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

yet toward Corrigan, but grinning broadly when he faced around.

“Didn’t he now? I wasn’t noticin’. But, begorra, how c’ud he be surprised, whin the whole domned country was rocked out av its bed be the blast! Wud ye be expictin’ him to fall over in a faint on beholdin’ the wreck?”

“Not he,” said Corrigan, coldly; “he’s got too much nerve for that.”

“Ain’t he, now!” Carson looked guilelessly at the other. “Wud ye be havin’ anny idee who done it?”

Corrigan’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said shortly, and turned away.

Trevison’s appearance in Manti created a stir. He had achieved a double result by his deed, for besides destroying the property and making it impossible for Corrigan to resume work for a considerable time, he had caused Manti’s interest to center upon him sharply, having shocked into the town’s consciousness a conception of the desperate battle that was being waged at its doors. For Manti had viewed the devastated butte early that morning, and had come away, seething with curiosity to get a glimpse of the man whom everybody secretly suspected of being the cause of it. Many residents of the town had known Trevison before—in half an hour after his arrival he was known to all. Public opinion was heavily in his favor and many approving comments were heard.

“I ain’t blamin’ him a heap,” said a man in the Belmont. “If things is as you say they are, there ain’t much more that a man could do!”

“The laws is made for the guys with the coin an’ the pull,” said another, vindictively.

“An’ dynamite ain’t carin’ who’s usin’ it,” said another, slyly. Both grinned. The universal sympathy for the “under dog” oppressed by Justice perverted or controlled, had here found expression.

It was so all over Manti. Admiring glances followed Trevison; though he said no word concerning the incident; nor could any man have said, judging from the expression of his face, that he was elated. He had business in Manti—he completed it, and when he was ready to go he got on Nigger and loped out of town.

“That man’s nerve is as cold as a naked Eskimo at the North Pole,” commented an admirer. “If I’d done a thing like that I’d be layin’ low to see if any evidence would turn up against me.”

“I reckon there ain’t a heap of evidence,” laughed his neighbor. “I expect everybody knows he done it, but knowin’ an’ provin’ is two different things.”

A mile out of town Trevison met Corrigan. The latter halted his horse when he saw Trevison and waited for him to come up. The big man’s face wore an ugly, significant grin.

“You did a complete job,” he said, eyeing the other narrowly. “And there doesn’t seem to be any evidence. But look out! When a thing like that happens there’s always somebody around to see it, and if I can get evidence against you I’ll send you up for it!”

He noted a slight quickening of Trevison’s eyes at his mention of a witness, and a fierce exultation leaped within him.

Trevison laughed, looking the other fairly between the eyes. Rosalind Benham hadn’t informed on him. However, the day was not yet gone.

“Get your evidence before you try to do any bluffing,” he challenged. He spurred Nigger on, not looking back at his enemy.

Corrigan rode to the laborers’ tents, where he talked for a time with the cook. In the mess tent he stood with his back to a rough, pine-topped table, his hands on its edge. The table had not yet been cleared from the morning meal, for the cook had been interested in the explosion. He tried to talk of it with Corrigan, but the latter adroitly directed the conversation otherwise. The cook would have said they had a pleasant talk. Corrigan seemed very companionable this morning. He laughed a little; he listened attentively when the cook talked. After a while Corrigan fumbled in his pockets. Not finding a cigar, he looked eloquently at the cook’s pipe, in the latter’s mouth, belching much smoke.

“Not a single cigar,” he said. “I’m dying for a taste of tobacco.”

The cook took his pipe from his mouth and wiped the stem hastily on a sleeve. “If you don’t mind I’ve been suckin’ on it,” he said, extending it.

“I wouldn’t deprive you of it for the world.” Corrigan shifted his position, looked down at the table and smiled. “Luck, eh?” he said, picking up a black brier that lay on the table behind him. “Got plenty of tobacco?”

The cook dove for a box in a corner and returned with a cloth sack, bulging. He watched while Corrigan filled the pipe, and grinned while his guest was lighting it.

“Carson’ll be ravin’ today for forgettin’ his pipe. He must have left it layin’ on the table this mornin’—him bein’ in such a rush to get down, to the explosion.”

“It’s Carson’s, eh?” Corrigan surveyed it with casual interest. “Well,” after taking a few puffs “—I’ll say for Carson that he knows how to take care of it.”

He left shortly afterward, laying the pipe on the table where he had found it. Five minutes later he was in Judge Lindman’s presence, leaning over the desk toward the other.

“I want you to issue a warrant for Patrick Carson. I want him brought in here for examination. Charge him with being an accessory before the fact, or anything that seems to fit the case. But throw him into the cooler—and keep him there until he talks. He knows who broke into the dynamite shed, and therefore he knows who did the dynamiting. He’s friendly with Trevison, and if we can make him admit he saw Trevison at the shed, we’ve got the goods. He warned Trevison the other day, when I had the deputies lined up at the butte, and I found his pipe this morning near the door of the dynamite shed. We’ll make him talk, damn him!”

Banker Braman had closed the door between the front and rear rooms, pulled down the shades of the windows, lighted the kerosene lamp, and by its wavering flicker was surveying his reflection in the small mirror affixed to one of the walls of the building. He was pleased, as the fatuous self-complacence of his look indicated, and carefully, almost fastidiously dressed, and he could not deny himself this last look into the mirror, even though he was now five minutes late with his appointment. The five minutes threatened to become ten, for, in adjusting his tie-pin it slipped from his fingers, struck the floor and vanished, as though an evil fate had gobbled it.

He searched for it frenziedly, cursing lowly, but none the less viciously. It was quite by accident that when his patience was strained almost to the breaking point, he struck his hand against a board that formed part of the partition between his building and the courthouse next door, and tore a huge chunk of skin from the knuckles. He paid little attention to the injury, however, for the agitating of the board disclosed the glittering recreant, and he pounced upon it with the precision of a hawk upon its prey, snarling triumphantly.

“I’ll nail that damned board up, some day!” he threatened. But he knew he wouldn’t, for by lying on the floor and pulling the board out a trifle, he could get a clear view of the interior of the courthouse, and could hear quite plainly, in spite of the presence of a wooden box resting against the wall on the other side. And some of the things that Braman had already heard through the medium of the loose board were really interesting, not to say instructive, to him.

He was ten minutes late in keeping his appointment. He might have been even later without being in danger of receiving the censure he deserved. For the lady received him in a loose wrapper and gracefully disordered hair, a glance at which made Braman gasp in unfeigned admiration.

“What’s this?” he demanded with a pretense of fatherly severity, which he imagined became him very well in the presence of women. “Not ready yet, Mrs. Harvey?”

The woman waved him to a chair with unsmiling unconcern; dropped into another, crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, her hands folded across the back of her head, her sleeves, wide and flaring, sliding down below her elbows. She caught Braman’s burning stare of interest in this revelation of negligence, and smiled at him in faint derision.

“I’m tired, Croft. I’ve changed my mind about going to the First Merchants’ Ball. I’d much rather sit here and chin you—if you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit!” hastily acquiesced the banker. “In fact, I like the idea of staying here much better. It is more private, you know.” He grinned significantly, but the woman’s smile of faint derision changed merely to irony, which held steadily, making Braman’s cheeks glow crimson.

“Well, then,” she laughed, exulting in her power over him; “let’s get busy. What do you want to chin about?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve wet my whistle,” said the banker, gayly. “I’m dry as a bone in the middle of the Sahara desert!”

“I’ll take mine ‘straight,’” she laughed.

Braman rang a bell. A waiter with glasses and a bottle appeared, entered, was paid, and departed, grinning without giving the banker any change from a ten dollar bill.

The woman laughed immoderately at Braman’s wolfish snarl.

“Be a sport, Croft. Don’t begrudge a poor waiter a few honestly earned dollars!”

“And now, what has the loose-board telephone told you?” she asked, two hours later when flushed of face from frequent attacks on the bottle—Braman rather more flushed than she—they relaxed in their chairs after a tilt at poker in which the woman had been the victor.

“You’re sure you don’t care for Trevison any more—that you’re only taking his end of this because of what he’s been to you in the past?” demanded the banker, looking suspiciously at her.

“He told me he didn’t love me any more. I couldn’t want him after that, could I?”

“I should think not.” Braman’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. But he hesitated, yielding when she smiled at him. “Damn it, I’d knife Corrigan for you!” he vowed, recklessly.

“Save Trevison—that’s all I ask. Tell me what you heard.”

“Corrigan suspects Trevison of blowing up the stuff at the butte—as everybody does, of course. He’s determined to get evidence against him. He found Carson’s pipe at the door of the dynamite shed this morning. Carson is a friend of Trevison’s. Corrigan is going to have Judge Lindman issue a warrant for the arrest of Carson—on some charge—and they’re going to jail Carson until he talks.”

The woman cursed profanely, sharply. “That’s Corrigan’s idea of a square deal. He promised me that no harm should come to Trevison.” She got up and walked back and forth in the room, Braman watching her with passion lying naked in his eyes, his lips loose and moist.

She stopped in front of him, finally. “Go home, Croft—there’s a good boy. I want to think.”

“That’s cruelty to animals,” he laughed in a strained voice. “But I’ll go,” he added at signs of displeasure on her face. “Can I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’ll let you know.” She held the door open for him, and permitted him to take her hand for an instant. He squeezed it hotly, the woman making a grimace of repugnance as she closed the door.

Swiftly she changed from her loose gown to a simple, short-skirted affair, slipped on boots, a felt hat, gloves. Leaving the light burning, she slipped out into the hall and called to the waiter who had served her and Braman. By rewarding him generously she procured a horse, and a few minutes later she emerged from the building by a rear door, mounting the animal and sending it clattering out into the night.

Twice she lost