Firebrand Trevison

by Seltzer, Charles Alden

  Benham had solemn thoughts, sitting there, watching.

  “That crowd wouldn’t have much respect for law. They’re living at such a pitch that they’d lose their senses entirely if any sudden crisis should arise. I’d feel my way carefully, Corrigan—if I were you.”

  Corrigan laughed deeply. “Don’t lose any sleep over it. There are fifty deputy marshals in that crowd—and they’re heeled. The rear room in the bank building is a young arsenal.”

  Benham started. “How on earth—” he began.

  “Law and order,” smiled Corrigan. “A telegram did it. The territory wants a reputation for safety.”

  “By the way,” said Benham, after a silence; “I had to take that Trevison affair out of your hands. We don’t want to antagonize the man. He will be valuable to us—later.”

  “How?”

  “Carrington, the engineer I sent out here to look over the country before we started work, did considerable nosing around Trevison’s land while in the vicinity. He told me there were unmistakable signs of coal of a good quality and enormous quantity. We ought to be able to drive a good bargain with Trevison one of these days—if we handle him carefully.”

  Corrigan frowned and grunted. “His land is included in that of the Midland grant. He shall be treated like the others. If that is your only objection—”

  “It isn’t,” said Benham. “I have discovered that ‘Brand’ Trevison is really Trevison Brandon, the disgraced son of Orrin Brandon, the millionaire.”

  The darkness hid Corrigan’s ugly pout. “How did you discover that?” he said, coolly, after a little.

  “My daughter mentioned it in one of her letters to me. I confirmed, by quizzing Brandon, senior. Brandon is powerful and obstinate. If he should discover what our game is he would fight us to the last ditch. The whole thing would go to smash, perhaps.”

  “You didn’t tell him about his son being out here?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Good!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That it’s my land; that I’m going to take it away from Trevison, father or no father. I’m going to break him. That’s what I mean!” Corrigan’s big hands were clenched on the arms of his chair; his eyes gleamed balefully in the semi-darkness. J. C. felt a tremor of awed admiration for him. He laughed, nervously. “Well,” he said, “if you think you can handle it—”

  They sat there for a long time, smoking in silence. One thought dominated Corrigan’s mind: “Three weeks, and exchanging confidences—damn him!”

  * * *

  A discordant note floated out of the medley of sound in palpitating Manti, sailed over the ridiculous sky line and smote the ears of the two on the platform. The air rocked an instant later with a cheer, loud, pregnant with enthusiasm. And then a mass of men, close-packed, undulating, moved down the street toward the private car.

  Benham’s face whitened and he rose from his chair. “Good God!” he said; “what’s happened?” He felt Corrigan’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into his chair.

  “It can’t concern us,” said the big man; “wait; we’ll know pretty soon. Something’s broke loose.”

  The two men watched—Benham breathless, wide-eyed; Corrigan with close-set lips and out-thrust chin. The mass moved fast. It passed the Plaza, far up the street, receiving additions each second as men burst out of doors and dove to the fringe; and grew in front as other men skittered into it, hanging to its edge and adding to the confusion. But Corrigan noted that the mass had a point, like a wedge, made by three men who seemed to lead it. Something familiar in the stature and carriage of one of the men struck Corrigan, and he strained his eyes into the darkness the better to see. He could be sure of the identity of the man, presently, and he set his jaws tighter and continued to watch, with bitter malignance in his gaze, for the man was Trevison. There was no mistaking the broad shoulders, the set of the head, the big, bold and confident poise of the man. At the point of the wedge he looked what he was—the leader; he dominated the crowd; it became plain to Corrigan as the mass moved closer that he was intent on something that had aroused the enthusiasm of his followers, for there were shouts of: “That’s the stuff! Give it to them! Run ’em out!”

  For an instant as the crowd passed the Elk saloon, its lights revealing faces in its glare, Corrigan thought its destination was the private car, and his hand went to his hip. It was withdrawn an instant later, though, when the leader swerved and marched toward the train on the main track. In the light also, Corrigan saw something that gave him a hint of the significance of it all. His laugh broke the tension of the moment.

