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CHAPTER XIV
A RUMBLE OF WAR

The train that carried Corrigan’s letter eastward bore, among its few other passengers, a young man with a jaw set like a steel trap, who leaned forward in his seat, gripping the back of the seat in front of him; an eager, smoldering light in his eyes, who rose at each stop the train made and glared belligerently and intolerantly at the coach ends, muttering guttural anathemas at the necessity for delays. The spirit of battle was personified in him; it sat on his squared shoulders; it was in the thrust of his chin, stuck out as though to receive blows, which his rippling muscles would be eager to return. Two other passengers in the coach watched him warily, and once, when he got up and walked to the front of the coach, opening the door and looking out, to let in the roar and whir and the clatter, one of the passengers remarked to the other: “That guy is in a temper where murder would come easy to him.”

The train left Manti at nine o’clock in the evening. At midnight it pulled up at the little frame station in Dry Bottom and the young man leaped off and strode rapidly away into the darkness of the desert town. A little later, J. Blackstone Graney, attorney at law, and former Judge of the United States District Court at Dry Bottom, heard a loud hammering on the door of his residence at the outskirts of town. He got up, with a grunt of resentment for all heavy-fisted fools abroad on midnight errands, and went downstairs to admit a grim-faced stranger who looked positively bloodthirsty to the Judge, under the nervous tension of his midnight awakening.

“I’m ‘Brand’ Trevison, owner of the Diamond K ranch, near Manti,” said the stranger, with blunt sharpness that made the Judge blink. “I’ve a case on in the Manti court at ten o’clock tomorrow – today,” he corrected. “They are going to try to swindle me out of my land, and I’ve got to have a lawyer – a real one. I could have got half a dozen in Manti – such as they are – but I want somebody who is wise in the law, and with the sort of honor that money and power can’t blast – I want you!”

Judge Graney looked sharply at his visitor, and smiled. “You are evidently desperately harried. Sit down and tell me about your case.” He waved to a chair and Trevison dropped into it, sitting on its edge. The Judge took another, and with the kerosene lamp between them on a table, Trevison related what had occurred during the previous morning in Manti. When he concluded, the Judge’s face was serious.

“If what you say is true, it is a very awkward, not to say suspicious, situation. Being the only lawyer in Dry Bottom, until the coming of Judge Lindman, I have had occasion many times to consult the record you speak of, and if my memory serves me well, I have noted several times – quite casually, of course, since I have never been directly concerned with the records of the land in your vicinity – that several transfers of title to the original Midland grant have been recorded. Your deed would show, of course, the date of your purchase from Buck Peters, and we shall, perhaps, be able to determine the authenticity of the present record in that manner. But if, as you believe, the records have been tampered with, we are facing a long, hard legal battle which may or may not result in an ultimate victory for us – depending upon the power behind the interests opposed to you.”

“I’ll fight them to the Supreme Court of the United States!” declared Trevison. “I’ll fight them with the law or without it!”

“I know it,” said Graney, with a shrewd glance at the other’s grim face. “But be careful not to do anything that will jeopardize your liberty. If those men are what you think they are, they would be only too glad to have you break some law that would give them an excuse to jail you. You couldn’t do much fighting then, you know.” He got up. “There’s a train out of here in about an hour – we’ll take it.”

About six o’clock that morning the two men stepped off the train at Manti. Graney went directly to a hotel, to wash and breakfast, while Trevison, a little tired and hollow-eyed from loss of sleep and excitement, and with a two days’ growth of beard on his face, which made him look worse than he actually felt, sought the livery stable where he had left Nigger the night before, mounted the animal and rode rapidly out of town toward the Diamond K. He took a trail that led through the cut where on another morning he had startled the laborers by riding down the wall – Nigger eating up the ground with long, sure, swift strides – passing Pat Carson and his men at a point on the level about a quarter of a mile beyond the cut. He waved a hand to Carson as he flashed by, and something in his manner caused Carson to remark to the engineer of the dinky engine: “Somethin’s up wid Trevison ag’in, Murph – he’s got a domned mean look in his eye. I’m the onluckiest son-av-a-gun in the worruld, Murph! First I miss seein’ this fire-eater bate the face off the big ilephant, Corrigan, an’ yisterday I was figgerin’ on goin’ to town – but didn’t; an’ I miss seein’ that little whiffet of a Braman flyin’ through the windy. Do ye’s know that there’s a feelin’ ag’in Corrigan an’ the railroad in town, an’ thot this mon Trevison is the fuse that wud bust the boom av discontint. I’m beginnin’ to feel a little excited meself. Now what do ye suppose that gang av min wid Winchesters was doin’, comin’ from thot direction this mornin’?” He pointed toward the trail that Trevison was riding. “An’ that big stiff, Corrigan, wid thim!”

