A Woman Rides In Vain

: 'firebrand' Trevison

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 t
e

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 of centering 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 role 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 some mighty slick

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 some flat-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 he was stealing 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 Corrigan

mentioned 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 it must be

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 father

must know 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 you you

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 seem like 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 it logical 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."



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