“Steady there, boys!” he shouted. “Don’t start anything. These men are here through prearrangement—it’s another frame-up. Keep your guns out of sight!” He turned, to see Corrigan grinning contemptuously at him. He met the look with naked exultation and triumph.
“Got your body-guard within call, eh?” he jeered. “You need one. You’ve cut me short, all right; but I’ve said enough to start a fire that will rage through this part of the country until every damned thief is burned out! You’ve selected the wrong man for a victim, Corrigan.”
He stepped down into the street, sheathing his pistol. He heard Corrigan’s voice, calling after him, saying:
“Grand-stand play again!”
Trevison turned; the gaze of the two men met, held, their hatred glowing bitter in their eyes; the gaze broke, like two sharp blades rasping apart, and Corrigan turned to his deputies, scowling; while Trevison pushed his way through the crowd.
Five minutes later, while Corrigan was talking with the deputies and Braman in the rear room of the bank building, Trevison was standing in the courthouse talking with Judge Lindman. The Judge stared out into the street at some members of the crowd that still lingered.
“This town will be a volcano of lawlessness if it doesn’t get a square deal from you, Lindman,” said Trevison. “You have seen what a mob looks like. You’re the representative of justice here, and if we don’t get justice we’ll come and hang you in spite of a thousand deputies! Remember that!”
He stalked out, leaving behind him a white-faced, trembling old man who was facing a crisis which made the future look very black and dismal. He was wondering if, after all, hanging wouldn’t be better than the sunlight shining on a deed which each day he regretted more than on the preceding day. And Trevison, riding Nigger out of town, was estimating the probable effect of his crowd-drawing action upon Judge Lindman, and considering bitterly the perfidy of the woman who had cleverly drawn him on, to betray him.