The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  Silence, like a stroke, fell over the town. The girl saw people running toward the open space, but they seemed to make no noise—they might have been dream people. And then, noting that they all stared in one direction, she looked over their heads. Not more than four or five hundred feet from the open space, and heading directly toward it, thundered a rider on a tall, strong, rangy horse. The beast’s chest was foam-flecked, the white lather that billowed around its muzzle was stained darkly. But it came on with heart-breaking effort, giving its rider its all. Behind the first rider came a second, not more than fifty feet distant from the other, on a black horse which ran with no effort, seemingly, sliding along with great, smooth undulations, his mighty muscles flowing like living things under his glossy, somber coat.

  The girl saw the man on his back leaning forward, a snarling, terrible grin on his face. She saw the first rider wheel when he reached the edge of the open space near the waiting Vigilantes, bring his horse to a sliding halt and face toward his pursuer. He clawed at a hip pocket, drawing a pistol that flashed in the first rays of the morning sun—it belched fire and smoke in a continuous stream, seemingly straight at the rider of the black horse. One—two—three—four—five—six times! The girl counted. But the first man’s hand wabbled, and the rider of the black horse came on like a demon astride a black bolt, a laugh of bitter derision on his lips. The black did not swerve. Straight and true in his headlong flight he struck the other horse. They went down in a smother of dust, the two horses grunting, scrambling and kicking. The girl had seen the rider of the black horse lunge forward at the instant of impact; he had thrown himself at the other man as she had seen football players launch themselves at players of the opposition, and they had both reeled out of their saddles to disappear in the smother of dust.

  Men left the fringe of the living wall flanking the open space and seized the two horses, leading them away. The smother drifted, and the girl screamed at sight of the two raging things that rolled and burrowed in the deep dust of the street.

  * * * *

  They got up as she watched them, springing apart hesitating for an awful instant to sob breath into their lungs; then they rushed together, striking bitter, sledge-hammer blows that sounded like the smashing of flat rocks, falling from a great height, on the surface of water. She shrieked once, wildly, beseeching someone to stop them, but no man paid any attention to her cry. They sat on their horses, silent, tense, grim, and she settled into a coma of terror, an icy paralysis gripping her. She heard her father muttering incoherently at her side, droning and puling something over and over in a wailing monotone—she caught it after a while; he was calling upon his God—in an hour that could not have been were it not for his own moral flaccidness.

  The dust under the feet of the fighting men leveled under their shifting, dragging feet; it bore the print of their bodies where they had lain and rolled in it; erupting volcanoes belched it heavily upward; it caught and gripped their legs to the ankles, making their movements slow and sodden. This condition favored the larger man. He lashed out a heavy fist that caught Trevison full and fair on the jaw, and the latter’s face turned ashy white as he sank to his knees. Corrigan stopped to catch his breath before he hurled himself forward, and this respite, brief as it was, helped the other to shake off the deadening effect of the blow. He moved his head slightly as Corrigan swung at it, and the blow missed, its force pulling the big man off his feet, so that he tumbled headlong over his adversary. He was up again in a flash though, for he was fresher than his enemy. They clinched, and stood straining, matching strength against strength, sheer, without trickery, for the madness of murder was in the heart of one and the desperation of fear in the soul of the other, and they thought of nothing but to crush and batter and pound.

  Corrigan’s strength was slightly the greater, but it was offset by the other’s fury. In the clinch the big man’s right hand came up, the heel of the palm shoved with malignant ferocity against Trevison’s chin. Corrigan’s left arm was around Trevison’s waist, squeezing it like a vise, and the whole strength of Corrigan’s right arm was exerted to force the other’s head back. Trevison tried to slip his head sideways to escape the hold, but the effort was fruitless. Changing his tactics, his breath lagging in his throat from the terrible pressure on it, Trevison worked his right hand into the other’s stomach with the force and regularity of a piston rod. The big man writhed under the punishment, dropping his hand from Trevison’s chin to his waist, swung him from his feet and threw him from him as a man throws a bag of meal.

  He was after him before he landed, but the other writhed and wriggled in the air like a cat, and when the big man reached for him, trying again to clinch, he evaded the arm and landed a crushing blow on the other’s chin that snapped his head back as though it were swung from a hinge, and sent him reeling, to his knees in the dust.

  The watching girl saw the ring of men around the fighters contract; she saw Trevison dive headlong at the kneeling man; with fingers working in a fury of impotence she swayed at the iron rail, leaning far over it, her eyes strained, her breath bated, constricting her lungs as though a steel band were around them. For she seemed to feel that the end was near.

  She saw them, locked in each other’s embrace, stagger to their feet. Corrigan’s head was wabbling. He was trying to hold the other to him that he might escape the lashing blows that were driven at his head. The girl saw his hold broken, and as he reeled, catching another blow in the mouth, he swung toward her and she saw that his lips were smashed, the blood from them trickling down over his chin. There was a gleam of wild, despairing terror in his eyes—revealing the dawning consciousness of approaching defeat, complete and terrible. She saw Trevison start another blow, swinging his fist upward from his knee. It landed with a sodden squish on the big man’s jaw. His eyes snapped shut, and he dropped soundlessly, face down in the dust.

