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Title: 'Firebrand' Trevison

Author: Charles Alden Seltzer

Illustrator: P. V. E. Ivory

Release Date: October 18, 2008 [EBook #26951]

Language: English


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ā€œFIREBRANDā€ TREVISON


INSTINCTIVELY EACH KNEW THE OTHER FOR A FOE. [Page 25]

ā€œFIREBRANDā€

TREVISON

BY

CHARLES ALDEN SELTZER

AUTHOR OF

THE VENGENCE OF JEFFERSON GAWNE,

THE BOSS OF THE LAZY Y,

THE RANGE BOSS, Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

P. V. E. IVORY


GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS              NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright

A. C. McClurg & Co.

1918

Published September, 1918

Copyrighted in Great Britain

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I The Rider of the Black Horse   1 II In Which Hatred is Born   10 III Beating a Good Man   30 IV The Long Arm of Power   42 V A Telegram and a Girl   53 VI A Judicial Puppet   71 VII Two Letters Go East   79 VIII The Chaos of Creation   82 IX Straight Talk   93 X The Spirit of Manti   100 XI For the ā€œKiddiesā€   109 XII Exposed to the Sunlight   113 XIII Another Letter   130 XIV A Rumble Of War   137 XV A Mutual Benefit Association   146 XVI Wherein A Woman Lies   151 XVII Justice Vs. Law   155 XVIII Law Invoked and Defied   169 XIX A Woman Rides in Vain   183 XX And Rides Againā€”in Vain   192 XXI Another Woman Rides   209 XXII A Man Errsā€”and Pays   221 XXIII First Principles   234 XXIV Another Woman Lies   253 XXV In the Dark   264 XXVI The Ashes   273 XXVII The Fight   290 XXVIII The Dregs   310 XXIX The Calm   321

Illustrations

PAGE Instinctively each knew the other for a foe. Frontispiece ā€œYou are going to marry meā€”some day. Thatā€™s what I think of you!ā€ 97 ā€œYou men are blind. Corrigan is a crook who will stop at nothing.ā€ 283

ā€œFirebrandā€ Trevison

CHAPTER I THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE

The trail from the Diamond K broke around the base of a low hill dotted thickly with scraggly oak and fir, then stretched away, straight and almost level (except for a deep cut where the railroad gang and a steam shovel were eating into a hundred-foot hill) to Manti. A month before, there had been no Manti, and six months before that there had been no railroad. The railroad and the town had followed in the wake of a party of khaki-clad men that had made reasonably fast progress through the country, leaving a trail of wooden stakes and little stone monuments behind. Previously, an agent of the railroad company had bartered through, securing a right-of-way. The fruit of the efforts of these men was a dark gash on a sun-scorched level, and two lines of steel laid as straight as skilled eye and transit could make themā€”and Manti.

Manti could not be overlooked, for the town obtruded upon the vision from where ā€œBrandā€ Trevison was jogging along the Diamond K trail astride his big black horse, Nigger. Manti dominated the landscape, not because it was big and imposing, but because it was new. Mantiā€™s buildings were scatteredā€”there had been no need for crowding; but from a distanceā€”from Trevisonā€™s distance, for instance, which was a matter of three miles or soā€”Manti looked insignificant, toy-like, in comparison with the vast world on whose bosom it sat. Manti seemed futile, ridiculous. But Trevison knew that the coming of the railroad marked an epoch, that the two thin, thread-like lines of steel were the tentacles of the man-made monster that had gripped the Eastā€”business reaching out for newer fieldsā€”and that Manti, futile and ridiculous as it seemed, was an outpost fortified by unlimited resource. Manti had come to stay.

And the cattle business was going, Trevison knew. The railroad company had built corrals at Manti, and Trevison knew they would be needed for several years to come. But he could foresee the day when they would be replaced by building and factory. Business was extending its lines, cattle must retreat before them. Several homesteaders had already appeared in the country, erecting fences around their claims. One of the homesteaders, when Trevison had come upon him a few days before, had impertinently inquired why Trevison did not fence the Diamond K range. Fence in five thousand acres! It had never been done in this section of the country. Trevison had permitted himself a cold grin, and had kept his answer to himself. The incident was not important, but it foreshadowed a day when a dozen like inquiries would make the building of a range fence imperative.

Trevison already felt the irritation of congestionā€”the presence of the homesteaders nettled him. He frowned as he rode. A year ago he would have sold outā€”cattle, land and buildingsā€”at the market price. But at that time he had not known the value of his land. Nowā€”

He kicked Nigger in the ribs and straightened in the saddle, grinning.

