CHAPTER XIXA WOMAN RIDES IN VAIN
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 ofcentering 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 it rather sharpens one’s wits, I presume.”
“H’m. I reckon you’re right. This railroad has brought somemightyslick 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 someflat-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 hewasstealing 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 Corriganmentioned 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 itmustbe 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 fathermustknow 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 youyou 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 seemlike 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 itlogical 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.”
CHAPTER XXAND RIDES AGAIN—IN VAIN
Rosalind’s reflections as she rode toward the Bar B convinced her that there had been much truth in Corrigan’s arraignment of Trevison. Out of her own knowledge of him, and from his own admission to her on the day they had ridden to Blakeley’s the first time, she adduced evidence of his predilection for fighting, of his utter disregard for accepted authority—when that authority disagreed with his conception of justice; of his lawlessness when his desires were in question. His impetuosity was notorious, for it had earned him the sobriquet “Firebrand,” which he could not have acquired except through the exhibition of those traits that she had enumerated.
She was disappointed and spiritless when she reached the ranchhouse, and very tired, physically. Agatha’s questions irritated her, and she ate sparingly of the food set before her, eager to be alone. In the isolation of her room she lay dumbly on the bed, and there the absurdity of Levins’ story assailed her. It must be as Corrigan had said—her father was too great a man to descend to such despicable methods. She dropped off to sleep.
When she awoke the sun had gone down, and herroom was cheerless in the semi-dusk. She got up, washed, combed her hair, and much refreshed, went downstairs and ate heartily, Agatha watching her narrowly.
“You are distraught, my dear,” ventured her relative. “I don’t think this country agrees with you. Has anything happened?”
The girl answered evasively, whereat Agatha compressed her lips.
“Don’t you think that a trip East—”
“I shall not go home this summer!” declared Rosalind, vehemently. And noting the flash in the girl’s eyes, belligerent and defiant; her swelling breast, the warning brilliance of her eyes, misty with pent-up emotion, Agatha wisely subsided and the meal was finished in a strained silence.
Later, Rosalind went out, alone, upon the porch where, huddled in a big rocker, she gazed gloomily at the lights of Manti, dim and distant. Something of the turmoil and the tumult of the town in its young strength and vigor, assailed her, contrasting sharply with the solemn peace of her own surroundings. Life had been a very materialistic problem to her, heretofore. She had lived it according to her environment, a mere onlooker, detached from the scheme of things. Something of the meaning of life trickled into her consciousness as she sat there watching the flickering lights of the town—something of the meaning of it all—the struggle of these new residents twanged a hidden chord of sympathy and understanding in her. She was able to visualize them as she sat there. Faces flashedbefore her—strong, stern, eager; the owner of each a-thrill with his ambition, going forward in the march of progress with definite aim, planning, plotting, scheming—some of them winning, others losing, but all obsessed with a feverish desire of success. The railroad, the town, the ranches, the new dam, the people—all were elements of a conflict, waged ceaselessly. She sat erect, her blood tingling. Blows were being struck, taken.
“Oh,” she cried, sharply; “it’s a game! It’s the spirit of the nation—to fight, to press onward, to win!” And in that moment she was seized with a throbbing sympathy for Trevison, and filled with a yearning that he might win, in spite of Corrigan, Hester Harvey, and all the others—even her father. For he was a courageous player of this “game.” In him was typified the spirit of the nation.
Rosalind might have added something to her thoughts had she known of the passions that filled Trevison when, while she sat on the porch of the Bar B ranchhouse, he mounted Nigger and sent him scurrying through the mellow moonlight toward Manti. He was playing the “game,” with justice as his goal. The girl had caught something of the spirit of it all, but she had neglected to grasp the all-important element of the relations between men, without which laws, rules, and customs become farcical and ridiculous. He was determined to have justice. He knew well that Judge Graney’s mission to Washington would result in failure unless the deed to his property could be recovered, orthe original record disclosed. Even then, with a weak and dishonest judge on the bench the issue might be muddled by a mass of legal technicalities. The court order permitting Braman to operate a mine on his property goaded him to fury.
