“No one spoke?”
“Not a word,” said the Judge. “That is, of course, no one but the man who called to me.”
“Did they take anything?”
“What is there to take? There is nothing of value.”
“Gieger says one of them was working at the safe. What’s in there?”
“Some books and papers and supplies—nothing of value. That they tried to get into the safe would seem to indicate that they thought there was money there—Manti has many strangers who would not hesitate at robbery.”
“They didn’t get into the safe, then?”
“I haven’t looked inside—nothing seems to be disturbed, as it would were the men safe-blowers. In their hurry to get away it would seem, if they had come to get into the safe, they would have left something behind—tools, or something of that character.”
“Let’s have a look at the safe. Open it!” Corrigan seemed to be suspicious, and with a pulse of trepidation, the Judge knelt and worked the combination. When the door came open Corrigan dropped on his knees in front of it and began to pull out the contents, scattering them in his eagerness. He stood up after a time, scowling, his face flushed. He turned on the Judge, grasped him by the shoulders, his fingers gripping so hard that the Judge winced.
“Look here, Lindman,” he said. “Those men were not ordinary robbers. Experienced men would know better than to crack a safe in a courthouse when there’s a bank right next door. I’ve an idea that it was some of Trevison’s work. You’ve done or said something that’s given him the notion that you’ve got the original record. Have you?”
“I swear I have said nothing,” declared the Judge.
Corrigan looked at him steadily for a moment and then released him. “You burned it, eh?”
The Judge nodded, and Corrigan compressed his lips. “I suppose it’s all right, but I can’t help wishing that I had been here to watch the ceremony of burning that record. I’d feel a damn sight more secure. But understand this: If you double-cross me in any detail of this game, you’ll never go to the penitentiary for what Benham knows about you—I’ll choke the gizzard out of you!” He took a turn around the room, stopping at last in front of the Judge.
“Now we’ll talk business. I want you to issue an order permitting me to erect mining machinery on Trevison’s land. We need coal here.”
“Graney gave notice of appeal,” protested the Judge.
“Which the Circuit Court denied.”
“He’ll go to Washington,” persisted the Judge, gulping. “I can’t legally do it.”
Corrigan laughed. “Appoint a receiver to operate the mine, pending the Supreme Court decision. Appoint Braman. Graney has no case, anyway. There is no record or deed.”
“There is no need of haste,” Lindman cautioned; “you can’t get mining machinery here for some time yet.”
Corrigan laughed, dragging the Judge to a window, from which he pointed out some flat-cars standing on a siding, loaded with lumber, machinery, corrugated iron, shutes, cables, trucks, “T” rails, and other articles that the Judge did not recognize.
The Judge exclaimed in astonishment. Corrigan grunted.
“I ordered that stuff six weeks ago, in anticipation of my victory in your court. You can see how I trusted in your honesty and perspicacity. I’ll have it on the ground tomorrow—some of it today. Of course I want to proceed legally, and in order to do that I’ll have to have the court order this morning. You do whatever is necessary.”
At daylight he was in the laborers’ camp, skirting the railroad at the edge of town, looking for Carson. He found the big Irishman in one of the larger tent-houses, talking with the cook, who was preparing breakfast amid a smother of smoke and the strong mingled odors of frying bacon and coffee. Corrigan went only to the flap of the tent, motioning Carson outside.
Walking away from the tent toward some small frame buildings down the track, Corrigan said:
“There are several carloads of material there,” pointing to the flat-cars which he had shown to the Judge. “I’ve hired a mining man to superintend the erection of that stuff—it’s mining machinery and material for buildings. I want you to place as many of your men as you can spare at the disposal of the engineer; his name’s Pickand, and you’ll find him at the cars at eight o’clock. I’ll have some more laborers sent over from the dam. Give him as many men as he wants; go with him yourself, if he wants you.”
“What are ye goin’ to mine?”
“Coal.”
“Where?”
“I’ve been looking over the land with Pickand; he says we’ll sink a shaft at the base of the butte below the mesa, where you are laying tracks now. We won’t have to go far, Pickand says. There’s coal—thick veins of it—running back into the wall of the butte.”
