'Firebrand' Trevison - Charles Alden Seltzer (top 10 books of all time .txt) š
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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There was nothing to do but to wait, and he sank behind a huge block of stone in an angle of the ledge, noting with satisfaction that he could see the slope that he had set Levins to guard.
āIām the boss of this fort if I donāt go to sleep,ā he told himself grimly as he stretched out. He lay there, watching, while the moonlight faded, while a gray streak in the east slowly widened, presaging the dawn. Stretched flat, his aching muscles welcoming the support of the cool stone of the ledge, he had to fight off the drowsiness that assailed him.
An hour dragged by. He knew the deputies were watching, no doubt having separated to conceal themselves behind convenient boulders that dotted the plains at the foot of the slope. Or perhaps while he had been in the passages of the pueblo, changing his position, some of them might have stolen to the numerous crags and outcroppings of rock at the base of the pueblo. They might now be massing for a rush up the slope. But he doubted they would risk the latter move, for they knew that he must be on the alert, and they had cause to fear his rifle.
Once he rested his head on his extended right arm, and the contact was so agreeable that he allowed it to remain thereālong. He caught himself in time; in another second he would have been too late. He saw the figure of a man on the slope a foot or two below the crest. He was flat on his stomach, no doubt having crept there during the minutes that Trevison had been enjoying his rest, and at the instant Trevison saw him he was raising his rifle, directing it at the recess where Levins had been left, on guard.
Trevison was wide awake now, and his marksmanship as deadly as ever. He waited until the manās rifle came to a level. Then his own weapon spat viciously. The man rose to his knees, reeling. Another rifle crackedāfrom the recess where Levins was concealed, this timeāand the man sank to the dust of the slope, rolling over and over until he reached the bottom, where he stretched out and lay prone. There was a shout of rage from a section of rock-strewn level near the foot of the slope, and Trevisonās lips curled with satisfaction. The second shot had told him that a fear he had entertained momentarily was unfoundedāLevins was apparently quite alive.
He raised himself cautiously, backed away from the rock behind which he had been concealed, and wheeled, intending to join Levins. A faint sound reached his ears from the plains, and he faced around again, to see a group of horsemen riding toward the pueblo. They were coming fast, racing ahead of a dust cloud, and were perhaps a quarter of a mile distant. But Trevison knew them, and stepped boldly out to the edge of the stone ledge waving his hat to them, laughing full-throatedly, his voice vibrating a little as he spoke:
āGood old Barkwell!ā
āThatās him!ā
Barkwell pulled his horse to a sliding halt as he saw the figure on the pueblo, outlined distinctly in the clear white light of the dawn.
āHeās all right!ā he declared to the others as they followed his example and drew their beasts down. āThemās some of the scum thatās been after him,ā he added as several horsemen swept around the far side of the pueblo. āIt was them we heard shootinā.ā The outfit sat silent on their horses and watched the men ride over the plains toward another group of horsemen that the Diamond K men had observed some time before riding toward the pueblo,
āYep!ā Barkwell said, now; āthat other bunch is deputies, too. Itās mighty plain. This bunch rounded up āFirebrandā anā sent some one back for reinforcements.ā He swept the Diamond K outfit with a snarling smile. āTheyāre goinā to need āem, too! I reckon weād better wait for them to play their hand. Itās about a stand off in numbers. We donāt stand no slack, boys. Weāre outlawed already, from the ruckus of last night, anā if they start anything weāve got to wipe āem out! You heard āem shootinā at the boss, anā they aināt no pussy-kitten bunch! Iāll do the gassināāif thereās any to be doneāanā when I draw, you guys do your damnedest!ā
The outfit set itself to wait. Over on the edge of the pueblo they could see Trevison. He was bending over something, and when they saw him stoop and lift the object, heaving it to his shoulder and walking away with it, a sullen murmur ran over the outfit, and lips grew stiff and white with rage.
āItās Clay Levins, boys!ā said Barkwell. āTheyāve plugged him! Do you reckon weāve got to go back to Levinsā shack anā tell his wife that we let them skunks get away after makinā orphants of her kids?ā
āIām jumpinā!ā shrieked Jud Weaver, his voice coming chokingly with passion. āI aināt waitinā one damned minute for any palaver! Either them deputies is wiped out, or I am!ā He dug the spurs into his horse, drawing his six-shooter as the animal leaped.
Weaverās horse led the outfit by only three or four jumps, and they swept over the level like a devastating cyclone, the spiral dust cloud that rose behind them following them lazily, sucked along by the wind of their passing.
The group of deputies had halted; they were sitting tense and silent in their saddles when the Diamond K outfit came up, slowing down as they drew nearer, and halting within ten feet of the others, spreading out in a crude semi-circle, so that each man had an unobstructed view of the deputies.
