THE OCTOPUS A Story of California by Frank Norris

breath came slow and regular, and her eyes, heavy lidded,
slanting upwards toward the temples, perplexing, oriental, were
closed. She was asleep.
From out this life of flowers, this world of colour, this
atmosphere oppressive with perfume, this darkness clogged and
cloyed, and thickened with sweet odours, she came to him. She
came to him from out of the flowers, the smell of the roses in
her hair of gold, the aroma and the imperial red of the
carnations in her lips, the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume
of the lilies, and the lilies' slender, balancing grace in her
neck. Her hands disengaged the scent of the heliotrope. The
folds of her scarlet gown gave off the enervating smell of
poppies. Her feet were redolent of hyacinth. She stood before
him, a Vision realised--a dream come true. She emerged from out
the invisible. He beheld her, a figure of gold and pale
vermilion, redolent of perfume, poised motionless in the faint
saffron sheen of the new-risen moon. She, a creation of sleep,
was herself asleep. She, a dream, was herself dreaming.
Called forth from out the darkness, from the grip of the earth,
the embrace of the grave, from out the memory of corruption, she
rose into light and life, divinely pure. Across that white
forehead was no smudge, no trace of an earthly pollution--no mark
of a terrestrial dishonour. He saw in her the same beauty of
untainted innocence he had known in his youth. Years had made no
difference with her. She was still young. It was the old purity
that returned, the deathless beauty, the ever-renascent life, the
eternal consecrated and immortal youth. For a few seconds, she
stood there before him, and he, upon the ground at her feet,
looked up at her, spellbound. Then, slowly she withdrew. Still
asleep, her eyelids closed, she turned from him, descending the
slope. She was gone.
Vanamee started up, coming, as it were, to himself, looking
wildly about him. Sarria was there.
"I saw her," said the priest. "It was Angele, the little girl,
your Angele's daughter. She is like her mother."
But Vanamee scarcely heard. He walked as if in a trance, pushing
by Sarria, going forth from the garden. Angele or Angele's
daughter, it was all one with him. It was She. Death was
overcome. The grave vanquished. Life, ever-renewed, alone
existed. Time was naught; change was naught; all things were
immortal but evil; all things eternal but grief.
Suddenly, the dawn came; the east burned roseate toward the
zenith. Vanamee walked on, he knew not where. The dawn grew
brighter. At length, he paused upon the crest of a hill
overlooking the ranchos, and cast his eye below him to the
southward. Then, suddenly flinging up his arms, he uttered a
great cry.
There it was. The Wheat! The Wheat! In the night it had come
up. It was there, everywhere, from margin to margin of the
horizon. The earth, long empty, teemed with green life. Once
more the pendulum of the seasons swung in its mighty arc, from
death back to life. Life out of death, eternity rising from out
dissolution. There was the lesson. Angele was not the symbol,
but the PROOF of immortality. The seed dying, rotting and
corrupting in the earth; rising again in life unconquerable, and
in immaculate purity,--Angele dying as she gave birth to her
little daughter, life springing from her death,--the pure,
unconquerable, coming forth from the defiled. Why had he not had
the knowledge of God? Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not
quickened except it die. So the seed had died. So died Angele.
And that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body that shall
be, but bare grain. It may chance of wheat, or of some other
grain. The wheat called forth from out the darkness, from out
the grip of the earth, of the grave, from out corruption, rose
triumphant into light and life. So Angele, so life, so also the
resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption. It is
raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonour. It is raised
in glory. It is sown in weakness. It is raised in power. Death
was swallowed up in Victory.
The sun rose. The night was over. The glory of the terrestrial
was one, and the glory of the celestial was another. Then, as
the glory of sun banished the lesser glory of moon and stars,
Vanamee, from his mountain top, beholding the eternal green life
of the growing Wheat, bursting its bonds, and in his heart
exulting in his triumph over the grave, flung out his arms with a
mighty shout:
"Oh, Death, where is thy sting? Oh, Grave, where is thy
victory?"
IV
Presley's Socialistic poem, "The Toilers," had an enormous
success. The editor of the Sunday supplement of the San
Francisco paper to which it was sent, printed it in Gothic type,
with a scare-head title so decorative as to be almost illegible,
and furthermore caused the poem to be illustrated by one of the
paper's staff artists in a most impressive fashion. The whole
affair occupied an entire page. Thus advertised, the poem
attracted attention. It was promptly copied in New York, Boston,
and Chicago papers. It was discussed, attacked, defended,
eulogised, ridiculed. It was praised with the most fulsome
adulation; assailed with the most violent condemnation.
Editorials were written upon it. Special articles, in literary
pamphlets, dissected its rhetoric and prosody. The phrases were
quoted,--were used as texts for revolutionary sermons,
reactionary speeches. It was parodied; it was distorted so as to
read as an advertisement for patented cereals and infants' foods.
Finally, the editor of an enterprising monthly magazine reprinted
the poem, supplementing it by a photograph and biography of
Presley himself.
Presley was stunned, bewildered. He began to wonder at himself.
Was he actually the "greatest American poet since Bryant"? He
had had no thought of fame while composing "The Toilers." He had
only been moved to his heart's foundations,--thoroughly in
earnest, seeing clearly,--and had addressed himself to the poem's
composition in a happy moment when words came easily to him, and
the elaboration of fine sentences was not difficult. Was it thus
fame was achieved? For a while he was tempted to cross the
continent and go to New York and there come unto his own,
enjoying the triumph that awaited him. But soon he denied
himself this cheap reward. Now he was too much in earnest. He
wanted to help his People, the community in which he lived--the
little world of the San Joaquin, at grapples with the Railroad.
The struggle had found its poet. He told himself that his place
was here. Only the words of the manager of a lecture bureau
troubled him for a moment. To range the entire nation, telling
all his countrymen of the drama that was working itself out on
this fringe of the continent, this ignored and distant Pacific
Coast, rousing their interest and stirring them up to action--
appealed to him. It might do great good. To devote himself to
"the Cause," accepting no penny of remuneration; to give his life
to loosing the grip of the iron-hearted monster of steel and
steam would be beyond question heroic. Other States than
California had their grievances. All over the country the family
of cyclops was growing. He would declare himself the champion of
the People in their opposition to the Trust. He would be an
apostle, a prophet, a martyr of Freedom.
But Presley was essentially a dreamer, not a man of affairs. He
hesitated to act at this precise psychological moment, striking
while the iron was yet hot, and while he hesitated, other affairs
near at hand began to absorb his attention.
One night, about an hour after he had gone to bed, he was
awakened by the sound of voices on the porch of the ranch house,
and, descending, found Mrs. Dyke there with Sidney. The exengineer's
mother was talking to Magnus and Harran, and crying as
she talked. It seemed that Dyke was missing. He had gone into
town early that afternoon with the wagon and team, and was to
have been home for supper. By now it was ten o'clock and there
was no news of him. Mrs. Dyke told how she first had gone to
Quien Sabe, intending to telephone from there to Bonneville, but
Annixter was in San Francisco, and in his absence the house was
locked up, and the over-seer, who had a duplicate key, was
himself in Bonneville. She had telegraphed three times from
Guadalajara to Bonneville for news of her son, but without
result. Then, at last, tortured with anxiety, she had gone to
Hooven's, taking Sidney with her, and had prevailed upon
"Bismarck" to hitch up and drive her across Los Muertos to the
Governor's, to beg him to telephone into Bonneville, to know what
had become of Dyke.
While Harran rang up Central in town, Mrs. Dyke told Presley and
Magnus of the lamentable change in Dyke.
"They have broken my son's spirit, Mr. Derrick," she said. "If
you were only there to see. Hour after hour, he sits on the
porch with his hands lying open in his lap, looking at them
without a word. He won't look me in the face any more, and he
don't sleep. Night after night, he has walked the floor until
morning. And he will go on that way for days together, very
silent, without a word, and sitting still in his chair, and then,
all of a sudden, he will break out--oh, Mr. Derrick, it is
terrible--into an awful rage, cursing, swearing, grinding his
teeth, his hands clenched over his head, stamping so that the
house shakes, and saying that if S. Behrman don't give him back
his money, he will kill him with his two hands. But that isn't
the worst, Mr. Derrick. He goes to Mr. Caraher's saloon now, and
stays there for hours, and listens to Mr. Caraher. There is
something on my son's mind; I know there is--something that he
and Mr. Caraher have talked over together, and I can't find out
what it is. Mr. Caraher is a bad man, and my son has fallen
under his influence." The tears filled her eyes. Bravely, she
turned to hide them, turning away to take Sidney in her arms,
putting her head upon the little girl's shoulder.
"I--I haven't broken down before, Mr. Derrick," she said, "but
after we have been so happy in our little house, just us three--
and the future seemed so bright--oh, God will punish the
gentlemen who own the railroad for being so hard and cruel."
Harran came out on the porch, from the telephone, and she
interrupted herself, fixing her eyes eagerly upon him.
"I think it is all right, Mrs. Dyke," he said, reassuringly. "We
know where he is, I believe. You and the little tad stay here,
and Hooven and I will go after him."
About two hours later, Harran brought Dyke back to Los Muertos in
Hooven's wagon. He had found him at Caraher's saloon, very
drunk.
There was nothing maudlin about Dyke's drunkenness. In him the
alcohol merely roused the spirit of evil, vengeful, reckless.
As the wagon passed out from under the eucalyptus trees about the
ranch house, taking Mrs. Dyke, Sidney, and the one-time engineer
back to the hop ranch, Presley leaning from his window heard the
latter remark:
"Caraher is right. There is only one thing they listen to, and
that's dynamite."
The following day Presley drove Magnus over to Guadalajara to
take the train for San Francisco. But after he had said good-bye
to the Governor, he was moved to go on to the hop ranch to see
the condition of affairs in that quarter. He returned to Los
Muertos overwhelmed with sadness and trembling with anger. The
hop ranch that he had last seen in the full tide of prosperity
was almost a ruin. Work had evidently been abandoned long since.
Weeds were already choking the vines. Everywhere the poles
sagged and drooped. Many had even fallen, dragging the vines
with them, spreading them over the ground in an inextricable
tangle of dead leaves, decaying tendrils, and snarled string.
The fence was broken; the unfinished storehouse, which never was
to see completion, was a lamentable spectacle of gaping doors and
windows--a melancholy skeleton. Last of all, Presley had caught
a glimpse of Dyke himself, seated in his rocking chair on the
porch, his beard and hair unkempt, motionless, looking with vague
eyes upon his hands that lay palm upwards and idle in his lap.
Magnus on his way to San Francisco was joined at Bonneville by
Osterman. Upon seating himself in front of the master of Los
Muertos in the smoking-car of the train, this latter, pushing
back his hat and smoothing his bald head, observed:
"Governor, you look all frazeled out. Anything wrong these
days?"
The other answered in the negative, but, for all that, Osterman
was right. The Governor had aged suddenly. His former erectness
was gone, the broad shoulders stooped a little, the strong lines
of his thin-lipped mouth were relaxed, and his hand, as it
clasped over the yellowed ivory knob of his cane, had an unwonted
tremulousness not hitherto noticeable. But the change in Magnus
was more than physical. At last, in the full tide of power,
President of the League, known and talked of in every county of
the State, leader in a great struggle, consulted, deferred to as
the "Prominent Man," at length attaining that position, so long
and vainly sought for, he yet found no pleasure in his triumph,
and little but bitterness in life. His success had come by
devious methods, had been reached by obscure means.
He was a briber. He could never forget that. To further his
ends, disinterested, public-spirited, even philanthropic as those
were, he had connived with knavery, he, the politician of the old
school, of such rigorous integrity, who had abandoned a "career"
rather than compromise with honesty. At this eleventh hour,
involved and entrapped in the fine-spun web of a new order of
things, bewildered by Osterman's dexterity, by his volubility and
glibness, goaded and harassed beyond the point of reason by the
aggression of the Trust he fought, he had at last failed. He had
fallen he had given a bribe. He had thought that, after all,
this would make but little difference with him. The affair was
known only to Osterman, Broderson, and Annixter; they would not
judge him, being themselves involved. He could still preserve a
bold front; could still hold his head high. As time went on the
affair would lose its point.
But this was not so. Some subtle element of his character had
forsaken him. He felt it. He knew it. Some certain stiffness
that had given him all his rigidity, that had lent force to his
authority, weight to his dominance, temper to his fine,
inflexible hardness, was diminishing day by day. In the
decisions which he, as President of the League, was called upon
to make so often, he now hesitated. He could no longer be
arrogant, masterful, acting upon his own judgment, independent of
opinion. He began to consult his lieutenants, asking their
advice, distrusting his own opinions. He made mistakes,
blunders, and when those were brought to his notice, took refuge
in bluster. He knew it to be bluster--knew that sooner or later
his subordinates would recognise it as such. How long could he
maintain his position? So only he could keep his grip upon the
lever of control till the battle was over, all would be well. If
not, he would fall, and, once fallen, he knew that now, briber
that he was, he would never rise again.
