'Firebrand' Trevison - Charles Alden Seltzer (top 10 books of all time .txt) 📗

Impatience, intolerable and vicious, gripped Trevison as he rode homeward after his haunting vigil at Manti. The law seemed to him to be like a house with many doors, around and through which one could play hide and seek indefinitely, with no possibility of finding one of the doors locked. Judge Graney had warned him to be cautious, but as he rode into the dusk of the plains the spirit of rebellion seized him. Twice he halted Nigger and wheeled him, facing Manti, already agleam and tumultuous, almost yielding to his yearning to return and force his enemy to some sort of physical action, but each time he urged the horse on, for he could think of no definite plan. He was half way to the Diamond K when he suddenly started and sat rigid and erect in the saddle, drawing a deep breath, his nerves tingling from excitement. He laughed lowly, exultingly, as men laugh when under the stress of adversity they devise sudden, bold plans of action, and responding to the slight knee press Nigger turned, reared, and then shot like a black bolt across the plains at an angle that would not take him anywhere near the Diamond K.

Half an hour later, in a darkness which equaled that of the night on which he had carried the limp and drink-saturated Clay Levins to his wife, Trevison was dismounting at the door of the gun-man’s cabin. A little later, standing in the glare of lamplight that shone through the open doorway, he was reassuring Mrs. Levins and asking for her husband. Shortly afterward, he was talking lowly to Levins as the latter saddled his pony out at the stable.

“I’ll do it—for you,” Levins told him. And then he chuckled. “It’ll seem like old times.”

“It’s Justice versus Law, tonight,” laughed Trevison; “it’s a case of ‘the end justifying the means.’”

Manti never slept. At two o’clock in the morning the lights in the gambling rooms of the Belmont and the Plaza were still flickering streams out into the desert night; weak strains of discord were being drummed out of a piano in a dance hall; the shuffling of feet smote the dead, flat silence of the night with an odd, weird resonance. Here and there a light burned in a dwelling or store, or shone through the wall of a tent-house. But Manti’s one street was deserted—the only peace that Manti ever knew, had descended.

Two men who had dismounted at the edge of town had hitched their horses in the shadow of a wagon shed in the rear of a store building, and were making their way cautiously down the railroad tracks toward the center of town. They kept in the shadows of the buildings as much as possible—for space was valuable now and many buildings nuzzled the railroad tracks; but when once they were forced to pass through a light from a window their faces were revealed in it for an instant—set, grim and determined.

“We’ve got to move quickly,” said one of the men as they neared the courthouse; “it will be daylight soon. Damn a town that never sleeps!”

The other laughed lowly. “I’ve said the same thing, often,” he whispered. “Easy now—here we are!”

They paused in the shadow of the building and whispered together briefly. A sound reached their ears as they stood. Peering around the corner nearest them they saw the bulk of a man appear. He walked almost to the corner of the building where they crouched, and they held their breath, tensing their muscles. Just when it seemed they must be discovered, the man wheeled, walked away, and vanished into the darkness toward the other side of the building. Presently he returned, and repeated the maneuver. As he vanished the second time, the larger man of the two in wait, whispered to the other:

“He’s the sentry! Stand where you are—I’ll show Corrigan—”

The words were cut short by the reappearance of the sentry. He came close to the corner, and wheeled, to return. A lithe black shape leaped like a huge cat, and landed heavily on the sentry’s shoulders, bringing a pained grunt from him. The grunt died in a gurgle as iron fingers closed on his throat; he was jammed, face down, into the dust and held there, smothering, until his body slacked and his muscles ceased rippling. Then a handkerchief was slipped around his mouth and drawn tightly. He was rolled over, still unconscious, his hands tied behind him. Then he was borne away into the darkness by the big man, who carried him as though he were a child.

“Locked in a box-car,” whispered the big man, returning: “They’ll get him; they’re half unloaded.”

Without further words they returned to the shadow of the building.

Judge Lindman had not been able to sleep until long after his usual hour for retiring. The noise, and certain thoughts, troubled him. It was after midnight when he finally sought his cot, and he was in a heavy doze until shortly after two, when a breath of air, chilled by its clean sweep over the plains, searched him out and brought him up, sitting on the edge of the cot, shivering.

The rear door of the courthouse was open. In front of the iron safe at the rear of the room he saw a man, faintly but unmistakably outlined in the cross light from two windows. He was about to cry out when his throat was seized from behind and he was borne back on the cot resistlessly. Held thus, a voice which made him strain his eyes in an effort to see the owner’s face, hissed in his ear:

“I don’t want to kill you, but I’ll do it if you cry out! I mean business! Do you promise not to betray us?”

The Judge wagged his head weakly, and the grip on his throat relaxed. He sat up, aware that the fingers were ready to grip his throat again, for he could feel the big shape lingering beside him.

“This is an outrage!” he gasped, shuddering. “I know you—you are Trevison. I shall have you punished for this.”

The other laughed lowly and vibrantly. “That’s your affair—if you dare! You say a word about this visit and I’ll feed your scoundrelly old carcass to the coyotes! Justice is abroad tonight and it won’t be balked. I’m after that original land record—and I’m going to have it. You know where it is—you’ve got it. Your face told me that the other day. You’re only half-heartedly in this steal. Be a man—give me the record—and I’ll stand by you until hell freezes over! Quick! Is it in the safe?”

The Judge wavered in agonized indecision. But thoughts of Corrigan’s wrath finally conquered.

“It—it isn’t in the safe,” he said. And then, aware of his error because of the shrill breath the other drew, he added, quaveringly: “There is no—the original record is in my desk—you’ve seen it.”

“Bah!” The big shape backed away—two or three feet, whispering back at the Judge. “Open your mouth and you’re a dead man. I’ve got you covered!”

Cowering on his cot the Judge watched the big shape join the other at the safe. How long it remained there, he did not know. A step sounded in the silence that reigned outside—a third shape loomed in the doorway.

“Judge Lindman!” called a voice.

“Y-es?” quavered the Judge, aware that the big shape in the room was now close to him, menacing him.

“Your door’s open! Where’s Ed? There’s something wrong! Get up and strike a light. There’ll be hell to pay if Corrigan finds out we haven’t been watching your stuff. Damn it! A man can’t steal time for a drink without something happens. Jim and Bill and me just went across the street, leaving Ed here. They’re coming right—”

He had been entering the room while talking, fingering in his pockets for a match. His voice died in a quick gasp as Trevison struck with the butt of his pistol. The man fell, silently.

Another voice sounded outside. Trevison crouched at the doorway. A form darkened the opening. Trevison struck, missed, a streak of fire split the night—the newcomer had used his pistol. It went off again—the flame-spurt shooting ceilingward, as Levins clinched the man from the rear. A third man loomed in the doorway; a fourth appeared, behind him. Trevison swung at the head of the man nearest him, driving him back upon the man behind, who cursed, plunging into the room. The man whom Levins had seized was shouting orders to the others. But these suddenly ceased as Levins smashed him on the head with the butt of a pistol. Two others remained. They were stubborn and courageous. But it was miserable work, in the dark—blows were misdirected, friend striking friend; other blows went wild, grunts of rage and impotent curses following. But Trevison and Levins were intent on escaping—a victory would have been hollow—for the thud and jar of their boots on the bare floor had been heard; doors were slamming; from across the street came the barking of a dog; men were shouting questions at one another; from the box-car on the railroad tracks issued vociferous yells and curses. Trevison slipped out through the door, panting. His opponent had gone down, temporarily disabled from sundry vicious blows from a fist that had worked like a piston rod. A figure loomed at his side. “I got mine!” it said, triumphantly; “we’d better slope.”

“Another five minutes and I’d have cracked it,” breathed Levins as they ran. “What’s Corrigan havin’ the place watched for?”

“You’ve got me. Afraid of the Judge, maybe. The Judge hasn’t his whole soul in this deal; it looks to me as though Corrigan is forcing him. But the Judge has the original record, all right; and it’s in that safe, too! God! If they’d only given us a minute or two longer!”

They fled down the track, running heavily, for the work had been fast and the tension great, and when they reached the horses and threw themselves into the saddles, Manti was ablaze with light. As they raced away in the darkness a grim smile wreathed Trevison’s face. For though he had not succeeded in this enterprise, he had at least struck a blow—and he had corroborated his previous opinion