthless
grin of the reckless fighting man; and Corrigan filled his lungs slowly,
watching him with half-closed eyes. It was as though both knew that a
distant day would bring another clash between them.
Braman fingered the paper uncertainly, and looked at Corrigan.
"I suppose this is all regular?" he said. "You ought to know something
about it--it's a check from the railroad company for the right-of-way
through Mr. Trevison's land."
Corrigan's eyes brightened as he examined the check. They filled with a
hard, sinister light.
"No," he said; "it isn't regular." He took the check from Braman and
deliberately tore it into small pieces, scattering them on the floor at
his feet. He smiled vindictively, settling back into his chair. "'Brand'
Trevison, eh?" he said. "Well, Mr. Trevison, the railroad company isn't
ready to close with you."
Trevison had watched the destruction of the check without the quiver of an
eyelash. A faint, ironic smile curved the corners of his mouth as Corrigan
concluded.
"I see," he said quietly. "You were not man enough to beat me a little
while ago--even with the help of Braman's broom. You're going to take it
out on me through the railroad; you're going to sneak and scheme. Well,
you're in good company--anything that you don't know about skinning people
Braman will tell you. But I'm letting you know this: The railroad
company's option on my land expired last night, and it won't be renewed.
If it's fight you're looking for, I'll do my best to accommodate you."
Corrigan grunted, and idly drummed with the fingers of one hand on the top
of the desk, watching Trevison steadily. The latter opened his lips to
speak, changed his mind, grinned and went out. Corrigan and Braman watched
him as he stopped for a moment outside to talk with his friends, and their
gaze followed him until he mounted Nigger and rode out of town. Then the
banker looked at Corrigan, his brows wrinkling.
"You know your business, Jeff," he said; "but you've picked a tough man in
Trevison."
Corrigan did not answer. He was glowering at the pieces of the check that
lay on the floor at his feet.
CHAPTER IV
THE LONG ARM OF POWER
Presently Corrigan lit a cigar, biting the end off carefully, to keep it
from coming in contact with his bruised lips. When the cigar was going
well, he looked at Braman.
"What is Trevison?"
Pale, still dizzy from the effects of the blow on the head, Braman, who
was leaning heavily on the counter, smiled wryly:
"He's a holy terror--you ought to know that. He's a reckless,
don't-give-a-damn fool who has forgotten there's such a thing as
consequences. 'Firebrand' Trevison, they call him. And he lives up to what
that means. The folks in this section of the country swear by him."
Corrigan made a gesture of impatience. "I mean--what does he do? Of course
I know he owns some land here. But how much land does he own?"
"You saw the figure on the check, didn't you? He owns five thousand
acres."
"How long has he been here?"
"You've got me. More than ten years, I guess, from what I can gather."
"What was he before he came here?"
"I couldn't even surmise that--he don't talk about his past. From the way
he waded into you, I should judge he was a prize fighter before becoming a
cow-puncher."
Corrigan glared at the banker. "Yes; it's damned funny," he said. "How did
he get his land?"
"Proved on a quarter-section. Bought the rest of it--and bought it mighty
cheap." Braman's eyes brightened. "Figure on attacking _his_ title?"
Corrigan grunted. "I notice he asked you for cash. You're not his banker,
evidently."
"He banks in Las Vegas, I guess."
"What about his cattle?"
"He shipped three thousand head last season."
"How big is his outfit?"
"He's got about twenty men. They're all hard cases--like him, and they'd
shoot themselves for him."
Corrigan got up and walked to the window, from where he looked out at
Manti. The town looked like an army camp. Lumber, merchandise, supplies of
every description, littered the street in mounds and scattered heaps,
awaiting the erection of tent-house and building. But there was none of
that activity that might have been expected from the quantity of material
on hand; it seemed that the owners were waiting, delaying in anticipation
of some force that would give them encouragement. They were reluctant to
risk their money in erecting buildings on the strength of mere rumor. But
they had come, hoping.
Corrigan grinned at Braman. "They're afraid to take a chance," he said,
meaning Manti's citizens.
"Don't blame them. I've spread the stuff around--as you told me. That's
all they've heard. They're here on a forlorn hope. The boom they are
looking for, seems, from present conditions, to be lurking somewhere in
the future, shadowed by an indefiniteness that to them is vaguely
connected with somebody's promise of a dam, agricultural activity to
follow, and factories. They haven't been able to trace the rumors, but
they're here, and they'll make things hum if they get a chance."
"Sure," grinned Corrigan. "A boom town is always a graft for first
arrivals. That is, boom towns _have_ been. But Manti--" He paused.
"Yes, different," chuckled the banker. "It must have cost a wad to shove
that water grant through."
"Benham kicked on the price--it was enough."
"That maximum rate clause is a pippin. You can soak them the limit right
from the jump."
"And scare them out," scoffed Corrigan. "That isn't the game. Get them
here, first. Then--"
The banker licked his lips. "How does old Benham take it?"
