The Long Arm Of Power

: 'firebrand' Trevison

Presently Corrigan lit a cigar, biting the end off carefully, to keep it

from coming in contact with his bruised lips. When the cigar was going

well, he looked at Braman.



"What is Trevison?"



Pale, still dizzy from the effects of the blow on the head, Braman, who

was leaning heavily on the counter, smiled wryly:



"He's a holy terror--you ought to know that. He's a reckless,

don't-give-a-damn fool who has forgotten there's such a thing as

consequences. 'Firebrand' Trevison, they call him. And he lives up to what

that means. The folks in this section of the country swear by him."



Corrigan made a gesture of impatience. "I mean--what does he do? Of course

I know he owns some land here. But how much land does he own?"



"You saw the figure on the check, didn't you? He owns five thousand

acres."



"How long has he been here?"



"You've got me. More than ten years, I guess, from what I can gather."



"What was he before he came here?"



"I couldn't even surmise that--he don't talk about his past. From the way

he waded into you, I should judge he was a prize fighter before becoming a

cow-puncher."



Corrigan glared at the banker. "Yes; it's damned funny," he said. "How did

he get his land?"



"Proved on a quarter-section. Bought the rest of it--and bought it mighty

cheap." Braman's eyes brightened. "Figure on attacking his title?"



Corrigan grunted. "I notice he asked you for cash. You're not his banker,

evidently."



"He banks in Las Vegas, I guess."



"What about his cattle?"



"He shipped three thousand head last season."



"How big is his outfit?"



"He's got about twenty men. They're all hard cases--like him, and they'd

shoot themselves for him."



Corrigan got up and walked to the window, from where he looked out at

Manti. The town looked like an army camp. Lumber, merchandise, supplies of

every description, littered the street in mounds and scattered heaps,

awaiting the erection of tent-house and building. But there was none of

that activity that might have been expected from the quantity of material

on hand; it seemed that the owners were waiting, delaying in anticipation

of some force that would give them encouragement. They were reluctant to

risk their money in erecting buildings on the strength of mere rumor. But

they had come, hoping.



Corrigan grinned at Braman. "They're afraid to take a chance," he said,

meaning Manti's citizens.



"Don't blame them. I've spread the stuff around--as you told me. That's

all they've heard. They're here on a forlorn hope. The boom they are

looking for, seems, from present conditions, to be lurking somewhere in

the future, shadowed by an indefiniteness that to them is vaguely

connected with somebody's promise of a dam, agricultural activity to

follow, and factories. They haven't been able to trace the rumors, but

they're here, and they'll make things hum if they get a chance."



"Sure," grinned Corrigan. "A boom town is always a graft for first

arrivals. That is, boom towns have been. But Manti--" He paused.



"Yes, different," chuckled the banker. "It must have cost a wad to shove

that water grant through."



"Benham kicked on the price--it was enough."



"That maximum rate clause is a pippin. You can soak them the limit right

from the jump."



"And scare them out," scoffed Corrigan. "That isn't the game. Get them

here, first. Then--"



The banker licked his lips. "How does old Benham take it?"



"Mr. Benham is enthusiastic because everything will be done in a perfectly

legitimate way--he thinks."



"And the courts?"



"Judge Lindman, of the District Court now in Dry Bottom, is going to

establish himself here. Benham pulled that string."



"Good!" said Braman. "When is Lindman coming?"



Corrigan's smile was crooked; it told eloquently of conscious power over

the man he had named.



"He'll come whenever I give the word. Benham's got something on him."



"You always were a clever son-of-a-gun!" laughed the banker, admiringly.



Ignoring the compliment, Corrigan walked into the rear room, where he

gazed frowningly at his reflection in a small glass affixed to the wall.

Re-entering the banking room he said:



"I'm in no condition to face Miss Benham. Go down to the car and tell her

that I shall be very busy here all day, and that I won't be able to see

her until late tonight."



Miss Benham's name was on the tip of the banker's tongue, but, glancing at

Corrigan's face, he decided that it was no time for that particular brand

of levity. He grabbed his hat and stepped out of the front door.



Left alone, Corrigan paced slowly back and forth in the room, his brows

furrowed thoughtfully. Trevison had become an important figure in his

mind. Corrigan had not hinted to Braman, to Trevison, or to Miss Benham,

of the actual situation--nor would he. But during his first visit to town

that morning he had stood in one of the front windows of a saloon across

the street. He had not been getting acquainted, as he had told Miss

Benham, for the saloon had been the first place that he had entered, and

after getting a drink at the bar he had sauntered to the window. From

there he had seen "Brand" Trevison ride into town, and because Trevison

made an impressive figure he had watched him, instinctively aware that in

the rider of the black horse was a quality of manhood that one meets

rarely. Trevison's appearance had caused him a throb of disquieting envy.