“All right, sir,” said Carson. But he scratched his head in perplexity, eyeing Corrigan sidelong. “Ye woudn’t be sayin’ that ye’ll be diggin’ for coal on the railroad’s right av way, wud ye?”
“No!” snapped Corrigan.
“Thin it will be on Trevison’s land. Have ye bargained wid him for it?”
“No! Look here, Carson. Mind your own business and do as you’re told!”
“I’m elicted, I s’pose; but it’s a job I ain’t admirin’ to do. If ye’ve got half the sinse I give ye credit for havin’, ye’ll be lettin’ that mon Trevison alone—I’d a lot sooner smoke a segar in that shed av dynamite than to cross him!”
Corrigan smiled and turned to look in the direction in which the Irishman was pointing. A small, flat-roofed frame building, sheathed with corrugated iron, met his view. Crude signs, large enough to be read hundreds of feet distant, were affixed to the walls:
“CAUTION. DYNAMITE.”
“Do you keep much of it there?”
“Enough for any blastin’ we have to do. There’s plenty—half a ton, mebbe.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“Meself.”
Corrigan returned to town, breakfasted, mounted a horse and rode out to the dam, where he gave orders for some laborers to be sent to Carson. At nine o’clock he was back in Manti talking with Pickand, and watching the dinky engine as it pulled the loaded flat-cars westward over the tracks. He left Pickand and went to his office in the bank building, where he conferred with some men regarding various buildings and improvements in contemplation, and shortly after ten, glancing out of a window, he saw a buckboard stop in front of the Castle hotel. Corrigan waited a little, then closed his desk and walked across the street. Shortly he confronted Hester Harvey in her room. He saw from her downcast manner that she had failed. His face darkened.
“Wouldn’t work, eh? What did he say?”
The woman was hunched down in her chair, still wearing the cloak that she had worn in Trevison’s office; the collar still up, the front thrown open. Her hair was disheveled; dark lines were under her eyes; she glared at Corrigan in an abandon of savage dejection.
“He turned me down—cold.” Her laugh held the bitterness of self-derision. “I’m through, there, Jeff.”
“Hell!” cursed the man. She looked at him, her lips curving with amused contempt.
“Oh, you’re all right—don’t worry. That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” She laughed harshly at the quickened light in his eyes. “You’d see me sacrifice myself; you wouldn’t give me a word of sympathy. That’s you! That’s the way of all men. Give, give, give! That’s the masculine chorus—the hunting-song of the human wolf-pack!”
“Don’t talk like that—it ain’t like you, kid. You were always the gamest little dame I ever knew.” He essayed to take the hand that was twisted in the folds of her cloak, but she drew it away from him in a fury. And the eagerness in his eyes betrayed the insincerity of his attempt at consolation; she saw it—the naked selfishness of his look—and sneered at him.
“You want the good news, eh? The good for you? That’s all you care about. After you get it, I’ll get the husks of your pity. Well, here it is
. I’ve poisoned them both—against each other. I told him she was against him in this land business. And it hurt me to see how gamely he took it, Jeff!” her voice broke, but she choked back the sob and went on, hoarsely: “He didn’t make a whimper. Not even when I told him you were going to marry her—that you were engaged. But there was a fire in those eyes of his that I would give my soul to see there for me!”
“Yes—yes,” said the man, impatiently.
“Oh, you devil!” she railed at him. “I’ve made him think it was a frame-up between you and her—to get information out of him; I told him that she had strung him along for a month or so—amusing herself. And he believes it.”
“Good!”
“And I’ve made her believe that he sent for me,” she went on, her voice leaping to cold savagery. “I stayed all night at his place, and I went back to the Bar B in the morning—this morning—and made Rosalind Benham think—Ha, ha! She ordered me away from the house—the hussy! She’s through with him—any fool could tell that. But it’s different with him, Jeff. He won’t give her up; he isn’t that kind. He’ll fight for her—and he’ll have her!”
The eager, pleased light died out of Corrigan’s face, his lips set in an ugly pout. But he contrived to smile as he got up.
