Firebrand Trevison

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  He had quite recovered from his surprise, she noted; his manner was that of the day before, when she had seen him riding the black horse. When she saw him coming lightly toward her, she at first had eyes for nothing but his perfect figure, feeling the strength that his close-fitting clothing revealed so unmistakably, and an unaccountable blush glowed in her cheeks. And then she observed that his left arm was in a sling, and a flash of wondering concern swept over her—also unaccountable. And then he was at her stirrup, smiling up at her broadly and cordially.

  “Welcome to the Diamond K, Miss Benham,” he said. “Won’t you get off your horse?”

  “Thank you; I came on business and must return immediately. There has been a misunderstanding, my father says. He wired me, directing me to apologize, for him, for Mr. Corrigan’s actions of yesterday. Perhaps Mr. Corrigan over-stepped his authority—I have no means of knowing.” She passed the morocco bag over to him, and he took it, looking at it in some perplexity. “You will find cash in there to the amount named by the check that Mr. Corrigan destroyed. I hope,” she added, smiling at him, “that there will be no more trouble.”

  “The payment of this money for the right-of-way removes the provocation for trouble,” he laughed. “Barkwell,” he directed, turning to the foreman; “you may go back to the outfit.” He looked after the foreman as the latter rode away, turning presently to Rosalind. “If you will wait a few minutes, until I stow this money in a safe place, I’ll ride back to the cut with you and pull the boys off.”

  She had wondered much over the rifles in the hands of his men at the cut. “Would your men have used their guns?” she asked.

  He had turned to go to the house, and he wheeled quickly, astonished. “Certainly!” he said; “why not?”

  “That would be lawlessness, would it not?” It made her shiver slightly to hear him so frankly confess to murderous designs.

  “It was not my quarrel,” he said, looking at her narrowly, his brows contracted. “Law is all right where everybody accepts it as a governor to their actions. I accept it when it deals fairly with me—when it’s just. Certain rights are mine, and I’ll fight for them. This situation was brought on by Corrigan’s obstinacy. We had a fight, and it peeved him because I wouldn’t permit him to hammer my head off. He destroyed the check, and as the company’s option expired yesterday it was unlawful for the company to trespass on my land.”

  “Well,” she smiled, affected by his vehemence; “we shall have peace now, presumably. And—” she reddened again “—I want to ask your pardon on my own account, for speaking to you as I did yesterday. I thought you brutal—the way you rode your horse over Mr. Corrigan. Mr. Carson assured me that the horse was to blame.”

  “I am indebted to Carson,” he laughed, bowing. Rosalind watched him go into the house, and then turned and inspected her surroundings. The house was big, roomy, with a massive hip roof. A paved gallery stretched the entire length of the front—she would have liked to rest for a few minutes in the heavy rocker that stood in its cool shadows. No woman lived here, she was certain, because there was a lack of evidence of woman’s handiwork—no filmy curtains at the windows—merely shades; no cushion was on the chair—which, by the way, looked lonesome—but perhaps that was merely her imagination. Much dust had gathered on the gallery floor and on the sash of the windows—a woman would have had things looking differently. And so she divined that Trevison was not married. It surprised her to discover that that thought had been in her mind, and she turned to continue her inspection, filled with wonder that it had been there.

  She got an impression of breadth and spaciousness out of her survey of the buildings and the surrounding country. The buildings were in good condition; everything looked substantial and homelike and her contemplation of it aroused in her a yearning for a house and land in this section of the country, it was so peaceful and dignified in comparison with the life she knew.

  She watched Trevison when he emerged from the house, and smiled when he returned the empty handbag. He went to a small building near a fenced enclosure—the corral, she learned afterward—and came out carrying a saddle, which he hung on the fence while he captured the black horse, which she had already observed. The animal evaded capture, playfully, but in the end it trotted mincingly to Trevison and permitted him to throw the bridle on. Then, shortly afterward he mounted the black and together they rode back toward the cut.