"Mr. Benham is enthusiastic because everything will be done in a perfectly
legitimate way--he thinks."
"And the courts?"
"Judge Lindman, of the District Court now in Dry Bottom, is going to
establish himself here. Benham pulled that string."
"Good!" said Braman. "When is Lindman coming?"
Corrigan's smile was crooked; it told eloquently of conscious power over
the man he had named.
"He'll come whenever I give the word. Benham's got something on him."
"You always were a clever son-of-a-gun!" laughed the banker, admiringly.
Ignoring the compliment, Corrigan walked into the rear room, where he
gazed frowningly at his reflection in a small glass affixed to the wall.
Re-entering the banking room he said:
"I'm in no condition to face Miss Benham. Go down to the car and tell her
that I shall be very busy here all day, and that I won't be able to see
her until late tonight."
Miss Benham's name was on the tip of the banker's tongue, but, glancing at
Corrigan's face, he decided that it was no time for that particular brand
of levity. He grabbed his hat and stepped out of the front door.
Left alone, Corrigan paced slowly back and forth in the room, his brows
furrowed thoughtfully. Trevison had become an important figure in his
mind. Corrigan had not hinted to Braman, to Trevison, or to Miss Benham,
of the actual situation--nor would he. But during his first visit to town
that morning he had stood in one of the front windows of a saloon across
the street. He had not been getting acquainted, as he had told Miss
Benham, for the saloon had been the first place that he had entered, and
after getting a drink at the bar he had sauntered to the window. From
there he had seen "Brand" Trevison ride into town, and because Trevison
made an impressive figure he had watched him, instinctively aware that in
the rider of the black horse was a quality of manhood that one meets
rarely. Trevison's appearance had caused him a throb of disquieting envy.
He had noticed Trevison's start upon getting his first glimpse of the
private car on the siding. He had followed Trevison's movements carefully,
and with increased disquiet. For, instead of dismounting and going into a
saloon or a store, Trevison had urged the black on, past the private car,
which he had examined leisurely and intently. The clear morning air made
objects at a distance very distinct, and as Trevison had ridden past the
car, Corrigan had seen a flutter at one of the windows; had caught a
fleeting glimpse of Rosalind Benham's face. He had seen Trevison ride
away, to return for a second view of the car a few minutes later. At
breakfast, Corrigan had not failed to note Miss Benham's lingering glances
at the black horse, and again, in the bank, with her standing at the door,
he had noticed her interest in the black horse and its rider. His
quickly-aroused jealousy and hatred had driven him to the folly of
impulsive action, a method which, until now, he had carefully evaded. Yes,
he had found "Brand" Trevison a worthy antagonist--Braman had him
appraised correctly.
Corrigan's smile was bitter as he again walked into the rear room and
surveyed his reflection in the glass. Disgusted, he turned to one of the
windows and looked out. From where he stood he could see straight down the
railroad tracks to the cut, down the wall of which, some hours before,
Trevison had ridden the black horse. The dinky engine, with its train of
flat-cars, was steaming toward him. As he watched, engine and cars struck
the switch and ran onto the siding, where they came to a stop. Corrigan
frowned and looked at his watch. It lacked fully three hours to quitting
time, and the cars were empty, save for the laborers draped on them, their
tools piled in heaps. While Corrigan watched, the laborers descended from
the cars and swarmed toward their quarters--a row of tent-houses near the
siding. A big man--Corrigan knew him later as Patrick Carson--swung down
from the engine-cab and lumbered toward the little frame station house, in
a window of which the telegrapher could be seen, idly scanning a week-old
newspaper. Carson spoke shortly to the telegrapher, at which the latter
motioned toward the bank building and the private car. Then Carson came
toward the bank building. An instant later, Carson came in the front door
and met Corrigan at the wire netting.
"Hullo," said the Irishman, without preliminaries; "the agent was tellin'
me I'd find a mon named Corrigan here. You're in charge, eh?" he added at
Corrigan's affirmative. "Well, bedad, somebody's got to be in charge from
now on. The Willie-boy engineer from who I've been takin' me orders has
sneaked away to Dry Bottom for a couple av days, shovin' the
raysponsibility on me--an' I ain't feelin' up to it. I'm a daisy
construction boss, if I do say it meself, but I ain't enough of a fightin'
mon to buck the business end av a six-shooter."
"What's up?"
"Mebbe you'd know--he said you'd be sure to. I've been parleyin' wid a
fello' named 'Firebrand' Trevison, an' I'm that soaked wid perspiration
that me boots is full av it, after me thryin' to urge him to be dacently
careful wid his gun!"
"What happened?" asked Corrigan, darkly.
"This mon Trevison came down through the cut this mornin', goin' to town.
He was pleasant as a mon who's had a raise in wages, an' he was joshin'
wid us. A while ago he comes back from town, an' he's that cold an' polite