'Firebrand' Trevison
that he'd freeze ye while he's takin' his hat off to ye. One av his arms
is busted, an' he's got a welt or two on his face. But outside av that
he's all right. He rides down into the cut where we're all workin' fit to
kill ourselves. He halts his big black horse about forty or fifty feet
away from the ol' rattle-box that runs the steam shovel, an' he grins like
a tiger at me an' says:
"'Carson, I'm wantin' you to pull your min off. I can't permit anny
railroad min on the Diamond K property. You're a friend av mine, an' all
that, but you'll have to pull your freight. You've got tin minutes.'
"'I've got me orders to do this work,' I says--begging his pardon.
"'Here's your orders to stop doin' it!' he comes back. An' I was
inspectin' the muzzle av his six-shooter.
"'Ye wudn't shoot a mon for doin' his duthy?' I says.
"'Thry me,' he says. 'You're trespassers. The railroad company didn't come
through wid the coin for the right-of-way. Your mon, Corrigan, has got an
idee that he's goin' to bluff me. I'm callin' his bluff. You've got tin
minutes to get out av here. At the end av that time I begin to shoot. I've
got six cattridges in the gun, an' fifty more in the belt around me
middle. An' I seldom miss whin I shoot. It's up to you whether I start a
cemetery here or not,' he says, cold an' ca'mlike.
"The ginneys knowed somethin' was up, an' they crowded around. I thought
Trevison was thryin' to run a bluff on _me_, an' I give orders for the
ginneys to go back to their work.
"Trevison didn't say another word, but at the end av the tin minutes he
grins that tiger grin av his an' busts the safety valve on the rattle-box
wid a shot from his pistol. He smashes the water-gauge wid another, an'
jammed one shot in the ol' rattle-box's entrails, an' she starts to blow
off steam----shriekin' like a soul in hell. The ginneys throwed down their
tools an' started to climb up the walls of the cut like a gang av monkeys,
Trevison watchin' thim with a grin as cold as a barrow ful ov icicles.
Murph', the engineer av the dinky, an' his fireman, ducks for the
engine-cab, l'avin' me standin' there to face the music. Trevison yells at
the engineer av the rattle-box, an' he disappears like a rat into a hole.
Thin Trevison swings his gun on me, an' I c'u'd feel me knees knockin'
together. 'Carson,' he says, 'I hate like blazes to do it, but you're the
boss here, an' these min will do what you tell thim to do. Tell thim to
get to hell out of here an' not come back, or I'll down you, sure as me
name's Trevison!'
"I'm old enough to know from lookin' at a mon whether he manes business or
not, an' Trevison wasn't foolin'. So I got the bhoys away, an' here we
are. If you're in charge, it's up to you to smooth things out. Though from
the looks av your mug 'Firebrand's' been maulin' you some, too!"
Corrigan's answer was a cold glare. "You quit without a fight, eh?" he
taunted; "you let one man bluff half a hundred of you!"
Carson's eyes brightened. "My recollection is that 'Firebrand' is still
holdin' the forrt. Whin I got me last look at him he was sittin' on the
top av the cut, like he was intendin' to stay there indefinite. If ye
think he's bluffin', mebbe it'd be quite an idee for you to go out there
yourself, an' call it. I'd be willin' to give ye me moral support."
"I'll call him when I get ready." Corrigan went to the desk and sat in the
chair, ignoring Carson, who watched him narrowly. Presently he turned and
spoke to the man:
"Put your men at work trueing up the roadbed on the next section back,
until further orders."
"An' let 'Firebrand' hold the forrt?"
"Do as you're told!"
Carson went out to his men. Near the station platform he turned and looked
back at the bank building, grinning. "There's two bulldogs comin' to grips
in this deal or I'm a domn poor prophet!" he said.
When Braman returned from his errand he found Corrigan staring out of the
window. The banker announced that Miss Benham had received Corrigan's
message with considerable equanimity, and was rewarded for his levity with
a frown.
"What's Carson and his gang doing in town?" he queried.
Corrigan told him, briefly. The banker whistled in astonishment, and his
face grew long. "I told you he is a tough one!" he reminded.
Corrigan got to his feet. "Yes--he's a tough one," he admitted. "I'm
forced to alter my plans a little--that's all. But I'll get him. Hunt up
something to eat," he directed; "I'm hungry. I'm going to the station for
a few minutes."
He went out, and the banker watched him until he vanished around the
corner of a building. Then Braman shook his head. "Jeff's resourceful," he
said. "But Trevison--" His face grew solemn. "What a damned fool I was to
trip him with that broom!" He drew a pistol from a pocket and examined it
intently, then returned it to the pocket and sat, staring with unseeing
eyes beyond the station at the two lines of steel that ran out upon the
plains and stopped in the deep cut on the crest of which he could see a
man on a black horse.
Down at the station Corrigan was leaning on a rough wooden counter,
writing on a yellow paper pad. When he had finished he shoved the paper
over to the telegrapher, who had been waiting:
J. Chalfant Benham, B-- Building, New York.
Unexpected opposition developed. Trevison. Give Lindman removal order
immediately. Communicate with me at Dry Bottom tomorrow morning.
Corrigan.
Corrigan watched the operator send the message and then he returned to the
bank building, where he found Braman setting out a meager lunch in the
rear room. The two men talked as they ate, mostly about Trevison, and the
banker's face did not lose its worried expression. Later they smoked and
talked and watched while the afternoon sun grew mellow; while the somber
twilight descended over the world and darkness came and obliterated the
hill on which sat the rider of the black horse.
