The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  He got up silently, stepped stealthily into the room, closing the door behind him. He tried to fasten it and discovered that the lock was broken. For some time he stood, wondering, and then, giving it up, he made his way cautiously around the room, searching for Braman’s cot. He found that, too, empty, and he decided that some one had broken into the building during Braman’s absence. Moving away from the cot, he stumbled against something soft and yielding, and his pistol flashed into his hand in sinister preparation, for he knew from the feel of the soft object that it was a body, and he suspected that it was Braman, stalking him. He thought that until he remembered the broken lock, on the door, and then the significance of it burst upon him. Whoever had broken the lock had fixed Braman. He knelt swiftly and ran his hands over the prone form, drawing back at last with the low ejaculation: “He’s a goner!” He had no time or inclination to speculate over the manner of Braman’s death, and made catlike progress toward the crevice in the partition. Reaching it, he dropped on his hands and knees and peered through. A wooden box on the other side of the partition intervened, but above it he could see the form of the deputy. The man was stretched out in a chair, sideways to the crevice in the wall, sleeping. A grin of huge satisfaction spread over Trevison’s face.

  His movements were very deliberate and cautious. But in a quarter of an hour he had pulled the board out until an opening was made in the partition, and then propping the board back with a chair he reached through and slowly shoved the box on the other side back far enough to admit his body. Crawling through, he rose on the other side, crossed the floor carefully, kneeled at the drawer where Judge Lindman had concealed the record, pulled it out and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, in front, his eyes glittering with exultation. Then he began to back toward the opening in the partition. At the instant he was preparing to stoop to crawl back into the bank building, the deputy in the chair yawned, stretched and opened his eyes, staring stupidly at him. There was no mistaking the dancing glitter in Trevison’s eyes, no possible misinterpretation of his tense, throaty whisper: “One chirp and you’re a dead one!” And the deputy stiffened in the chair, dumb with astonishment and terror.

  The deputy had not seen the opening in the partition, for it was partly hidden from his view by the box which Trevison had encountered in entering, and before the man had an opportunity to look toward the place, Trevison commanded him again, in a sharp, cold whisper:

  “Get up and turn your back to me—quick! Any noise and I’ll plug you! Move!”

  The deputy obeyed. Then he received an order to walk to the door without looking back. He readied the door—halted.

  “Now open it and get out!”

  The man did as bidden; diving headlong out into the darkness, swinging the door shut behind him. His yell to his companions mingled with the roar of Trevison’s pistol as he shattered the kerosene lamp. The bullet hit the neck of the glass bowl, a trifle below the burner, the latter describing a parabola in the air and falling into the ruin of the bowl. The chimney crashed, the flame from the wick touched the oil and flared up brilliantly.

  Trevison was half way through the wall by the time the oil ignited, and he grinned coldly at the sight. Haste was important now. He slipped through the opening, pulled the chair from between the board and wall, letting the board snap back, and placing the chair against it. He felt certain that the deputies would think that in some manner he had run their barricade and entered the building through the door.

  He heard voices outside, a fusillade of shots, the tinkle of breaking glass; against the pine boards at his side came the wicked thud of bullets, the splintering of wood as they tore through the partition and embedded themselves in the outside wall. He ducked low and ran to the rear door, swinging it open. Braman’s body bothered him; he could not leave it there, knowing the building would soon be in flames. He dragged the body outside, to a point several feet distant from the building, dropping it at last and standing erect for the first time to fill his lungs and look about him. Looking back as he ran down the tracks toward the shed where he had left Blackie, he saw shadowy forms of men running around the courthouse, which was now dully illuminated, the light from within dancing fitfully through the window shades. Flaming streaks rent the night from various points—thinking him still in the building the deputies were shooting through the windows. Manti, rudely awakened, was pouring its population through its doors in streams. Shouts, hoarse, inquisitive, drifted to Trevison’s ears. Lights blazed up, flickering from windows like giant fireflies. Doors slammed, dogs were barking, men were running. Trevison laughed vibrantly as he ran. But his lips closed tightly when he saw two or three shadowy figures darting toward him, coming from various directions—one from across the street; another coming straight down the railroad track, still another advancing from his right. He bowed his head and essayed to pass the first figure. It reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder, arresting his flight.

  “What’s up?”

  “Let go, you damned fool!”

  The man still clung to him. Trevison wrenched himself free and struck, viciously. The man dropped with a startled cry. Another figure was upon Trevison. He wanted no more trouble at that minute.

  “Hell to pay!” he panted as the second man loomed close to him in the darkness; “Trevison’s in the courthouse!”

  He heard the other gasp; saw him lunge forward. He struck again, bitterly, and the man went to his knees. He was up again instantly, as Trevison fled into the darkness, crying resonantly:

  “This way, boys—here he is!”