He was on his way at this moment to the city to consult with
Lyman as to a certain issue of the contest between the Railroad
and the ranchers, which, of late, had been brought to his notice.
When appeal had been taken to the Supreme Court by the League's
Executive Committee, certain test cases had been chosen, which
should represent all the lands in question. Neither Magnus nor
Annixter had so appealed, believing, of course, that their cases
were covered by the test cases on trial at Washington. Magnus
had here blundered again, and the League's agents in San
Francisco had written to warn him that the Railroad might be able
to take advantage of a technicality, and by pretending that
neither Quien Sabe nor Los Muertos were included in the appeal,
attempt to put its dummy buyers in possession of the two ranches
before the Supreme Court handed down its decision. The ninety
days allowed for taking this appeal were nearly at an end and
after then the Railroad could act. Osterman and Magnus at once
decided to go up to the city, there joining Annixter (who had
been absent from Quien Sabe for the last ten days), and talk the
matter over with Lyman. Lyman, because of his position as
Commissioner, might be cognisant of the Railroad's plans, and, at
the same time, could give sound legal advice as to what was to be
done should the new rumour prove true.
"Say," remarked Osterman, as the train pulled out of the
Bonneville station, and the two men settled themselves for the
long journey, "say Governor, what's all up with Buck Annixter
these days? He's got a bean about something, sure."
"I had not noticed," answered Magnus. "Mr. Annixter has been
away some time lately. I cannot imagine what should keep him so
long in San Francisco."
"That's it," said Osterman, winking. "Have three guesses. Guess
right and you get a cigar. I guess g-i-r-l spells Hilma Tree.
And a little while ago she quit Quien Sabe and hiked out to
'Frisco. So did Buck. Do I draw the cigar? It's up to you."
"I have noticed her," observed Magnus. "A fine figure of a
woman. She would make some man a good wife."
"Hoh! Wife! Buck Annixter marry! Not much. He's gone agirling
at last, old Buck! It's as funny as twins. Have to josh
him about it when I see him, sure."
But when Osterman and Magnus at last fell in with Annixter in the
vestibule of the Lick House, on Montgomery Street, nothing could
be got out of him. He was in an execrable humour. When Magnus
had broached the subject of business, he had declared that all
business could go to pot, and when Osterman, his tongue in his
cheek, had permitted himself a most distant allusion to a feemale
girl, Annixter had cursed him for a "busy-face" so vociferously
and tersely, that even Osterman was cowed.
"Well," insinuated Osterman, "what are you dallying 'round
'Frisco so much for?"
"Cat fur, to make kitten-breeches," retorted Annixter with
oracular vagueness.
Two weeks before this time, Annixter had come up to the city and
had gone at once to a certain hotel on Bush Street, behind the
First National Bank, that he knew was kept by a family connection
of the Trees. In his conjecture that Hilma and her parents would
stop here, he was right. Their names were on the register.
Ignoring custom, Annixter marched straight up to their rooms, and
before he was well aware of it, was "eating crow" before old man
Tree.
Hilma and her mother were out at the time. Later on, Mrs. Tree
returned alone, leaving Hilma to spend the day with one of her
cousins who lived far out on Stanyan Street in a little house
facing the park.
Between Annixter and Hilma's parents, a reconciliation had been
effected, Annixter convincing them both of his sincerity in
wishing to make Hilma his wife. Hilma, however, refused to see
him. As soon as she knew he had followed her to San Francisco
she had been unwilling to return to the hotel and had arranged
with her cousin to spend an indefinite time at her house.
She was wretchedly unhappy during all this time; would not set
foot out of doors, and cried herself to sleep night after night.
She detested the city. Already she was miserably homesick for
the ranch. She remembered the days she had spent in the little
dairy-house, happy in her work, making butter and cheese;
skimming the great pans of milk, scouring the copper vessels and
vats, plunging her arms, elbow deep, into the white curds; coming
and going in that atmosphere of freshness, cleanliness, and
sunlight, gay, singing, supremely happy just because the sun
shone. She remembered her long walks toward the Mission late in
the afternoons, her excursions for cresses underneath the Long
Trestle, the crowing of the cocks, the distant whistle of the
passing trains, the faint sounding of the Angelus. She recalled
with infinite longing the solitary expanse of the ranches, the
level reaches between the horizons, full of light and silence;
the heat at noon, the cloudless iridescence of the sunrise and
sunset. She had been so happy in that life! Now, all those days
were passed. This crude, raw city, with its crowding houses all
of wood and tin, its blotting fogs, its uproarious trade winds,
disturbed and saddened her. There was no outlook for the future.
At length, one day, about a week after Annixter's arrival in the
city, she was prevailed upon to go for a walk in the park. She
went alone, putting on for the first time the little hat of black
straw with its puff of white silk her mother had bought for her,
a pink shirtwaist, her belt of imitation alligator skin, her new
skirt of brown cloth, and her low shoes, set off with their
little steel buckles.
She found a tiny summer house, built in Japanese fashion, around
a diminutive pond, and sat there for a while, her hands folded in
her lap, amused with watching the goldfish, wishing--she knew not
what.
Without any warning, Annixter sat down beside her. She was too
frightened to move. She looked at him with wide eyes that began
to fill with tears.
"Oh," she said, at last, "oh--I didn't know."
"Well," exclaimed Annixter, "here you are at last. I've been
watching that blamed house till I was afraid the policeman would
move me on. By the Lord," he suddenly cried, "you're pale. You--
you, Hilma, do you feel well?"
"Yes--I am well," she faltered.
"No, you're not," he declared. "I know better. You are coming
back to Quien Sabe with me. This place don't agree with you.
Hilma, what's all the matter? Why haven't you let me see you all
this time? Do you know--how things are with me? Your mother
told you, didn't she? Do you know how sorry I am? Do you know
that I see now that I made the mistake of my life there, that
time, under the Long Trestle? I found it out the night after you
went away. I sat all night on a stone out on the ranch somewhere
and I don't know exactly what happened, but I've been a different
man since then. I see things all different now. Why, I've only
begun to live since then. I know what love means now, and
instead of being ashamed of it, I'm proud of it. If I never was
to see you again I would be glad I'd lived through that night,
just the same. I just woke up that night. I'd been absolutely
and completely selfish up to the moment I realised I really loved
you, and now, whether you'll let me marry you or not, I mean to
live--I don't know, in a different way. I've GOT to live
different. I--well--oh, I can't make you understand, but just
loving you has changed my life all around. It's made it easier
to do the straight, clean thing. I want to do it, it's fun doing
it. Remember, once I said I was proud of being a hard man, a
driver, of being glad that people hated me and were afraid of me?
Well, since I've loved you I'm ashamed of it all. I don't want
to be hard any more, and nobody is going to hate me if I can help
it. I'm happy and I want other people so. I love you," he
suddenly exclaimed; "I love you, and if you will forgive me, and
if you will come down to such a beast as I am, I want to be to
you the best a man can be to a woman, Hilma. Do you understand,
little girl? I want to be your husband."
Hilma looked at the goldfishes through her tears.
"Have you got anything to say to me, Hilma?" he asked, after a
while.
"I don't know what you want me to say," she murmured.
"Yes, you do," he insisted. "I've followed you 'way up here to
hear it. I've waited around in these beastly, draughty picnic
grounds for over a week to hear it. You know what I want to
hear, Hilma."
"Well--I forgive you," she hazarded.
"That will do for a starter," he answered. "But that's not IT."
"Then, I don't know what."
"Shall I say it for you?"
She hesitated a long minute, then:
"You mightn't say it right," she replied.
"Trust me for that. Shall I say it for you, Hilma?"
"I don't know what you'll say."
"I'll say what you are thinking of. Shall I say it?"
There was a very long pause. A goldfish rose to the surface of
the little pond, with a sharp, rippling sound. The fog drifted
overhead. There was nobody about.
"No," said Hilma, at length. "I--I--I can say it for myself. I--"
All at once she turned to him and put her arms around his
neck. "Oh, DO you love me?" she cried. "Is it really true? Do
you mean every word of it? And you are sorry and you WILL be
good to me if I will be your wife? You will be my dear, dear
husband?"
The tears sprang to Annixter's eyes. He took her in his arms and
held her there for a moment. Never in his life had he felt so
unworthy, so undeserving of this clean, pure girl who forgave him
and trusted his spoken word and believed him to be the good man
he could only wish to be. She was so far above him, so exalted,
so noble that he should have bowed his forehead to her feet, and
instead, she took him in her arms, believing him to be good, to
be her equal. He could think of no words to say. The tears
overflowed his eyes and ran down upon his cheeks. She drew away
from him and held him a second at arm's length, looking at him,
and he saw that she, too, had been crying.
"I think," he said, "we are a couple of softies."
"No, no," she insisted. "I want to cry and want you to cry, too.
Oh, dear, I haven't a handkerchief."
"Here, take mine."
They wiped each other's eyes like two children and for a long
time sat in the deserted little Japanese pleasure house, their
arms about each other, talking, talking, talking.
On the following Saturday they were married in an uptown
Presbyterian church, and spent the week of their honeymoon at a
small, family hotel on Sutter Street. As a matter of course,
they saw the sights of the city together. They made the
inevitable bridal trip to the Cliff House and spent an afternoon
in the grewsome and made-to-order beauties of Sutro's Gardens;
they went through Chinatown, the Palace Hotel, the park museum--
where Hilma resolutely refused to believe in the Egyptian mummy--
and they drove out in a hired hack to the Presidio and the Golden
Gate.
On the sixth day of their excursions, Hilma abruptly declared
they had had enough of "playing out," and must be serious and get
to work.
This work was nothing less than the buying of the furniture and
appointments for the rejuvenated ranch house at Quien Sabe, where
they were to live. Annixter had telegraphed to his overseer to
have the building repainted, replastered, and reshingled and to
empty the rooms of everything but the telephone and safe. He
also sent instructions to have the dimensions of each room noted
down and the result forwarded to him. It was the arrival of
these memoranda that had roused Hilma to action.
Then ensued a most delicious week. Armed with formidable lists,
written by Annixter on hotel envelopes, they two descended upon
the department stores of the city, the carpet stores, the
furniture stores. Right and left they bought and bargained,
sending each consignment as soon as purchased to Quien Sabe.
Nearly an entire car load of carpets, curtains, kitchen
furniture, pictures, fixtures, lamps, straw matting, chairs, and
the like were sent down to the ranch, Annixter making a point
that their new home should be entirely equipped by San Francisco
dealers.
The furnishings of the bedroom and sitting-room were left to the
very last. For the former, Hilma bought a "set" of pure white
enamel, three chairs, a washstand and bureau, a marvellous
bargain of thirty dollars, discovered by wonderful accident at a
"Friday Sale." The bed was a piece by itself, bought elsewhere,
but none the less a wonder. It was of brass, very brave and gay,
and actually boasted a canopy! They bought it complete, just as
it stood in the window of the department store and Hilma was in
an ecstasy over its crisp, clean, muslin curtains, spread, and
shams. Never was there such a bed, the luxury of a princess,
such a bed as she had dreamed about her whole life.
Next the appointments of the sitting-room occupied her--since
Annixter, himself, bewildered by this astonishing display, unable
to offer a single suggestion himself, merely approved of all she
bought. In the sitting-room was to be a beautiful blue and white
paper, cool straw matting, set off with white wool rugs, a stand
of flowers in the window, a globe of goldfish, rocking chairs, a
sewing machine, and a great, round centre table of yellow oak
whereon should stand a lamp covered with a deep shade of crinkly
red tissue paper. On the walls were to hang several pictures--
lovely affairs, photographs from life, all properly tinted--of
choir boys in robes, with beautiful eyes; pensive young girls in
pink gowns, with flowing yellow hair, drooping over golden harps;
a coloured reproduction of "Rouget de Lisle, Singing the
Marseillaise," and two "pieces" of wood carving, representing a
quail and a wild duck, hung by one leg in the midst of game bags
and powder horns,--quite masterpieces, both.
At last everything had been bought, all arrangements made,
Hilma's trunks packed with her new dresses, and the tickets to
Bonneville bought.
"We'll go by the Overland, by Jingo," declared Annixter across
the table to his wife, at their last meal in the hotel where they
had been stopping; "no way trains or locals for us, hey?"
"But we reach Bonneville at SUCH an hour," protested Hilma.
"Five in the morning!"
"Never mind," he declared, "we'll go home in PULLMAN'S, Hilma.
I'm not going to have any of those slobs in Bonneville say I
didn't know how to do the thing in style, and we'll have Vacca
meet us with the team. No, sir, it is Pullman's or nothing.
When it comes to buying furniture, I don't shine, perhaps, but I
know what's due my wife."
He was obdurate, and late one afternoon the couple boarded the
Transcontinental (the crack Overland Flyer of the Pacific and
Southwestern) at the Oakland mole. Only Hilma's parents were
there to say good-bye. Annixter knew that Magnus and Osterman
were in the city, but he had laid his plans to elude them.
