Trevison’s faith in Miss Benham had received a shock; Corrigan’s words had not killed it, however.
“You’re a liar!” he said.
Corrigan flushed, but smiled icily. “How many people know that you have coal on your land, Trevison?”
He saw Trevison’s hands clench, and he laughed in grim amusement. It pleased him to see his enemy writhe and squirm before him; the grimness came because of a mental picture, in his mind at this minute, of Trevison confiding in the girl. He looked up, the smile freezing on his lips, for within a foot of his chest was the muzzle of Trevison’s pistol. He saw the trigger finger contracting; saw Trevison’s free hand clenched, the muscles corded and knotted—he felt the breathless, strained, unreal calm that precedes tragedy, grim and swift. He slowly stiffened, but did not shrink an inch. It took him seconds to raise his gaze to Trevison’s face, and then he caught his breath quickly and smiled with straight lips.
“No; you won’t do it, Trevison,” he said, slowly; “you’re not that kind.” He deliberately swung around in the chair and drew another cigar from a box on the desk top, lit it and leaned back, again facing the pistol.
Trevison restored the pistol to the holster, brushing a hand uncertainly over his eyes as though to clear his mental vision, for the shock that had come with the revelation of Miss Benham’s duplicity had made his brain reel with a lust to kill. He laughed hollowly. His voice came cold and hard:
“You’re right—it wouldn’t do. It would be plain murder, and I’m not quite up to that. You know your men, don’t you—you coyote’s whelp! You know I’ll fight fair. You’ll do yours underhandedly. Get up! There’s your gun! Load it! Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve to face a gun, with one in your own hand!”
“I’ll do my fighting in my own way.” Corrigan’s eyes kindled, but he did not move. Trevison made a gesture of contempt, and wheeled, to go. As he turned he caught a glimpse of a hand holding a pistol, as it vanished into a narrow crevice between a jamb and the door that led to the rear room. He drew his own weapon with a single movement, and swung around to Corrigan, his muscles tensed, his eyes alert and chill with menace.
“I’ll bore you if you wink an eyelash!” he warned, in a whisper.
He leaped, with the words, to the door, lunging against it, sending it crashing back so that it smashed against the wall, overbalancing some boxes that reposed on a shelf and sending them clattering. He stood in the opening, braced for another leap, tall, big, his muscles swelling and rippling, recklessly eager. Against the partition, which was still swaying, his arms outstretched, a pistol in one hand, trying to crowd still farther back to escape the searching glance of Trevison’s eyes, was Braman.