He had noticed Trevison's start upon getting his first glimpse of the

private car on the siding. He had followed Trevison's movements carefully,

and with increased disquiet. For, instead of dismounting and going into a

saloon or a store, Trevison had urged the black on, past the private car,

which he had examined leisurely and intently. The clear morning air made

objects at a distance very distinct, and as Trevison had ridden past the

car, Corrigan had seen a flutter at one of the windows; had caught a

fleeting glimpse of Rosalind Benham's face. He had seen Trevison ride

away, to return for a second view of the car a few minutes later. At

breakfast, Corrigan had not failed to note Miss Benham's lingering glances

at the black horse, and again, in the bank, with her standing at the door,

he had noticed her interest in the black horse and its rider. His

quickly-aroused jealousy and hatred had driven him to the folly of

impulsive action, a method which, until now, he had carefully evaded. Yes,

he had found "Brand" Trevison a worthy antagonist--Braman had him

appraised correctly.



Corrigan's smile was bitter as he again walked into the rear room and

surveyed his reflection in the glass. Disgusted, he turned to one of the

windows and looked out. From where he stood he could see straight down the

railroad tracks to the cut, down the wall of which, some hours before,

Trevison had ridden the black horse. The dinky engine, with its train of

flat-cars, was steaming toward him. As he watched, engine and cars struck

the switch and ran onto the siding, where they came to a stop. Corrigan

frowned and looked at his watch. It lacked fully three hours to quitting

time, and the cars were empty, save for the laborers draped on them, their

tools piled in heaps. While Corrigan watched, the laborers descended from

the cars and swarmed toward their quarters--a row of tent-houses near the

siding. A big man--Corrigan knew him later as Patrick Carson--swung down

from the engine-cab and lumbered toward the little frame station house, in

a window of which the telegrapher could be seen, idly scanning a week-old

newspaper. Carson spoke shortly to the telegrapher, at which the latter

motioned toward the bank building and the private car. Then Carson came

toward the bank building. An instant later, Carson came in the front door

and met Corrigan at the wire netting.



"Hullo," said the Irishman, without preliminaries; "the agent was tellin'

me I'd find a mon named Corrigan here. You're in charge, eh?" he added at

Corrigan's affirmative. "Well, bedad, somebody's got to be in charge from

now on. The Willie-boy engineer from who I've been takin' me orders has

sneaked away to Dry Bottom for a couple av days, shovin' the

raysponsibility on me--an' I ain't feelin' up to it. I'm a daisy

construction boss, if I do say it meself, but I ain't enough of a fightin'

mon to buck the business end av a six-shooter."



"What's up?"



"Mebbe you'd know--he said you'd be sure to. I've been parleyin' wid a

fello' named 'Firebrand' Trevison, an' I'm that soaked wid perspiration

that me boots is full av it, after me thryin' to urge him to be dacently

careful wid his gun!"



"What happened?" asked Corrigan, darkly.



"This mon Trevison came down through the cut this mornin', goin' to town.

He was pleasant as a mon who's had a raise in wages, an' he was joshin'

wid us. A while ago he comes back from town, an' he's that cold an' polite

that he'd freeze ye while he's takin' his hat off to ye. One av his arms

is busted, an' he's got a welt or two on his face. But outside av that

he's all right. He rides down into the cut where we're all workin' fit to

kill ourselves. He halts his big black horse about forty or fifty feet

away from the ol' rattle-box that runs the steam shovel, an' he grins like

a tiger at me an' says:



"'Carson, I'm wantin' you to pull your min off. I can't permit anny

railroad min on the Diamond K property. You're a friend av mine, an' all

that, but you'll have to pull your freight. You've got tin minutes.'



"'I've got me orders to do this work,' I says--begging his pardon.



"'Here's your orders to stop doin' it!' he comes back. An' I was

inspectin' the muzzle av his six-shooter.



"'Ye wudn't shoot a mon for doin' his duthy?' I says.



"'Thry me,' he says. 'You're trespassers. The railroad company didn't come

through wid the coin for the right-of-way. Your mon, Corrigan, has got an

idee that he's goin' to bluff me. I'm callin' his bluff. You've got tin

minutes to get out av here. At the end av that time I begin to shoot. I've

got six cattridges in the gun, an' fifty more in the belt around me

middle. An' I seldom miss whin I shoot. It's up to you whether I start a

cemetery here or not,' he says, cold an' ca'mlike.



"The ginneys knowed somethin' was up, an' they crowded around. I thought

Trevison was thryin' to run a bluff on me, an' I give orders for the

ginneys to go back to their work.



