He had overheard Trevison’s tense whisper to Corrigan. The cold savagery in it had paralyzed him, and he gasped as Trevison’s eyes found him, and the pistol that he tried to raise dangled futilely from his nerveless fingers. It thudded heavily upon the boards of the floor an instant later, a shriek of fear mingling with the sound as he went down in a heap from a vicious, deadening blow from Trevison’s fist.
Trevison’s leap upon Braman had been swift; he was back in the doorway instantly, looking at Corrigan, his eyes ablaze with rage, wild, reckless, bitter. He laughed—the sound of it brought a grayish pallor to Corrigan’s face.
“That explains your nerve!” he taunted. “It’s a frame-up. You sent the deputy after me—pointed me out when I went into Hanrahan’s! That’s how he knew me! You knew I’d come in here to have it out with you, and you figured to have Braman shoot me when my back was turned! Ha, ha!” He swung his pistol on Corrigan; the big man gripped the arms of his chair and sat rigid, staring, motionless. For an instant there was no sound. And then Trevison laughed again.
“Bah!” he said; “I can’t use your methods! You’re safe so long as you don’t move.” He laughed again as he looked down at the banker. Reaching down, he grasped the inert man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him through the door, out into the banking room, past Corrigan, who watched him wonderingly and to the front, there he dropped him and turning, answered the question that he saw shining in Corrigan’s eyes:
“I don’t work in the dark! We’ll take this case out into the sunlight, so the whole town can have a look at it!”
He stooped swiftly, grasped Braman around the middle, swung him aloft and hurled him through the window, into the street, the glass, shattered, clashing and jangling around him. He turned to Corrigan, laughing lowly:
“Get up. Manti will want to know. I’m going to do the talking!”
He forced Corrigan to the front door, and stood on the threshold behind him, silent, watching.
A hundred doorways were vomiting men. The crash of glass had carried far, and visions of a bank robbery filled many brains as their owners raced toward the doorway where Trevison stood, the muzzle of his pistol jammed firmly against Corrigan’s back.
The crowd gathered, in the manner peculiar to such scenes, coming from all directions and converging at one point, massing densely in front of the bank building, surrounding the fallen banker, pushing, jostling, straining, craning necks for better views, eager-voiced, curious.