Trevison got the answer to this query the minute he reached the Diamond K ranchhouse. His foreman came running to him, pale, disgusted, his voice snapping like a whip:

“They’ve busted your desk an’ rifled it. Twenty guys who said they was deputies from the court in Manti, an’ Corrigan. I was here alone, watchin’, as you told me, but couldn’t move a finger – damn ’em!”

Trevison dismounted and ran into the house. The room that he used as an office was in a state of disorder. Papers, books, littered the floor. It was evident that a thorough search had been made – for something. Trevison darted to the desk and ran a hand into the pigeonhole in which he kept the deed which he had come for. The hand came out, empty. He sprang to the door of a small closet where, in a box that contained some ammunition that he kept for the use of his men, he had placed the money that Rosalind Benham had brought to him. The money was not there. He walked to the center of the room and stood for an instant, surveying the mass of litter around him, reeling, rage-drunken, murder in his heart. Barkwell, the foreman, watching him, drew great, long breaths of sympathy and excitement.

“Shall I get the boys an’ go after them damn sneaks?” he questioned, his voice tremulous. “We’ll clean ’em out – smoke ’em out of the county!” he threatened. He started for the door.

“Wait!” Trevison had conquered the first surge of passion; his grin was cold and bitter as he crossed glances with his foreman. “Don’t do anything – yet. I’m going to play the peace string out. If it doesn’t work, why then – ” He tapped his pistol holster significantly.

“You get a few of the boys and stay here with them. It isn’t probable that they’ll try anything like that again, because they’ve got what they wanted. But if they happen to come again, hold them until I come. I’m going to court.”

Later, in Manti, he was sitting opposite Graney in a room in the hotel to which the Judge had gone.

“H’m,” said the latter, compressing his lips; “that’s sharp practice. They are not wasting any time.”

“Was it legal?”

“The law is elastic – some judges stretch it more than others. A search-warrant and a writ of attachment probably did the business in this case. What I can’t understand is why Judge Lindman issued the writ at all – if he did so. You are the defendant, and you certainly would have brought the deed into court as a means of proving your case.”

Trevison had mentioned the missing money, though he did not think it important to explain where it had come from. And Judge Graney did not ask him. But when court opened at the appointed time, with a dignity which was a mockery to Trevison, and Judge Graney had explained that he had come to represent the defendant in the action, he mildly inquired the reason for the forcible entry into his client’s house, explaining also that since the defendant was required to prove his case it was optional with him whether or not the deed be brought into court at all.

Corrigan had been on time; he had nodded curtly to Trevison when he had entered to take the chair in which he now sat, and had smiled when Trevison had deliberately turned his back. He smiled when Judge Graney asked the question – a faint, evanescent smirk. But at Judge Lindman’s reply he sat staring stolidly, his face an impenetrable mask:

“There was no mention of a deed in the writ of attachment issued by the court. Nor has the court any knowledge of the existence of such a deed. The officers of the court were commanded to proceed to the defendant’s house, for the purpose of finding, if possible, and delivering to this court the sum of twenty-seven hundred dollars, which amount, representing the money paid to the defendant by the railroad company for certain grants and privileges, is to remain in possession of the court until the title to the land in litigation has been legally awarded.”

“But the court officers seized the defendant’s deed, also,” objected Judge Graney.

Judge Lindman questioned a deputy who sat in the rear of the room. The latter replied that he had seen no deed. Yes, he admitted, in reply to a question of Judge Graney’s, it might have been possible that Corrigan had been alone in the office for a time.

Graney looked inquiringly at Corrigan. The latter looked steadily back at him. “I saw no deed,” he said, coolly. “In fact, it wouldn’t be possible for me to see any deed, for Trevison has no title to the property he speaks of.”

Judge Graney made a gesture of impotence to Trevison, then spoke slowly to the court. “I am afraid that without the deed it will be impossible for us to proceed. I ask a continuance until a search can be made.”