Magnus, he could trust to be dignified, but that goat Osterman,
one could never tell what he would do next. He did not propose
to start his journey home in a shower of rice.
Annixter marched down the line of cars, his hands encumbered with
wicker telescope baskets, satchels, and valises, his tickets in
his mouth, his hat on wrong side foremost, Hilma and her parents
hurrying on behind him, trying to keep up. Annixter was in a
turmoil of nerves lest something should go wrong; catching a
train was always for him a little crisis. He rushed ahead so
furiously that when he had found his Pullman he had lost his
party. He set down his valises to mark the place and charged
back along the platform, waving his arms.
"Come on," he cried, when, at length, he espied the others.
"We've no more time."
He shouldered and urged them forward to where he had set his
valises, only to find one of them gone. Instantly he raised an
outcry. Aha, a fine way to treat passengers! There was P. and
S. W. management for you. He would, by the Lord, he would--but
the porter appeared in the vestibule of the car to placate him.
He had already taken his valises inside.
Annixter would not permit Hilma's parents to board the car,
declaring that the train might pull out any moment. So he and
his wife, following the porter down the narrow passage by the
stateroom, took their places and, raising the window, leaned out
to say good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Tree. These latter would not
return to Quien Sabe. Old man Tree had found a business chance
awaiting him in the matter of supplying his relative's hotel with
dairy products. But Bonneville was not too far from San
Francisco; the separation was by no means final.
The porters began taking up the steps that stood by the vestibule
of each sleeping-car.
"Well, have a good time, daughter," observed her father; "and
come up to see us whenever you can."
From beyond the enclosure of the depot's reverberating roof came
the measured clang of a bell.
"I guess we're off," cried Annixter. "Good-bye, Mrs. Tree."
"Remember your promise, Hilma," her mother hastened to exclaim,
"to write every Sunday afternoon."
There came a prolonged creaking and groan of straining wood and
iron work, all along the length of the train. They all began to
cry their good-byes at once. The train stirred, moved forward,
and gathering slow headway, rolled slowly out into the sunlight.
Hilma leaned out of the window and as long as she could keep her
mother in sight waved her handkerchief. Then at length she sat
back in her seat and looked at her husband.
"Well," she said.
"Well," echoed Annixter, "happy?" for the tears rose in her eyes.
She nodded energetically, smiling at him bravely.
"You look a little pale," he declared, frowning uneasily; "feel
well?"
"Pretty well."
Promptly he was seized with uneasiness.
"But not ALL well, hey? Is that it?"
It was true that Hilma had felt a faint tremour of seasickness on
the ferry-boat coming from the city to the Oakland mole. No
doubt a little nausea yet remained with her. But Annixter
refused to accept this explanation. He was distressed beyond
expression.
"Now you're going to be sick," he cried anxiously.
"No, no," she protested, "not a bit."
"But you said you didn't feel very well. Where is it you feel
sick?"
"I don't know. I'm not sick. Oh, dear me, why will you bother?"
"Headache?"
"Not the least."
"You feel tired, then. That's it. No wonder, the way rushed you
'round to-day."
"Dear, I'm NOT tired, and I'm NOT sick, and I'm all RIGHT."
"No, no; I can tell. I think we'd best have the berth made up
and you lie down."
"That would be perfectly ridiculous."
"Well, where is it you feel sick? Show me; put your hand on the
place. Want to eat something?"
With elaborate minuteness, he cross-questioned her, refusing to
let the subject drop, protesting that she had dark circles under
her eyes; that she had grown thinner.
"Wonder if there's a doctor on board," he murmured, looking
uncertainly about the car. "Let me see your tongue. I know--a
little whiskey is what you want, that and some pru----"
"No, no, NO," she exclaimed. "I'm as well as I ever was in all
my life. Look at me. Now, tell me, do l look likee a sick
lady?"
He scrutinised her face distressfully.
"Now, don't I look the picture of health?" she challenged.
"In a way you do," he began, "and then again----"
Hilma beat a tattoo with her heels upon the floor, shutting her
fists, the thumbs tucked inside. She closed her eyes, shaking
her head energetically.
"I won't listen, I won't listen, I won't listen," she cried.
"But, just the same----"
"Gibble--gibble--gibble," she mocked. "I won't Listen, I won't
listen." She put a hand over his mouth. "Look, here's the
dining-car waiter, and the first call for supper, and your wife
is hungry."
They went forward and had supper in the diner, while the long
train, now out upon the main line, settled itself to its pace,
the prolonged, even gallop that it would hold for the better part
of the week, spinning out the miles as a cotton spinner spins
thread.
It was already dark when Antioch was left behind. Abruptly the
sunset appeared to wheel in the sky and readjusted itself to the
right of the track behind Mount Diablo, here visible almost to
its base. The train had turned southward. Neroly was passed,
then Brentwood, then Byron. In the gathering dusk, mountains
began to build themselves up on either hand, far off, blocking
the horizon. The train shot forward, roaring. Between the
mountains the land lay level, cut up into farms, ranches. These
continually grew larger; growing wheat began to appear, billowing
in the wind of the train's passage. The mountains grew higher,
the land richer, and by the time the moon rose, the train was
well into the northernmost limits of the valley of the San
Joaquin.
Annixter had engaged an entire section, and after he and his wife
went to bed had the porter close the upper berth. Hilma sat up
in bed to say her prayers, both hands over her face, and then
kissing Annixter good-night, went to sleep with the directness of
a little child, holding his hand in both her own.
Annixter, who never could sleep on the train, dozed and tossed
and fretted for hours, consulting his watch and time-table
whenever there was a stop; twice he rose to get a drink of ice
water, and between whiles was forever sitting up in the narrow
berth, stretching himself and yawning, murmuring with uncertain
relevance:
"Oh, Lord! Oh-h-h LORD!"
There were some dozen other passengers in the car--a lady with
three children, a group of school-teachers, a couple of drummers,
a stout gentleman with whiskers, and a well-dressed young man in
a plaid travelling cap, whom Annixter had observed before supper
time reading Daudet's "Tartarin" in the French.
But by nine o'clock, all these people were in their berths.
Occasionally, above the rhythmic rumble of the wheels, Annixter
could hear one of the lady's children fidgeting and complaining.
The stout gentleman snored monotonously in two notes, one a
rasping bass, the other a prolonged treble. At intervals, a
brakeman or the passenger conductor pushed down the aisle,
between the curtains, his red and white lamp over his arm.
Looking out into the car Annixter saw in an end section where the
berths had not been made up, the porter, in his white duck coat,
dozing, his mouth wide open, his head on his shoulder.
The hours passed. Midnight came and went. Annixter, checking
off the stations, noted their passage of Modesto, Merced, and
Madeira. Then, after another broken nap, he lost count. He
wondered where they were. Had they reached Fresno yet? Raising
the window curtain, he made a shade with both hands on either
side of his face and looked out. The night was thick, dark,
clouded over. A fine rain was falling, leaving horizontal
streaks on the glass of the outside window. Only the faintest
grey blur indicated the sky. Everything else was impenetrable
blackness.
"I think sure we must have passed Fresno," he muttered. He
looked at his watch. It was about half-past three. "If we have
passed Fresno," he said to himself, "I'd better wake the little
girl pretty soon. She'll need about an hour to dress. Better
find out for sure."
He drew on his trousers and shoes, got into his coat, and stepped
out into the aisle. In the seat that had been occupied by the
porter, the Pullman conductor, his cash box and car-schedules
before him, was checking up his berths, a blue pencil behind his
ear.
"What's the next stop, Captain?" inquired Annixter, coming up.
"Have we reached Fresno yet?"
"Just passed it," the other responded, looking at Annixter over
his spectacles.
"What's the next stop?"
"Goshen. We will be there in about forty-five minutes."
"Fair black night, isn't it?"
"Black as a pocket. Let's see, you're the party in upper and
lower 9."
Annixter caught at the back of the nearest seat, just in time to
prevent a fall, and the conductor's cash box was shunted off the
surface of the plush seat and came clanking to the floor. The
Pintsch lights overhead vibrated with blinding rapidity in the
long, sliding jar that ran through the train from end to end, and
the momentum of its speed suddenly decreasing, all but pitched
the conductor from his seat. A hideous ear-splitting rasp made
itself heard from the clamped-down Westinghouse gear underneath,
and Annixter knew that the wheels had ceased to revolve and that
the train was sliding forward upon the motionless flanges.
"Hello, hello," he exclaimed, "what's all up now?"
"Emergency brakes," declared the conductor, catching up his cash
box and thrusting his papers and tickets into it. "Nothing much;
probably a cow on the track."
He disappeared, carrying his lantern with him.
But the other passengers, all but the stout gentleman, were
awake; heads were thrust from out the curtains, and Annixter,
hurrying back to Hilma, was assailed by all manner of questions.
"What was that?"
"Anything wrong?"
"What's up, anyways?"
Hilma was just waking as Annixter pushed the curtain aside.
"Oh, I was so frightened. What's the matter, dear?" she
exclaimed.
"I don't know," he answered. "Only the emergency brakes. Just a
cow on the track, I guess. Don't get scared. It isn't
anything."
But with a final shriek of the Westinghouse appliance, the train
came to a definite halt.
At once the silence was absolute. The ears, still numb with the
long-continued roar of wheels and clashing iron, at first refused
to register correctly the smaller noises of the surroundings.
Voices came from the other end of the car, strange and
unfamiliar, as though heard at a great distance across the water.
The stillness of the night outside was so profound that the rain,
dripping from the car roof upon the road-bed underneath, was as
distinct as the ticking of a clock.
"Well, we've sure stopped," observed one of the drummers.
"What is it?" asked Hilma again. "Are you sure there's nothing
wrong?"
"Sure," said Annixter.
Outside, underneath their window, they heard the sound of hurried
footsteps crushing into the clinkers by the side of the ties.
They passed on, and Annixter heard some one in the distance
shout:
"Yes, on the other side."
Then the door at the end of their car opened and a brakeman with
a red beard ran down the aisle and out upon the platform in
front. The forward door closed. Everything was quiet again. In
the stillness the fat gentleman's snores made themselves heard
once more.
The minutes passed; nothing stirred. There was no sound but the
dripping rain. The line of cars lay immobilised and inert under
the night. One of the drummers, having stepped outside on the
platform for a look around, returned, saying:
"There sure isn't any station anywheres about and no siding. Bet
you they have had an accident of some kind."
"Ask the porter."
"I did. He don't know."
"Maybe they stopped to take on wood or water, or something."
"Well, they wouldn't use the emergency brakes for that, would
they? Why, this train stopped almost in her own length. Pretty
near slung me out the berth. Those were the emergency brakes. I
heard some one say so."
From far out towards the front of the train, near the locomotive,
came the sharp, incisive report of a revolver; then two more
almost simultaneously; then, after a long interval, a fourth.
"Say, that's SHOOTING. By God, boys, they're shooting. Say,
this is a hold-up."
Instantly a white-hot excitement flared from end to end of the
car. Incredibly sinister, heard thus in the night, and in the
rain, mysterious, fearful, those four pistol shots started
confusion from out the sense of security like a frightened rabbit
hunted from her burrow. Wide-eyed, the passengers of the car
looked into each other's faces. It had come to them at last,
this, they had so often read about. Now they were to see the
real thing, now they were to face actuality, face this danger of
the night, leaping in from out the blackness of the roadside,
masked, armed, ready to kill. They were facing it now. They
were held up.
Hilma said nothing, only catching Annixter's hand, looking
squarely into his eyes.
"Steady, little girl," he said. "They can't hurt you. I won't
leave you. By the Lord," he suddenly exclaimed, his excitement
getting the better of him for a moment. "By the Lord, it's a
hold-up."
The school-teachers were in the aisle of the car, in night gown,
wrapper, and dressing sack, huddled together like sheep, holding
on to each other, looking to the men, silently appealing for
protection. Two of them were weeping, white to the lips.
"Oh, oh, oh, it's terrible. Oh, if they only won't hurt me."
But the lady with the children looked out from her berth, smiled
reassuringly, and said:
"I'm not a bit frightened. They won't do anything to us if we
keep quiet. I've my watch and jewelry all ready for them in my
little black bag, see?"
She exhibited it to the passengers. Her children were all awake.
They were quiet, looking about them with eager faces, interested
and amused at this surprise. In his berth, the fat gentleman
with whiskers snored profoundly.
"Say, I'm going out there," suddenly declared one of the
drummers, flourishing a pocket revolver.
His friend caught his arm.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Max," he said.
"They won't come near us," observed the well-dressed young man;
"they are after the Wells-Fargo box and the registered mail. You
won't do any good out there."
But the other loudly protested. No; he was going out. He didn't
propose to be buncoed without a fight. He wasn't any coward.
"Well, you don't go, that's all," said his friend, angrily.
"There's women and children in this car. You ain't going to draw
the fire here."
"Well, that's to be thought of," said the other, allowing himself
to be pacified, but still holding his pistol.
