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the gorge, watched the many laborers, directed by various grades of bosses, at work building the foundation of the dam. Later, he crossed the basin, followed the well-beaten trail up the slope to the level, and shortly he was in Hanrahanā€™s saloon across the street from Bramanā€™s bank, listening to the plaint of Jim Lefingwell, the Circle Cross owner, whose ranch was east of town. Lefingwell was big, florid, and afflicted with perturbation that was almost painful. So exercised was he that he was at times almost incoherent.

ā€œSheā€™s boominā€™, ainā€™t she? Meaninā€™ this manā€™s town, of course. Anā€™ a manā€™s got a right to cash in on a boom whenever he gits the chance. Well, Iā€™d figgered to cash in. I ainā€™t no hawg anā€™ I got savvy enough to perceive without the aid of any damn fortune-teller that cattle is done in this countryā€”considered as the main question. Iā€™ve got a thousand acres of landā€”which I paid for in spot cash to Dick Kessler about eight years ago. If Dick was here heā€™d back me up in that. But he ainā€™t hereā€”the doggone fool went anā€™ died about four years ago, leavinā€™ me unprotected. Well, now, not digressinā€™ any, I gits the idea that Iā€™m goinā€™ to unload considā€™able of my thousand acres on the sufferinā€™ fools thatā€™s yearninā€™ to come into this country anā€™ work their heads off raisinā€™ alfalfa anā€™ hawgs, anā€™ cabbages anā€™ sons with Pick-a-dilly collars to be eddicated East anā€™ come back home some day anā€™ lift the mortgage from the old homesteadā€”which job they always falls down onā€”findinā€™ it more to their likinā€™ to mortgage their souls to buy jewā€™lā€™ry for fast wimmin. Well, not digressinā€™ any, I run a-foul of a guy last week which was dead set on investinā€™ in ten acres of my land, skirtinā€™ one of the irrigation ditches which theyā€™re figgerinā€™ on puttinā€™ in. The price I wanted was a heap satisfyinā€™ to the guy. But he suggests that before he forks over the coin we go down to the courthouse anā€™ muss up the records to see if my title is clear. Well, not digressinā€™ any, she ainā€™t! She ainā€™t even nowheres clear a-tallā€”she ainā€™t even there! Sheā€™s wiped off, slick anā€™ clean! There ainā€™t a damned line to show that I ever bought my land from Dick Kessler, anā€™ there ainā€™t nothinā€™ on no record to show that Dick Kessler ever owned it! What in hell do you think of that?

ā€œNow, not digressinā€™ any,ā€ he went on as Trevison essayed to speak; ā€œthat ainā€™t the worst of it. While I was in there, talkinā€™ to Judge Lindman, this here big guy that you fit withā€”Corriganā€”comes in. I gathers from the trend of his remarks that I never had a legal title to my landā€”that it belongs to the guy which bought it from the Midland Companyā€”which is him. Now what in hell do you think of that?ā€

ā€œI knew Dick Kessler,ā€ said Trevison, soberly. ā€œHe was honest.ā€

ā€œSquare as a dollar!ā€ violently affirmed Lefingwell.

ā€œItā€™s too bad,ā€ sympathized Trevison. ā€œThat places you in a mighty bad fix. If thereā€™s anything I can do for you, whyā€”ā€

ā€œMr. ā€˜Brandā€™ Trevison?ā€ said a voice at Trevisonā€™s elbow. Trevison turned, to see a short, heavily built man smiling mildly at him.

ā€œIā€™m a deputy from Judge Lindmanā€™s court,ā€ announced the man. ā€œIā€™ve got a summons for you. Saw you coming in hereā€”saves me a trip to your place.ā€ He shoved a paper into Trevisonā€™s hands, grinned, and went out. For an instant Trevison stood, looking after the man, wondering how, since the man was a stranger to him, he had recognized himā€”and then he opened the paper to discover that he was ordered to appear before Judge Lindman the following day to show cause why he should not be evicted from certain described property held unlawfully by him. The name, Jefferson Corrigan, appeared as plaintiff in the action.

Lefingwell was watching Trevisonā€™s face closely, and when he saw it whiten, he muttered, understandingly:

ā€œYouā€™ve got it, too, eh?ā€

ā€œYes.ā€ Trevison shoved the paper into a pocket. ā€œLooks like youā€™re not going to be skinned alone, Lefingwell. Well, so-long; Iā€™ll see you later.ā€

He strode out, leaving Lefingwell slightly stunned over his abrupt leave-taking. A minute later he was in the squatty frame courthouse, towering above Judge Lindman, who had been seated at his desk and who had risen at his entrance.

Trevison shoved the summons under Lindmanā€™s nose.

ā€œI just got this,ā€ he said. ā€œWhat does it mean?ā€

ā€œIt is perfectly understandable,ā€ the Judge smiled with forced affability. ā€œThe plaintiff, Mr. Jefferson Corrigan, is a claimant to the title of the land now held by you.ā€

ā€œCorrigan can have no claim on my land; I bought it five years ago from old Buck Peters. He got it from a man named Taylor. Corrigan is bluffing.ā€

The Judge coughed and dropped his gaze from the belligerent eyes of the young man. ā€œThat will be determined in court,ā€ he said. ā€œThe entire land transactions in this county, covering a period of twenty-five years, are recorded in that book.ā€ And the Judge indicated a ledger on his desk.

ā€œIā€™ll take a look at it.ā€ Trevison reached for the ledger, seized it, the Judge protesting, half-heartedly, though with the judicial dignity that had become habitual from long service in his profession.

ā€œThis is a high-handed proceeding, young man. You are in contempt of court!ā€ The Judge tried, but could not make his voice ring sincerely. It seemed to him that this vigorous, clear-eyed young man could see the guilt that he was trying to hide.