  “It’s Denver Ed and Poker Charley,” he said to Benham. “It’s likely they’ve been caught cheating and have been invited to make themselves scarce.” And he laughed again, with slight contempt, at Benham’s sigh of relief.

  The mass surged around the rear coach of the train. There was some laughter, mingled with jeers, and while this was at its height a man broke from the mass and walked rapidly toward Corrigan and Benham. It was Braman. Corrigan questioned him.

  “It’s two professional gamblers. They’ve been fleecing Manti’s easy marks with great facility. Tonight they had Clay Levins in the back room of the Belmont. He had about a thousand dollars (the banker looked at Corrigan and closed an eye), and they took it away from him. It looked square, and Levins didn’t kick. Couldn’t anyway—he’s lying in the back room of the Belmont now, paralyzed. I think that somebody told Levins’ wife about him shooting Marchmont yesterday, and Mrs. Levins likely sent Trevison after hubby—knowing hubby’s appetite for booze. Levins isn’t giving the woman a square deal, so far as that is concerned,” went on the banker; “she and the kids are in want half the time, and I’ve heard that Trevison’s helped them out on quite a good many occasions. Anyway, Trevison appeared in town this afternoon, looking for Levins. Before he found him he heard these two beauties framing up on him. That’s the result—the two beauties go out. The crowd was for stringing them up, but Trevison wouldn’t have it.”

  “Marchmont?” interrupted Benham. “It isn’t possible—”

  “Why not?” grinned Corrigan. “Yes, sir, the former president of the Midland Company was shot to death yesterday for pocket-picking.”

  “Lord!” said Benham.

  “So Levins’ wife sent Trevison for hubby,” said Corrigan, quietly. “She’s that thick with Trevison, is she?”

  “Get that out of your mind, Jeff,” returned the banker, noting Corrigan’s tone. “Everybody that knows of the case will tell you that everything’s straight there.”

  “Well,” Corrigan laughed, “I’m glad to hear it.”

  The train steamed away as they talked, and the crowd began to break up and scatter toward the saloons. Before that happened, however, there was a great jam around Trevison; he was shaking hands right and left. Voices shouted that he was “all there!” As he started away he was forced to shove his way through the press around him.

  Benham had been watching closely this evidence of Trevison’s popularity; he linked it with some words that his daughter had written to him regarding the man, and as a thought formed in his mind he spoke it.

  “I’d reconsider about hooking up with that man Trevison, Corrigan. He’s one of those fellows that win popularity easily, and it won’t do you any good to antagonize him.”

  “That’s all right,” laughed Corrigan, coldly.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI

  FOR THE “KIDDIES”

  Trevison dropped from Nigger at the dooryard of Levins’ cabin, and looked with a grim smile at Levins himself lying face downward across the saddle on his own pony. He had carried Levins out of the Belmont and had thrown him, as he would have thrown a sack of meal, across the saddle, where he had lain during the four-mile ride, except during two short intervals in which Trevison had lifted him off and laid him flat on the ground, to rest. Trevison had meditated, not without a certain wry humor, upon the strength and the protract
ed potency of Manti’s whiskey, for not once during his home-coming had Levins shown the slightest sign of returning consciousness. He was as slack as a meal sack now, as Trevison lifted him from the pony’s back and let him slip gently to the ground at his feet. A few minutes later, Trevison was standing in the doorway of the cabin, his burden over his shoulder, the weak glare of light from within the cabin stabbing the blackness of the night and revealing him to the white-faced woman who had answered his summons.

  Her astonishment had been of the mute, agonized kind; her eyes, hollow, eloquent with unspoken misery and resignation, would have told Trevison that this was not the first time, had he not known from personal observation. She stood watching, gulping, shame and mortification bringing patches of color into her cheeks, as Trevison carried Levins into a bedroom and laid him down, removing his boots. She was standing near the door when Trevison came out of the bedroom; she was facing the blackness of the desert night—a blacker future, unknowingly—and Trevison halted on the threshold of the bedroom door and set his teeth in sympathy. For the woman deserved better treatment. He had known her for several years—since the time when Levins, working for him, had brought her from a ranch on the other side of the Divide, announcing their marriage. It had been a different Levins, then, as it was a different wife who stood at the door now. She had faded; the inevitable metamorphosis wrought by neglect, worry and want, had left its husks—a wan, tired-looking woman of thirty who had only her hopes to nourish her soul. There were children, too—if that were any consolation. Trevison saw them as he glanced around the cabin. They were in another bed; through an archway he could see their chubby faces. His lungs filled and his lips straightened.

  But he grinned presently, in an effort to bring cheer into the cabin, reaching into a pocket and bringing out the money he had recovered for Levins.

  “There are nearly a thousand dollars here. Two tin-horn gamblers tried to take it from Clay, but I headed them off. Tell Clay—”

  Mrs. Levins’ face whitened; it was more money than she had ever seen at one time.

  “Clay’s?” she interrupted, perplexedly. “Why, where—”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea—but he had it, they tried to take it away from him—it’s here now—it belongs to you.” He shoved it into her hands and stepped back, smiling at the stark wonder and joy in her eyes. He saw the joy vanish—concern and haunting worry came into her eyes.

  “They told me that Clay shot—killed—a man yesterday. Is it true?” She cast a fearing look at the bed where the children lay.

  “The damned fools!”

  “Then it’s true!” She covered her face with her hands, the money in them. Then she took the hands away and looked at the money in them, loathingly. “Do you think Clay—”

  “No!” he said shortly, anticipating. “That couldn’t be. For the man Clay killed had this money on him. Clay accused him of picking his pocket. Clay gave the bartender in the Plaza the number of each bill before he saw them after taking the bills out of the pickpocket’s clothing. So it can’t be as you feared.”

  She murmured incoherently and pressed both hands to her breast. He laughed and walked to the door.

  “Well, you need it, you and the kiddies. I’m glad to have been of some service to you. Tell Clay he owes me something for cartage. If there is anything I can do for you and Clay and the kiddies I’d be only too glad.”

  “Nothing—now,” said the woman, gratitude shining from her eyes, mingling with a worried gleam. “Oh!” she added, passionately; “if Clay was only different! Can’t you help him to be strong, Mr. Trevison? Like you? Can’t you be with him more, to try to keep him straight for the sake of the children?”

  “Clay’s odd, lately,” Trevison frowned. “He seems to have changed a lot. I’ll do what I can, of course.” He stepped out of the door and then looked back, calling: “I’ll put Clay’s pony away. Good night.” And the darkness closed around him.

  * * *

  Over at Blakeley’s ranch, J. C. Benham had just finished an inspection of the interior and had sank into the depths of a comfortable chair facing his daughter. Blakeley and his wife had retired, the deal that would place the ranch in possession of Benham having been closed. J. C. gazed critically at his daughter.

  “Like it here, eh?” he said. “Well, you look it.” He shook a finger at her. “Agatha has been writing to me rather often, lately,” he added. There followed no answer and J. C. went on, narrowing his eyes at the girl. “She tells me that this fellow who calls himself ‘Brand’ Trevison has proven himself a—shall we say, persistent?—escort on your trips of inspection around the ranch.”

  Rosalind’s face slowly crimsoned.

  “H’m,” said Benham.

  “I thought Corrigan—” he began. The girl’s eyes chilled.

  “H’m,” said Benham, again.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XII

  EXPOSED TO THE SUNLIGHT

  It was a month before Trevison went to town, again. Only once during that time did he see Rosalind Benham, for the Blakeleys had vacated, and goods and servants had arrived from the East and needed attention. Rosalind presided at the Bar B ranchhouse, under Agatha’s chaperonage, and she had invited Trevison to visit her whenever the mood struck him. He had been in the mood many times, but had found no opportunity, for the various activities of range work claimed his attention. After a critical survey of Manti and vicinity, J. C. had climbed aboard his private car to be whisked to New York, where he reported to his Board of Directors that Manti would one day be one of the greatest commercial centers of the West.