"Don't let him open that window," cried Annixter sharply from his
place by Hilma's side, for the drummer had made as if to open the
sash in one of the sections that had not been made up.
"Sure, that's right," said the others. "Don't open any windows.
Keep your head in. You'll get us all shot if you aren't
careful."
However, the drummer had got the window up and had leaned out
before the others could interfere and draw him away.
"Say, by jove," he shouted, as he turned back to the car, "our
engine's gone. We're standing on a curve and you can see the end
of the train. She's gone, I tell you. Well, look for yourself."
In spite of their precautions, one after another, his friends
looked out. Sure enough, the train was without a locomotive.
"They've done it so we can't get away," vociferated the drummer
with the pistol. "Now, by jiminy-Christmas, they'll come through
the cars and stand us up. They'll be in here in a minute. LORD!
WHAT WAS THAT?"
From far away up the track, apparently some half-mile ahead of
the train, came the sound of a heavy explosion. The windows of
the car vibrated with it.
"Shooting again."
"That isn't shooting," exclaimed Annixter. "They've pulled the
express and mail car on ahead with the engine and now they are
dynamiting her open."
"That must be it. Yes, sure, that's just what they are doing."
The forward door of the car opened and closed and the schoolteachers
shrieked and cowered. The drummer with the revolver
faced about, his eyes bulging. However, it was only the train
conductor, hatless, his lantern in his hand. He was soaked with
rain. He appeared in the aisle.
"Is there a doctor in this car?" he asked.
Promptly the passengers surrounded him, voluble with questions.
But he was in a bad temper.
"I don't know anything more than you," he shouted angrily. "It
was a hold-up. I guess you know that, don't you? Well, what
more do you want to know? I ain't got time to fool around. They
cut off our express car and have cracked it open, and they shot
one of our train crew, that's all, and I want a doctor."
"Did they shoot him--kill him, do you mean?"
"Is he hurt bad?"
"Did the men get away?"
"Oh, shut up, will you all?" exclaimed the conductor.
"What do I know? Is there a DOCTOR in this car, that's what I
want to know?"
The well-dressed young man stepped forward.
"I'm a doctor," he said.
"Well, come along then," returned the conductor, in a surly
voice, "and the passengers in this car," he added, turning back
at the door and nodding his head menacingly, "will go back to bed
and STAY there. It's all over and there's nothing to see."
He went out, followed by the young doctor.
Then ensued an interminable period of silence. The entire train
seemed deserted. Helpless, bereft of its engine, a huge,
decapitated monster it lay, half-way around a curve, rained upon,
abandoned.
There was more fear in this last condition of affairs, more
terror in the idea of this prolonged line of sleepers, with their
nickelled fittings, their plate glass, their upholstery,
vestibules, and the like, loaded down with people, lost and
forgotten in the night and the rain, than there had been when the
actual danger threatened.
What was to become of them now? Who was there to help them?
Their engine was gone; they were helpless. What next was to
happen?
Nobody came near the car. Even the porter had disappeared. The
wait seemed endless, and the persistent snoring of the whiskered
gentleman rasped the nerves like the scrape of a file.
"Well, how long are we going to stick here now?" began one of the
drummers. "Wonder if they hurt the engine with their dynamite?"
"Oh, I know they will come through the car and rob us," wailed
the school-teachers.
The lady with the little children went back to bed, and Annixter,
assured that the trouble was over, did likewise. But nobody
slept. From berth to berth came the sound of suppressed voices
talking it all over, formulating conjectures. Certain points
seemed to be settled upon, no one knew how, as indisputable. The
highwaymen had been four in number and had stopped the train by
pulling the bell cord. A brakeman had attempted to interfere and
had been shot. The robbers had been on the train all the way
from San Francisco. The drummer named Max remembered to have
seen four "suspicious-looking characters" in the smoking-car at
Lathrop, and had intended to speak to the conductor about them.
This drummer had been in a hold-up before, and told the story of
it over and over again.
At last, after what seemed to have been an hour's delay, and when
the dawn had already begun to show in the east, the locomotive
backed on to the train again with a reverberating jar that ran
from car to car. At the jolting, the school-teachers screamed in
chorus, and the whiskered gentleman stopped snoring and thrust
his head from his curtains, blinking at the Pintsch lights. It
appeared that he was an Englishman.
"I say," he asked of the drummer named Max, "I say, my friend,
what place is this?"
The others roared with derision.
"We were HELD UP, sir, that's what we were. We were held up and
you slept through it all. You missed the show of your life."
The gentleman fixed the group with a prolonged gaze. He said
never a word, but little by little he was convinced that the
drummers told the truth. All at once he grew wrathful, his face
purpling. He withdrew his head angrily, buttoning his curtains
together in a fury. The cause of his rage was inexplicable, but
they could hear him resettling himself upon his pillows with
exasperated movements of his head and shoulders. In a few
moments the deep bass and shrill treble of his snoring once more
sounded through the car.
At last the train got under way again, with useless warning
blasts of the engine's whistle. In a few moments it was tearing
away through the dawn at a wonderful speed, rocking around
curves, roaring across culverts, making up time.
And all the rest of that strange night the passengers, sitting up
in their unmade beds, in the swaying car, lighted by a strange
mingling of pallid dawn and trembling Pintsch lights, rushing at
break-neck speed through the misty rain, were oppressed by a
vision of figures of terror, far behind them in the night they
had left, masked, armed, galloping toward the mountains pistol in
hand, the booty bound to the saddle bow, galloping, galloping on,
sending a thrill of fear through all the country side.
The young doctor returned. He sat down in the smoking-room,
lighting a cigarette, and Annixter and the drummers pressed
around him to know the story of the whole affair.
"The man is dead," he declared, "the brakeman. He was shot
through the lungs twice. They think the fellow got away with
about five thousand in gold coin."
"The fellow? Wasn't there four of them?"
"No; only one. And say, let me tell you, he had his nerve with
him. It seems he was on the roof of the express car all the
time, and going as fast as we were, he jumped from the roof of
the car down on to the coal on the engine's tender, and crawled
over that and held up the men in the cab with his gun, took their
guns from 'em and made 'em stop the train. Even ordered 'em to
use the emergency gear, seems he knew all about it. Then he went
back and uncoupled the express car himself.
While he was doing this, a brakeman--you remember that brakeman
that came through here once or twice--had a red mustache."
"THAT chap?"
"Sure. Well, as soon as the train stopped, this brakeman guessed
something was wrong and ran up, saw the fellow cutting off the
express car and took a couple of shots at him, and the fireman
says the fellow didn't even take his hand off the coupling-pin;
just turned around as cool as how-do-you-do and NAILED the
brakeman right there. They weren't five feet apart when they
began shooting. The brakeman had come on him unexpected, had no
idea he was so close."
"And the express messenger, all this time?"
"Well, he did his best. Jumped out with his repeating shot-gun,
but the fellow had him covered before he could turn round. Held
him up and took his gun away from him. Say, you know I call that
nerve, just the same. One man standing up a whole train-load,
like that. Then, as soon as he'd cut the express car off, he
made the engineer run her up the track about half a mile to a
road crossing, WHERE HE HAD A HORSE TIED. What do you think of
that? Didn't he have it all figured out close? And when he got
there, he dynamited the safe and got the Wells-Fargo box. He
took five thousand in gold coin; the messenger says it was
railroad money that the company were sending down to Bakersfield
to pay off with. It was in a bag. He never touched the
registered mail, nor a whole wad of greenbacks that were in the
safe, but just took the coin, got on his horse, and lit out. The
engineer says he went to the east'ard."
"He got away, did he?"
"Yes, but they think they'll get him. He wore a kind of mask,
but the brakeman recognised him positively. We got his antemortem
statement. The brakeman said the fellow had a grudge
against the road. He was a discharged employee, and lives near
Bonneville."
"Dyke, by the Lord!" exclaimed Annixter.
"That's the name," said the young doctor.
When the train arrived at Bonneville, forty minutes behind time,
it landed Annixter and Hilma in the midst of the very thing they
most wished to avoid--an enormous crowd. The news that the
Overland had been held up thirty miles south of Fresno, a
brakeman killed and the safe looted, and that Dyke alone was
responsible for the night's work, had been wired on ahead from
Fowler, the train conductor throwing the despatch to the station
agent from the flying train.
Before the train had come to a standstill under the arched roof
of the Bonneville depot, it was all but taken by assault.
Annixter, with Hilma on his arm, had almost to fight his way out
of the car. The depot was black with people. S. Behrman was
there, Delaney, Cyrus Ruggles, the town marshal, the mayor.
Genslinger, his hat on the back of his head, ranged the train
from cab to rear-lights, note-book in hand, interviewing,
questioning, collecting facts for his extra. As Annixter
descended finally to the platform, the editor, alert as a blackand-
tan terrier, his thin, osseous hands quivering with
eagerness, his brown, dry face working with excitement, caught
his elbow.
"Can I have your version of the affair, Mr. Annixter?"
Annixter turned on him abruptly.
"Yes!" he exclaimed fiercely. "You and your gang drove Dyke from
his job because he wouldn't work for starvation wages. Then you
raised freight rates on him and robbed him of all he had. You
ruined him and drove him to fill himself up with Caraher's
whiskey. He's only taken back what you plundered him of, and now
you're going to hound him over the State, hunt him down like a
wild animal, and bring him to the gallows at San Quentin. That's
my version of the affair, Mister Genslinger, but it's worth your
subsidy from the P. and S. W. to print it."
There was a murmur of approval from the crowd that stood around,
and Genslinger, with an angry shrug of one shoulder, took himself
away.
At length, Annixter brought Hilma through the crowd to where
young Vacca was waiting with the team. However, they could not
at once start for the ranch, Annixter wishing to ask some
questions at the freight office about a final consignment of
chairs. It was nearly eleven o'clock before they could start
home. But to gain the Upper Road to Quien Sabe, it was necessary
to traverse all of Main Street, running through the heart of
Bonneville.
The entire town seemed to be upon the sidewalks. By now the rain
was over and the sun shining. The story of the hold-up--the work
of a man whom every one knew and liked--was in every mouth. How
had Dyke come to do it? Who would have believed it of him?
Think of his poor mother and the little tad. Well, after all, he
was not so much to blame; the railroad people had brought it on
themselves. But he had shot a man to death. Ah, that was a
serious business. Good-natured, big, broad-shouldered, jovial
Dyke, the man they knew, with whom they had shaken hands only
yesterday, yes, and drank with him. He had shot a man, killed
him, had stood there in the dark and in the rain while they were
asleep in their beds, and had killed a man. Now where was he?
Instinctively eyes were turned eastward, over the tops of the
houses, or down vistas of side streets to where the foot-hills of
the mountains rose dim and vast over the edge of the valley. He
was in amongst them; somewhere, in all that pile of blue crests
and purple canyons he was hidden away. Now for weeks of
searching, false alarms, clews, trailings, watchings, all the
thrill and heart-bursting excitement of a man-hunt. Would he get
away? Hardly a man on the sidewalks of the town that day who did
not hope for it.
As Annixter's team trotted through the central portion of the
town, young Vacca pointed to a denser and larger crowd around the
rear entrance of the City Hall. Fully twenty saddle horses were
tied to the iron rail underneath the scant, half-grown trees near
by, and as Annixter and Hilma drove by, the crowd parted and a
dozen men with revolvers on their hips pushed their way to the
curbstone, and, mounting their horses, rode away at a gallop.
"It's the posse," said young Vacca.
Outside the town limits the ground was level. There was nothing
to obstruct the view, and to the north, in the direction of
Osterman's ranch, Vacca made out another party of horsemen,
galloping eastward, and beyond these still another.
"There're the other posses," he announced. "That further one is
Archie Moore's. He's the sheriff. He came down from Visalia on
a special engine this morning."
When the team turned into the driveway to the ranch house, Hilma
uttered a little cry, clasping her hands joyfully. The house was
one glitter of new white paint, the driveway had been freshly
gravelled, the flower-beds replenished. Mrs. Vacca and her
daughter, who had been busy putting on the finishing touches,
came to the door to welcome them.
"What's this case here?" asked Annixter, when, after helping his
wife from the carry-all, his eye fell upon a wooden box of some
three by five feet that stood on the porch and bore the red
Wells-Fargo label.
"It came here last night, addressed to you, sir," exclaimed Mrs.
Vacca. "We were sure it wasn't any of your furniture, so we
didn't open it."
"Oh, maybe it's a wedding present," exclaimed Hilma, her eyes
sparkling.
"Well, maybe it is," returned her husband. "Here, m' son, help
me in with this."
Annixter and young Vacca bore the case into the sitting-room of
the house, and Annixter, hammer in hand, attacked it vigorously.
Vacca discreetly withdrew on signal from his mother, closing the
door after him. Annixter and his wife were left alone.
"Oh, hurry, hurry," cried Hilma, dancing around him.
"I want to see what it is. Who do you suppose could have sent it
to us? And so heavy, too. What do you think it can be?"