Barkwell had no chance to talk. Before he could get his breath after pulling his horse down, Weaver, his six-shooter in hand, its muzzle directed fairly at Gieger, who was slightly in advance of his men, fumed forth:
āWhat in hell do you-all mean by tryinā to herd-ride our boss? Talk fast, you eagle-beaked turkey buzzard, or I salivates you rapid!ā
The situation was one of intense delicacy. Gieger might have averted the threatening clash with a judicious use of soft, placating speech. But it pleased him to bluster.
āWe are deputies, acting under orders from the court. We are after a murderer, and we mean to get him!ā he said, coldly.
āDeputies! Hell!ā Barkwellās voice rose, sharply scornful and mocking. āDeputies! Crooks! Gun-fighters! Pluguglies!ā His eyes, bright, alert, gleaming like a birdās, were roving over the faces in the group of deputies. āA damn fine bunch of guys to represent the law! Thereās Dakota Dick, there! Tinhorn, rustler! Thereās Red Classen! Stage robber! Anā Pepper Ridgely, a plain, ornery thief! Anā Kid Dorgan, a sneakinā killer! Anā Buff Keller, anā Andy Watts, anā Pig Mugley, anāāoh, hell! Deputies! Law!āāAhāhah!ā
One of the men had reached for his holster. Weaverās gun barked twice and the man pitched limply forward to his horseās neck. Other weapons flashed; the calm of the early morning was rent by the hoarse, guttural cries of men in the grip of the blood-lust, the sustained and venomous popping of pistols, the queer, sodden impact of lead against flesh, the terror-snorts of horses, and the grunts of men, falling heavily.
A big man in khaki, loping his horse up the slope of an arroyo half a mile distant, started at the sound of the first shot and raced over the crest. He pulled the horse to an abrupt halt as his gaze swept the plains in front of him. He saw riderless horses running frantically away from a smoking blot, he saw the blot streaked with level, white smoke-spurts that ballooned upward quickly; he heard the dull, flat reports that followed the smoke-spurts.
It seemed to be over in an instant. The blot split up, galloping horses and yelling men burst out of it. The big man had reached the crest of the arroyo at the critical second in which the balance of victory wavers uncertainly. With thrusting chin, lips in a hideous pout, and with sullen, blazing eyes, he watched the battle go against him. Fifteen cowboysāhe counted them, deliberately, coldly, despite the rage-mania that had seized himāwere spurring after eight other men whom he knew for his own. As he watched he saw two of these tumble from their horses. And at a distance he saw the loops of ropes swing out to enmesh four moreāwho were thrown and dragged; he watched darkly as the remaining two raised their hands above their heads. Then his lips came out of their pout and were wreathed in a bitter snarl.
āLicked!ā he muttered. āTwelve put out of business. But thereās thirty moreāif the damn fools have come in to town! Thatās two to one!ā He laughed, wheeled his horse toward Manti, rode a few feet down the slope of the arroyo, halted and sat motionless in the saddle, looking back. He smiled with cold satisfaction. āLucky for me that cinch strap broke,ā he said.
Trevison was placing Levinsā limp form across the saddle on Niggerās back when the faint morning breeze bore to his ears the report of Weaverās pistol. A rattling volley followed the first report, and Trevison led Nigger close to the edge of the ledge in time to observe the battle as Corrigan had seen it. He hurried Nigger down the slope, but he had to be careful with his burden. Reaching the level he lifted Levins off, laid him gently on the top of a huge flat rock, and then leaped into the saddle and sent Nigger tearing over the plains toward the scene of the battle.
It was over when he arrived. A dozen men were lying in the tall grass. Some were groaning, writhing; others were quiet and motionless. Four or five of them were arrayed in chaps. His lips grimmed as his gaze swept them. He dismounted and went to them, one after another. He stooped long over one.
āTheyāve got Weaver,ā he heard a voice say. And he started and looked around, and seeing no one near, knew it was his own voice that he heard. It was dry and lightāas a manās voice might be who has run far and fast. He stood for a while, looking down at Weaver. His brain was reeling, as it had reeled over on the ledge of the pueblo a few minutes before, when he had discovered a certain thing. It was not a weakness; it was a surge of reviving rage, an accession of passion that made his head swim with its potency, made his muscles swell with a strength that he had not known for many hours. Never in his life had he felt more like crying. His emotions seared his soul as a white-hot iron sears the flesh; they burned into him, scorching his pity and his impulses of mercy, withering them, blighting them. He heard himself whining sibilantly, as he had heard boys whine when fighting, with eagerness and lust for blows. It was the insensate, raging fury of the fight-madness that had gripped him, and he suddenly yielded to it and raised his head, laughing harshly, with panting, labored breath.
Barkwell rode up to him, speaking hoarsely: āWe come pretty near wipinā āem out, āFirebrand!āā
He looked up at his foreman, and the latterās face blanched. āGod!ā he said. He whispered to a cowboy who had
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