Trevison laughed grimly, holding the Judge off with one hand while he searched the pages of the book, leaning over the desk. He presently closed the book with a bang and faced the Judge, breathing heavily, his muscles rigid, his eyes cold and glittering.

ā€œThereā€™s trickery here!ā€ He took the ledger up and slammed it down on the desk again, his voice vibrating. ā€œJudge Lindman, this isnā€™t a true recordā€”it is not the original record! I saw the original record five years ago, when I went personally to Dry Bottom with Buck Peters to have my deed recorded! This record is a fakeā€”it has been substituted for the original! I demand that you stay proceedings in this matter until a search can be made for the original record!ā€

ā€œThis is the original record.ā€ Again the Judge tried to make his voice ring sincerely, and again he failed. His one mistake had not hardened him and judicial dignity could not help him to conceal his guilty knowledge. He winced as he felt Trevisonā€™s burning gaze on him, and could not meet the young manā€™s eyes, boring like metal points into his consciousness. Trevison sprang forward and seized him by the shoulders.

ā€œBy Godā€”you know it isnā€™t the original!ā€

The Judge succeeded in meeting Trevisonā€™s eyes, but his age, his vacillating will, his guilt, could not combat the overpowering force and virility of this volcanic youth, and his gaze shifted and fell.

He heard Trevison catch his breathā€”shrilling it into his lungs in one great sobā€”and then he stood, white and shaking, beside the desk, looking at Trevison as the young man went out of the doorā€”a laugh on his lips, mirthless, bitter, portending trouble and violence.

Corrigan was sitting at his desk in the bank building when Trevison entered the front door. The big man seemed to have been expecting his visitor, for just before the latter appeared at the door Corrigan took a pistol from a pocket and laid it on the desk beside him, placing a sheet of paper over it. He swung slowly around and faced Trevison, cold interest in his gaze. He nodded shortly as Trevisonā€™s eyes met his.

In a dozen long strides Trevison was at his side. The young man was pale, his lips were set, he was breathing fast, his nostrils were dilatedā€”he was at that pitch of excitement in which a word, a look or a movement brings on action, instantaneous, unrecking of consequences. But he exercised repression that made the atmosphere of the room tingle with tension of the sort that precedes the clash of mighty forcesā€”he deliberately sat on one corner of Corriganā€™s desk, one leg dangling, the other resting on the floor, one hand resting on the idle leg, his body bent, his shoulders drooping a little forward. His voice was dry and lightā€”Patrick Carson would have said his grin was tiger-like.

ā€œSo thatā€™s the kind of a whelp you are!ā€ he said.

Corrigan caught his breath; his hands clenched, his face reddened darkly. He shot a quick glance at the sheet of paper under which he had placed the pistol. Trevison interpreted it, brushed the paper aside, disclosing the weapon. His lips curled; he took the pistol, ā€œbrokeā€ it, tossed cartridges and weapon into a corner of the desk and laughed lowly.

ā€œSo you were expecting me,ā€ he said. ā€œWell, Iā€™m here. You want my land, eh?ā€

ā€œI want the land that Iā€™m entitled to under the terms of my purchaseā€”the original Midland grant, consisting of one-hundred thousand acres. It belongs to me, and I mean to have it!ā€

ā€œYouā€™re a liar, Corrigan,ā€ said the young man, holding the otherā€™s gaze coldly; ā€œyouā€™re a lying, sneaking crook. You have no claim to the land, and you know it!ā€

Corrigan smiled stiffly. ā€œThe record of the deal I made with Jim Marchmont years before any of you people usurped the property is in my pocket at this minute. The court, here, will uphold it.ā€

Trevison narrowed his eyes at the big man and laughed, bitter humor in the sound. It was as though he had laughed to keep his rage from leaping, naked and murderous, into this discussion.

ā€œIt takes nerve, Corrigan, to do what you are attempting; it does, by Heavenā€”sheer, brazen gall! Itā€™s been done, though, by little, pettifogging shysters, by piking real-estate crooksā€”thousands of parcels of property scattered all over the United States have been filched in that manner. But a hundred-thousand acres! Itā€™s the biggest steal that ever has been attempted, to my knowledge, short of a Government grab, and your imagination does you credit. Itā€™s easy to see whatā€™s been done. Youā€™ve got a fake title from Marchmont, antedating ours; youā€™ve got a crooked judge here, to befuddle the thing with legal technicalities; youā€™ve got the money, the power, the greed, and the cold-blooded determination. But I donā€™t think you understand what youā€™re up againstā€”do you? Nearly every man who owns this land that you want has worked hard for it. Itā€™s been bought with work, manā€”work and lonesomeness and bloodā€”and souls. And now you want to sweep it all away with one stroke. You want to step in here and reap the benefit; you want to send us out of here, beggars.ā€ His voice leaped from its repression; it now betrayed the passion that was consuming him; it came through his teeth: ā€œYou canā€™t hand me that sort of a raw deal, Corrigan, and make me like it. Understand that, right now. Youā€™re bucking the wrong man. You can drag the courts into it; you can wriggle around a thousand legal corners, but damn you, you canā€™t avert whatā€™s bound to come if you donā€™t lay off this deal, and thatā€™s a fight!ā€ He laughed, full-throated, his voice vibrating from the strength of the passion that blazed in his eyes. He revealed, for an instant to Corrigan the wild, reckless untamed youth that knew no law save his own impulses, and the big manā€™s eyes widened with the revelation, though he gave no other sign. He leaned back in his chair, smiling coldly, idly flecking a bit of ash from his shirt where it had fallen from his cigar.

ā€œI am prepared for a fight. Youā€™ll get plenty of it before youā€™re throughā€”if you donā€™t lie down and be good.ā€ There was

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