He stopped at Hanrahan’s saloon, finding Lefingwell there and talking with him for a few minutes. Lefingwell’s docile attitude disgusted him—he said he had talked the matter over with a number of the other owners, and they had expressed themselves as being in favor of awaiting the result of his appeal. He left Lefingwell, not trusting himself to argue the question of the man’s attitude, and went down to the station, where he found a telegram awaiting him. It was from Judge Graney:
Coming home. Case sent back to Circuit Court for hearing. Depend on you to get evidence.
Coming home. Case sent back to Circuit Court for hearing. Depend on you to get evidence.
Trevison crumpled the paper and shoved it savagely into a pocket. He stood for a long time on the station platform, in the dark, glowering at the lights of the town, then started abruptly and made his way into the gambling room of thePlaza, where he somberly watched the players. The rattle of chips, the whir of the wheel, the monotonous drone of the faro dealer, the hum of voices, some eager, some tense, others exultant or grumbling, the incessant jostling, irritated him. He went out the front door, stepped down into the street, and walked eastward. Passing an open space between two buildings he became aware of the figureof a woman, and he wheeled as she stepped forward and grasped his arm. He recognized her and tried to pass on, but she clung to him.
“Trev!” she said, appealingly; “I want to talk with you. It’s very important—really. Just a minute, Trev. Won’t you talkthatlong! Come to my room—where—”
“Talk fast,” he admonished, holding her off,“—and talk here.”
She struggled with him, trying to come closer, twisting so that her body struck his, and the contact brought a grim laugh out of him. He seized her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Talk from there—it’s safer. Now, if you’ve anything important—”
“O Trev—please—” She laughed, almost sobbing, but forced the tears back when she saw derision blazing in his eyes.
“I told you it was all over!” He pushed her away and started off, but he had taken only two steps when she was at his side again.
“I saw you from my window, Trev. I—I knew it was you—I couldn’t mistake you, anywhere. I followed you—saw you go into thePlaza. I came to warn you. Corrigan has planned to goad you into doing some rash thing so that he will have an excuse to jail or kill you!”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I—I just heard it. I was in the bank today, and I overheard him talking to a man—some officer, I think. Be careful, Trev—very careful, won’t you?”
“Careful as I can,” he laughed, lowly. “Thankyou.” He started on again, and she grasped his arm. “Trev,” she pleaded.
“What’s the use, Hester?” he said; “it can’t be.”
“Well, God bless you, anyway, dear,” she said chokingly.
He passed on, leaving her in the shadows of the buildings, and walked far out on the plains. Making a circuit to avoid meeting the woman again, he skirted the back yards, stumbling over tin cans and debris in his progress. When he got to the shed where he had hitched Nigger he mounted and rode down the railroad tracks toward the cut, where an hour later he was joined by Clay Levins, who came toward him, riding slowly and cautiously.
Patrick Carson had wooed sleep unsuccessfully. For hours he lay on his cot in the tent, staring out through the flap at the stars. A vague unrest had seized him. He heard the hilarious din of Manti steadily decrease in volume until only intermittent noises reached his ears. But even when comparative peace came he was still wide awake.
“I’ll be gettin’ the willies av I lay here much longer widout slape,” he confided to his pillow. “Mebbe a turn down the track wid me dujeen wud do the thrick.” He got up, lighted his pipe and strode off into the semi-gloom of the railroad track. He went aimlessly, paying little attention to objects around him. He passed the tents wherein the laborers lay—and smiled as heavy snores smote his ears. “They slape a heap harder than they worruk, bedad!” he observed, grinning.“Nothin’ c’ud trouble a ginney’s conscience, annyway,” he scoffed. “But, accordin’ to that they must be a heap on me own!” Which observation sent his thoughts to Corrigan. “Begob, there’s a man! A domned rogue, if iver they was one!”
He passed the tents, smoking thoughtfully. He paused when he came to the small buildings scattered about at quite a distance from the tents, then left the tracks and made his way through the deep alkali dust toward them.
“Whativer wud Corrigan be askin’ about the dynamite for? ‘How much do ye kape av it?’ he was askin’. As if it was anny av his business!”
He stopped puffing at his pipe and stood rigid, watching with bulging eyes, for he saw the door of the dynamite shed move outward several inches, as though someone inside had shoved it. It closed again, slowly, and Carson was convinced that he had been seen. He was no coward, but a cold sweat broke out on him and his knees doubled weakly. For any man who would visit the dynamite shed around midnight, in this stealthy manner, must be in a desperate frame of mind, and Carson’s virile imagination drew lurid pictures of a gun duel in which a stray shot penetrated the wall of the shed. He shivered at the roar of the explosion that followed; he even drew a gruesome picture of stretchers and mangled flesh that brought a groan out of him.