  As they rode the girl’s curiosity for the man who rode beside her grew acute. She was aware—she had been aware all along—that he was far different from the other men of Manti—there was about him an atmosphere of refinement and quiet confidence that mingled admirably with his magnificent physical force, tempering it, suggesting reserve power, hinting of excellent mental capacity. She determined to know something about him. And so she began subtly:

  “In a section of country so large as this it seems that our American measure of length—a mile—should be stretched to something that would more adequately express size. Don’t you think so?”

  He looked quickly at her. “That is an odd thought,” he laughed, “but it inevitably attacks the person who views the yawning distances here for the first time. Why not use the English mile if the American doesn’t satisfy?”

  “There is a measure that exceeds that, isn’t there? Wasn’t there a Persian measure somewhat longer, fathered by Herodotus or another of the ancients? I am sure there was—or is—but I have forgotten?”

  “Yes,” he said, “—a parasang.” He looked narrowly at her and saw her eyes brighten.

  She had made progress; she felt much satisfaction.

  “You are not a native,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Cowboys do not commonly measure their distances with parasangs,” she laughed.

  “Nor do ordinary women try to shake off ennui by coming West in private cars,” he drawled.

  She started and looking quickly at him. “How did you know that was what happened to me?” she demanded.

  “Because you’re too spirited and vigorous to spend your life dawdling in society. You yearn for action, for the broad, free life of the open. You’re in love with this country right now.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, astonished; “but how do you know?”

  “You might have sent a man here in your place—Braman, for instance; he could be trusted. You came yourself, eager for adventure—you came on a borrowed horse. When you were looking at the country from the horse in front of my house, I saw you sigh.”

  “Well,” she said, with flushed face and glowing eyes; “I have decided to live out here—for a time, at least. So you were watching me?”

  “Just a glance,” he defended, grinning; “I couldn’t help it. Please forgive me.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to,” she laughed, delighted, reveling in this freedom of speech, in his directness. His manner touched a spark somewhere in her, she felt strangely elated, exhilarated. When she reflected that this was only their second meeting and that she had not been conventionally introduced to him, she was amazed. Had a stranger of her set talked to her so familiarly she would have resented it. Out here it seemed to be perfectly natural.

  “How do you know I borrowed a horse to come here?” she asked.

  “That’s easy,” he grinned; “there’s the Diamond K brand on his hip.”

  “Oh.”

  They rode on a little distance in silence, and then she remembered that she was still curious about him. His frankness had affected her; she did not think it impertinent to betray curiosity.

  “How long have you lived out here?” she asked.

  “About ten years.”

  “You weren’t born here, of course—you have admitted that. Then where did you come from?”

  “This is a large country,” he returned, unsmilingly.

  It was a reproof, certainly—Rosalind could go no farther in that direction. But her words had brought a mystery into existence, thus sharpening her interest in him. She
was conscious, though, of a slight pique—what possible reason could he have for evasion? He had not the appearance of a fugitive from justice.

  “So you’re going to live out here?” he said, after an interval. “Where?”

  “I heard father speak of buying Blakeley’s place. Do you know where it is?”

  “It adjoins mine.” There was a leaping note in his voice, which she did not fail to catch. “Do you see that dark line over there?” He pointed eastward—a mile perhaps. “That’s a gully; it divides my land from Blakeley’s. Blakeley told me a month ago that he was dickering with an eastern man. If you are thinking of looking the place over, and want a trustworthy escort I should be pleased to recommend—myself.” And he grinned widely at her.

  “I shall consider your offer—and I thank you for it,” she returned. “I feel positive that father will buy a ranch here, for he has much faith in the future of Manti—he is obsessed with it.”

  He looked sharply at her. “Then your father is going to have a hand in the development of Manti? I heard a rumor to the effect that some eastern company was interested, had, in fact, secured the water rights for an enormous section.”

