Neither judicial dignity or resolutions of independence could resist the threatened danger of further violence that shone from Corrigan’s eyes, and the Judge whispered gaspingly:
“Trevison.”
“I thought so! Now, be careful how you answer this. What did Trevison want in the courthouse?”
“The original record of the land transfers.”
“Did he get it?” Corrigan’s voice was dangerously even, and the Judge squirmed and coughed before he spoke the hesitating word that was an admission of his deception:
“I told him—where—it was.”
Paralyzed with fear, the Judge watched Corrigan slip off the desk and approach him. He got to his feet and raised his hands to shield his throat as the big man stopped in front of him.
“Don’t, Corrigan—don’t, for God’s sake!”
“Bah!” said the big man. He struck, venomously. An instant later he put out the light and stepped down into the gray dawn, locking the door of the shanty behind him and not looking back.