Trevison laughed lowly, with a grim humor that made Levins look sharply at him. “That abandoned pueblo 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 hazard and 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 for her sake, but she knew better. She did consider 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 wall of 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’s objections 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 let that happen! 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 distant echoes 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 XXI
ANOTHER 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 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 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 was about 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 mentioned must be 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’t make you 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.”