'Firebrand' Trevison, Charles Alden Seltzer [best motivational books to read .txt] 📗

“H’m. I reckon you’re right. This railroad has brought some mighty slick ones here. Mighty slick an’ gally.” He looked at her truculently. “Corrigan’s one of the slick ones. Friend of yours, eh?”

“Clay!” remonstrated his wife, sharply.

He turned on her roughly. “You keep out of this! I ain’t meanin’ nothin’ wrong. But I reckon when anyone’s got a sneakin’ coyote for a friend an’ don’t know it, it’s doin’ ’em a good turn to spit things right out, frank an’ fair.

“This Corrigan ain’t on the level, ma’am. Do you know what he’s doin’? He’s skinnin’ the folks in this country out of about a hundred thousand acres of land. He’s clouded every damn title. He’s got a fake bill of sale to show that he bought the land years ago—which he didn’t—an’ he’s got a little beast of a judge here to back him up in his play. They’ve done away with the original record of the land, an’ rigged up another, which makes Corrigan’s title clear. It’s the rankest robbery that any man ever tried to pull off, an’ if he’s a friend of yourn you ought to cut him off your visitin’ list!”

“How do you know that? Who told you?” asked the girl, her face whitening, for the man’s vehemence and evident earnestness were convincing.

“‘Brand’ Trevison told me. It hits him mighty damned hard. He had a deed to his land. Corrigan broke open his office an’ stole it. Trevison’s certain sure his deed was on the record, for he went to Dry Bottom with Buck Peters—the man he bought the land from—an’ seen it wrote down on the record!” He laughed harshly. “There’s goin’ to be hell to pay here. Trevison won’t stand for it—though the other gillies are advisin’ caution. Caution hell! I’m for cleanin’ the scum out! Do you know what Corrigan done, yesterday? He got thirty or so deputies—pluguglies that he’s hired—an’ hid ’em behind some flat-cars down on the level where they’re erectin’ some minin’ machinery. He laid a trap for ‘Firebrand,’ expectin’ him to come down there, rippin’ mad because they was puttin’ the minin’ machinery up on his land, wi’out his permission. They was goin’ to shoot him—Corrigan put ’em up to it. That Carson fello’ heard it an’ put ‘Firebrand’ wise. An’ the shootin’ didn’t come off. But that’s only the beginnin’!”

“Did Trevison tell you to tell me this?” The girl was stunned, amazed, incredulous. For her father was concerned in this, and if he had any knowledge that Corrigan was stealing land—if he was stealing it—he was guilty as Corrigan. If he had no knowledge of it, she might be able to prevent the steal by communicating with him.

“Trevison tell me?” laughed Levins, scornfully; “‘Firebrand’ ain’t no pussy-kitten fighter which depends on women standin’ between him an’ trouble. I’m tellin’ you on my own hook, so’s that big stiff Corrigan won’t get swelled up, thinkin’ he’s got a chance to hitch up with you in the matrimonial wagon. That guy’s got murder in his heart, girl. Did you hear of me shootin’ that sneak, Marchmont?” The girl had heard rumors of the affair; she nodded, and Levins went on. “It was Corrigan that hired me to do it—payin’ me a thousand, cash.” His wife gasped, and he spoke gently to her. “That’s all right, Ma; it wasn’t no cold-blooded affair—Jim Marchmont knowed a sister of mine pretty intimate, when he was out here years ago, an’ I settled a debt that I thought I owed to her, that’s all. I ain’t none sorry, neither—I knowed him soon as Corrigan mentioned his name. But I hadn’t no time to call his attention to things—I had to plug him, sudden. I’m sorry I’ve said this, ma’am, now that it’s out,” he said in a changed voice, noting the girl’s distress; “but I felt you ought to know who you’re dealin’ with.”

Rosalind went out, swaying, her knees shaking. She heard Levins’ wife reproving him; heard the man replying gruffly. She felt that it must be so. She cared nothing about Corrigan, beyond a certain regret, but a wave of sickening fear swept over her at the growing conviction that her father must know something of all this. And if, as Levins said, Corrigan was attempting to defraud these people, she felt that common justice required that she head him off, if possible. By defeating Corrigan’s aim she would, of course, be aiding Trevison, and through him Hester Harvey, whom she had grown to despise, but that hatred should not deter her. She mounted her horse in a fever of anxiety and raced it over the plains toward Manti, determined to find Corrigan and force him to tell her the truth.

Half way to town she saw a rider coming, and she slowed her own horse, taking the rider to be Corrigan, coming to the Bar B. She saw her mistake when the rider was within a hundred feet of her. She blushed, then paled, and started to pass the rider without speaking, for it was Trevison. She looked up when he urged Nigger against her animal, blocking the trail, frowning.

“Look here,” he said; “what’s wrong? Why do you avoid me? I saw you on the Diamond K range the other day, and when I started to ride toward you you whipped up your horse. You tried to pass me just now. What have I done to deserve it?”

She could not tell him about Hester Harvey, of course, and so she was silent, blushing a little. He took her manner as an indication of guilt, and gritted his teeth with the pain that the discovery caused him, for he had been hoping, too—that his suspicions of her were groundless.

“I do not care to discuss the matter with you.” She looked fairly at him, her resentment flaming in her eyes, fiercely indignant over his effrontery in addressing her in that manner, after his affair with Hester Harvey. She was going to help him, but that did not mean that she was going to blind herself to his faults, or to accept them mutely. His bold confidence in himself—which she had once admired—repelled her now; she saw in it the brazen egotism of the gross sensualist, seeking new victims.

“I am in a hurry,” she said, stiffly; “you will pardon me if I proceed.”

He jumped Nigger off the trail and watched with gloomy, disappointed eyes, her rapid progress toward Manti. Then he urged Nigger onward, toward Levins’ cabin. “I’ll have to erect another monument to my faith in women,” he muttered. And certain reckless, grim thoughts that had rioted in his mind since the day before, now assumed a definiteness that made his blood leap with eagerness.

Later, when Rosalind sat opposite Corrigan at his desk, she found it hard to believe Levins’ story. The big man’s smooth plausibility made Levins’ recital seem like the weird imaginings of a disordered mind, goaded to desperation by opposition. And again, his magnetism, his polite consideration for her feelings, his ingenuous, smiling deference—so sharply contrasted with Trevison’s direct bluntness—swayed her, and she sat, perplexed, undecided, when he finished the explanation she had coldly demanded of him.

“It is the invariable defense of these squatters,” he added; “that they are being robbed. In this case they have embellished their hackneyed tale somewhat by dragging the court into it, and telling you that absurd story about the shooting of Marchmont. Could you tell me what possible interest I could have in wanting Marchmont killed? Don’t you think, Miss Rosalind, that Levins’ reference to his sister discloses the real reason for the man’s action? Levins’ story that I paid him a thousand dollars is a fabrication, pure and simple. I paid Jim Marchmont a thousand dollars that morning, which was the balance due him on our contract. The transaction was witnessed by Judge Lindman. After Marchmont was shot, Levins took the money from him.”

“Why wasn’t Levins arrested?”

“It seems that public opinion was with Levins. A great many people here knew of the ancient trouble between them.” He passed from that, quickly. “The tale of the robbery of Trevison’s office is childlike, for the reason that Trevison had no deed. Judge Lindman is an honored and respected official. And—” he added as a last argument “—your father is the respected head of a large and important railroad. Is it logical to suppose that he would lend his influence and his good name to any such ridiculous scheme?”

She sighed, almost convinced. Corrigan went on, earnestly:

“This man Trevison is a disturber—he has always been that. He has no respect for the law or property. He associates with the self-confessed murderer, Levins. He is a riotous, reckless, egotistical fool who, because the law stands in the way of his desires, wishes to trample it under foot and allow mob rule to take its place. Do you remember you mentioned that he once loved a woman named Hester Keyes? Well, he has brought Hester here—”

She got up, her chin at a scornful angle. “I do not care to hear about his personal affairs.” She went out, mounted her horse, and rode slowly out the Bar B trail. From a window Corrigan watched her, and as she vanished into the distance he turned back to his desk, meditating darkly.

“Trevison put Levins up to that. He’s showing yellow.”