'Firebrand' Trevison, Charles Alden Seltzer [best motivational books to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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“Easy, my friend,” cautioned the Judge. “I know how you feel. But you can’t fight the law with lawlessness. You lie quiet until you hear from me. That is all there is to be done, anyway—win or lose.”
Trevison clenched his teeth. “I might feel that way about it, if I had been as careless of my interests as the other owners here, but I safeguarded my interests, trusted them to the regularly recognized law out here, and I’m going to fight for them! Why, good God, man; I’ve worked ten years for that land! Do you think I will see it go without a fight?” He laughed, and the Judge shook his head at the sound.
Unheeding the drama that was rapidly and invisibly (except for the incident of Braman and the window) working itself out in its midst, Manti lunged forward on the path of progress, each day growing larger, busier, more noisy and more important. Perhaps Manti did not heed, because Manti was itself a drama—the drama of creation. Each resident, each newcomer, settled quickly and firmly into the place that desire or ambition or greed urged him; put forth whatever energy nature had endowed him with, and pushed on toward the goal toward which the town was striving—success; collectively winning, unrecking of individual failure or tragedy—those things were to be expected, and they fell into the limbo of forgotten things, easily and unnoticed. Wrecks, disasters, were certain. They came—turmoil engulfed them.
Which is to say that during the two weeks that had elapsed since the departure of Judge Graney for Washington, Manti had paid very little attention to “Brand” Trevison while he haunted the telegraph station and the post-office for news. He was pointed out, it is true, as the man who had hurled banker Braman through the window of his bank building; there was a hazy understanding that he was having some sort of trouble with Corrigan over some land titles, but in the main Manti buzzed along, busy with its visions and its troubles, leaving Trevison with his.
The inaction, with the imminence of failure after ten years of effort, had its effect on Trevison. It fretted him; he looked years older; he looked worried and harassed; he longed for a chance to come to grips in an encounter that would ease the strain. Physical action it must be, for his brain was a muddle of passion and hatred in which clear thoughts, schemes, plans, plots, were swallowed and lost. He wanted to come into physical contact with the men and things that were thwarting him; he wanted to feel the thud and jar of blows; to catch the hot breath of open antagonism; he yearned to feel the strain of muscles—this fighting in the dark with courts and laws and lawyers, according to rules and customs, filled him with a raging impotence that hurt him. And then, at the end of two weeks came a telegram from Judge Graney, saying merely: “Be patient. It’s a long trail.”
Trevison got on Nigger and returned to the Diamond K.
The six o’clock train arrived in Manti that evening with many passengers, among whom was a woman of twenty-eight at whom men turned to look the second time. Her traveling suit spoke eloquently of that personal quality which a language, seeking new and expressive phrases describes as “class.” It fitted her smoothly, tightly, revealing certain lines of her graceful figure that made various citizens of Manti gasp. “Looks like she’d been poured into it,” remarked an interested lounger. She lingered on the station platform until she saw her trunks safely deposited, and then, drawing her skirts as though fearful of contamination, she walked, self-possessed and cool, through the doorway of the Castle hotel—Manti’s aristocrat of hostelries.
Shortly afterwards she admitted Corrigan to her room. She had changed from her traveling suit to a gown of some soft, glossy material that accentuated the lines revealed by the discarded habit. The worldly-wise would have viewed the lady with a certain expressive smile that might have meant much or nothing. And the lady would have looked upon that smile as she now looked at Corrigan, with a faint defiance that had quite a little daring in it. But in the present case there was an added expression—two, in fact—pleasure and expectancy.
“Well—I’m here.” She bowed, mockingly, laughingly, compressing her lips as she noted the quick fire that flamed in her visitor’s eyes.
“That’s all over, Jeff; I won’t go back to it. If that’s why—”
“That’s all right,” he said, smiling as he took the chair she waved him to; “I’ve erased a page or two from the past, myself. But I can’t help admiring you; you certainly are looking fine! What have you been doing to yourself?”
She draped herself in a chair where she could look straight at him, and his compliment made her mouth harden at the corners.
“Well,” she said; “in your letter you promised you’d take me into your confidence. I’m ready.”
“It’s purely a business proposition. Each realizes on his effort. You help me to get Rosalind Benham through the simple process of fascinating Trevison; I help you to get Trevison by getting Miss Benham. It’s a sort of mutual benefit association, as it were.”
“What does Trevison look like, Jeff—tell me?” The woman leaned forward in her chair, her eyes glowing.
“Oh, you women!” said Corrigan, with a gesture of disgust. “He’s a handsome fool,” he added; “if that’s what you want to know. But I haven’t any compliments to hand him regarding his manners—he’s a wild man!”
“I’d love to see him!” breathed the woman.
“Well, keep your hair on; you’ll see him soon enough. But you’ve got to understand this: He’s on my land, and he gets off without further fighting—if you can hold him. That’s understood, eh? You win him back and get him away from here. If you double-cross me, he finds out what you are!” He flung the words at her, roughly.
She spoke quietly, though color stained her cheeks. “Not ‘are,’ Jeff—what I was. That would be bad enough. But have no fear—I shall do as you ask. For I want him—I have wanted him all the time—even during the time I was chained to that little beast, Harvey. I wouldn’t have been what I am—if—if—”
“Cut it out!” he advised brutally; “the man always gets the blame, anyway—so it’s no novelty to hear that sort of stuff. So you understand, eh? You choose your own method—but get results—quick! I want to get that damned fool away from here!” He got up and paced back and forth in the room. “If he takes Rosalind Benham away from me I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him, anyway!”
“Has it gone very far between them?” The concern in her voice brought a harsh laugh from Corrigan.
“Far enough, I guess. He’s been riding with her; every day for three weeks, her aunt told me. He’s a fiery, impetuous devil!”
“Don’t worry,” she consoled. “And now,” she directed; “get out of here. I’ve been on the go for days and days, and I want to sleep. I shall go out to see Rosalind tomorrow—to surprise her, Jeff—to surprise her. Ha, ha!”
“I’ll have a rig here for you at nine o’clock,” said Corrigan. “Take your trunks—she won’t order you away. Tell her that Trevison sent for you—don’t mention my name; and stick to it! Well, pleasant dreams,” he added as he went out.
As the door closed the woman stood looking at it, a sneer curving her lips.
“Aren’t you going to welcome me, dearie?”
From the porch of the Bar B ranchhouse Rosalind had watched the rapid approach of the buckboard, and she now stood at the edge of the step leading to the porch, not more than ten or fifteen feet distant from the vehicle, shocked into dumb amazement.
“Why, yes—of course. That is—Why, what on earth brought you out here?”
“A perfectly good train—as far as your awfully crude town of Manti; and this—er—spring-legged thing, the rest of the way,” laughed Hester Harvey. She had stepped down, a trifle flushed, inwardly amused, outwardly embarrassed—which was very good acting; but looking very attractive and girlish in the simple dress she had donned for the occasion—and for the purpose of making a good impression. So attractive was she that the contemplation of her brought a sinking sensation to Rosalind that drooped her shoulders, and caused her to look around, involuntarily, for something to lean upon. For there flashed into her mind at this instant the conviction that she had herself to blame for this visitation—she had written to Ruth Gresham, and Ruth very likely had disseminated the news, after the manner of all secrets, and Hester had heard it. And of course the attraction was “Brand” Trevison! A new emotion surged through Rosalind at this thought, an emotion so strong that it made her gasp—jealousy!
She got through the ordeal somehow—with an appearance of pleasure—though it was hard for her to play the hypocrite! But so soon as she decently could, without cutting short the inevitable inconsequential chatter which fills the first moments of renewed friendships, she hurried Hester to a room and during her absence sat immovable in her chair on the porch staring stonily out at the plains.
It was not until half an hour later, when they were sitting on the porch, that Hester delivered the stroke that caused Rosalind’s hands to fall nervelessly into her lap, her lips to quiver and her eyes to fill with a reflection of a pain that gripped her hard, somewhere inside. For Hester had devised her method, as suggested by Corrigan.
“It may seem odd to you—if you know anything of the manner of my breaking off with Trevison Brandon—but he wrote me about a month ago, asking me to come out here. I didn’t accept the invitation at once—because I didn’t want him to be too sure, you know, dearie. Men are always presuming and pursuing, dearie.”
“Then you didn’t hear of Trevison’s whereabouts from Ruth Gresham?”
“Why, no, dearie! He wrote directly to me.”
Rosalind hadn’t that to reproach herself with, at any rate!
“Of course, I couldn’t go to his ranch—the Diamond K, isn’t it?—so, noting from one of the newspapers that you had come here, I decided to take advantage of your hospitality. I’m just wild to see the dear boy! Is his ranch far? For you know,” she added, with a malicious look at the girl’s pale face; “I must not keep him waiting, now that I am here.”
“You won’t find him prosperous.” It hurt Rosalind to say that, but the hurt was slightly offset by a savage resentment that gripped her when she thought of how quickly Hester had thrown Trevison over when she had discovered that he was penniless. And she had a desperate hope that the dismal aspect of Trevison’s future would appall Hester—as it would were the woman still the mercenary creature she had been ten years before. But Hester looked at her with grave imperturbability.
“I heard something about his trouble. About some land, isn’t it? I didn’t learn the particulars. Tell me about it—won’t you, dearie?”
Rosalind’s story of Trevison’s difficulties did not have the effect that she anticipated.
“The poor, dear boy!” said Hester—and she seemed genuinely moved. Rosalind gulped hard over the shattered ruins of this last hope and got up, fighting against an inhospitable impulse to order Hester away. She made some slight excuse and slipped to her room, where she stayed long, elemental passions battling riotously within her.
She realized now how completely she had yielded to the spell that the magnetic and impetuous exile had woven about her; she knew now
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