ā€œSheā€™s not for sale nowā€”eh, Nig?ā€

Five minutes later he halted the black at the crest of the big railroad cut and looked over the edge appraisingly. Fifty laborersā€”directed by a mammoth personage in dirty blue overalls, boots, woolen shirt, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, and with a face undeniably Irishā€”were working frenziedly to keep pace with the huge steam shovel, whose iron jaws were biting into the earth with a regularity that must have been discouraging to its human rivals. A train of flat-cars, almost loaded, was on the track of the cut, and a dinky engine attached to them wheezed steam from a safety valve, the engineer and fireman lounging out of the cab window, lazily watching.

Patrick Carson, the personageā€”construction boss, good-natured, keen, observantā€”was leaning against a boulder at the side of the track, talking to the engineer at the instant Trevison appeared at the top of the cut. He glanced up, his eyes lighting.

ā€œThereā€™s thot mon, Trevison, agā€™in, Murphā€™,ā€ he said to the engineer. ā€œBedad, heā€™s a pitcher now, ainā€™t he?ā€

An imposing figure Trevison certainly was. Horse and rider were outlined against the sky, and in the dear light every muscle and feature of man and beast stood but boldly and distinctly. The big black horse was a powerful brute, tall and rangy, with speed and courage showing plainly in contour, nostril and eye; and with head and ears erect he stood motionless, statuesque, heroic. His rider seemed to have been proportioned to fit the horse. Tall, slender of waist, broad of shoulder, straight, he sat loosely in the saddle looking at the scene below him, unconscious of the admiration he excited. Poetic fancies stirred Carson vaguely.

ā€œLuk at ā€™im now, Murph; wid his big hat, his leather pants, his spurs, anā€™ the rist av his conthraptions! Thereā€™s a divvil av a conthrast here now, if yeā€™d only glimpse it. This civillyzation, ripraysinted be this railroad, donā€™t seem to fit, noways. Itā€™s like it had butted into a pitcher book! Ainā€™t he a darlinā€™?ā€

ā€œIā€™ve never seen him up close,ā€ said Murphy. There was none of Carsonā€™s enthusiasm in his voice. ā€œItā€™s always seemed to me that a felluh who rigs himself out like that has got a lot of show-off stuff in him.ā€

ā€œThe first time I clapped me eyes on wan av them cowbhoys I thought so, too,ā€ said Carson. ā€œThat was back on the other section. But I seen so manny av them rigged out like thot, thot I comminced to askinā€™ questions. Itā€™s a domned purposeful rig, mon. The big felt hat is a daisy for keepinā€™ off the sun, anā€™ that gaudy bit av a rag around his neck keeps the sun and sand from blisterinā€™ the skin. The leather pants is to keep his legs from gettinā€™ clawed up be the thorns av prickly pear anā€™ what not, which heā€™s got to ride through, anā€™ the high heels is to keep his feet from slippinā€™ through the stirrups. A kid cā€™ud tell ye what he carries the young cannon for, anā€™ why he wears it so low on his hip. Yeā€™ve nivver seen him up close, eh Murphā€™? Well, Iā€™m askinā€™ him down soā€™s ye can have a good look at him.ā€ He stepped back from the boulder and waved a hand at Trevison, shouting:

ā€œMake it a real visit, bhoy!ā€

ā€œIā€™ll be pullinā€™ out of here before he can get around,ā€ said Murphy, noting that the last car was almost filled.

Carson chuckled. ā€œHold tight,ā€ he warned; ā€œheā€™s cominā€™.ā€

The side of the cut was steep, and the soft sand and clay did not make a secure footing. But when the black received the signal from Trevison he did not hesitate. Crouching like a great cat at the edge, he slid his forelegs over until his hoofs sank deep into the side of the cut. Then with a gentle lurch he drew his hind legs after him, and an instant later was gingerly descending, his rider leaning far back in the saddle, the reins held loosely in his hands.

It looked simple enough, the way the black was doing it, and Trevisonā€™s demeanor indicated perfect trust in the animal and in his own skill as a rider. But the laborers ceased working and watched, grouped, gesturing; the staccato coughing of the steam shovel died gaspingly, as the engineer shut off the engine and stood, rooted, his mouth agape; the fireman in the dinky engine held tightly to the cab window. Murphy muttered in astonishment, and Carson chuckled admiringly, for the descent was a full hundred feet, and there were few men in the railroad gang that would have dared to risk the wall on foot.

The black had gained impetus with distance. A third of the slope had been covered when he struck some loose earth that shifted with his weight and carried his hind quarters to one side and off balance. Instantly the rider swung his body toward the wall of the cut, twisted in the saddle and

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