  “Corrigan!” breathed Trevison. He ducked as a flame-spurt split the night; reaching a corner of the shed where he had left his horse as a succession of reports rattled behind him. Corrigan was firing at him. He dared not use his own pistol, lest its flash reveal his whereabouts, and he knew he would have no chance against the odds that were against him. Nor was he intent on murder. He flung himself into the saddle, and for the first time since he had come into Trevison’s possession Blackie knew the bite of spurs earnestly applied. He snorted, leaped, and plunged forward, the clatter of his hoofs bringing lancelike streaks of fire out of the surrounding blackness. Behind him Trevison heard Corrigan raging impotently, profanely. There came another scattering volley. Trevison reeled, caught himself, and then hung hard to the saddle-horn, as Blackie fled into the night, running as a coyote runs from the daylight.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  ANOTHER WOMAN LIES

  Shortly before midnight Aunt Agatha Benham laid her book down, took off her glasses, wiped her eyes and yawned. She sat for a time stretched out in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, meditatively looking at the flicker of the kerosene lamp, thinking of the conveniences she had given up in order to chaperon a wilful girl who did not appreciate her services. It was the selfishness of youth, she decided—nothing less. But still Rosalind might understand what a sacrifice her aunt was making for her. Thrilling with self-pity, she got up, blew out the light and ascended the stairs to her room. She plumped herself in a chair at one of the front windows before beginning to undress, that she might again feel the delicious thrill, for that was the only consolation she got from a contemplation of her sacrifice, Rosalind never offered her a word of gratitude!

  The thrill she anticipated was not the one she experienced—it was a thrill of apprehension that seized her—for a glowing midnight sky met her gaze as she stared in the direction of Manti, vast, extensive. In its center, directly over the town, was a fierce white glare with off-shoots of licking, leaping tongues of flame that reached skyward hungrily.

  Agatha watched for one startled instant, and then she was in Rosalind’s room, leaning over the bed, shaking her. The girl got up, dressed in her night clothes, and together they stood at one of the windows in the girl’s room, watching.

  The fierce white center of the fire seemed to expand.

  “It’s a fire—in Manti!” said the girl. “See! Another building has caught! Oh, I do hope they can put i
t out!”

  They stood long at the window. Once, when the glow grew more brilliant, the girl exclaimed sharply, but after a time the light began to fade, and she drew a breath of relief.

  “They have it under control,” she said.

  “Well, come to bed,” advised Agatha.

  “Wait!” said the girl. She pressed her face against the window and peered intently into the darkness. Then she threw up the sash, stuck her head out and listened. She drew back, her face slowly whitening.

  “Some one is coming, Aunty—and riding very fast!”

  A premonition of tragedy, associated with the fire, had seized the girl at her first glimpse of the light, though she had said nothing. The appearance of a rider, approaching the house at breakneck speed had added strength to her fears, and now, driven by the urge of apprehension that had seized her she flitted out of the room before Agatha could restrain her, and was down in the sitting-room in an instant, applying a match to the lamp. As the light flared up she heard the thunder of hoofs just outside the door, and she ran to it, throwing it open. She shrank back, drawing her breath gaspingly, for the rider had dismounted and stepped toward her, into the dim light of the open doorway.

  “You!” she said.

  A low laugh was her answer, and Trevison stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. From the foot of the stairs Agatha saw him, and she stood, nerveless and shaking with dread over the picture he made.

  He had been more than forty-eight hours without sleep, the storm-center of action had left its impression on him, and his face was gaunt and haggard, with great, dark hollows under his eyes. The three or four days’ growth of beard accentuated the bold lines of his chin and jaw; his eyes were dancing with the fires of passion; he held a Winchester rifle under his right arm, the left, hanging limply at his side, was stained darkly. He swayed as he stood looking at the girl, and smiled with faint derision at the naked fear and wonder that had leaped into her eyes. But the derision was tinged with bitterness, for this girl with both hands pressed over her breast, heaving with the mingled emotions of modesty and dismay, was one of the chief factors in the scheme to rob him. The knowledge hurt him worse than the bullet which had passed through his arm. She had been uppermost in his thoughts during his reckless ride from Manti, and he would have cheerfully given his land, his ten years of labor, for the assurance that she was innocent. But he knew guilt when he saw it, and proof of it had been in her avoidance of him, in her ride to save Corrigan’s mining machinery, in her subsequent telling of his presence at the butte on the night of the dynamiting, in her bitter declaration that he ought to be punished for it. The case against her was strong. And yet on his ride from Manti he had been irresistibly drawn toward the Bar B ranchhouse. He had told himself as he rode that the impulse to visit her this night was strong within him because on his way to the pueblo he was forced to pass the house, but he knew better—he had lied to himself. He wanted to talk with her again; he wanted to show her the land record, which proved her fiance’s guilt; he wanted to watch her as she looked at the record, to learn from her face—what he might find there.

  He stood the rifle against the wall near the door, while the girl and her aunt watched him, breathlessly. His voice was vibrant and hoarse, but well under control, and he smiled with straight lips as he set the rifle down and drew the record from his waistband.

  “I’ve something to show you, Miss Benham. I couldn’t pass the house without letting you know what has happened.” He opened the book and stepped to her side, swinging his left hand up, the index finger indicating a page on which his name appeared.

  “Look!” he said, sharply, and watched her face closely. He saw her cheeks blanch, and set his lips grimly.