Annixter put the claw of the hammer underneath the edge of the
board top and wrenched with all his might. The boards had been
clamped together by a transverse bar and the whole top of the box
came away in one piece. A layer of excelsior was disclosed, and
on it a letter addressed by typewriter to Annixter. It bore the
trade-mark of a business firm of Los Angeles. Annixter glanced
at this and promptly caught it up before Hilma could see, with an
exclamation of intelligence.
"Oh, I know what this is," he observed, carelessly trying to
restrain her busy hands. "It isn't anything. Just some
machinery. Let it go."
But already she had pulled away the excelsior. Underneath, in
temporary racks, were two dozen Winchester repeating rifles.
"Why--what--what--" murmured Hilma blankly.
"Well, I told you not to mind," said Annixter. "It isn't
anything. Let's look through the rooms."
"But you said you knew what it was," she protested, bewildered.
"You wanted to make believe it was machinery. Are you keeping
anything from me? Tell me what it all means. Oh, why are you
getting--these?"
She caught his arm, looking with intense eagerness into his face.
She half understood already. Annixter saw that.
"Well," he said, lamely, "YOU know--it may not come to anything
at all, but you know--well, this League of ours--suppose the
Railroad tries to jump Quien Sabe or Los Muertos or any of the
other ranches--we made up our minds--the Leaguers have--that we
wouldn't let it. That's all."
"And I thought," cried Hilma, drawing back fearfully from the
case of rifles, "and I thought it was a wedding present."
And that was their home-coming, the end of their bridal trip.
Through the terror of the night, echoing with pistol shots,
through that scene of robbery and murder, into this atmosphere of
alarms, a man-hunt organising, armed horsemen silhouetted against
the horizons, cases of rifles where wedding presents should have
been, Annixter brought his young wife to be mistress of a home he
might at any moment be called upon to defend with his life.
The days passed. Soon a week had gone by. Magnus Derrick and
Osterman returned from the city without any definite idea as to
the Corporation's plans. Lyman had been reticent. He knew
nothing as to the progress of the land cases in Washington.
There was no news. The Executive Committee of the League held a
perfunctory meeting at Los Muertos at which nothing but routine
business was transacted. A scheme put forward by Osterman for a
conference with the railroad managers fell through because of the
refusal of the company to treat with the ranchers upon any other
basis than that of the new grading. It was impossible to learn
whether or not the company considered Los Muertos, Quien Sabe,
and the ranches around Bonneville covered by the test cases then
on appeal.
Meanwhile there was no decrease in the excitement that Dyke's
hold-up had set loose over all the county. Day after day it was
the one topic of conversation, at street corners, at cross-roads,
over dinner tables, in office, bank, and store. S. Behrman
placarded the town with a notice of $500.00 reward for the exengineer's
capture, dead or alive, and the express company
supplemented this by another offer of an equal amount. The
country was thick with parties of horsemen, armed with rifles and
revolvers, recruited from Visalia, Goshen, and the few railroad
sympathisers around Bonneville and Guadlajara. One after another
of these returned, empty-handed, covered with dust and mud, their
horses exhausted, to be met and passed by fresh posses starting
out to continue the pursuit. The sheriff of Santa Clara County
sent down his bloodhounds from San Jose--small, harmless-looking
dogs, with a terrific bay--to help in the chase. Reporters from
the San Francisco papers appeared, interviewing every one,
sometimes even accompanying the searching bands. Horse hoofs
clattered over the roads at night; bells were rung, the "Mercury"
issued extra after extra; the bloodhounds bayed, gun butts
clashed on the asphalt pavements of Bonneville; accidental
discharges of revolvers brought the whole town into the street;
farm hands called to each other across the fences of ranchdivisions--
in a word, the country-side was in an uproar.
And all to no effect. The hoof-marks of Dyke's horse had been
traced in the mud of the road to within a quarter of a mile of
the foot-hills and there irretrievably lost. Three days after
the hold-up, a sheep-herder was found who had seen the highwayman
on a ridge in the higher mountains, to the northeast of Taurusa.
And that was absolutely all. Rumours were thick, promising clews
were discovered, new trails taken up, but nothing transpired to
bring the pursuers and pursued any closer together. Then, after
ten days of strain, public interest began to flag. It was
believed that Dyke had succeeded in getting away. If this was
true, he had gone to the southward, after gaining the mountains,
and it would be his intention to work out of the range somewhere
near the southern part of the San Joaquin, near Bakersfield.
Thus, the sheriffs, marshals, and deputies decided. They had
hunted too many criminals in these mountains before not to know
the usual courses taken. In time, Dyke MUST come out of the
mountains to get water and provisions. But this time passed, and
from not one of the watched points came any word of his
appearance. At last the posses began to disband. Little by
little the pursuit was given up.
Only S. Behrman persisted. He had made up his mind to bring Dyke
in. He succeeded in arousing the same degree of determination in
Delaney--by now, a trusted aide of the Railroad--and of his own
cousin, a real estate broker, named Christian, who knew the
mountains and had once been marshal of Visalia in the old stockraising
days. These two went into the Sierras, accompanied by
two hired deputies, and carrying with them a month's provisions
and two of the bloodhounds loaned by the Santa Clara sheriff.
On a certain Sunday, a few days after the departure of Christian
and Delaney, Annixter, who had been reading "David Copperfield"
in his hammock on the porch of the ranch house, put down the book
and went to find Hilma, who was helping Louisa Vacca set the
table for dinner. He found her in the dining-room, her hands
full of the gold-bordered china plates, only used on special
occasions and which Louisa was forbidden to touch.
His wife was more than ordinarily pretty that day. She wore a
dress of flowered organdie over pink sateen with pink ribbons
about her waist and neck, and on her slim feet the low shoes she
always affected, with their smart, bright buckles. Her thick,
brown, sweet-smelling hair was heaped high upon her head and set
off with a bow of black velvet, and underneath the shadow of its
coils, her wide-open eyes, rimmed with the thin, black line of
her lashes, shone continually, reflecting the sunlight. Marriage
had only accentuated the beautiful maturity of Hilma's figure--
now no longer precocious--defining the single, deep swell from
her throat to her waist, the strong, fine amplitude of her hips,
the sweet feminine undulation of her neck and shoulders. Her
cheeks were pink with health, and her large round arms carried
the piled-up dishes with never a tremour. Annixter, observant
enough where his wife was concerned noted how the reflection of
the white china set a glow of pale light underneath her chin.
"Hilma," he said, "I've been wondering lately about things.
We're so blamed happy ourselves it won't do for us to forget
about other people who are down, will it? Might change our luck.
And I'm just likely to forget that way, too. It's my nature."
His wife looked up at him joyfully. Here was the new Annixter,
certainly.
"In all this hullabaloo about Dyke," he went on "there's some one
nobody ain't thought about at all. That's MRS. Dyke--and the
little tad. I wouldn't be surprised if they were in a hole over
there. What do you say we drive over to the hop ranch after
dinner and see if she wants anything?"
Hilma put down the plates and came around the table and kissed
him without a word.
As soon as their dinner was over, Annixter had the carry-all
hitched up, and, dispensing with young Vacca, drove over to the
hop ranch with Hilma.
Hilma could not keep back the tears as they passed through the
lamentable desolation of the withered, brown vines, symbols of
perished hopes and abandoned effort, and Annixter swore between
his teeth.
Though the wheels of the carry-all grated loudly on the roadway
in front of the house, nobody came to the door nor looked from
the windows. The place seemed tenantless, infinitely lonely,
infinitely sad.
Annixter tied the team, and with Hilma approached the wide-open
door, scuffling and tramping on the porch to attract attention.
Nobody stirred. A Sunday stillness pervaded the place. Outside,
the withered hop-leaves rustled like dry paper in the breeze.
The quiet was ominous. They peered into the front room from the
doorway, Hilma holding her husband's hand. Mrs. Dyke was there.
She sat at the table in the middle of the room, her head, with
its white hair, down upon her arm. A clutter of unwashed dishes
were strewed over the red and white tablecloth. The unkempt
room, once a marvel of neatness, had not been cleaned for days.
Newspapers, Genslinger's extras and copies of San Francisco and
Los Angeles dailies were scattered all over the room. On the
table itself were crumpled yellow telegrams, a dozen of them, a
score of them, blowing about in the draught from the door. And
in the midst of all this disarray, surrounded by the published
accounts of her son's crime, the telegraphed answers to her
pitiful appeals for tidings fluttering about her head, the
highwayman's mother, worn out, abandoned and forgotten, slept
through the stillness of the Sunday afternoon.
Neither Hilma nor Annixter ever forgot their interview with Mrs.
Dyke that day. Suddenly waking, she had caught sight of
Annixter, and at once exclaimed eagerly:
"Is there any news?"
For a long time afterwards nothing could be got from her. She
was numb to all other issues than the one question of Dyke's
capture. She did not answer their questions nor reply to their
offers of assistance. Hilma and Annixter conferred together
without lowering their voices, at her very elbow, while she
looked vacantly at the floor, drawing one hand over the other in
a persistent, maniacal gesture. From time to time she would
start suddenly from her chair, her eyes wide, and as if all at
once realising Annixter's presence, would cry out:
"Is there any news?"
"Where is Sidney, Mrs. Dyke?" asked Hilma for the fourth time.
"Is she well? Is she taken care of?"
"Here's the last telegram," said Mrs. Dyke, in a loud, monotonous
voice. "See, it says there is no news. He didn't do it," she
moaned, rocking herself back and forth, drawing one hand over the
other, "he didn't do it, he didn't do it, he didn't do it. I
don't know where he is."
When at last she came to herself, it was with a flood of tears.
Hilma put her arms around the poor, old woman, as she bowed
herself again upon the table, sobbing and weeping.
"Oh, my son, my son," she cried, "my own boy, my only son! If I
could have died for you to have prevented this. I remember him
when he was little. Such a splendid little fellow, so brave, so
loving, with never an unkind thought, never a mean action. So it
was all his life. We were never apart. It was always 'dear
little son,' and 'dear mammy' between us--never once was he
unkind, and he loved me and was the gentlest son to me. And he
was a GOOD man. He is now, he is now. They don't understand
him. They are not even sure that he did this. He never meant
it. They don't know my son. Why, he wouldn't have hurt a
kitten. Everybody loved him. He was driven to it. They hounded
him down, they wouldn't let him alone. He was not right in his
mind. They hounded him to it," she cried fiercely, "they hounded
him to it. They drove him and goaded him till he couldn't stand
it any longer, and now they mean to kill him for turning on them.
They are hunting him with dogs; night after night I have stood on
the porch and heard the dogs baying far off. They are tracking
my boy with dogs like a wild animal. May God never forgive
them." She rose to her feet, terrible, her white hair unbound.
"May God punish them as they deserve, may they never prosper--on
my knees I shall pray for it every night--may their money be a
curse to them, may their sons, their first-born, only sons, be
taken from them in their youth."
But Hilma interrupted, begging her to be silent, to be quiet.
The tears came again then and the choking sobs. Hilma took her
in her arms.
"Oh, my little boy, my little boy," she cried. "My only son, all
that I had, to have come to this! He was not right in his mind
or he would have known it would break my heart. Oh, my son, my
son, if I could have died for you."
Sidney came in, clinging to her dress, weeping, imploring her not
to cry, protesting that they never could catch her papa, that he
would come back soon. Hilma took them both, the little child and
the broken-down old woman, in the great embrace of her strong
arms, and they all three sobbed together.
Annixter stood on the porch outside, his back turned, looking
straight before him into the wilderness of dead vines, his teeth
shut hard, his lower lip thrust out.
"I hope S. Behrman is satisfied with all this," he muttered. "I
hope he is satisfied now, damn his soul!"
All at once an idea occurred to him. He turned about and
reentered the room.
"Mrs Dyke," he began, "I want you and Sidney to come over and
live at Quien Sabe. I know--you can't make me believe that the
reporters and officers and officious busy-faces that pretend to
offer help just so as they can satisfy their curiosity aren't
nagging you to death. I want you to let me take care of you and
the little tad till all this trouble of yours is over with.
There's plenty of place for you. You can have the house my
wife's people used to live in. You've got to look these things
in the face. What are you going to do to get along? You must be
very short of money. S. Behrman will foreclose on you and take
the whole place in a little while, now. I want you to let me
help you, let Hilma and me be good friends to you. It would be a
privilege."
Mrs. Dyke tried bravely to assume her pride, insisting that she
could manage, but her spirit was broken. The whole affair ended
unexpectedly, with Annixter and Hilma bringing Dyke's mother and
little girl back to Quien Sabe in the carry-all.
Mrs. Dyke would not take with her a stick of furniture nor a
single ornament. It would only serve to remind her of a vanished
happiness. She packed a few clothes of her own and Sidney's in a
little trunk, Hilma helping her, and Annixter stowed the trunk
under the carry-all's back seat. Mrs. Dyke turned the key in the
door of the house and Annixter helped her to her seat beside his
wife. They drove through the sear, brown hop vines. At the
angle of the road Mrs. Dyke turned around and looked back at the
ruin of the hop ranch, the roof of the house just showing above
the trees. She never saw it again.