But in spite of his mental stress he lunged forward, boldly, though his breath wheezed from his lungs in great gasps. His body lagged, but his will was indomitable, once he quit looking at the pictures of his imagination.He was at the door of the shed in a dozen strides.
The lock had been forced; the hasp was hanging, suspended from a twisted staple. Carson had no pistol—it would have been useless, anyway.
Carson hesitated, vacillating between two courses. Should he return for help, or should he secrete himself somewhere and watch? The utter foolhardiness of attempting the capture of the prowler single handed assailed him, and he decided on retreat. He took one step, and then stood rigid in his tracks, for a voice filtered thinly through the doorway, hoarse, vibrant:
“Don’t forget the fuses.”
Carson’s lips formed the word: “Trevison!”
Carson’s breath came easier; his thoughts became more coherent, his recollection vivid; his sympathies leaped like living things. When his thoughts dwelt upon the scene at the butte during Trevison’s visit while the mining machinery was being erected—the trap that Corrigan had prepared for the man—a grim smile wreathed his face, for he strongly suspected what was meant by Trevison’s visit to the dynamite shed.
He slipped cautiously around a corner of the shed, making no sound in the deep dust surrounding it, and stole back the way he had come, tingling.
“Begob, I’ll slape now—a little while!”
As Carson vanished down the tracks a head was stuck out through the doorway of the shed and turned so that its owner could scan his surroundings.
“All clear,” he whispered.
“Get going, then,” said another voice, and two men,their faces muffled with handkerchiefs, bearing something that bulked their pockets oddly, slipped out of the door and fled noiselessly, like gliding shadows, down the track toward the cut.
Rosalind had been asleep in the rocker. A cool night breeze, laden with the strong, pungent aroma of sage, sent a shiver over her and she awoke, to see that the lights of Manti had vanished. An eerie lonesomeness had settled around her.
“Why, it must be nearly midnight!” she said. She got up, yawning, and stepped toward the door, wondering why Agatha had not called her. But Agatha had retired, resenting the girl’s manner.
Almost to the door, Rosalind detected movement in the ghostly semi-light that flooded the plains between the porch and the picturesque spot, more than a mile away, on which Levins’ cabin stood. She halted at the door and watched, and when the moving object resolved into a horse, loping swiftly, she strained her eyes toward it. At first it seemed to have no rider, but when it had approached to within a hundred yards of her, she gasped, leaped off the porch and ran toward the horse. An instant later she stood at the animal’s head, voicing her astonishment.
“Why, it’s Chuck Levins! Why on earth are you riding around at this hour of the night?”
“Sissy’s sick. Maw wants you to please come an’ see what you can do—if it ain’t too much trouble.”
“Trouble?” The girl laughed. “I should say not! Wait until I saddle my horse!”
She ran to the porch and stole silently into the house, emerging with a small medicine case, which she stuck into a pocket of her coat. Once before she had had occasion to use her simple remedies on Sissy—an illness as simple as her remedies; but she could feel something of Mrs. Levins’ concern for her offspring, and—and it was an ideal night for a gallop over the plains.
It was almost midnight by the Levins’ clock when she entered the cabin, and a quick diagnosis of her case with an immediate application of one of her remedies, brought results. At half past twelve Sissy was sleeping peacefully, and Chuck had dozed off, fully dressed, no doubt ready to re-enact his manly and heroic rôle upon call.
It was not until Rosalind was ready to go that Mrs. Levins apologized for her husband’s rudeness to his guest.
“Clay feels awfully bitter against Corrigan. It’s because Corrigan is fighting Trevison—and Trevison is Clay’s friend—they’ve been like brothers. Trevison has done so much for us.”
Rosalind glanced around the cabin. She had meant to ask Chuck why his father had not come on the midnight errand, but had forebore. “Mr. Levins isn’t here?”