Shortly after dark Corrigan sent the banker on another errand, this time
to a boarding-house at the edge of town. Braman returned shortly,
announcing: "He'll be ready." Then, just before midnight Corrigan climbed
into the cab of the engine which had brought the private car, and which
was waiting, steam up, several hundred feet down the track from the car.
"All right!" said Corrigan briskly, to the engineer, as he climbed in and
a flare from the fire-box suffused his face; "pull out. But don't make any
fuss about it--I don't want those people in the car to know." And shortly
afterwards the locomotive glided silently away into the darkness toward
that town in which a judge of the United States Court had, a few hours
before, received orders which had caused him to remark, bitterly: "So does
the past shape the future."
CHAPTER V
A TELEGRAM AND A GIRL
Banker Braman went to bed on the cot in the back room shortly after
Corrigan departed from Manti. He stretched himself out with a sigh,
oppressed with the conviction that he had done a bad day's work in
antagonizing Trevison. The Diamond K owner would repay him, he knew. But
he knew, too, that he need have no fear that Trevison would sneak about
it. Therefore he did not expect to feel Trevison at his throat during the
night. That was some satisfaction.
He dropped to sleep, thinking of Trevison. He awoke about dawn to a loud
hammering on the rear door, and he scrambled out of bed and opened the
door upon the telegraph agent. That gentleman gazed at him with grim
reproof.
"Holy Moses!" he said; "you're a hell of a tight sleeper! I've been
pounding on this door for an age!" He shoved a sheet of paper under
Braman's nose. "Here's a telegram for you."
Braman took the telegram, scanning it, while the agent talked on,
ramblingly. A sickly smile came over Braman's face when he finished
reading, and then he listened to the agent:
"I got a wire a little after midnight, asking me if that man, Corrigan,
was still in Manti. The engineer told me he was taking Corrigan back to
Dry Bottom at midnight, and so I knew he wasn't here, and I clicked back
'No.' It was from J. C. He must have connected with Corrigan at Dry
Bottom. That guy Trevison must have old Benham's goat, eh?"
Braman re-read the telegram; it was directed to him:
Send my daughter to Trevison with cash in amount of check destroyed
by Corrigan yesterday. Instruct her to say mistake made. No offense
intended. Hustle. J. C. BENHAM.
Braman slipped his clothes on and ran down the track to the private car.
He had known J. C. Benham several years and was aware that when he issued
an order he wanted it obeyed, literally. The negro autocrat of the private
car met him at the platform and grinned amply at the banker's request.
"Miss Benham done tol' me she am not to be disturbed till eight o'clock,"
he objected. But the telegram in Braman's hands had instant effect upon
the black custodian of the car, and shortly afterward Miss Benham was
looking at the banker and his telegram in sleepy-eyed astonishment, the
door of her compartment open only far enough to permit her to stick her
head out.
Braman was forced to do much explaining, and concluded by reading the
telegram to her. She drew everything out of him except the story of the
fight.
"Well," she said in the end, "I suppose I shall have to go. So his name is
'Brand' Trevison. And he won't permit the men to work. Why did Mr.
Corrigan destroy the check?"
Braman evaded, but the girl thought she knew. Corrigan had yielded to an
impulse of obstinacy provoked by Trevison's assault on him. It was not
good business--it was almost childish; but it was human to feel that way.
She felt a slight disappointment in Corrigan, though; the action did not
quite accord with her previous estimate of him. She did not know what to
think of Trevison. But of course any man who would deliberately and
brutally ride another man down, would naturally not hesitate to adopt
other lawless means of defending himself.
She told Braman to have the money ready for her in an hour, and at the end
of that time with her morocco handbag bulging, she emerged from the front
door of the bank and climbed the steps of the private car, which had been
pulled down to a point in front of the station by the dinky engine, with
Murphy presiding at the throttle.
Carson was standing on the platform when Miss Benham climbed to it, and he
grinned and greeted her with:
"If ye have no objections, ma'am, I'll be ridin' down to the cut with ye.
Me name's Patrick Carson, ma'am."
"I have no objection whatever," said the lady, graciously. "I presume you
are connected with the railroad?"
"An' wid the ginneys that's buildin' it, ma'am," he supplemented. "I'm the
construction boss av this section, an' I'm the mon that had the unhappy
experience av lookin' into the business end av 'Firebrand's' six-shooter
yisterday."
"'Firebrand's'?" she said, with a puzzled look at him.
"Thot mon, Trevison, ma'am; that's what they call him. An' he fits it
bedad--beggin' your pardon."
"Oh," she said; "then you know him." And she felt a sudden interest in
Carson.
"Enough to be certain he ain't to be monkeyed with, ma'am."
She seemed to ignore this. "Please tell the engineer to go ahead," she
told him. "And then come into the car--I want to talk with you."
A little later, with the car clicking slowly over the rail-joints toward
the cut, Carson diffidently followed the negro attendant into a luxurious
compartment, in which, seated in a big leather-covered chair, was Miss
Benham. She motioned Carson to another chair, and in the conversation that
followed Miss Benham received a comprehensive estimate of Trevison from
Carson's viewpoint. It seemed unsatisfying to her--Carson's commendation
did not appear to coincide with Trevison's performances.