“You’ve done well—so far. But don’t give him up. Maybe he’ll change his mind. Stay here—I’ll stake you to the limit.” He laid a roll of bills on a stand—she did not look at them—and approached her in a second endeavor to console her. But she waved him away, saying: “Get out of here—I want to think!” And he obeyed, looking back before he closed the door.
“Selfish?” he muttered, going down the street. “Well, what of it? That’s a human weakness, isn’t it? Get what you want, and to hell with other people!”
* * * *
Trevison had gone to his room for a much-needed rest. He had watched Hester Harvey go with no conscious regret, but with a certain grim pity, which was as futile as her visit. But, lying on the bed he fought hard against the bitter scorn that raged in him over the contemplation of Rosalind Benham’s duplicity. He found it hard to believe that she had been duping him, for during the weeks of his acquaintance with her he had studied her much—with admiration-weighted prejudice, of course, since she made a strong appeal to him—and he had been certain, then, that she was as free from guile as a child—excepting any girl’s natural artifices by which she concealed certain emotions that men had no business trying to read. He had read some of them—his business or not—and he had imagined he had seen what had fired his blood—a reciprocal affection. He would not have declared himself, otherwise.
He went to sleep, thinking of her. He awoke about noon, to see Barkwell standing at his side, shaking him.
“Have you got any understandin’ with that railroad gang that they’re to do any minin’ on the Diamond K range?”
“No.”
“Well, they’re gettin’ ready to do it. Over at the butte near the railroad cut. I passed there a while ago an’ quizzed the big guy—Corrigan—about a gang workin’ there. He says they’re goin’ to mine coal. I asked him if he had your permission an’ he said he didn’t need it. I reckon they ain’t none shy on gall where that guy come from!”
Trevison got out of bed and buckled on his cartridge belt and pistol. “The boys are working the Willow Creek range,” he said, sharply. “Get them, tell them to load up with plenty of cartridges, and join me at the butte.”
He heard Barkwell go leaping down the stairs, his spurs striking the step edges, and a few minutes later, riding Blackie out of the corral he saw the foreman racing away in a dust cloud. He followed the bed of the river, himself, going at a slow lope, for he wanted time to think—to gain control of the rage that boiled in his veins. He conquered it, and when he came in sight of the butte he was cool and deliberate, though on his face was that “mean” look that Carson had once remarked about to his friend Murphy, partly hidden by the “tiger” smile which, the Irishman had discovered, preceded action, ruthless and swift.
The level below the butte was a-buzz with life and energy. Scores of laborers were rushing about under the direction of a tall, thin, bespectacled man who seemed to be the moving spirit in all the activity. He shouted orders to Carson—Trevison saw the big figure of the Irishman dominating the laborers—who repeated them, added to them; sending men scampering hither and thither. Pausing at a little distance down the level, Trevison watched the scene. At first all seemed confusion, but presently he was able to discern that method ruled. For he now observed that the laborers were divided into “gangs.” Some were unloading the flat-cars, others were “assembling” a stationary engine near the wall of the butte. They had a roof over it, already. Others were laying tracks that intersected with the main line; still others were erecting buildings along the level. They were on Trevison’s land—there was no doubt of that. Moreover, they were erecting their buildings and apparatus at the point where Trevison himself had contemplated making a start. He saw Corrigan seated on a box on one of the flat-cars, smoking a cigar; another man, whom Trevison recognized as Gieger—he would have been willing to swear the man was one of those who had thwarted his plans in the courthouse—standing beside him, a Winchester rifle resting in the hollow of his left arm. Trevison urged Blackie along the level, down the track, and halted near Corrigan and Gieger. He knew that Corrigan had seen him, but it pleased the other to pretend that he had not.
“This is your work, Corrigan—I take it?” said Trevison, bluntly.
Corrigan turned slowly. He was a good actor, for he succeeded in getting a fairly convincing counterfeit of surprise into his face as his gaze fell on his enemy.
