'Firebrand' Trevison - Charles Alden Seltzer (top 10 books of all time .txt) 📗
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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The level below the butte was a-buzz with life and energy. Scores of laborers were rushing about under the direction of a tall, thin, bespectacled man who seemed to be the moving spirit in all the activity. He shouted orders to Carson—Trevison saw the big figure of the Irishman dominating the laborers—who repeated them, added to them; sending men scampering hither and thither. Pausing at a little distance down the level, Trevison watched the scene. At first all seemed confusion, but presently he was able to discern that method ruled. For he now observed that the laborers were divided into “gangs.” Some were unloading the flat-cars, others were “assembling” a stationary engine near the wall of the butte. They had a roof over it, already. Others were laying tracks that intersected with the main line; still others were erecting buildings along the level. They were on Trevison’s land—there was no doubt of that. Moreover, they were erecting their buildings and apparatus at the point where Trevison himself had contemplated making a start. He saw Corrigan seated on a box on one of the flat-cars, smoking a cigar; another man, whom Trevison recognized as Gieger—he would have been willing to swear the man was one of those who had thwarted his plans in the courthouse—standing beside him, a Winchester rifle resting in the hollow of his left arm. Trevison urged Nigger along the level, down the track, and halted near Corrigan and Gieger. He knew that Corrigan had seen him, but it pleased the other to pretend that he had not.
“This is your work, Corrigan—I take it?” said Trevison, bluntly.
Corrigan turned slowly. He was a good actor, for he succeeded in getting a fairly convincing counterfeit of surprise into his face as his gaze fell on his enemy.
“You have taken it correctly, sir.” He smiled blandly, though there was a snapping alertness in his eyes that belied his apparent calmness. He turned to Gieger, ignoring Trevison. “Organization is the thing. Pickand is a genius at it,” he said.
Trevison’s eyes flamed with rage over this deliberate insult. But in it he saw a cold design to make him lose his temper. The knowledge brought a twisting smile to his face.
“You have permission to begin this work, I suppose?”
Corrigan turned again, as though astonished at the persistence of the other. “Certainly, sir. This work is being done under a court order, issued this morning. I applied for it yesterday. I am well within my legal rights, the court having as you are aware, settled the question of the title.”
“You know I have appealed the case?”
“I have not been informed that you have done so. In any event such an appeal would not prevent me mining the coal on the property, pending the hearing of the case in the higher court. Judge Lindman has appointed a receiver, who is bonded; and the work is to proceed under his direction. I am here merely as an onlooker.”
He looked fairly at Trevison, his eyes gleaming with cold derision. The expression maddened the other beyond endurance, and his eyes danced the chill glitter of meditated violence, unrecking consequences.
“You’re a sneaking crook, Corrigan, and you know it! You’re going too far! You’ve had Braman appointed in order to escape the responsibility! You’re hiding behind him like a coward! Come out into the open and fight like a man!”
Corrigan’s face bloated poisonously, but he made no hostile move. “I’ll kill you for that some day!” he whispered. “Not now,” he laughed mirthlessly as the other stiffened; “I can’t take the risk right now—I’ve too much depending on me. But you’ve been damned impertinent and troublesome, and when I get you where I want you I’m going to serve you like this!” And he took the cigar from his mouth, dropped it to the floor of the car and ground it to pieces under his heel. He looked up again, at Trevison, and their gaze met, in each man’s eyes glowed the knowledge of imminent action, ruthless and terrible.
Trevison broke the tension with a laugh that came from between his teeth. “Why delay?” he mocked. “I’ve been ready for the grinding process since the first day.”
“Enough of this!” Corrigan turned to Gieger with a glance of cold intolerance. “This man is a nuisance,” he said to the deputy. “Carry out the mandate of the court and order him away. If he doesn’t go, kill him! He is a trespasser, and has no right here!” And he glared at Trevison.
“You’ve got to get out, mister,” said the deputy. He tapped his rifle menacingly, betraying a quick accession of rage that he caught, no doubt, from Corrigan. Trevison smiled coldly, and backed Nigger a little. For an instant he meditated resistance, and dropped his right hand to the butt of his pistol. A shout distracted his attention. It came from behind him—it sounded like a warning, and he wheeled, to see Carson running toward him, not more than ten feet distant, waving his hands, a huge smile on his face.
“Domned if it ain’t Trevison!” he yelled as he lunged forward and caught Trevison’s right hand in his own, pulling the rider toward him. “I’ve been wantin’ to spake a word wid ye for two weeks now—about thim cows which me brother in Illinoy has been askin’ me about, an’ divvil a chance have I had to see ye!” And as he yanked Trevison’s shoulders downward with a sudden pressure that there was no resisting, he whispered, rapidly.
“Diputies—thirty av thim wid Winchesters—on the other side av the flat-cars. It’s a thrap to do away wid ye—I heard ’em cookin’ it!”