  She remembered what Corrigan had told her, and blushingly dissembled:

  “I put no faith in rumor—do you? Mr. Corrigan is the head of the company which is to develop Manti. But of course that is an eastern company, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, and she smiled at a thought that came to her. “How far is it to Blakeley’s ranchhouse?” she asked.

  “About two parasangs,” he answered gravely.

  “Well,” she said, mimicking him; “I could never walk there, could I? If I go, I shall have to borrow a horse—or buy one. Could you recommend a horse that would be as trustworthy as the escort you have promised me?”

  “We shall go to Blakeley’s tomorrow,” he told her. “I shall bring you a trustworthy horse at ten o’clock in the morning.”

  They were approaching the cut, and she nodded an acceptance. An instant later he was talking to his men, and she sat near him, watching them as they raced over the plains toward the Diamond K ranchhouse. One man remained; he was without a mount, and he grinned with embarrassment when Rosalind’s gaze rested on him.

  “Oh,” she said; “you are waiting for your horse! How stupid of me!” She dismounted and turned the animal over to him. When she looked around, Trevison had also dismounted and was coming toward her, leading the black, the reins looped through his arm. Rosalind flushed, and thought of Agatha, but offered no objection.

  It was a long walk down the slope of the hill and around its base to the private car, but they made it still longer by walking slowly and taking the most roundabout way. Three persons saw them coming—Agatha, standing rigid on the platform; the negro attendant, standing behind Agatha in the doorway, his eyes wide with interest; and Carson, seated on a boulder a little distance down the cut, grinning broadly.

  “Bedad,” he rumbled; “the bhoy’s made a hit wid her, or I’m a sinner! But didn’t I know he wud? The two bulldogs is goin’ to have it now, sure as I’m a foot high!”

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI

  A JUDICIAL PUPPET

  Bowling along over the new tracks toward Manti in a special car secured at Dry Bottom by Corrigan, one compartment of which was packed closely with books, papers, ledger records, legal documents, blanks, and even office furniture, Judge Lindman watched the landscape unfold with mingled feelings of trepidation, reluctance, and impotent regret. The Judge’s face was not a strong one—had it been he would not have been seated in the special car, talking with Corrigan. He was just under sixty-five years, and their weight seemed to rest heavily upon him. His eyes were slightly bleary, and had a look of weariness, as though he had endured much and was utterly tired. His mouth was flaccid, the lips pouting when he compressed his jaws, giving his face the sullen, indecisive look of the brooder lacking the mental and physical courage of independent action and initiative. The Judge could be led; Corrigan was leading him now, and the Judge was reluctant, but his courage had oozed, back in Dry Bottom, when Corrigan had mentioned a culpable action which the Judge had regretted many times.

  Some legal records of the county were on the table between the two men. The Judge had objected when Corrigan had secured them from the compartment where the others were piled.

  “It isn’t regular, Mr. Corrigan,” he had said; “no one except a legally authorized person has the right to look over those books.”

  “We’ll say that I am legally authorized, then,” grinned Corrigan. The look in his eyes was one of amused contempt. “It isn’t the only irregular thing you have done, Lindman.”

  The Judge subsided, but back in his eyes was a slumbering hatred for this man, who was forcing him to complicity in another crime. He regretted that other crime; why should this man deliberately remind him of it?

  After looking over the records, Corrigan outlined a scheme of action that made the Judge’s face blanch.

  “I won’t be a party to any such scurrilous undertaking!” he declared when, he could trust his voice; “I—I won’t permit it!”

  Corrigan stretched his legs out under the table, shoved his hands into his trousers’ pockets and laughed.

  “Why the high moral attitude, Judge? It doesn’t become you. Refuse if you like. When we get to Manti I shall wire Benham. It’s likely he’ll feel pretty sore. He’s got his heart set on this. And I have no doubt that after he gets my wire he’ll jump the next train for Washington, and—”

  The Judge exclaimed with weak incoherence, and a few minutes later he was bending over the records with Corrigan—the latter making sundry copies on a pad of paper, which he placed in a pocket when the work was completed.