Judge Lindman coughed. “I shall have to refuse the request. The plaintiff is anxious to take possession of his property, and as no reason has been shown why he should not be permitted to do so, I hereby return judgment in his favor. Court is dismissed.”

“I give notice of appeal,” said Graney.

Outside a little later Judge Graney looked gravely at Trevison. “There’s knavery here, my boy; there’s some sort of influence behind Lindman. Let’s see some of the other owners who are likely to be affected.”

This task took them two days, and resulted in the discovery that no other owner had secured a deed to his land. Lefingwell explained the omission.

“A sale is a sale,” he said; “or a sale has been a sale until now. Land has changed hands out here just the same as we’d trade a horse for a cow or a pipe for a jack-knife. There was no questions asked. When a man had a piece of land to sell, he sold it, got his money an’ didn’t bother to give a receipt. Half the damn fools in this country wouldn’t know a deed from a marriage license, an’ they haven’t been needin’ one or the other. For when a man has a wife she’s continually remindin’ him of it, an’ he can’t forget it – he’s got her. It’s the same with his land – he’s got it. So far as I know there’s never been a deed issued for my land – or any of the land in that Midland grant, except Trevison’s.”

“It looks as though Corrigan had considered that phase of the matter,” dryly observed Judge Graney. “The case doesn’t look very hopeful. However, I shall take it before the Circuit Court of Appeals, in Santa Fe.”

He was gone a week, and returned, disgusted, but determined.

“They denied our appeal; said they might have considered it if we had some evidence to offer showing that we had some sort of a claim to the title. When I told them of my conviction that the records had been tampered with, they laughed at me.” The Judge’s eyes gleamed indignantly. “Sometimes, I feel heartily in sympathy with people who rail at the courts – their attitude is often positively asinine.”

“Perhaps the long arm of power has reached to Santa Fe?” suggested Trevison.

“It won’t reach to Washington,” declared the Judge, decisively. “And if you say the word, I’ll go there and see what I can do. It’s an outrage!”

“I was hoping you’d go – there’s no limit,” said Trevison. “But as I see the situation, everything depends upon the discovery of the original record. I’m convinced that it is still in existence, and that Judge Lindman knows where it is. I’m going to get it, or – ”

“Easy, my friend,” cautioned the Judge. “I know how you feel. But you can’t fight the law with lawlessness. You lie quiet until you hear from me. That is all there is to be done, anyway – win or lose.”

Trevison clenched his teeth. “I might feel that way about it, if I had been as careless of my interests as the other owners here, but I safeguarded my interests, trusted them to the regularly recognized law out here, and I’m going to fight for them! Why, good God, man; I’ve worked ten years for that land! Do you think I will see it go without a fight?” He laughed, and the Judge shook his head at the sound.

CHAPTER XV
A MUTUAL BENEFIT ASSOCIATION

Unheeding the drama that was rapidly and invisibly (except for the incident of Braman and the window) working itself out in its midst, Manti lunged forward on the path of progress, each day growing larger, busier, more noisy and more important. Perhaps Manti did not heed, because Manti was itself a drama – the drama of creation. Each resident, each newcomer, settled quickly and firmly into the place that desire or ambition or greed urged him; put forth whatever energy nature had endowed him with, and pushed on toward the goal toward which the town was striving – success; collectively winning, unrecking of individual failure or tragedy – those things were to be expected, and they fell into the limbo of forgotten things, easily and unnoticed. Wrecks, disasters, were certain. They came – turmoil engulfed them.

Which is to say that during the two weeks that had elapsed since the departure of Judge Graney for Washington, Manti had paid very little attention to “Brand” Trevison while he haunted the telegraph station and the post-office for news. He was pointed out, it is true, as the man who had hurled banker Braman through the window of his bank building; there was a hazy understanding that he was having some sort of trouble with Corrigan over some land titles, but in the main Manti buzzed along, busy with its visions and its troubles, leaving Trevison with his.