“An’ ye wudn’t be sellin’ ’em to me at twinty-five, eh?” he said, aloud. “Go ’long wid ye—ye’re a domned hold-up man, like all the rist av thim!” And he slapped the black horse playfully in the ribs and laughed gleefully as the animal lunged at him, ears laid back, mouth open.
His eyes cold, his lips hard and straight, Trevison spurred the black again to the flat-car.
“The bars are down between us, Corrigan; it’s man to man from now on. Law or no law, I give you twenty-four hours to get your men and apparatus off my land. After that I won’t be responsible for what happens!” He heard a shout behind him, a clatter, and he turned to see ten or twelve of his men racing over the level toward him. At the same instant he heard a sharp exclamation from Corrigan; heard Gieger issue a sharp order, and a line of men raised their heads above the flat-cars, rifles in their hands, which they trained on the advancing cowboys.
Nigger leaped; his rider holding up one hand, the palm toward his men, as a sign to halt, while he charged into them. Trevison talked fast to them, while the laborers, suspending work, watched, muttering; and the rifles, resting on the flat-cars, grew steadier in their owners’ hands. The silence grew deeper; the tension was so great that when somewhere a man dropped a shovel, it startled the watchers like a sudden bomb.
It was plain that Trevison’s men wanted to fight. It was equally plain that Trevison was arguing to dissuade them. And when, muttering, and casting belligerent looks backward, they finally drew off, Trevison following, there was a sigh of relief from the watchers, while Corrigan’s face was black with disappointment.
Out of Rosalind Benham’s resentment against Trevison for the Hester Harvey incident grew a sudden dull apathy—which presently threatened to become an aversion—for the West. Its crudeness, the uncouthness of its people; the emptiness, the monotony, began to oppress her. Noticing the waning of her enthusiasm, Agatha began to inject energetic condemnations of the country into her conversations with the girl, and to hint broadly of the contrasting allurements of the East.
But Rosalind was not yet ready to desert the Bar B. She had been hurt, and her interest in the country had dulled, but there were memories over which one might meditate until—until one could be certain of some things. This was hope, insistently demanding delay of judgment. The girl could not forget the sincere ring in Trevison’s voice when he had told her that he would never go back to Hester Harvey. Arrayed against this declaration was the cold fact of Hester’s visit, and Hester’s statement that Trevison had sent for her. In this jumble of contradiction hope found a fertile field.
If Corrigan had anticipated that the knowledge of Hester’s visit to Trevison would have the effect of centering Rosalind’s interest on him, he had erred. Corrigan was magnetic; the girl felt the lure of him. In his presence she was continually conscious of his masterfulness, with a dismayed fear that she would yield to it. She knew this sensation was not love, for it lacked the fire and the depth of the haunting, breathless surge of passion that she had felt when she had held Trevison off the day when he had declared his love for her—that she felt whenever she thought of him. But with Trevison lost to her—she did not know what would happen, then. For the present her resentment was sufficient to keep her mind occupied.
She had a dread of meeting Corrigan this morning. Also, Agatha’s continued deprecatory speeches had begun to annoy her, and at ten o’clock she ordered one of the men to saddle her horse.
She rode southward, following a trail that brought her to Levins’ cabin. The cabin was built of logs, smoothly hewn and tightly joined, situated at the edge of some timber in a picturesque spot at a point where a shallow creek doubled in its sweep toward some broken country west of Manti.
Rosalind had visited Mrs. Levins many times. The warmth of her welcome on her first visit had resulted in a quick intimacy which, with an immediate estimate of certain needs by Rosalind, had brought her back in the rôle of Lady Bountiful. “Chuck” and “Sissy” Levins welcomed her vociferously as she splashed across the river to the door of the cabin this morning.
“You’re clean spoilin’ them, Miss Rosalind!” declared the mother, watching from the doorway; “they’ve got so they expect you to bring them a present every time you come.”
Sundry pats and kisses sufficed to assuage the pangs of disappointment suffered by the children, and shortly afterward Rosalind was inside the cabin, talking with Mrs. Levins, and watching Clay, who was painstakingly mending a breach in his cartridge belt.
Rosalind had seen Clay once only, and that at a distance, and she stole interested glances at him. There was a certain attraction in Clay’s lean face, with its cold, alert furtiveness, but it was an attraction that bred chill instead of warmth, for his face revealed a wild, reckless, intolerant spirit, remorseless, contemptuous of law and order. Several times she caught him watching her, and his narrowed, probing glances disconcerted her. She cut her visit short because of his presence, and when she rose to go he turned in his chair.
“You like this country, ma’am?”
“Well—yes. But it is much different, after the East.”
“Some smoother there, eh? Folks are slicker?”
She eyed him appraisingly, for there was an undercurrent of significance in his voice. She smiled. “Well—I suppose so. You see, competition is keener in the East, and
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