Firebrand Trevison

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  Fighting off the weariness he lunged forward again, swinging the now deadened right arm at the blur Corrigan made in front of him. Something collided with him—a human form—and thinking it was Corrigan, clinching with him, he grasped it. The momentum of the object, and his own weakness, carried him back and down, and with the object in his grasp he fell, underneath, to the floor. He saw a face close to his—Braman’s—and remembering that the banker had tripped him, he began to work his right fist into the other’s face.

  He would have finished Braman. He did not know that the man who had greeted him as “ol’ ‘Brand’” had smashed the banker in the forehead with the butt of a pistol when the banker had tried to bar his progress at the doorway; he was not aware that the force of the blow had hurled Braman against him, and that the latter, half unconscious, was not defending himself. He would not have cared had he known these things, for he was fighting blindly, doggedly, recklessly—fighting two men, he thought. And though he sensed that there could be but one end to such a struggle, he hammered away with ferocious malignance, and in the abandon of his passion in this extremity he was recklessly swinging his broken left arm, driving it at Braman, groaning each time the fist landed.

  He felt hands grasping him, and he fought them off, smashing weakly at faces that appeared around him as he was dragged to his feet. He heard a voice say: “His arm’s bruk,” and the voice seemed to clear the atmosphere. He paused, holding back a blow, and the dancing blur of faces assumed a proper aspect and he saw the man who had hit the banker.

  “Hello Mullarky!” he grinned, reeling drunkenly in the arms of his friends. “Come to see the picnic? Where’s my—”

  He saw Corrigan leaning against a wall of the room and lurched toward him. A dozen hands held him back—the room was full of men; and as his brain cleared he recognized some of them. He heard threats, mutterings, against Corrigan, and he laughed, bidding the men to hold their peace, that it was a “fair fight.” Corrigan was unmoved by the threats—as he was unmoved by Trevison’s words. He leaned against the wall, weak, his arms hanging at his sides, his face macerated, grinning contemptuously. And then, despite his objections, Trevison was dragged away by Mullarky and the others, leaving Braman stretched out on the floor, and Corrigan, his knees sagging, his chin almost on his chest, standing near the wall. Trevison turned as he was forced out of the door, and grinned tauntingly at his tired enemy. Corrigan spat at him.

  Half an hour later, his damaged arm bandaged, and some marks of the battle removed, Trevison was in the banking room. He had forbidden any of his friends to accompany him, but Mullarky and several others stood outside the door and watched him.

  A bandage around his head, Braman leaned on the counter behind the wire netting, pale, shaking. In a chair at the desk sat Corrigan, glowering at Trevison. The big man’s face had been attended to, but it was swollen frightfully, and his smashed lips were in a horrible pout. Trevison grinned at him, but it was to the banker that he spoke.

  “I want my gun, Braman,” he said, shortly.

  The banker took it out of a drawer and silently shoved it across the counter and through a little opening in the wire netting. The banker watched, fearingly, as Trevison shoved the weapon into its holster. Corrigan stolidly followed his movements.

  The gun in its holster, Trevison leaned toward the banker.

  “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.”
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  “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 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.
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br />   “‘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!’