"Trevison didn't say another word, but at the end av the tin minutes he

grins that tiger grin av his an' busts the safety valve on the rattle-box

wid a shot from his pistol. He smashes the water-gauge wid another, an'

jammed one shot in the ol' rattle-box's entrails, an' she starts to blow

off steam----shriekin' like a soul in hell. The ginneys throwed down their

tools an' started to climb up the walls of the cut like a gang av monkeys,

Trevison watchin' thim with a grin as cold as a barrow ful ov icicles.

Murph', the engineer av the dinky, an' his fireman, ducks for the

engine-cab, l'avin' me standin' there to face the music. Trevison yells at

the engineer av the rattle-box, an' he disappears like a rat into a hole.

Thin Trevison swings his gun on me, an' I c'u'd feel me knees knockin'

together. 'Carson,' he says, 'I hate like blazes to do it, but you're the

boss here, an' these min will do what you tell thim to do. Tell thim to

get to hell out of here an' not come back, or I'll down you, sure as me

name's Trevison!'



"I'm old enough to know from lookin' at a mon whether he manes business or

not, an' Trevison wasn't foolin'. So I got the bhoys away, an' here we

are. If you're in charge, it's up to you to smooth things out. Though from

the looks av your mug 'Firebrand's' been maulin' you some, too!"



Corrigan's answer was a cold glare. "You quit without a fight, eh?" he

taunted; "you let one man bluff half a hundred of you!"



Carson's eyes brightened. "My recollection is that 'Firebrand' is still

holdin' the forrt. Whin I got me last look at him he was sittin' on the

top av the cut, like he was intendin' to stay there indefinite. If ye

think he's bluffin', mebbe it'd be quite an idee for you to go out there

yourself, an' call it. I'd be willin' to give ye me moral support."



"I'll call him when I get ready." Corrigan went to the desk and sat in the

chair, ignoring Carson, who watched him narrowly. Presently he turned and

spoke to the man:



"Put your men at work trueing up the roadbed on the next section back,

until further orders."



"An' let 'Firebrand' hold the forrt?"



"Do as you're told!"



Carson went out to his men. Near the station platform he turned and looked

back at the bank building, grinning. "There's two bulldogs comin' to grips

in this deal or I'm a domn poor prophet!" he said.



When Braman returned from his errand he found Corrigan staring out of the

window. The banker announced that Miss Benham had received Corrigan's

message with considerable equanimity, and was rewarded for his levity with

a frown.



"What's Carson and his gang doing in town?" he queried.



Corrigan told him, briefly. The banker whistled in astonishment, and his

face grew long. "I told you he is a tough one!" he reminded.



Corrigan got to his feet. "Yes--he's a tough one," he admitted. "I'm

forced to alter my plans a little--that's all. But I'll get him. Hunt up

something to eat," he directed; "I'm hungry. I'm going to the station for

a few minutes."



He went out, and the banker watched him until he vanished around the

corner of a building. Then Braman shook his head. "Jeff's resourceful," he

said. "But Trevison--" His face grew solemn. "What a damned fool I was to

trip him with that broom!" He drew a pistol from a pocket and examined it

intently, then returned it to the pocket and sat, staring with unseeing

eyes beyond the station at the two lines of steel that ran out upon the

plains and stopped in the deep cut on the crest of which he could see a

man on a black horse.



Down at the station Corrigan was leaning on a rough wooden counter,

writing on a yellow paper pad. When he had finished he shoved the paper

over to the telegrapher, who had been waiting:



J. Chalfant Benham, B-- Building, New York.



Unexpected opposition developed. Trevison. Give Lindman removal order

immediately. Communicate with me at Dry Bottom tomorrow morning.

Corrigan.



Corrigan watched the operator send the message and then he returned to the

bank building, where he found Braman setting out a meager lunch in the

rear room. The two men talked as they ate, mostly about Trevison, and the

banker's face did not lose its worried expression. Later they smoked and

talked and watched while the afternoon sun grew mellow; while the somber

twilight descended over the world and darkness came and obliterated the

hill on which sat the rider of the black horse.



Shortly after dark Corrigan sent the banker on another errand, this time

to a boarding-house at the edge of town. Braman returned shortly,

announcing: "He'll be ready." Then, just before midnight Corrigan climbed

into the cab of the engine which had brought the private car, and which

was waiting, steam up, several hundred feet down the track from the car.



"All right!" said Corrigan briskly, to the engineer, as he climbed in and

a flare from the fire-box suffused his face; "pull out. But don't make any

fuss about it--I don't want those people in the car to know." And shortly

afterwards the locomotive glided silently away into the darkness toward

that town in which a judge of the United States Court had, a few hours

before, received orders which had caused him to remark, bitterly: "So does

the past shape the future."