As soon as Annixter and Hilma were alone, after their return to
Quien Sabe--Mrs. Dyke and Sidney having been installed in the
Trees' old house--Hilma threw her arms around her husband's neck.
"Fine," she exclaimed, "oh, it was fine of you, dear to think of
them and to be so good to them. My husband is such a GOOD man.
So unselfish. You wouldn't have thought of being kind to Mrs.
Dyke and Sidney a little while ago. You wouldn't have thought of
them at all. But you did now, and it's just because you love me
true, isn't it? Isn't it? And because it's made you a better
man. I'm so proud and glad to think it's so. It is so, isn't
it? Just because you love me true."
"You bet it is, Hilma," he told her.
As Hilma and Annixter were sitting down to the supper which they
found waiting for them, Louisa Vacca came to the door of the
dining-room to say that Harran Derrick had telephoned over from
Los Muertos for Annixter, and had left word for him to ring up
Los Muertos as soon as he came in.
"He said it was important," added Louisa Vacca.
"Maybe they have news from Washington," suggested Hilma.
Annixter would not wait to have supper, but telephoned to Los
Muertos at once. Magnus answered the call. There was a special
meeting of the Executive Committee of the League summoned for the
next day, he told Annixter. It was for the purpose of
considering the new grain tariff prepared by the Railroad
Commissioners. Lyman had written that the schedule of this
tariff had just been issued, that he had not been able to
construct it precisely according to the wheat-growers' wishes,
and that he, himself, would come down to Los Muertos and explain
its apparent discrepancies. Magnus said Lyman would be present
at the session.
Annixter, curious for details, forbore, nevertheless, to
question. The connection from Los Muertos to Quien Sabe was made
through Bonneville, and in those troublesome times no one could
be trusted. It could not be known who would overhear
conversations carried on over the lines. He assured Magnus that
he would be on hand.
The time for the Committee meeting had been set for seven o'clock
in the evening, in order to accommodate Lyman, who wrote that he
would be down on the evening train, but would be compelled, by
pressure of business, to return to the city early the next
morning.
At the time appointed, the men composing the Committee gathered
about the table in the dining-room of the Los Muertos ranch
house. It was almost a reproduction of the scene of the famous
evening when Osterman had proposed the plan of the Ranchers'
Railroad Commission. Magnus Derrick sat at the head of the
table, in his buttoned frock coat. Whiskey bottles and siphons
of soda-water were within easy reach. Presley, who by now was
considered the confidential friend of every member of the
Committee, lounged as before on the sofa, smoking cigarettes, the
cat Nathalie on his knee. Besides Magnus and Annixter, Osterman
was present, and old Broderson and Harran; Garnet from the Ruby
Rancho and Gethings of the San Pablo, who were also members of
the Executive Committee, were on hand, preoccupied, bearded men,
smoking black cigars, and, last of all, Dabney, the silent old
man, of whom little was known but his name, and who had been made
a member of the Committee, nobody could tell why.
"My son Lyman should be here, gentlemen, within at least ten
minutes. I have sent my team to meet him at Bonneville,"
explained Magnus, as he called the meeting to order. "The
Secretary will call the roll."
Osterman called the roll, and, to fill in the time, read over the
minutes of the previous meeting. The treasurer was making his
report as to the funds at the disposal of the League when Lyman
arrived.
Magnus and Harran went forward to meet him, and the Committee
rather awkwardly rose and remained standing while the three
exchanged greetings, the members, some of whom had never seen
their commissioner, eyeing him out of the corners of their eyes.
Lyman was dressed with his usual correctness. His cravat was of
the latest fashion, his clothes of careful design and
unimpeachable fit. His shoes, of patent leather, reflected the
lamplight, and he carried a drab overcoat over his arm. Before
being introduced to the Committee, he excused himself a moment
and ran to see his mother, who waited for him in the adjoining
sitting-room. But in a few moments he returned, asking pardon
for the delay.
He was all affability; his protruding eyes, that gave such an
unusual, foreign appearance to his very dark face, radiated
geniality. He was evidently anxious to please, to produce a good
impression upon the grave, clumsy farmers before whom he stood.
But at the same time, Presley, watching him from his place on the
sofa, could imagine that he was rather nervous. He was too
nimble in his cordiality, and the little gestures he made in
bringing his cuffs into view and in touching the ends of his
tight, black mustache with the ball of his thumb were repeated
with unnecessary frequency.
"Mr. Broderson, my son, Lyman, my eldest son. Mr. Annixter, my
son, Lyman."
The Governor introduced him to the ranchers, proud of Lyman's
good looks, his correct dress, his ease of manner. Lyman shook
hands all around, keeping up a flow of small talk, finding a new
phrase for each member, complimenting Osterman, whom he already
knew, upon his talent for organisation, recalling a mutual
acquaintance to the mind of old Broderson. At length, however,
he sat down at the end of the table, opposite his brother. There
was a silence.
Magnus rose to recapitulate the reasons for the extra session of
the Committee, stating again that the Board of Railway
Commissioners which they--the ranchers--had succeeded in seating
had at length issued the new schedule of reduced rates, and that
Mr. Derrick had been obliging enough to offer to come down to Los
Muertos in person to acquaint the wheat-growers of the San
Joaquin with the new rates for the carriage of their grain.
But Lyman very politely protested, addressing his father
punctiliously as "Mr. Chairman," and the other ranchers as
"Gentlemen of the Executive Committee of the League." He had no
wish, he said, to disarrange the regular proceedings of the
Committee. Would it not be preferable to defer the reading of
his report till "new business" was called for? In the meanwhile,
let the Committee proceed with its usual work. He understood the
necessarily delicate nature of this work, and would be pleased to
withdraw till the proper time arrived for him to speak.
"Good deal of backing and filling about the reading of a column
of figures," muttered Annixter to the man at his elbow.
Lyman "awaited the Committee's decision." He sat down, touching
the ends of his mustache.
"Oh, play ball," growled Annixter.
Gethings rose to say that as the meeting had been called solely
for the purpose of hearing and considering the new grain tariff,
he was of the opinion that routine business could be dispensed
with and the schedule read at once. It was so ordered.
Lyman rose and made a long speech. Voluble as Osterman himself,
he, nevertheless, had at his command a vast number of ready-made
phrases, the staples of a political speaker, the stock in trade
of the commercial lawyer, which rolled off his tongue with the
most persuasive fluency. By degrees, in the course of his
speech, he began to insinuate the idea that the wheat-growers had
never expected to settle their difficulties with the Railroad by
the work of a single commission; that they had counted upon a
long, continued campaign of many years, railway commission
succeeding railway commission, before the desired low rates
should be secured; that the present Board of Commissioners was
only the beginning and that too great results were not expected
from them. All this he contrived to mention casually, in the
talk, as if it were a foregone conclusion, a matter understood by
all.
As the speech continued, the eyes of the ranchers around the
table were fixed with growing attention upon this well-dressed,
city-bred young man, who spoke so fluently and who told them of
their own intentions. A feeling of perplexity began to spread,
and the first taint of distrust invaded their minds.
"But the good work has been most auspiciously inaugurated,"
continued Lyman. "Reforms so sweeping as the one contemplated
cannot be accomplished in a single night. Great things grow
slowly, benefits to be permanent must accrue gradually. Yet, in
spite of all this, your commissioners have done much. Already
the phalanx of the enemy is pierced, already his armour is
dinted. Pledged as were your commissioners to an average ten per
cent. reduction in rates for the carriage of grain by the Pacific
and Southwestern Railroad, we have rigidly adhered to the demands
of our constituency, we have obeyed the People. The main problem
has not yet been completely solved; that is for later, when we
shall have gathered sufficient strength to attack the enemy in
his very stronghold; BUT AN AVERAGE TEN PER CENT. CUT HAS BEEN
MADE ALL OVER THE STATE. We have made a great advance, have
taken a great step forward, and if the work is carried ahead,
upon the lines laid down by the present commissioners and their
constituents, there is every reason to believe that within a very
few years equitable and stable rates for the shipment of grain
from the San Joaquin Valley to Stockton, Port Costa, and
tidewater will be permanently imposed."
"Well, hold on," exclaimed Annixter, out of order and ignoring
the Governor's reproof, "hasn't your commission reduced grain
rates in the San Joaquin?"
"We have reduced grain rates by ten per cent. all over the
State," rejoined Lyman. "Here are copies of the new schedule."
He drew them from his valise and passed them around the table.
"You see," he observed, "the rate between Mayfield and Oakland,
for instance, has been reduced by twenty-five cents a ton."
"Yes--but--but--" said old Broderson, "it is rather unusual,
isn't it, for wheat in that district to be sent to Oakland?"
"Why, look here," exclaimed Annixter, looking up from the
schedule, "where is there any reduction in rates in the San
Joaquin--from Bonneville and Guadalajara, for instance? I don't
see as you've made any reduction at all. Is this right? Did you
give me the right schedule?"
"Of course, ALL the points in the State could not be covered at
once," returned Lyman. "We never expected, you know, that we
could cut rates in the San Joaquin the very first move; that is
for later. But you will see we made very material reductions on
shipments from the upper Sacramento Valley; also the rate from
Ione to Marysville has been reduced eighty cents a ton."
"Why, rot," cried Annixter, "no one ever ships wheat that way."
"The Salinas rate," continued Lyman, "has been lowered seventyfive
cents; the St. Helena rate fifty cents, and please notice
the very drastic cut from Red Bluff, north, along the Oregon
route, to the Oregon State Line."
"Where not a carload of wheat is shipped in a year," commented
Gethings of the San Pablo.
"Oh, you will find yourself mistaken there, Mr. Gethings,"
returned Lyman courteously. "And for the matter of that, a low
rate would stimulate wheat-production in that district."
The order of the meeting was broken up, neglected; Magnus did not
even pretend to preside. In the growing excitement over the
inexplicable schedule, routine was not thought of. Every one
spoke at will.
"Why, Lyman," demanded Magnus, looking across the table to his
son, "is this schedule correct? You have not cut rates in the
San Joaquin at all. We--these gentlemen here and myself, we are
no better off than we were before we secured your election as
commissioner."
"We were pledged to make an average ten per cent. cut, sir----"
"It IS an average ten per cent. cut," cried Osterman. "Oh, yes,
that's plain. It's an average ten per cent. cut all right, but
you've made it by cutting grain rates between points where
practically no grain is shipped. We, the wheat-growers in the
San Joaquin, where all the wheat is grown, are right where we
were before. The Railroad won't lose a nickel. By Jingo, boys,"
he glanced around the table, "I'd like to know what this means."
"The Railroad, if you come to that," returned Lyman, "has already
lodged a protest against the new rate."
Annixter uttered a derisive shout.
"A protest! That's good, that is. When the P. and S. W. objects
to rates it don't 'protest,' m' son. The first you hear from Mr.
Shelgrim is an injunction from the courts preventing the order
for new rates from taking effect. By the Lord," he cried
angrily, leaping to his feet, "I would like to know what all this
means, too. Why didn't you reduce our grain rates? What did we
elect you for?"
"Yes, what did we elect you for?" demanded Osterman and Gethings,
also getting to their feet.
"Order, order, gentlemen," cried Magnus, remembering the duties
of his office and rapping his knuckles on the table. "This
meeting has been allowed to degenerate too far already."
"You elected us," declared Lyman doggedly, "to make an average
ten per cent. cut on grain rates. We have done it. Only because
you don't benefit at once, you object. It makes a difference
whose ox is gored, it seems."
"Lyman!"
It was Magnus who spoke. He had drawn himself to his full six
feet. His eyes were flashing direct into his son's. His voice
rang with severity.
"Lyman, what does this mean?"
The other spread out his hands.
"As you see, sir. We have done our best. I warned you not to
expect too much. I told you that this question of transportation
was difficult. You would not wish to put rates so low that the
action would amount to confiscation of property."
"Why did you not lower rates in the valley of the San Joaquin?"
"That was not a PROMINENT issue in the affair," responded Lyman,
carefully emphasising his words. "I understand, of course, it
was to be approached IN TIME. The main point was AN AVERAGE TEN
PER CENT. REDUCTION. Rates WILL be lowered in the San Joaquin.
The ranchers around Bonneville will be able to ship to Port Costa
at equitable rates, but so radical a measure as that cannot be
put through in a turn of the hand. We must study----"
"You KNEW the San Joaquin rate was an issue," shouted Annixter,
shaking his finger across the table. "What do we men who backed
you care about rates up in Del Norte and Siskiyou Counties? Not
a whoop in hell. It was the San Joaquin rate we were fighting
for, and we elected you to reduce that. You didn't do it and you
don't intend to, and, by the Lord Harry, I want to know why."
"You'll know, sir--" began Lyman.