“Clay went away about nine o’clock.” The woman did not meet Rosalind’s direct gaze; she flushed under it and looked downward, twisting her fingers in her apron. Rosalind had noted a strangeness in the woman’s manner when she had entered the cabin, but she had ascribed it to the child’s illness, and had thoughtnothing more of it. But now it burst upon her with added force, and when she looked up again Rosalind saw there was an odd, strained light in her eyes—a fear, a dread—a sinister something that she shrank from. Rosalind remembered the killing of Marchmont, and had a quick divination of impending trouble.
“What is it, Mrs. Levins? What has happened?”
The woman gulped hard, and clenched her hands. Evidently, whatever her trouble, she had determined to bear it alone, but was now wavering.
“Tell me, Mrs. Levins; perhaps I can help you?”
“You can!” The words burst sobbingly from the woman. “Maybe you can prevent it. But, oh, Miss Rosalind, I wasn’t to say anything—Clay told me not to. But I’m so afraid! Clay’s so hot-headed, and Trevison is so daring! I’m afraid they won’t stop at anything!”
“But what is it?” demanded Rosalind, catching something of the woman’s excitement.
“It’s about the machinery at the butte—the mining machinery. My God, you’ll never say I told you—will you? But they’re going to blow it up tonight—Clay and Trevison; they’re going to dynamite it! I’m afraid there will be murder done!”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” The girl stood rigid, white, breathless.
“Oh, I ought to,” moaned the woman. “But I was afraid you’d tell—Corrigan—somebody—and—and they’d get into trouble with the law!”
“I won’t tell—but I’ll stop it—if there’s time! For your sake. Trevison is the one to blame.”
She inquired about the location of the butte; the shortest trail, and then ran out to her horse. Once in the saddle she drew a deep breath and sent the animal scampering into the flood of moonlight.
Down toward the cut the two men ran, and when they reached a gully at a distance of several hundred feet from the dynamite shed they came upon their horses. Mounting, they rode rapidly down the track toward the butte where the mining machinery was being erected. They had taken the handkerchiefs off while they ran, and now Trevison laughed with the hearty abandon of a boy whose mischievous prank has succeeded.
“That was easy. I thought I heard a noise, though, when you backed against the door and shoved it open.”
“Nobody usually monkeys around a dynamite shed at night,” returned Levins. “Whew! There’s enough of that stuff there to blow Manti to Kingdom Come—wherever that is.”
They rode boldly across the level at the base of the butte, for they had reconnoitered after meeting on the plains just outside of town, and knew Corrigan had left no one on guard.
“It’s a cinch,” Levins declared as they dismounted from their horses in the shelter of a shoulder of the butte, about a hundred yards from where the corrugated iron building, nearly complete, loomed somberly on the level. “But if they’d ever get evidence that we done it—”
Trevison laughed lowly, with a grim humor that made Levins look sharply at him. “That abandonedpueblo on the creek near your shack is built like a fortress, Levins.”
“What in hell has this job got to do with that dobie pile?” questioned the other.
“Plenty. Oh, you’re curious, now. But I’m going to keep you guessing for a day or two.”
“You’ll go loco—give you time,” scoffed Levins.
“Somebody else will go crazy when this stuff lets go,” laughed Trevison, tapping his pockets.
Levins snickered. They trailed the reins over the heads of their horses, and walked swiftly toward the corrugated iron building. Halting in the shadow of it, they held a hurried conference, and then separated, Trevison going toward the engine, already set up, with its flimsy roof covering it, and working around it for a few minutes, then darting from it to a small building filled with tools and stores, and to a pile of machinery and supplies stacked against the wall of the butte. They worked rapidly, elusive as shadows in the deep gloom of the wall of the butte, and when their work was completed they met in the full glare of the moonlight near the corrugated iron building and whispered again.
Lashing her horse over a strange trail, Rosalind Benham came to a thicket of gnarled fir-balsam and scrub oak that barred her way completely. She had ridden hard and her horse breathed heavily during the short time she spent looking about her. Her own breath was coming sharply, sobbing in her throat, but it was more from excitement than from the hazardand labor of the ride, for she had paid little attention to the trail, beyond giving the horse direction, trusting to the animal’s wisdom, accepting the risks as a matter-of-course. It was the imminence of violence that had aroused her, the portent of a lawless deed that might result in tragedy. She had told Mrs. Levins that she was doing this thing forhersake, but she knew better. Shedidconsider the woman, but she realized that her dominating passion was for the grim-faced young man who, discouraged, driven to desperation by the force of circumstances—just or not—was fighting for what he considered were his rights—the accumulated results of ten years of exile and work. She wanted to save him from this deed, from the results of it, even though there was nothing but condemnation in her heart for him because of it.
“To the left of the thicket is a slope,” Mrs. Levins had told her. She stopped only long enough to get her bearings, and at her panting, “Go!” the horse leaped. They were at the crest of the slope quickly, facing the bottom, yawning, deep, dark. She shut her eyes as the horse took it, leaning back to keep from falling over the animal’s head, holding tightly to the pommel of the saddle. They got down, someway, and when she felt the level under them she lashed the horse again, and urged him around a shoulder of the precipitous wall that loomed above her, frowning and somber.
She heard a horse whinny as she flashed past the shoulder, her own beast tearing over the level with great catlike leaps, but she did not look back, straining her eyes to peer into the darkness along the wallof the butte for sight of the buildings and machinery.
She saw them soon after passing the shoulder, and exclaimed her thanks sharply.
“All set,” said one of the shadowy figures near the corrugated iron building. A match flared, was applied to a stick of punk in the hands of each man, and again they separated, each running, applying the glowing wand here and there.
Trevison’s work took him longest, and when he leaped from the side of a mound of supplies Levins was already running back toward the shoulder where they had left their horses. They joined, then split apart, their weapons leaping into their hands, for they heard the rapid drumming of horse’s hoofs.
“They’re coming!” panted Trevison, his jaws setting as he plunged on toward the shoulder of the butte. “Run low and duck at the flash of their guns!” he warned Levins.
A wide swoop brought the oncoming horse around the shoulder of the butte into full view. As the moonlight shone, momentarily, on the rider, Trevison cried out, hoarsely:
“God, it’s a woman!”
He leaped, at the words, out of the shadow of the butte into the moonlight of the level, straight into the path of the running horse, which at sight of him slid, reared and came to a halt, snorting and trembling. Trevison had recognized the girl; he flung himself at the horse, muttering: “Dynamite!” seized the beast by the bridle, forced its head around despite the girl’sobjections and incoherent pleadings—some phrases of which sank home, but were disregarded.
“Don’t!” she cried, fiercely, as he struck the animal with his fist to accelerate its movements. She was still crying to him, wildly, hysterically, as he got the animal’s head around and slapped it sharply on the hip, his pistol crashing at its heels.
The frightened animal clattered over the back trail, Trevison running after it. He reached Nigger, flung himself into the saddle, and raced after Levins, who was already far down the level, following Rosalind’s horse. At a turn in the butte he came upon them both, their horses halted, the girl berating Levins, the man laughing lowly at her.
“Don’t!” she cried to Trevison as he rode up. “Please, Trevison—don’t letthathappen! It’s criminal; it’s outlawry!”
“Too late,” he said grimly, and rode close to her to grasp the bridle of her horse. Standing thus, they waited—an age, to the girl, in reality only a few seconds. Then the deep, solemn silence of the night was split by a hollow roar, which echoed and re-echoed as though a thousand thunder storms had centered over their heads. A vivid flash, extended, effulgent, lit the sky, the earth rocked, the canyon walls towering above them seemed to sway and reel drunkenly. The girl covered her face with her hands. Another blast smote the night, reverberating on the heels of the other; there followed another and another, so quickly that they blended; then another, with a distinct interval between. Then a breathless, unreal calm, through which distantechoes rumbled; then a dead silence, shattered at last by a heavy, distant clatter, as though myriad big hailstones were falling on a pavement. And then another silence—the period of reeling calm after an earthquake.
“O God!” wailed the girl; “it is horrible!”
“You’ve got to get out of here—the whole of Manti will be here in a few minutes! Come on!”
He urged Nigger farther down the canyon, and up a rocky slope that brought them to the mesa. The girl was trembling, her breath coming gaspingly. He faced her as they came to a halt, pityingly, with a certain dogged resignation in his eyes.
“What brought you here? Who told you we were here?” he asked, gruffly.
“It doesn’t matter!” She faced him defiantly. “You have outraged the laws of your country tonight! I hope you are punished for it!”
He laughed, derisively. “Well, you’ve seen; you know. Go and inform your friends. What I have done I did after long deliberation in which I considered fully the consequences to myself. Levins wasn’t concerned in it, so you don’t need to mention his name. Your ranch is in that direction, Miss Benham.” He pointed southeastward, Nigger lunged, caught his stride in two or three jumps, and fled toward the southwest. His rider did not hear the girl’s voice; it was drowned in clatter of hoofs as he and Levins rode.
CHAPTER XXIANOTHER WOMAN RIDES
Trevison rode in to town the next morning. On his way he went to the edge of the butte overlooking the level, and looked down upon the wreck and ruin he had caused. Masses of twisted steel and iron met his gaze; the level was littered with debris, which a gang of men under Carson was engaged in clearing away; a great section of the butte had been blasted out, earth, rocks, sand, had slid down upon much of the wreckage, partly burying it. The utter havoc of the scene brought a fugitive smile to his lips.
He saw Carson waving a hand to him, and he answered the greeting, noting as he did so that Corrigan stood at a little distance behind Carson, watching. Trevison did not give him a second look, wheeling Nigger and sending him toward Manti at a slow lope. As he rode away, Corrigan called to Carson.
“Your friend didn’t seem to be much surprised.”
Carson turned, making a grimace while his back was 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 domnedcountry 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 theBelmont. “If things is as you say they are, there ain’t much more that amancould 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 sympathyfor 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 waspleased, 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 ladyreceived 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 abottle 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 warrantfor 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 her way and rode miles before she recovered her sense of direction, and when she finally pulled the beast to a halt at the edge of the Diamond K ranchhouse gallery, midnight was not far away. The ranchhouse was dark. She smothered a gasp of disappointment as she crossed the gallery floor. She wasabout to hammer on the door when it swung open and Trevison stepped out, peered closely at her and laughed shortly.
“It’s you, eh?” he said. “I thought I told you—”
She winced at his tone, but it did not lessen her concern for him.
“It isn’t that, Trev! And I don’t care how you treat me—I deserve it! But I can’t see them punish you—for what you did last night!” She felt him start, his muscles stiffen.
“Something has turned up, then. You came to warn me? What is it?”
“You were seen last night! They’re going to arrest—”
“So she squealed, did she?” he interrupted. He laughed lowly, bitterly, with a vibrant disappointment that wrung the woman’s heart with sympathy. But her brain quickly grasped the significance of his words, and longing dulled her sense of honor. It was too good an opportunity to miss. “Bah! I expected it. She told me she would. I was a fool to dream otherwise!” He turned on Hester and grasped her by the shoulders, and her flesh deadened under his fingers.
“Did she tell Corrigan?”
“Yes.” The woman told the lie courageously, looking straight into his eyes, though she shrank at the fire that came into them as he released her and laughed.
“Where did you get your information?” His voice was suddenly sullen and cold.
“From Braman.”
He started, and laughed in humorous derision.
“Braman and Corrigan are blood brothers in this deal. You must have captivated the little sneak completely to make him lose his head like that!”
“I did it for you, Trev—for you. Don’t you see? Oh, I despise the little beast! But he dropped a hint one day when I was in the bank, and I deliberately snared him, hoping I might be able to gain information that would benefit you. And I have, Trev!” she added, trembling with a hope that his hasty judgment might result to her advantage. And how near she had come to mentioning Carson’s name! If Trevison had waited for just another second before interrupting her! Fortune had played favorably into her hands tonight!
“For you, boy,” she said, slipping close to him, sinuously, whispering, knowing the “she” he had mentionedmustbe Rosalind Benham. “Old friends are best, boy. At least they can be depended upon not to betray one. Trev; let me help you! I can, and I will! Why, I love you, Trev! And you need me, to help you fight these people who are trying to ruin you!”
“You don’t understand.” Trevison’s voice was cold and passionless. “It seems I can’tmakeyou understand. I’m grateful for what you have done for me tonight—very grateful. But I can’t live a lie, woman. I don’t love you!”
“But you love a woman who has delivered you into the hands of your enemies,” she moaned.
“I can’t help it,” he declared hoarsely. “I don’t deny it. I would love her if she sent me to the gallows, and stood there, watching me die!”
The woman bowed her head, and dropped her hands listlessly to her sides. In this instant she was thinking almost the same words that Rosalind Benham had murmured on her ride to Blakeley’s, when she had discovered Trevison’s identity: “I wonder if Hester Keyes knows what she has missed.”