  At noon the special car was in Manti. Corrigan, the Judge, and Braman, carried the Judge’s effects and stored them in the rear room of the bank building. “I’ll build you a courthouse, tomorrow,” he promised the Judge; “big enough for you and a number of deputies. You’ll need deputies, you know.” He grinned as the Judge shrank. Then, leaving the Judge in the room with his books and papers, Corrigan drew Braman outside.

  “I got hell from Benham for destroying Trevison’s check—he wired me to attend to my other deals and let him run the railroad—the damned old fool! You must have taken the cash to Trevison—I see the gang’s working again.”

  “The cash went,” said the banker, watching Corrigan covertly, “but I didn’t take it. J. C. wired explicit orders for his daughter to act.”

  Corrigan cursed viciously, his face dark with wrath as he turned to look at the private car, on the switch. The banker watched him with secret, vindictive enjoyment. Miss Benham had judged Braman correctly—he was cold, crafty, selfish, and wholly devoid of sympathy. He was for Braman, first and last—and in the interim.

  “Miss Benham went to the cut—so I hear,” he went on, smoothly. “Trevison wasn’t there. Miss Benham went to the Diamond K.” His eyes gleamed as Corrigan’s hands clenched. “Trevison rode back to the car with her—which she had ordered taken to the cut,” went on the banker. “And this morning about ten o’clock Trevison came here with a led horse. He and Miss Benham rode away together. I heard her tell her aunt they were going to Blakeley’s ranch—it’s about eight miles from here.”

  Corrigan’s face went white. “I’ll kill him for that!” he said.

  “Jealous, eh?” laughed the banker. “So, that’s the reason—”

  Corrigan turned and struck bitterly. The banker’s jaws clacked sharply—otherwise he fell silently, striking his head against the edge of the step and rolling, face down, into the dust.

  When he recovered and sat up, Corrigan had gone. The banker gazed foolishly around at a world that was still reeling—felt his jaw carefully, wonder and astonishment in his eyes.

  “What do you know about that?” he asked of the surrounding silence. “I’ve kidded him about women before, and he never got sore. He must be in love!”

  * * *


  Riding through a saccaton basin, the green-brown tips so high that they caught at their stirrups as they rode slowly along; a white, smiling sky above them and Blakeley’s still three miles away, Miss Benham and Trevison were chatting gayly at the instant the banker had received Corrigan’s blow.

  Miss Benham had spent the night thinking of Trevison, and she had spent much of her time during the present ride stealing glances at him. She had discovered something about him that had eluded her the day before—an impulsive boyishness. It was hidden behind the manhood of him, so that the casual observer would not be likely to see it; men would have failed to see it, because she was certain that with men he would not let it be seen. But she knew the recklessness that shone in his eyes, the energy that slumbered in them ready to be applied any moment in response to any whim that might seize him, were traits that had not yet yielded to the stern governors of manhood—nor would they yield in many years to come—they were the fountains of virility that would keep him young. She felt the irresistible appeal of him, responsive to the youth that flourished in her own heart—and Corrigan, older, more ponderous, less addicted to impulse, grew distant in her thoughts and vision. The day before yesterday her sympathies had been with Corrigan—she had thought. But as she rode she knew that they were threatening to desert him. For this man of heroic mold who rode beside her was disquietingly captivating in the bold recklessness of his youth.

  They climbed the far slope of the basin and halted their horses on the crest. Before them stretched a plain so big and vast and inviting that it made the girl gasp with delight.

  “Oh,” she said, awed; “isn’t it wonderful?”

  “I knew you’d like it.”

  “The East has nothing like this,” she said, with a broad sweep of the hand.

  “No,” he said.