"Well, I'll tell you why," vociferated Osterman. "I'll tell you
why. It's because we have been sold out. It's because the P.
and S. W. have had their spoon in this boiling. It's because our
commissioners have betrayed us. It's because we're a set of damn
fool farmers and have been cinched again."
Lyman paled under his dark skin at the direct attack. He
evidently had not expected this so soon. For the fraction of one
instant he lost his poise. He strove to speak, but caught his
breath, stammering.
"What have you to say, then?" cried Harran, who, until now, had
not spoken.
"I have this to say," answered Lyman, making head as best he
might, "that this is no proper spirit in which to discuss
business. The Commission has fulfilled its obligations. It has
adjusted rates to the best of its ability. We have been at work
for two months on the preparation of this schedule----"
"That's a lie," shouted Annixter, his face scarlet; "that's a
lie. That schedule was drawn in the offices of the Pacific and
Southwestern and you know it. It's a scheme of rates made for
the Railroad and by the Railroad and you were bought over to put
your name to it."
There was a concerted outburst at the words. All the men in the
room were on their feet, gesticulating and vociferating.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Magnus, "are we schoolboys, are we
ruffians of the street?"
"We're a set of fool farmers and we've been betrayed," cried
Osterman.
"Well, what have you to say? What have you to say?" persisted
Harran, leaning across the table toward his brother. "For God's
sake, Lyman, you've got SOME explanation."
"You've misunderstood," protested Lyman, white and trembling.
"You've misunderstood. You've expected too much. Next year,--
next year,--soon now, the Commission will take up the--the
Commission will consider the San Joaquin rate. We've done our
best, that is all."
"Have you, sir?" demanded Magnus.
The Governor's head was in a whirl; a sensation, almost of
faintness, had seized upon him. Was it possible? Was it
possible?
"Have you done your best?" For a second he compelled Lyman's eye.
The glances of father and son met, and, in spite of his best
efforts, Lyman's eyes wavered. He began to protest once more,
explaining the matter over again from the beginning. But Magnus
did not listen. In that brief lapse of time he was convinced
that the terrible thing had happened, that the unbelievable had
come to pass. It was in the air. Between father and son, in
some subtle fashion, the truth that was a lie stood suddenly
revealed. But even then Magnus would not receive it. Lyman do
this! His son, his eldest son, descend to this! Once more and
for the last time he turned to him and in his voice there was
that ring that compelled silence.
"Lyman," he said, "I adjure you--I--I demand of you as you are my
son and an honourable man, explain yourself. What is there
behind all this? It is no longer as Chairman of the Committee I
speak to you, you a member of the Railroad Commission. It is
your father who speaks, and I address you as my son. Do you
understand the gravity of this crisis; do you realise the
responsibility of your position; do you not see the importance of
this moment? Explain yourself."
"There is nothing to explain."
"You have not reduced rates in the San Joaquin? You have not
reduced rates between Bonneville and tidewater?"
"I repeat, sir, what I said before. An average ten per cent.
cut----"
"Lyman, answer me, yes or no. Have you reduced the Bonneville
rate?"
"It could not be done so soon. Give us time. We----"
"Yes or no! By God, sir, do you dare equivocate with me? Yes or
no; have you reduced the Bonneville rate?"
"No."
"And answer ME," shouted Harran, leaning far across the table,
"answer ME. Were you paid by the Railroad to leave the San
Joaquin rate untouched?"
Lyman, whiter than ever, turned furious upon his brother.
"Don't you dare put that question to me again."
"No, I won't," cried Harran, "because I'll TELL you to your
villain's face that you WERE paid to do it."
On the instant the clamour burst forth afresh. Still on their
feet, the ranchers had, little by little, worked around the
table, Magnus alone keeping his place. The others were in a
group before Lyman, crowding him, as it were, to the wall,
shouting into his face with menacing gestures. The truth that
was a lie, the certainty of a trust betrayed, a pledge ruthlessly
broken, was plain to every one of them.
"By the Lord! men have been shot for less than this," cried
Osterman. "You've sold us out, you, and if you ever bring that
dago face of yours on a level with mine again, I'll slap it."
"Keep your hands off," exclaimed Lyman quickly, the
aggressiveness of the cornered rat flaming up within him. "No
violence. Don't you go too far."
"How much were you paid? How much were you paid?" vociferated
Harran.
"Yes, yes, what was your price?" cried the others. They were
beside themselves with anger; their words came harsh from between
their set teeth; their gestures were made with their fists
clenched.
"You know the Commission acted in good faith," retorted Lyman.
"You know that all was fair and above board."
"Liar," shouted Annixter; "liar, bribe-eater. You were bought
and paid for," and with the words his arm seemed almost of itself
to leap out from his shoulder. Lyman received the blow squarely
in the face and the force of it sent him staggering backwards
toward the wall. He tripped over his valise and fell half way,
his back supported against the closed door of the room. Magnus
sprang forward. His son had been struck, and the instincts of a
father rose up in instant protest; rose for a moment, then
forever died away in his heart. He checked the words that
flashed to his mind. He lowered his upraised arm. No, he had
but one son. The poor, staggering creature with the fine
clothes, white face, and blood-streaked lips was no longer his.
A blow could not dishonour him more than he had dishonoured
himself.
But Gethings, the older man, intervened, pulling Annixter back,
crying:
"Stop, this won't do. Not before his father."
"I am no father to this man, gentlemen," exclaimed Magnus. "From
now on, I have but one son. You, sir," he turned to Lyman, "you,
sir, leave my house."
Lyman, his handkerchief to his lips, his smart cravat in
disarray, caught up his hat and coat. He was shaking with fury,
his protruding eyes were blood-shot. He swung open the door.
"Ruffians," he shouted from the threshold, "ruffians, bullies.
Do your own dirty business yourselves after this. I'm done with
you. How is it, all of a sudden you talk about honour? How is
it that all at once you're so clean and straight? You weren't so
particular at Sacramento just before the nominations. How was
the Board elected? I'm a bribe-eater, am I? Is it any worse
than GIVING a bribe? Ask Magnus Derrick what he thinks about
that. Ask him how much he paid the Democratic bosses at
Sacramento to swing the convention."
He went out, slamming the door.
Presley followed. The whole affair made him sick at heart,
filled him with infinite disgust, infinite weariness. He wished
to get away from it all. He left the dining-room and the
excited, clamouring men behind him and stepped out on the porch
of the ranch house, closing the door behind him. Lyman was
nowhere in sight. Presley was alone. It was late, and after the
lamp-heated air of the dining-room, the coolness of the night was
delicious, and its vast silence, after the noise and fury of the
committee meeting, descended from the stars like a benediction.
Presley stepped to the edge of the porch, looking off to
southward.
And there before him, mile after mile, illimitable, covering the
earth from horizon to horizon, lay the Wheat. The growth, now
many days old, was already high from the ground. There it lay, a
vast, silent ocean, shimmering a pallid green under the moon and
under the stars; a mighty force, the strength of nations, the
life of the world. There in the night, under the dome of the
sky, it was growing steadily. To Presley's mind, the scene in
the room he had just left dwindled to paltry insignificance
before this sight. Ah, yes, the Wheat--it was over this that the
Railroad, the ranchers, the traitor false to his trust, all the
members of an obscure conspiracy, were wrangling. As if human
agency could affect this colossal power! What were these heated,
tiny squabbles, this feverish, small bustle of mankind, this
minute swarming of the human insect, to the great, majestic,
silent ocean of the Wheat itself! Indifferent, gigantic,
resistless, it moved in its appointed grooves. Men, Liliputians,
gnats in the sunshine, buzzed impudently in their tiny battles,
were born, lived through their little day, died, and were
forgotten; while the Wheat, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, grew
steadily under the night, alone with the stars and with God.
V.
Jack-rabbits were a pest that year and Presley occasionally found
amusement in hunting them with Harran's half-dozen greyhounds,
following the chase on horseback. One day, between two and three
months after Lyman s visit to Los Muertos, as he was returning
toward the ranch house from a distant and lonely quarter of Los
Muertos, he came unexpectedly upon a strange sight.
Some twenty men, Annixter's and Osterman's tenants, and small
ranchers from east of Guadalajara--all members of the League--
were going through the manual of arms under Harran Derrick's
supervision. They were all equipped with new Winchester rifles.
Harran carried one of these himself and with it he illustrated
the various commands he gave. As soon as one of the men under
his supervision became more than usually proficient, he was told
off to instruct a file of the more backward. After the manual of
arms, Harran gave the command to take distance as skirmishers,
and when the line had opened out so that some half-dozen feet
intervened between each man, an advance was made across the
field, the men stooping low and snapping the hammers of their
rifles at an imaginary enemy.
The League had its agents in San Francisco, who watched the
movements of the Railroad as closely as was possible, and some
time before this, Annixter had received word that the Marshal and
his deputies were coming down to Bonneville to put the dummy
buyers of his ranch in possession. The report proved to be but
the first of many false alarms, but it had stimulated the League
to unusual activity, and some three or four hundred men were
furnished with arms and from time to time were drilled in secret.
Among themselves, the ranchers said that if the Railroad managers
did not believe they were terribly in earnest in the stand they
had taken, they were making a fatal mistake.
Harran reasserted this statement to Presley on the way home to
the ranch house that same day. Harran had caught up with him by
the time he reached the Lower Road, and the two jogged homeward
through the miles of standing wheat.
"They may jump the ranch, Pres," he said, "if they try hard
enough, but they will never do it while I am alive. By the way,"
he added, "you know we served notices yesterday upon S. Behrman
and Cy. Ruggles to quit the country. Of course, they won't do
it, but they won't be able to say they didn't have warning."
About an hour later, the two reached the ranch house, but as
Harran rode up the driveway, he uttered an exclamation.
"Hello," he said, "something is up. That's Genslinger's
buckboard."
In fact, the editor's team was tied underneath the shade of a
giant eucalyptus tree near by. Harran, uneasy under this
unexpected visit of the enemy's friend, dismounted without
stabling his horse, and went at once to the dining-room, where
visitors were invariably received. But the dining-room was
empty, and his mother told him that Magnus and the editor were in
the "office." Magnus had said they were not to be disturbed.
Earlier in the afternoon, the editor had driven up to the porch
and had asked Mrs. Derrick, whom he found reading a book of poems
on the porch, if he could see Magnus. At the time, the Governor
had gone with Phelps to inspect the condition of the young wheat
on Hooven's holding, but within half an hour he returned, and
Genslinger had asked him for a "few moments' talk in private."
The two went into the "office," Magnus locking the door behind
him.
"Very complete you are here, Governor," observed the editor in
his alert, jerky manner, his black, bead-like eyes twinkling
around the room from behind his glasses. "Telephone, safe,
ticker, account-books--well, that's progress, isn't it? Only way
to manage a big ranch these days. But the day of the big ranch
is over. As the land appreciates in value, the temptation to
sell off small holdings will be too strong. And then the small
holding can be cultivated to better advantage. I shall have an
editorial on that some day."
"The cost of maintaining a number of small holdings," said
Magnus, indifferently, "is, of course, greater than if they were
all under one management."
"That may be, that may be," rejoined the other.
There was a long pause. Genslinger leaned back in his chair and
rubbed a knee. Magnus, standing erect in front of the safe,
waited for him to speak.
"This is an unfortunate business, Governor," began the editor,
"this misunderstanding between the ranchers and the Railroad. I
wish it could be adjusted. HERE are two industries that MUST be
in harmony with one another, or we all go to pot."
"I should prefer not to be interviewed on the subject, Mr.
Genslinger," said Magnus.
"Oh, no, oh, no. Lord love you, Governor, I don't want to
interview you. We all know how you stand."
Again there was a long silence. Magnus wondered what this little
man, usually so garrulous, could want of him. At length,
Genslinger began again. He did not look at Magnus, except at
long intervals.
"About the present Railroad Commission," he remarked. "That was
an interesting campaign you conducted in Sacramento and San
Francisco."
Magnus held his peace, his hands shut tight. Did Genslinger know
of Lyman's disgrace? Was it for this he had come? Would the
story of it be the leading article in to-morrow's Mercury?
"An interesting campaign," repeated Genslinger, slowly; "a very
interesting campaign. I watched it with every degree of
interest. I saw its every phase, Mr. Derrick."
"The campaign was not without its interest," admitted Magnus.
"Yes," said Genslinger, still more deliberately, "and some phases
of it were--more interesting than others, as, for instance, let
us say the way in which you--personally--secured the votes of
certain chairmen of delegations--NEED I particularise further?
Yes, those men--the way you got their votes. Now, THAT I should
say, Mr. Derrick, was the most interesting move in the whole
game--to you. Hm, curious," he murmured, musingly. "Let's see.
You deposited two one-thousand dollar bills and four five-hundred
dollar bills in a box--three hundred and eight was the number--in
a box in the Safety Deposit Vaults in San Francisco, and then--
let's see, you gave a key to this box to each of the gentlemen in
question, and after the election the box was empty. Now, I call
that interesting--curious, because it's a new, safe, and highly
ingenious method of bribery. How did you happen to think of it,
Governor?"