“You have taken it correctly, sir.” He smiled blandly, though there was a snapping alertness in his eyes that belied his apparent calmness. He turned to Gieger, ignoring Trevison. “Organization is the thing. Pickand is a genius at it,” he said.
Trevison’s eyes flamed with rage over this deliberate insult. But in it he saw a cold design to make him lose his temper. The knowledge brought a twisting smile to his face.
“You have permission to begin this work, I suppose?”
Corrigan turned again, as though astonished at the persistence of the other. “Certainly, sir. This work is being done under a court order, issued this morning. I applied for it yesterday. I am well within my legal rights, the court having as you are aware, settled the question of the title.”
“You know I have appealed the case?”
“I have not been informed that you have done so. In any event such an appeal would not prevent me mining the coal on the property, pending the hearing of the case in the higher court. Judge Lindman has appointed a receiver, who is bonded; and the work is to proceed under his direction. I am here merely as an onlooker.”
He looked fairly at Trevison, his eyes gleaming with cold derision. The expression maddened the other beyond endurance, and his eyes danced the chill glitter of meditated violence, unrecking consequences.
“You’re a sneaking crook, Corrigan, and you know it! You’re going too far! You’ve had Braman appointed in order to escape the responsibility! You’re hiding behind him like a coward! Come out into the open and fight like a man!”
Corrigan’s face bloated poisonously, but he made no hostile move. “I’ll kill you for that some day!” he whispered. “Not now,” he laughed mirthlessly as the other stiffened; “I can’t take the risk right now—I’ve too much depending on me. But you’ve been damned impertinent and troublesome, and when I get you where I want you I’m going to serve you like this!” And he took the cigar from his mouth, dropped it to the floor of the car and ground it to pieces under his heel. He looked up again, at Trevison, and their gaze met, in each man’s eyes glowed the knowledge of imminent action, ruthless and terrible.
Trevison broke the tension with a laugh that came from between his teeth. “Why delay?” he mocked. “I’ve been ready for the grinding process since the first day.”
“En
ough of this!” Corrigan turned to Gieger with a glance of cold intolerance. “This man is a nuisance,” he said to the deputy. “Carry out the mandate of the court and order him away. If he doesn’t go, kill him! He is a trespasser, and has no right here!” And he glared at Trevison.
“You’ve got to get out, mister,” said the deputy. He tapped his rifle menacingly, betraying a quick accession of rage that he caught, no doubt, from Corrigan. Trevison smiled coldly, and backed Blackie a little. For an instant he meditated resistance, and dropped his right hand to the butt of his pistol. A shout distracted his attention. It came from behind him—it sounded like a warning, and he wheeled, to see Carson running toward him, not more than ten feet distant, waving his hands, a huge smile on his face.
“Domned if it ain’t Trevison!” he yelled as he lunged forward and caught Trevison’s right hand in his own, pulling the rider toward him. “I’ve been wantin’ to spake a word wid ye for two weeks now—about thim cows which me brother in Illinoy has been askin’ me about, an’ divvil a chance have I had to see ye!” And as he yanked Trevison’s shoulders downward with a sudden pressure that there was no resisting, he whispered, rapidly.
“Diputies—thirty av thim wid Winchesters—on the other side av the flat-cars. It’s a thrap to do away wid ye—I heard ’em cookin’ it!”
“An’ ye wudn’t be sellin’ ’em to me at twinty-five, eh?” he said, aloud. “Go ’long wid ye—ye’re a domned hold-up man, like all the rist av thim!” And he slapped the black horse playfully in the ribs and laughed gleefully as the animal lunged at him, ears laid back, mouth open.
His eyes cold, his lips hard and straight, Trevison spurred the black again to the flat-car.
“The bars are down between us, Corrigan; it’s man to man from now on. Law or no law, I give you twenty-four hours to get your men and apparatus off my land. After that I won’t be responsible for what happens!” He heard a shout behind him, a clatter, and he turned to see ten or twelve of his men racing over the level toward him. At the same instant he heard a sharp exclamation from Corrigan; heard Gieger issue a sharp order, and a line of men raised their heads above the flat-cars, rifles in their hands, which they trained on the advancing cowboys.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 76
