'Firebrand' Trevison by Charles Alden Seltzer (ebook reader for manga .TXT) 📕

For a time Trevison stood on the gallery, watching the woman as she faded into the darkness toward Manti, and then he laughed mirthlessly and went into the house, emerging with a rifle and saddle. A few minutes later he rode Nigger out of the corral and headed him southwestward. Shortly after midnight he was at the door of Levins’ cabin. The latter grinned with feline humor after they held a short conference.

“That’s right,” he said; “you don’t need any of the boys to help you pull that off—they’d mebbe go to actin’ foolish an’ give the whole snap away. Besides, I’m a heap tickled to be let in on that sort of a jamboree!” There followed an interval, during which his grin faded. “So she peached on you, eh? She told my woman she wouldn’t. That’s a woman, ain’t it? How’s a man to tell about ’em?”

“That’s a secret of my own that I am not ready to let you in on. Don’t tell your wife where you are going tonight.”

“I ain’t reckonin’ to. I’ll be with you in a jiffy!” He vanished into the cabin, reappeared, ran to the stable, and rode out to meet Trevison. Together they were swallowed up by the plains.

At eight o’clock in the morning Corrigan came out of the dining-room of his hotel and stopped at the cigar counter. He filled his case, lit one, and stood for a moment with an elbow on the glass of the show case, smoking thoughtfully.

“That was quite an accident you had at your mine. Have you any idea who did it?” asked the clerk, watching him furtively.

Corrigan glanced at the man, his lips curling.

“You might guess,” he said through his teeth.

“That fellow Trevison is a bad actor,” continued the clerk. “And say,” he went on, confidentially; “not that I want to make you feel bad, but the majority of the people of this town are standing with him in this deal. They think you are not giving the land-owners a square deal. Not that I’m ‘knocking’ you,” the clerk denied, flushing at the dark look Corrigan threw him. “That’s merely what I hear. Personally, I’m for you. This town needs men like you, and it can get along without fellows like Trevison.”

“Thank you,” smiled Corrigan, disgusted with the man, but feeling that it might be well to cultivate such ingratiating interest. “Have a cigar.”

“I’ll go you. Yes, sir,” he added, when he had got the weed going; “this town can get along without any Trevisons. These sagebrush rummies out here give me a pain. What this country needs is less brute force and more brains!” He drew his shoulders erect as though convinced that he was not lacking in the particular virtue to which he had referred.

“You are right,” smiled Corrigan, mildly. “Brains are all important. A hotel clerk must be well supplied. I presume you see and hear a great many things that other people miss seeing and hearing.” Corrigan thought this thermometer of public opinion might have other information.

“You’ve said it! We’ve got to keep our wits about us. There’s very little escapes us.” He leered at Corrigan’s profile. “That’s a swell Moll in number eleven, ain’t it?”

“What do you know about her?” Corrigan’s face was inexpressive.

“Oh say now!” The clerk guffawed close to Corrigan’s ear without making the big man wink an eyelash. “You don’t mean to tell me that you ain’t on! I saw you steer to her room one night—the night she came here. And once or twice, since. But of course us hotel clerks don’t see anything! She is down on the register as Mrs. Harvey. But say! You don’t see any married women running around the country dressed like her!”

“She may be a widow.”

“Well, yes, maybe she might. But she shows speed, don’t she?” He whispered. “You’re a pretty good friend of mine, now, and maybe if I’d give you a tip you’d throw something in my way later on—eh?”

“What?”

“Oh, you might start a hotel here—or something. And I’m thinking of blowing this joint. This town’s booming, and it can stand a swell hotel in a few months.”

“You’re on—if I build a hotel. Shoot!”

The clerk leaned closer, whispering: “She receives other men. You’re not the only one.”

“Who?”

The clerk laughed, and made a funnel of one hand. “The banker across the street—Braman.”

Corrigan bit his cigar in two, and slowly spat that which was left in his mouth into a cuspidor. He contrived to smile, though it cost him an effort, and his hands were clenched.

“How many times has he been here?”

“Oh, several.”

“When was he here last?”

“Last night.” The clerk laughed. “Looked half stewed when he left. Kinda hectic, too. Him and her must have had a tiff, for he left early. And after he’d gone—right away after—she sent one of the waiters out for a horse.”

“Which way did she go?”

“West—I watched her; she went the back way, from here.”

Corrigan smiled and went out. The expression of his face was such as to cause the clerk to mutter, dazedly: “He didn’t seem to be a whole lot interested. I guess I must have sized him up wrong.”

Corrigan stopped at his office in the bank, nodding curtly to Braman. Shortly afterward he got up and went to the courthouse. He had ordered Judge Lindman to issue a warrant for Carson the previous morning, and had intended to see that it was served. But a press of other matters had occupied his attention until late in the night.

He tried the front door of the courthouse, to find it locked. The rear door was also locked. He tried the windows—all were fastened securely. Thinking the Judge still sleeping he went back to his office and spent an hour going over some correspondence. At the end of that time he visited the courthouse again. Angered, he went around to the side and burst the flimsy door in, standing in the opening, glowering, for the Judge’s cot was empty, and the Judge nowhere to be seen.

Corrigan stalked through the building, cursing. He examined the cot, and discovered that it had been slept in. The Judge must have risen early. Obviously, there was nothing to do but to wait. Corrigan did that, impatiently. For a long time he sat in the chair at his desk, watching Braman, studying him, scowling, rage in his heart. “If he’s up to any dirty work, I’ll choke him until his tongue hangs out a yard!” was a mental threat that he repeated many times. “But he’s just mush-headed over the woman, I guess—he’s that kind of a fool!”

At ten o’clock Corrigan jumped on his horse and rode out to the butte where the laborers were working, clearing away the debris from the explosion. No one there had seen Judge Lindman. Corrigan rode back to town, fuming with rage. Finding some of the deputies he sent them out to search for the Judge. One by one they came in and reported their failure. At six-thirty, after the arrival of the evening train from Dry Bottom, Corrigan was sitting at his desk, his face black with wrath, reading for the third or fourth time a letter that he had spread out on the desk before him: