'Firebrand' Trevison - Charles Alden Seltzer (top 10 books of all time .txt) 📗
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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“Let us be perfectly frank, then. I think that perhaps you take yourself too seriously. Life is a tragedy to the tragic, a joke to the humorous, a drab canvas to the unimaginative. It all depends upon what temperament one sees it through. I dare say that I see you differently than you see yourself. ’O wad some power the giftie gi’e us to see oursel’s as ithers see us’,” she quoted, and laughed at the queer look in his eyes, for his admiration for her had leaped like a living thing at her bubbling spirits, and he was, figuratively, forced to place his heel upon it. “I confess it seems to me that you take a too tragic view of things,” she went on. “You are like D’Artagnan, always eager to fly at somebody’s throat. Possibly, you don’t give other people credit for unselfish motives; you are too suspicious; and what you call plain talk may seem impertinence to others—don’t you think? In any event, people don’t like to hear the truth told about themselves—especially by a big, earnest, sober-faced man who seems to speak with conviction, and, perhaps, authority. I think you look for trouble, instead of trying to evade it. I think, too,” she said, looking straight at him, “that you face the world in a too physical fashion; that you place too much dependence upon brawn and fire. That, following your own method of speaking your mind, is what I think of you. I tremble to imagine what you think of me for speaking so plainly.”
He laughed, his voice vibrating, and bold passion gleamed in his eyes. He looked fairly at her, holding her gaze, compelling it with the intensity of his own, and she drew a deep, tremulous breath of understanding. There followed a tense, breathless silence. And then—
“You’ve brought it on yourself,” he said. “I love you. You are going to marry me—someday. That’s what I think of you!”
“YOU ARE GOING TO MARRY ME—SOME DAY. THAT’S WHAT I THINK OF YOU!”
She got to her feet, her cheeks flaming, confused, half-frightened, though a fierce exultation surged within her. She had half expected this, half dreaded it, and now that it had burst upon her in such volcanic fashion she realized that she had not been entirely prepared. She sought refuge in banter, facing him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dancing.
“‘Firebrand,’” she said. “The name fits you—Mr. Carson was right. I warned you—if you remember—that you placed too much dependence on brawn and fire. You are making it very hard for me to see you again.”
He had risen too, and stood before her, and he now laughed frankly.
“I told you I couldn’t play the hypocrite. I have said what I think. I want you. But that doesn’t mean that I am going to carry you away to the mountains. I’ve got it off my mind, and I promise not to mention it again—until you wish it. But don’t forget that some day you are going to love me.”
“How marvelous,” said she, tauntingly, though in her confusion she could not meet his gaze, looking downward. “How do you purpose to bring it about?”
“By loving you so strongly that you can’t help yourself.”
“With your confidence—” she began. But he interrupted, laughing:
“We’re going to forget it, now,” he said. “I promised to show you that Pueblo, and we’ll have just about time enough to make it and back to the Bar B before dark.”
And they rode away presently, chatting on indifferent subjects. And, keeping his promise, he said not another word about his declaration. But the girl, stealing glances at him, wondered much—and reached no decision.
When they reached the abandoned Indian village, many of its houses still standing, he laughed. “That would make a dandy fort.”
“Always thinking of fighting,” she mocked. But her eyes flashed as she looked at him.
The Benham private car had clacked eastward over the rails three weeks before, bearing with it as a passenger only the negro autocrat. At the last moment, discovering that she could not dissuade Rosalind from her mad decision to stay at Blakeley’s ranch, Agatha had accompanied her. The private car was now returning, bearing the man who had poetically declared to his fawning Board of Directors: “Our railroad is the magic wand that will make the desert bloom like the rose. We are embarked upon a project, gentlemen, so big, so vast, that it makes even your president feel a pulse of pride. This project is nothing more nor less than the opening of a region of waste country which an all-wise Creator has permitted to slumber for ages, for no less purpose than to reserve it to the horny-handed son of toil of our glorious country. It will awaken to the clarion call of our wealth, our brains, and our genius.” He then mentioned Corrigan and the Midland grant—another reservation of Providence, which a credulous and asinine Congress had bestowed, in fee-simple, upon a certain suave gentleman, named Marchmont—and disseminated such other details as a servile board of directors need know; and then he concluded with a flowery peroration that left his hearers smirking fatuously.
And today J. Chalfant Benham was come to look upon the first fruits of his efforts.
As he stepped down from the private car he was greeted by vociferous cheers from a jostling and enthusiastic populace—for J. C. had very carefully wired the time of his arrival and Corrigan had acted accordingly, knowing J. C. well. J. C. was charmed—he said so, later, in a speech from a flimsy, temporary stand erected in the middle of the street in front of the Plaza—and in saying so he merely told the truth. For, next to money-making, adulation pleased him most. He would have been an able man had he ignored the latter passion. It seared his intellect as a pernicious habit blasts the character. It sat on his shoulders—extravagantly squared; it shone in his eyes—inviting inspection; his lips, curved with smug complacence, betrayed it as, sitting in Corrigan’s office after the conclusion of the festivities, he smiled at the big man.
“Manti is a wonderful town—a wonderful town!” he declared. “It may be said that success is lurking just ahead. And much of the credit is due to your efforts,” he added, generously.
Corrigan murmured a polite disclaimer, and plunged into dry details. J. C. had a passion for dry details. For many hours they sat in the office, their heads close together. Braman was occasionally called in. Judge Lindman was summoned after a time. J. C. shook the Judge’s hand warmly and then resumed his chair, folding his chubby hands over his corpulent stomach.
“Judge Lindman,” he said; “you thoroughly understand our position in this Midland affair.”
The Judge glanced at Corrigan. “Thoroughly.”
“No doubt there will be some contests. But the present claimants have no legal status. Mr. — (here J. C. mentioned a name that made the Judge’s eyes brighten) tells me there will be no hitch. There could not be, of course. In the absence of any court record of possible transfers, the title to the land, of course, reverts to the Midland Company. As Mr. Corrigan has explained to me, he is entirely within his rights, having secured the title to the land from Mr. Marchmont, representing the Midland. You have no record of any transfers from the Midland to the present claimants or their predecessors, have you? There is no such record?”
The Judge saw Corrigan’s amused grin, and surmised that J. C. was merely playing with him.
“No,” he said, with some bitterness.
“Then of course you are going to stand with Mr. Corrigan against the present claimants?”
“I presume so.”
“H’m,” said J. C. “If there is any doubt about it, perhaps I had better remind you—”
The Judge groaned in agony of spirit. “It won’t be necessary to remind me.”
“So I thought. Well, gentlemen—” J. C. arose “—that will be all for this evening.”
Thus he dismissed the Judge, who went to his cot behind a partition in the courthouse, while Corrigan and J. C. stepped outside and walked slowly toward the private car. They lingered at the steps, and presently J. C. called and a negro came out with two chairs. J. C. and Corrigan draped themselves in the chairs and smoked. Dusk was settling over Manti; lights appeared in the windows of the buildings; a medley of noises reached the ears of the two men. By day Manti was lively enough, by night it was a maelstrom of frenzied action. A hundred cow-ponies were hitched to rails that skirted the street in front of store and saloon; cowboys from ranches, distant and near, rollicked from building to building, touching elbows with men less picturesquely garbed; the strains of crude music smote the flat, dead desert air; yells, shouts, laughter filtered through the bedlam; an engine, attached to a train of cars on the main track near the private car, wheezed steam in preparation for its eastward trip, soon to begin.
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
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