The inaction, with the imminence of failure after ten years of effort, had its effect on Trevison. It fretted him; he looked years older; he looked worried and harassed; he longed for a chance to come to grips in an encounter that would ease the strain. Physical action it must be, for his brain was a muddle of passion and hatred in which clear thoughts, schemes, plans, plots, were swallowed and lost. He wanted to come into physical contact with the men and things that were thwarting him; he wanted to feel the thud and jar of blows; to catch the hot breath of open antagonism; he yearned to feel the strain of muscles – this fighting in the dark with courts and laws and lawyers, according to rules and customs, filled him with a raging impotence that hurt him. And then, at the end of two weeks came a telegram from Judge Graney, saying merely: “Be patient. It’s a long trail.”

Trevison got on Nigger and returned to the Diamond K.

The six o’clock train arrived in Manti that evening with many passengers, among whom was a woman of twenty-eight at whom men turned to look the second time. Her traveling suit spoke eloquently of that personal quality which a language, seeking new and expressive phrases describes as “class.” It fitted her smoothly, tightly, revealing certain lines of her graceful figure that made various citizens of Manti gasp. “Looks like she’d been poured into it,” remarked an interested lounger. She lingered on the station platform until she saw her trunks safely deposited, and then, drawing her skirts as though fearful of contamination, she walked, self-possessed and cool, through the doorway of the Castle hotel – Manti’s aristocrat of hostelries.

Shortly afterwards she admitted Corrigan to her room. She had changed from her traveling suit to a gown of some soft, glossy material that accentuated the lines revealed by the discarded habit. The worldly-wise would have viewed the lady with a certain expressive smile that might have meant much or nothing. And the lady would have looked upon that smile as she now looked at Corrigan, with a faint defiance that had quite a little daring in it. But in the present case there was an added expression – two, in fact – pleasure and expectancy.

“Well – I’m here.” She bowed, mockingly, laughingly, compressing her lips as she noted the quick fire that flamed in her visitor’s eyes.

“That’s all over, Jeff; I won’t go back to it. If that’s why – ”

“That’s all right,” he said, smiling as he took the chair she waved him to; “I’ve erased a page or two from the past, myself. But I can’t help admiring you; you certainly are looking fine! What have you been doing to yourself?”

She draped herself in a chair where she could look straight at him, and his compliment made her mouth harden at the corners.

“Well,” she said; “in your letter you promised you’d take me into your confidence. I’m ready.”

“It’s purely a business proposition. Each realizes on his effort. You help me to get Rosalind Benham through the simple process of fascinating Trevison; I help you to get Trevison by getting Miss Benham. It’s a sort of mutual benefit association, as it were.”

“What does Trevison look like, Jeff – tell me?” The woman leaned forward in her chair, her eyes glowing.

“Oh, you women!” said Corrigan, with a gesture of disgust. “He’s a handsome fool,” he added; “if that’s what you want to know. But I haven’t any compliments to hand him regarding his manners – he’s a wild man!”

“I’d love to see him!” breathed the woman.

“Well, keep your hair on; you’ll see him soon enough. But you’ve got to understand this: He’s on my land, and he gets off without further fighting – if you can hold him. That’s understood, eh? You win him back and get him away from here. If you double-cross me, he finds out what you are!” He flung the words at her, roughly.

She spoke quietly, though color stained her cheeks. “Not ‘are,’ Jeff – what I was. That would be bad enough. But have no fear – I shall do as you ask. For I want him – I have wanted him all the time – even during the time I was chained to that little beast, Harvey. I wouldn’t have been what I am – if – if – ”

“Cut it out!” he advised brutally; “the man always gets the blame, anyway – so it’s no novelty to hear that sort of stuff. So you understand, eh? You choose your own method – but get results – quick! I want to get that damned fool away from here!” He got up and paced back and forth in the room. “If he takes Rosalind Benham away from me I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him, anyway!”

“Has it gone very far between them?” The concern in her voice brought a harsh laugh from Corrigan.

“Far enough, I guess. He’s been riding with her; every day for three weeks, her aunt told me. He’s a fiery, impetuous devil!”

“Don’t worry,” she consoled. “And now,” she directed; “get out of here. I’ve been on the go for days and days, and I want to sleep. I shall go out to see Rosalind tomorrow – to surprise her, Jeff – to surprise her. Ha, ha!”

“I’ll have a rig here for you at nine o’clock,” said Corrigan. “Take your trunks – she won’t order you away. Tell her that Trevison sent for you – don’t mention my name; and stick to it! Well, pleasant dreams,” he added as he went out.

As the door closed the woman stood looking at it, a sneer curving her lips.