  “Why,” she said, after she had hurriedly scanned the page; “it seems to prove your title! But this is a court record, isn’t it?” She examined the gilt lettering on the back of the volume, and looked up at him with wide, luminous eyes. “Where did you get that book?”

  “From the courthouse.”

  “Why, I thought people weren’t permitted to take court records—”

  “I’ve taken this one,” he laughed.

  She looked at the blood on his hand, shudderingly. “Why,” she said; “there’s been violence! The fire, the blood on your hand, the record, your ride here—What does it mean?”

  “It means that I’ve been denied my rights, and I’ve taken them. Is there any crime in that? Look here!” He took another step and stood looking down at her. “I’m not saying anything about Corrigan. You know what we think of each other, and we’ll fight it out, man to man. But the fact that a woman is engaged to one man doesn’t bar another man from the game. And I’m in this game to the finish. And even if I don’t get you I don’t want you to be mixed up in these schemes and plots—you’re too good a girl for that!”

  “What do you mean?” She stiffened, looking scornfully at him, her chin held high, outraged innocence in her manner. His cold grin of frank disbelief roused her to furious indignation. What right had he to question her integrity to make such speeches to her after his disgraceful affair with Hester Harvey?

  “I do not care to discuss the matter with you!” she said, her lips stiff.

  “Ha, ha!” The bitter derision in his laugh made her blood riot with hatred. He walked toward the door and took up the rifle, dimly remembering she had used the same words to him once before, when he had met her as she had been riding toward Manti. Of course she wouldn’t discuss such a thing—he had been a blind fool to think she would. But it proved her guilt. Swinging the rifle under his arm, he opened the door, turned when on the threshold and bowed to her.

  “I’m sorry I troubled you, Miss Benham,” he said. He essayed to turn, staggered, looked vacantly around the room, his lips in a queerly cold half-smile, and then without uttering a sound pitched forward, one shoulder against the door jamb, and slid slowly to his knees, where he rested, his head sinking limply to his chest. He heard the girl cry out sharply and he raised his head with an effort and smiled reassuringly at her, and when he felt her hands on his arm, trying to lift him, he laughed aloud in self-derision and got to his feet, hanging to the door jamb.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Benham,” he mumbled. “I lost some blood, I suppose. Rotten luck, isn’t it. I shouldn’t have stopped.” He turned to go, lurched forward and would have fallen out of the door had not the girl seized and steadied him.

  He did not resist when she dragged him into the room and closed the door, but he waved her away when she tried to take his arm and lead him toward the kitchen where, she insisted, she would prepare a stimulant and food for him. He tottered after her, tall and gaunt, his big, lithe figure strangely slack, his head rocking, the room whirling around him. He had held to the record and the rifle; the latter by the muzzle, dragging it after him, the record under his arm.

  But his marvelous constitution, a result of his clean living and outdoor life, responded quickly to the stimulation of food and hot drinks, and in half an hour he got up, still a little weak, but with some color in his cheeks, and shame-facedly thanked the girl. He realized now, that he should not have come here; the past few hours loomed in his thoughts like a wild nightmare in which he had lost his sense of proportion, yielding to the elemental passions that had been aroused in his long, sleepless struggle, making him act upon impulses that he would have frowned contemptuously away in a normal frame of mind.

  “I’ve been nearly crazy, I think,” he said to the girl with a wan smile of self-accusation. “I want you to forget what I said.”

  “What happened at Manti?” she demanded, ignoring his words.

  He laughed at the recollection, tucking his rifle under his arm, preparatory to leaving. “I went after the record. I got it. There was a fight. But I got away.”

  “But the fire!”

  “I was forced to smash a lamp in the courthouse. The wick fell into the oil, and I couldn’t delay to—”

  “Was anybody hurt—besid
es you?”

  “Braman’s dead.” The girl gasped and shrank from him, and he saw that she believed he had killed the banker, and he was about to deny the crime when Agatha’s voice shrilled through the doorway:

  “There are some men coming, Rosalind!” And then, vindictively: “I presume they are desperadoes—too!”

  “Deputies!” said Trevison. The girl clasped her hands over her breast in dismay, which changed to terror when she saw Trevison stiffen and leap toward the door. She was afraid for him, horrified over this second lawless deed, dumb with doubt and indecision—and she didn’t want them to catch him!

  He opened the door, paused on the threshold and smiled at her with straight, hard lips.

  “Braman was—”

  “Go!” she cried in a frenzy of anxiety; “go!”

  He laughed mockingly, and looked at her intently. “I suppose I will never understand women. You are my enemy, and yet you give me food and drink and are eager to have me escape your accomplice. Don’t you know that this record will ruin him?”

  “Go, go!” she panted.

  “Well, you’re a puzzle!” he said. She saw him leap into the saddle, and she ran to the lamp, blew out the flame, and returned to the open door, in which she stood for a long time, listening to rapid hoof beats that gradually receded. Before they died out entirely there came the sound of many others, growing in volume and drawing nearer, and she beat her hands together, murmuring: