'Firebrand' Trevison by Charles Alden Seltzer (ebook reader library TXT) 📖

the gorge, watched the many laborers, directed by various grades of bosses, at work building the foundation of the dam. Later, he crossed the basin, followed the well-beaten trail up the slope to the level, and shortly he was in Hanrahan’s saloon across the street from Braman’s bank, listening to the plaint of Jim Lefingwell, the Circle Cross owner, whose ranch was east of town. Lefingwell was big, florid, and afflicted with perturbation that was almost painful. So exercised was he that he was at times almost incoherent.

“She’s boomin’, ain’t she? Meanin’ this man’s town, of course. An’ a man’s got a right to cash in on a boom whenever he gits the chance. Well, I’d figgered to cash in. I ain’t no hawg an’ I got savvy enough to perceive without the aid of any damn fortune-teller that cattle is done in this country—considered as the main question. I’ve got a thousand acres of land—which I paid for in spot cash to Dick Kessler about eight years ago. If Dick was here he’d back me up in that. But he ain’t here—the doggone fool went an’ died about four years ago, leavin’ me unprotected. Well, now, not digressin’ any, I gits the idea that I’m goin’ to unload consid’able of my thousand acres on the sufferin’ fools that’s yearnin’ to come into this country an’ work their heads off raisin’ alfalfa an’ hawgs, an’ cabbages an’ sons with Pick-a-dilly collars to be eddicated East an’ come back home some day an’ lift the mortgage from the old homestead—which job they always falls down on—findin’ it more to their likin’ to mortgage their souls to buy jew’l’ry for fast wimmin. Well, not digressin’ any, I run a-foul of a guy last week which was dead set on investin’ in ten acres of my land, skirtin’ one of the irrigation ditches which they’re figgerin’ on puttin’ in. The price I wanted was a heap satisfyin’ to the guy. But he suggests that before he forks over the coin we go down to the courthouse an’ muss up the records to see if my title is clear. Well, not digressin’ any, she ain’t! She ain’t even nowheres clear a-tall—she ain’t even there! She’s wiped off, slick an’ clean! There ain’t a damned line to show that I ever bought my land from Dick Kessler, an’ there ain’t nothin’ on no record to show that Dick Kessler ever owned it! What in hell do you think of that?

“Now, not digressin’ any,” he went on as Trevison essayed to speak; “that ain’t the worst of it. While I was in there, talkin’ to Judge Lindman, this here big guy that you fit with—Corrigan—comes in. I gathers from the trend of his remarks that I never had a legal title to my land—that it belongs to the guy which bought it from the Midland Company—which is him. Now what in hell do you think of that?”

“I knew Dick Kessler,” said Trevison, soberly. “He was honest.”

“Square as a dollar!” violently affirmed Lefingwell.

“It’s too bad,” sympathized Trevison. “That places you in a mighty bad fix. If there’s anything I can do for you, why—”

“Mr. ‘Brand’ Trevison?” said a voice at Trevison’s elbow. Trevison turned, to see a short, heavily built man smiling mildly at him.

“I’m a deputy from Judge Lindman’s court,” announced the man. “I’ve got a summons for you. Saw you coming in here—saves me a trip to your place.” He shoved a paper into Trevison’s hands, grinned, and went out. For an instant Trevison stood, looking after the man, wondering how, since the man was a stranger to him, he had recognized him—and then he opened the paper to discover that he was ordered to appear before Judge Lindman the following day to show cause why he should not be evicted from certain described property held unlawfully by him. The name, Jefferson Corrigan, appeared as plaintiff in the action.

Lefingwell was watching Trevison’s face closely, and when he saw it whiten, he muttered, understandingly:

“You’ve got it, too, eh?”

“Yes.” Trevison shoved the paper into a pocket. “Looks like you’re not going to be skinned alone, Lefingwell. Well, so-long; I’ll see you later.”

He strode out, leaving Lefingwell slightly stunned over his abrupt leave-taking. A minute later he was in the squatty frame courthouse, towering above Judge Lindman, who had been seated at his desk and who had risen at his entrance.

Trevison shoved the summons under Lindman’s nose.

“I just got this,” he said. “What does it mean?”

“It is perfectly understandable,” the Judge smiled with forced affability. “The plaintiff, Mr. Jefferson Corrigan, is a claimant to the title of the land now held by you.”

“Corrigan can have no claim on my land; I bought it five years ago from old Buck Peters. He got it from a man named Taylor. Corrigan is bluffing.”

The Judge coughed and dropped his gaze from the belligerent eyes of the young man. “That will be determined in court,” he said. “The entire land transactions in this county, covering a period of twenty-five years, are recorded in that book.” And the Judge indicated a ledger on his desk.

“I’ll take a look at it.” Trevison reached for the ledger, seized it, the Judge protesting, half-heartedly, though with the judicial dignity that had become habitual from long service in his profession.

“This is a high-handed proceeding, young man. You are in contempt of court!” The Judge tried, but could not make his voice ring sincerely. It seemed to him that this vigorous, clear-eyed young man could see the guilt that he was trying to hide.

Trevison laughed grimly, holding the Judge off with one hand while he searched the pages of the book, leaning over the desk. He presently closed the book with a bang and faced the Judge, breathing heavily, his muscles rigid, his eyes cold and glittering.

“There’s trickery here!” He took the ledger up and slammed it down on the desk again, his voice vibrating. “Judge Lindman, this isn’t a true record—it is not the original record! I saw the original record five years ago, when I went personally to Dry Bottom with Buck Peters to have my deed recorded! This record is a fake—it has been substituted for the original! I demand that you stay proceedings in this matter until a search can be made for the original record!”

“This is the original record.” Again the Judge tried to make his voice ring sincerely, and again he failed. His one mistake had not hardened him and judicial dignity could not help him to conceal his guilty knowledge. He winced as he felt Trevison’s burning gaze on him, and could not meet the young man’s eyes, boring like metal points into his consciousness. Trevison sprang forward and seized him by the shoulders.

“By God—you know it isn’t the original!”

The Judge succeeded in meeting Trevison’s eyes, but his age, his vacillating will, his guilt, could not combat the overpowering force and virility of this volcanic youth, and his gaze shifted and fell.

He heard Trevison catch his breath—shrilling it into his lungs in one great sob—and then he stood, white and shaking, beside the desk, looking at Trevison as the young man went out of the door—a laugh on his lips, mirthless, bitter, portending trouble and violence.

Corrigan was sitting at his desk in the bank building when Trevison entered the front door. The big man seemed to have been expecting his visitor, for just before the latter appeared at the door Corrigan took a pistol from a pocket and laid it on the desk beside him, placing a sheet of paper over it. He swung slowly around and faced Trevison, cold interest in his gaze. He nodded shortly as Trevison’s eyes met his.

In a dozen long strides Trevison was at his side. The young man was pale, his lips were set, he was breathing fast, his nostrils were dilated—he was at that pitch of excitement in which a word, a look or a movement brings on action, instantaneous, unrecking of consequences. But he exercised repression that made the atmosphere of the room tingle with tension of the sort that precedes the clash of mighty forces—he deliberately sat on one corner of Corrigan’s desk, one leg dangling, the other resting on the floor, one hand resting on the idle leg, his body bent, his shoulders drooping a little forward. His voice was dry and light—Patrick Carson would have said his grin was tiger-like.

“So that’s the kind of a whelp you are!” he said.

Corrigan caught his breath; his hands clenched, his face reddened darkly. He shot a quick glance at the sheet of paper under which he had placed the pistol. Trevison interpreted it, brushed the paper aside, disclosing the weapon. His lips curled; he took the pistol, “broke” it, tossed cartridges and weapon into a corner of the desk and laughed lowly.

“So you were expecting me,” he said. “Well, I’m here. You want my land, eh?”

“I want the land that I’m entitled to under the terms of my purchase—the original Midland grant, consisting of one-hundred thousand acres. It belongs to me, and I mean to have it!”

“You’re a liar, Corrigan,” said the young man, holding the other’s gaze coldly; “you’re a lying, sneaking crook. You have no claim to the land, and you know it!”

Corrigan smiled stiffly. “The record of the deal I made with Jim Marchmont years before any of you people usurped the property is in my pocket at this minute. The court, here, will uphold it.”

Trevison narrowed his eyes at the big man and laughed, bitter humor in the sound. It was as though he had laughed to keep his rage from leaping, naked and murderous, into this discussion.

“It takes nerve, Corrigan, to do what you are attempting; it does, by Heaven—sheer, brazen gall! It’s been done, though, by little, pettifogging shysters, by piking real-estate crooks—thousands of parcels of property scattered all over the United States have been filched in that manner. But a hundred-thousand acres! It’s the biggest steal that ever has been attempted, to my knowledge, short of a Government grab, and your imagination does you credit. It’s easy to see what’s been done. You’ve got a fake title from Marchmont, antedating ours; you’ve got a crooked judge here, to befuddle the thing with legal technicalities; you’ve got the money, the power, the greed, and the cold-blooded determination. But I don’t think you understand what you’re up against—do you? Nearly every man who owns this land that you want has worked hard for it. It’s been bought with work, man—work and lonesomeness and blood—and souls. And now you want to sweep it all away with one stroke. You want to step in here and reap the benefit; you want to send us out of here, beggars.” His voice leaped from its repression; it now betrayed the passion that was consuming him; it came through his teeth: “You can’t hand me that sort of a raw deal, Corrigan, and make me like it. Understand that, right now. You’re bucking the wrong man. You can drag the courts into it; you can wriggle around a thousand legal corners, but damn you, you can’t avert what’s bound to come if you don’t lay off this deal, and that’s a fight!” He laughed, full-throated, his voice vibrating from the strength of the passion that blazed in his eyes. He revealed, for an instant to Corrigan the wild, reckless untamed youth that knew no law save his own impulses, and the big man’s eyes widened with the revelation, though he gave no other sign. He leaned back in his chair, smiling coldly, idly flecking a bit of ash from his shirt where it had fallen from his cigar.

“I am prepared for a fight. You’ll get plenty of it before you’re through—if you don’t lie down and be good.” There was