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Updated: August 19, 2024
And then the men had escaped. "No one spoke?" "Not a word," said the Judge. "That is, of course, no one but the man who called to me." "Did they take anything?" "What is there to take? There is nothing of value." "Gieger says one of them was working at the safe. What's in there?" "Some books and papers and supplies nothing of value.
He heard a shout behind him, a clatter, and he turned to see ten or twelve of his men racing over the level toward him. At the same instant he heard a sharp exclamation from Corrigan; heard Gieger issue a sharp order, and a line of men raised their heads above the flat-cars, rifles in their hands, which they trained on the advancing cowboys.
Before he could get his breath after pulling his horse down, Weaver, his six-shooter in hand, its muzzle directed fairly at Gieger, who was slightly in advance of his men, fumed forth: "What in hell do you-all mean by tryin' to herd-ride our boss? Talk fast, you eagle-beaked turkey buzzard, or I salivates you rapid!" The situation was one of intense delicacy.
He saw Corrigan seated on a box on one of the flat-cars, smoking a cigar; another man, whom Trevison recognized as Gieger he would have been willing to swear the man was one of those who had thwarted his plans in the courthouse standing beside him, a Winchester rifle resting in the hollow of his left arm. Trevison urged Nigger along the level, down the track, and halted near Corrigan and Gieger.
Gieger might have averted the threatening clash with a judicious use of soft, placating speech. But it pleased him to bluster. "We are deputies, acting under orders from the court. We are after a murderer, and we mean to get him!" he said, coldly. "Deputies! Hell!" Barkwell's voice rose, sharply scornful and mocking. "Deputies! Crooks! Gun-fighters! Pluguglies!"
He had accused himself many times for his lack of caution in not being present when the record had been destroyed, but regrets had become impotent and futile. Reaching Manti, he dispersed his deputies and sought his bed in the Castle. He had not been in bed more than an hour when an attendant of the hotel called to him through the door that a man named Gieger wanted to talk with him, below.
Gieger was an enterprising fellow who had built a rough but sufficiently substantial bridge at the mouth of the stream, and, by exacting a toll, he was making a pretty good thing out of it. Frame buildings of the wood of Puget Sound were going up like mushrooms throughout the town, and the noise of saw and hammer denoted that the carpenters were making small fortunes.
Trevison scowled, for he recognized them as Corrigan's deputies. But he was not surprised, for he had half expected them to be hanging around the building. Two figures stepped down from the door as he watched, and he knew them for Corrigan and Gieger. Corrigan's voice reached him. "The lock on this door is broken. I had to kick it in this morning. One of you stay inside, here.
He smiled blandly, though there was a snapping alertness in his eyes that belied his apparent calmness. He turned to Gieger, ignoring Trevison. "Organization is the thing. Pickand is a genius at it," he said. Trevison's eyes flamed with rage over this deliberate insult. But in it he saw a cold design to make him lose his temper. The knowledge brought a twisting smile to his face.
"I've been ready for the grinding process since the first day." "Enough of this!" Corrigan turned to Gieger with a glance of cold intolerance. "This man is a nuisance," he said to the deputy. "Carry out the mandate of the court and order him away. If he doesn't go, kill him! He is a trespasser, and has no right here!" And he glared at Trevison. "You've got to get out, mister," said the deputy.
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