  For a space Trevison stood, swaying drunkenly, looking down at his beaten enemy. Then he drew himself erect with a mighty effort and swept the crowd with a glance, the fires of passion still leaping and smoldering in his eyes. He seemed for the first time to see the Vigilantes, to realize the significance of their presence, and as he wheeled slowly his lips parted in a grin of bitter satisfaction. He staggered around the form of his fallen enemy, his legs bending at the knees, his feet dragging in the dust. It seemed to the girl that he was waiting for Corrigan to get up that he might resume the fight, and she cried out protestingly. He wheeled at the sound of her voice and faced her, rocking back and forth on his heels and toes, and the glow of dull astonishment in his eyes told her that he was now for the first time aware of her presence. He bowed to her, gravely, losing his balance in the effort, reeling weakly to recover it.

  And then a crush of men blotted him out—the ring of Vigilantes had closed around him. She saw Barkwell lunging through the press to gain Trevison’s side; she got a glimpse of him a minute later, near Trevison. The street had become a sea of jostling, shoving men and prancing horses. She wanted to get away—somewhere—to shut this sight from her eyes. For though one horror was over, another impended. She knew it, but could not move. A voice boomed hoarsely, commandingly, above the buzz of many others—it was Lefingwell’s, and she cringed at the sound of it. There was a concerted movement; the Vigilantes were shoving the crowd back, clearing a space in the center. In the cleared space two men were lifting Corrigan to his feet. He was reeling in their grasp, his chin on his chest, his face dust-covered, disfigured, streaked with blood. He was conquered, his spirit broken, and her heart ached with pity for him despite her horror for his black deeds. The loop of a rope swung out as she watched; it fell with a horrible swish over Corrigan’s head and was drawn taut, swiftly, and a hoarse roar of approval drowned her shriek.

  She heard Trevison’s voice, muttering in protest, but his words, like her shriek, were lost in the confusion of sound. She saw him fling his arms wide, sending Barkwell and another man reeling from him; he reached for the pistol at his si
de and leveled it at the crowd. Those nearest him shrank, their faces blank with fear and astonishment. But the man with the rope stood firm, as did Lefingwell, grim, his face darkening with wrath.

  “This is the law actin’ here, ‘Firebrand,’” he said, his voice level. “You’ve done your bit, an’ you’re due to step back an’ let justice take a hand. This here skunk has outraged every damned rule of decency an’ honor. He’s tried to steal all our land; he’s corrupted our court, nearly guzzled Judge Lindman to death, killed Braman—an’ Barkwell says the bunch of pluguglies he hired to pose as deputies, has killed Clay Levins an’ four or five of the Diamond K men. That’s plenty. We’d admire to give in to you. We’ll do anything else you say. But this has got to be done.”

  While Lefingwell had been talking two of the Vigilantes had slipped to the rear of Trevison. As Lefingwell concluded they leaped. The arms of one man went around Trevison’s neck; the other man lunged low and pinned his arms to his sides, one hand grasping the pistol and wrenching it from his hand. The crowd closed again. The girl saw Corrigan lifted to the back of a horse, and she shut her eyes and hung dizzily to the railing, while tumult and confusion raged around her.

  She opened her eyes a little later, to see Barkwell and another man leading Trevison into the front door of the Castle. The street around the car was deserted, save for two or three men who were watching her curiously. She felt her father’s arms around her, and she was led into the car, her knees shaking, her soul sick with the horror of it all.

  Half an hour later, as she sat at one of the windows, staring stonily out in the shimmering sunlight of the street, she saw some of the Vigilantes returning. She shrank back from the window, shuddering.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE CALM

  The day seemed to endure for an age. Rosalind did not leave the car; she did not go near her father, shut up alone in his apartment; she ate nothing, ignoring the negro attendant when he told her that lunch was served, huddled in a chair beside an open window she decided a battle. She saw the forces of reason and justice rout the hosts of hatred and crime, and she got up finally, her face pallid, but resolute, secure in the knowledge that she had decided wisely. She pitied Corrigan. Had it been within her power she would have prevented the tragedy. And yet she could not blame these people. They were playing the game honestly, and their patience had been sadly strained by one player who had persisted in breaking the rules. He had been swept away by his peers, which was as fair a way as any law—any human law—could deal with him. In her own East he would have paid the same penalty. The method would have been more refined, to be sure; there would have been a long legal squabble, with its tedious delays, but in the end Corrigan would have paid. There was a retributive justice for all those who infracted the rules of the game. It had found Corrigan.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon she washed her face. The cool water refreshed her, and with reviving spirits she combed her hair, brushed the dust from her clothing, and looked into a mirror. There were dark hollows under her eyes, a haunting, dreading expression in them. For she could not help thinking about what had happened there—down the street where the Vigilantes had gone.

  She dropped listlessly into another chair beside a window, this time facing the station. She saw her horse, hitched to the rail at the station platform, where she had left it that morning. That seemed to have been days ago! A period of aching calm had succeeded the tumult of the morning. The street was soundless, deserted. Those men who had played leading parts in the tragedy were not now visible. She would have deserted the town too, had it not been for her father. The tragedy had unnerved him, and she must stay with him until he recovered. She had asked the porter about him, and the latter had reported that he seemed to be asleep.