  Vague rumors of a legal tangle involving the land around Manti had reached Trevison’s ears, and this morning he had jumped on Nigger, determined to run the rumors down. He made a wide swing, following the river, which took him miles from his own property and into the enormous basin which one day the engineers expected to convert into a mammoth lake from which the thirst of many dry acres of land was to be slaked; and halting Nigger near the mouth of the gorge, watched the many laborers, directed by various grades of bosses, at work building the foundation of the dam. Later, he crossed the basin, followed the well-beaten trail up the slope to the level, and shortly he was in Hanrahan’s saloon across the street from Braman’s bank, listening to the plaint of Jim Lefingwell, the Circle Cross owner, whose ranch was east of town. Lefingwell was big, florid, and afflicted with perturbation that was almost painful. So exercised was he that he was at times almost incoherent.

  “She’s boomin’, ain’t she? Meanin’ this man’s town, of course. An’ a man’s got a right to cash in on a boom whenever he gits the chance. Well, I’d figgered to cash in. I ain’t no hawg an’ I got savvy enough to perceive without the aid of any damn fortune-teller that cattle is done in this country—considered as the main question. I’ve got a thousand acres of land—which I paid for in spot cash to Dick Kessler about eight years ago. If Dick was here he’d back me up in that. But he ain’t here—the doggone fool went an’ died about four years ago, leavin’ me unprotected. Well, now, not digressin’ any, I gits the idea that I’m goin’ to unload consid’able of my thousand acres on the sufferin’ fools that’s yearnin’ to come into this country an’ work their heads off raisin’ alfalfa an’ hawgs, an’ cabbages an’ sons with Pick-a-dilly collars to be eddicated East an’ come back home some day an’ lift the mortgage from the old homestead—which job they always falls down on—findin’ it more to their likin’ to mortgage their souls to buy jew’l’ry for fast wimmin. Well, not digressin’ any, I run a-foul of a guy last week which was dead set on investin’ in ten acres of my land, skirtin’ one of the irrigation ditches which they’re figgerin’ on puttin’ in. The price I wanted was a heap satisfyin’ to the guy. But he suggests that before he forks over the coin we go down to the courthouse an’ muss up the records to see if my title is clear. Well, not digressin’ any, she ain’t! She ain’t even nowheres clear a-tall—she ain’t even there! She’s wiped off, slick an’ clean
! There ain’t a damned line to show that I ever bought my land from Dick Kessler, an’ there ain’t nothin’ on no record to show that Dick Kessler ever owned it! What in hell do you think of that?

  “Now, not digressin’ any,” he went on as Trevison essayed to speak; “that ain’t the worst of it. While I was in there, talkin’ to Judge Lindman, this here big guy that you fit with—Corrigan—comes in. I gathers from the trend of his remarks that I never had a legal title to my land—that it belongs to the guy which bought it from the Midland Company—which is him. Now what in hell do you think of that?”

  “I knew Dick Kessler,” said Trevison, soberly. “He was honest.”

  “Square as a dollar!” violently affirmed Lefingwell.

  “It’s too bad,” sympathized Trevison. “That places you in a mighty bad fix. If there’s anything I can do for you, why—”

  “Mr. ‘Brand’ Trevison?” said a voice at Trevison’s elbow. Trevison turned, to see a short, heavily built man smiling mildly at him.

  “I’m a deputy from Judge Lindman’s court,” announced the man. “I’ve got a summons for you. Saw you coming in here—saves me a trip to your place.” He shoved a paper into Trevison’s hands, grinned, and went out. For an instant Trevison stood, looking after the man, wondering how, since the man was a stranger to him, he had recognized him—and then he opened the paper to discover that he was ordered to appear before Judge Lindman the following day to show cause why he should not be evicted from certain described property held unlawfully by him. The name, Jefferson Corrigan, appeared as plaintiff in the action.

  Lefingwell was watching Trevison’s face closely, and when he saw it whiten, he muttered, understandingly:

  “You’ve got it, too, eh?”

  “Yes.” Trevison shoved the paper into a pocket. “Looks like you’re not going to be skinned alone, Lefingwell. Well, so-long; I’ll see you later.”