  A breeze carried a whisper to her as she sat at the window:

  “Where’s ‘Firebrand’ now?” said a voice.

  “Sleepin’. The clerk in the Castle says he’s makin’ up for lost time.”

  She did not bother to try to see the owners of the voices; her gaze was on the plains, far and vast; and the sky, clear, with a pearly shimmer that dazzled her. She closed her eyes. She could not have told how long she slept. She awoke to the light touch of the porter, and she saw Trevison standing in the open doorway of the car.

  The dust of the battle had been removed. An admiring barber had worked carefully over him; a doctor had mended his arm. Except for a noticeable thinness of the face, and a certain drawn expression of the eyes, he was the same Trevison who had spoken so frankly to her one day out on the plains when he had taken her into his confidence. In the look that he gave her now was the same frankness, clouded a little, she thought, by some emotion—which she could not fathom.

  “I have come to apologize,” he said; “for various unjust thoughts with which I have been obsessed.” Before she could reply he had taken two or three swift steps and was standing over her, and was speaking again, his voice vibrant and regretful: “I ought to have known better than to think—what I did—of you. I have no excuses to make, except that I was insane with a fear that my ten years of labor and lonesomeness were to be wasted. I have just had a talk with Hester Harvey, and she has shown me what a fool I have been. She—”

  Rosalind got up, laughing lowly, tremulously. “I talked with Hester this morning. And I think—”

  “She told you—” he began, his voice leaping.

  “Many things.” She looked straight at him, her eyes glowing, but they drooped under the heat of his. “You don’t need to feel elated over it—there were two of us.” She felt that the surge of joy that ran over her would have shown in her face had it not been for a sudden recollection of what the Vigilantes had done that morning. That recollection paled her cheeks and froze the smile on her lips.

  He was watching her closely and saw her face harden. A shadow passed over his own. He thought he could see the hopelessness of staying longer. “A woman’s love,” he said, gloomily, “is a wonderful thing. It clings through trouble and tragedy—never faltering.” She looked at him, startled, trying to solve the enigma of this speech. He laughed, bitterly. “That’s what makes a woman superior to mere man. Love exalts her. It makes a savage of a man. I suppose it is ‘good-bye.’” He held out a hand to her and she took it, holding it limply, looking at him in wonderment, her heart heavy with regret. “I wish you luck and happiness,” he said. “Corrigan is a man in spite of—of many faults. You can redeem him; you—”

  “Is a man!” Her hand tightened on his; he could feel her tremble. “Why—why—I thought—Didn’t they—”

  “Didn’t they tell you? The fools!” He laughed derisively. “They let him go. They knew I wouldn’t want it. They did it for me. He went East on the noon train—quite alive, I assure you. I am glad of it—for your sake.”

  “For my sake!” Her voice lifted in mingled joy and derision, and both her hands were squeezing his with a pressure that made his blood leap with a longing to possess her. “For my sake!” she repeated, and the emphasis made him gasp and stiffen. “For your sake—for both of us, Trevison! Oh, what fools we were! What fools all people are, not to trust and believe!”

  “What do you mean?” He drew her toward him, roughly, and held her hands in a grip that made her wince. But she looked straight at him in spite of the pain, her eyes brimming with a promise that he could not mistake.

  “Can’t you see?” she said to him, her voice quavering; “must I tell you?”

  THE TRAIL HORDE

  Originally published in 1920.

  CHAPTER I

  CONCERNING MORALS

  There were fifty thousand acres within view of the ranchhouse—virgin grass land dotted with sage, running over a wide level, into little hills, and so on to an upland whose rise was so gradual that it could be seen only from a distance, best from the gallery of the ranchhouse.

  The first tang of autumn was in the sage-scented breeze that swept the county, and the tawny valley, basking in the warm sunlight that
came down from a cloudless sky, showed its rugged beauty to advantage.

  Kane Lawler paused at the edge of the gallery and filled his lungs from the sage-laden breeze, and then wheeled to face his mother.

  She smiled at him.

  “Have you seen Ruth Hamlin lately, Kane?”

  Lawler’s lips opened, then closed again, tightly. And by that token Mrs. Lawler knew that something Kane had been on the point of saying never would be said. For she knew her son as no other person in the country knew him.

  Kane Lawler was big. From the broad shoulders that bulged the gray flannel shirt, down the yellow corduroy trousers that encased his legs to the tops of the boots with their high heels and dull-roweled spurs, Lawler looked what he was, a man who asked no favors of his kind.

  Mrs. Lawler had followed him out of the house, and she now stood near him, watching him.

  There was in Lawler’s lean face as he turned from his mother and peered steadily out into the valley, a hint of volcanic force, of resistless energy held in leash by a contrary power. That power might have been grim humor—for his keen gray eyes were now gleaming with something akin to humor—it might have been cynical tolerance—for his lips were twisted into a curious, mirthless half-smile; it might have been the stern repression that had governed him all his days.