"Do you know what you are doing, sir?" Magnus burst forth. "Do
you know what you are insinuating, here, in my own house?"
"Why, Governor," returned the editor, blandly, "I'm not
INSINUATING anything. I'm talking about what I KNOW."
"It's a lie."
Genslinger rubbed his chin reflectively.
"Well," he answered, "you can have a chance to prove it before
the Grand Jury, if you want to."
"My character is known all over the State," blustered Magnus.
"My politics are pure politics. My----"
"No one needs a better reputation for pure politics than the man
who sets out to be a briber," interrupted Genslinger, "and I
might as well tell you, Governor, that you can't shout me down.
I can put my hand on the two chairmen you bought before it's dark
to-day. I've had their depositions in my safe for the last six
weeks. We could make the arrests to-morrow, if we wanted.
Governor, you sure did a risky thing when you went into that
Sacramento fight, an awful risky thing. Some men can afford to
have bribery charges preferred against them, and it don't hurt
one little bit, but YOU--Lord, it would BUST you, Governor, bust
you dead. I know all about the whole shananigan business from A
to Z, and if you don't believe it--here," he drew a long strip of
paper from his pocket, "here's a galley proof of the story."
Magnus took it in his hands. There, under his eyes, scareheaded,
double-leaded, the more important clauses printed in bold
type, was the detailed account of the "deal" Magnus had made with
the two delegates. It was pitiless, remorseless, bald. Every
statement was substantiated, every statistic verified with
Genslinger's meticulous love for exactness. Besides all that, it
had the ring of truth. It was exposure, ruin, absolute
annihilation.
"That's about correct, isn't it?" commented Genslinger, as
Derrick finished reading. Magnus did not reply. "I think it is
correct enough," the editor continued. "But I thought it would
only be fair to you to let you see it before it was published."
The one thought uppermost in Derrick's mind, his one impulse of
the moment was, at whatever cost, to preserve his dignity, not to
allow this man to exult in the sight of one quiver of weakness,
one trace of defeat, one suggestion of humiliation. By an effort
that put all his iron rigidity to the test, he forced himself to
look straight into Genslinger's eyes.
"I congratulate you," he observed, handing back the proof, "upon
your journalistic enterprise. Your paper will sell to-morrow."
"Oh, I don't know as I want to publish this story," remarked the
editor, indifferently, putting away the galley. "I'm just like
that. The fun for me is running a good story to earth, but once
I've got it, I lose interest. And, then, I wouldn't like to see
you--holding the position you do, President of the League and a
leading man of the county--I wouldn't like to see a story like
this smash you over. It's worth more to you to keep it out of
print than for me to put it in. I've got nothing much to gain
but a few extra editions, but you--Lord, you would lose
everything. Your committee was in the deal right enough. But
your League, all the San Joaquin Valley, everybody in the State
believes the commissioners were fairly elected."
"Your story," suddenly exclaimed Magnus, struck with an idea,
"will be thoroughly discredited just so soon as the new grain
tariff is published. I have means of knowing that the San
Joaquin rate--the issue upon which the board was elected--is not
to be touched. Is it likely the ranchers would secure the
election of a board that plays them false?"
"Oh, we know all about that," answered Genslinger, smiling. "You
thought you were electing Lyman easily. You thought you had got
the Railroad to walk right into your trap. You didn't understand
how you could pull off your deal so easily. Why, Governor, LYMAN
WAS PLEDGED TO THE RAILROAD TWO YEARS AGO. He was THE ONE
PARTICULAR man the corporation wanted for commissioner. And your
people elected him--saved the Railroad all the trouble of
campaigning for him. And you can't make any counter charge of
bribery there. No, sir, the corporation don't use such
amateurish methods as that. Confidentially and between us two,
all that the Railroad has done for Lyman, in order to attach him
to their interests, is to promise to back him politically in the
next campaign for Governor. It's too bad," he continued,
dropping his voice, and changing his position. "It really is too
bad to see good men trying to bunt a stone wall over with their
bare heads. You couldn't have won at any stage of the game. I
wish I could have talked to you and your friends before you went
into that Sacramento fight. I could have told you then how
little chance you had. When will you people realise that you
can't buck against the Railroad? Why, Magnus, it's like me going
out in a paper boat and shooting peas at a battleship."
"Is that all you wished to see me about, Mr. Genslinger?"
remarked Magnus, bestirring himself. "I am rather occupied today."
"Well," returned the other, "you know what the publication of
this article would mean for you." He paused again, took off his
glasses, breathed on them, polished the lenses with his
handkerchief and readjusted them on his nose. "I've been
thinking, Governor," he began again, with renewed alertness, and
quite irrelevantly, "of enlarging the scope of the ' Mercury.'
You see, I'm midway between the two big centres of the State, San
Francisco and Los Angeles, and I want to extend the 'Mercury's'
sphere of influence as far up and down the valley as I can. I
want to illustrate the paper. You see, if I had a photoengraving
plant of my own, I could do a good deal of outside
jobbing as well, and the investment would pay ten per cent. But
it takes money to make money. I wouldn't want to put in any
dinky, one-horse affair. I want a good plant. I've been
figuring out the business. Besides the plant, there would be the
expense of a high grade paper. Can't print half-tones on
anything but coated paper, and that COSTS. Well, what with this
and with that and running expenses till the thing began to pay,
it would cost me about ten thousand dollars, and I was wondering
if, perhaps, you couldn't see your way clear to accommodating
me."
"Ten thousand?"
"Yes. Say five thousand down, and the balance within sixty
days."
Magnus, for the moment blind to what Genslinger had in mind,
turned on him in astonishment.
"Why, man, what security could you give me for such an amount?"
"Well, to tell the truth," answered the editor, "I hadn't thought
much about securities. In fact, I believed you would see how
greatly it was to your advantage to talk business with me. You
see, I'm not going to print this article about you, Governor, and
I'm not going to let it get out so as any one else can print it,
and it seems to me that one good turn deserves another. You
understand?"
Magnus understood. An overwhelming desire suddenly took
possession of him to grip this blackmailer by the throat, to
strangle him where he stood; or, if not, at least to turn upon
him with that old-time terrible anger, before which whole
conventions had once cowered. But in the same moment the
Governor realised this was not to be. Only its righteousness had
made his wrath terrible; only the justice of his anger had made
him feared. Now the foundation was gone from under his feet; he
had knocked it away himself. Three times feeble was he whose
quarrel was unjust. Before this country editor, this paid
speaker of the Railroad, he stood, convicted. The man had him at
his mercy. The detected briber could not resent an insult.
Genslinger rose, smoothing his hat.
"Well," he said, "of course, you want time to think it over, and
you can't raise money like that on short notice. I'll wait till
Friday noon of this week. We begin to set Saturday's paper at
about four, Friday afternoon, and the forms are locked about two
in the morning. I hope," he added, turning back at the door of
the room, "that you won't find anything disagreeable in your
Saturday morning 'Mercury,' Mr. Derrick."
He went out, closing the door behind him, and in a moment, Magnus
heard the wheels of his buckboard grating on the driveway.
The following morning brought a letter to Magnus from Gethings,
of the San Pueblo ranch, which was situated very close to
Visalia. The letter was to the effect that all around Visalia,
upon the ranches affected by the regrade of the Railroad, men
were arming and drilling, and that the strength of the League in
that quarter was undoubted. "But to refer," continued the
letter, "to a most painful recollection. You will, no doubt,
remember that, at the close of our last committee meeting,
specific charges were made as to fraud in the nomination and
election of one of our commissioners, emanating, most
unfortunately, from the commissioner himself. These charges, my
dear Mr. Derrick, were directed at yourself. How the secrets of
the committee have been noised about, I cannot understand. You
may be, of course, assured of my own unquestioning confidence and
loyalty. However, I regret exceedingly to state not only that
the rumour of the charges referred to above is spreading in this
district, but that also they are made use of by the enemies of
the League. It is to be deplored that some of the Leaguers
themselves--you know, we number in our ranks many small farmers,
ignorant Portuguese and foreigners--have listened to these
stories and have permitted a feeling of uneasiness to develop
among them. Even though it were admitted that fraudulent means
had been employed in the elections, which, of course, I
personally do not admit, I do not think it would make very much
difference in the confidence which the vast majority of the
Leaguers repose in their chiefs. Yet we have so insisted upon
the probity of our position as opposed to Railroad chicanery,
that I believe it advisable to quell this distant suspicion at
once; to publish a denial of these rumoured charges would only be
to give them too much importance. However, can you not write me
a letter, stating exactly how the campaign was conducted, and the
commission nominated and elected? I could show this to some of
the more disaffected, and it would serve to allay all suspicion
on the instant. I think it would be well to write as though the
initiative came, not from me, but from yourself, ignoring this
present letter. I offer this only as a suggestion, and will
confidently endorse any decision you may arrive at."
The letter closed with renewed protestations of confidence.
Magnus was alone when he read this. He put it carefully away in
the filing cabinet in his office, and wiped the sweat from his
forehead and face. He stood for one moment, his hands rigid at
his sides, his fists clinched.
"This is piling up," he muttered, looking blankly at the opposite
wall. "My God, this is piling up. What am I to do?"
Ah, the bitterness of unavailing regret, the anguish of
compromise with conscience, the remorse of a bad deed done in a
moment of excitement. Ah, the humiliation of detection, the
degradation of being caught, caught like a schoolboy pilfering
his fellows' desks, and, worse than all, worse than all, the
consciousness of lost self-respect, the knowledge of a prestige
vanishing, a dignity impaired, knowledge that the grip which held
a multitude in check was trembling, that control was wavering,
that command was being weakened. Then the little tricks to
deceive the crowd, the little subterfuges, the little pretences
that kept up appearances, the lies, the bluster, the pose, the
strut, the gasconade, where once was iron authority; the turning
of the head so as not to see that which could not be prevented;
the suspicion of suspicion, the haunting fear of the Man on the
Street, the uneasiness of the direct glance, the questioning as
to motives--why had this been said, what was meant by that word,
that gesture, that glance?
Wednesday passed, and Thursday. Magnus kept to himself, seeing
no visitors, avoiding even his family. How to break through the
mesh of the net, how to regain the old position, how to prevent
discovery? If there were only some way, some vast, superhuman
effort by which he could rise in his old strength once more,
crushing Lyman with one hand, Genslinger with the other, and for
one more moment, the last, to stand supreme again, indomitable,
the leader; then go to his death, triumphant at the end, his
memory untarnished, his fame undimmed. But the plague-spot was
in himself, knitted forever into the fabric of his being. Though
Genslinger should be silenced, though Lyman should be crushed,
though even the League should overcome the Railroad, though he
should be the acknowledged leader of a resplendent victory, yet
the plague-spot would remain. There was no success for him now.
However conspicuous the outward achievement, he, he himself,
Magnus Derrick, had failed, miserably and irredeemably.
Petty, material complications intruded, sordid considerations.
Even if Genslinger was to be paid, where was the money to come
from? His legal battles with the Railroad, extending now over a
period of many years, had cost him dear; his plan of sowing all
of Los Muertos to wheat, discharging the tenants, had proved
expensive, the campaign resulting in Lyman's election had drawn
heavily upon his account. All along he had been relying upon a
"bonanza crop" to reimburse him. It was not believable that the
Railroad would "jump" Los Muertos, but if this should happen, he
would be left without resources. Ten thousand dollars! Could he
raise the amount? Possibly. But to pay it out to a blackmailer!
To be held up thus in road-agent fashion, without a single means
of redress! Would it not cripple him financially? Genslinger
could do his worst. He, Magnus, would brave it out. Was not his
character above suspicion?
Was it? This letter of Gethings's. Already the murmur of
uneasiness made itself heard. Was this not the thin edge of the
wedge? How the publication of Genslinger's story would drive it
home! How the spark of suspicion would flare into the blaze of
open accusation! There would be investigations. Investigation!
There was terror in the word. He could not stand investigation.
Magnus groaned aloud, covering his head with his clasped hands.
Briber, corrupter of government, ballot-box stuffer, descending
to the level of back-room politicians, of bar-room heelers, he,
Magnus Derrick, statesman of the old school, Roman in his iron
integrity, abandoning a career rather than enter the "new
politics," had, in one moment of weakness. hazarding all, even
honour, on a single stake, taking great chances to achieve great
results, swept away the work of a lifetime.
Gambler that he was, he had at last chanced his highest stake,
his personal honour, in the greatest game of his life, and had
lost.
It was Presley's morbidly keen observation that first noticed the
evidence of a new trouble in the Governor's face and manner.
Presley was sure that Lyman's defection had not so upset him.
The morning after the committee meeting, Magnus had called Harran
and Annie Derrick into the office, and, after telling his wife of
Lyman's betrayal, had forbidden either of them to mention his
name again. His attitude towards his prodigal son was that of
stern, unrelenting resentment. But now, Presley could not fail
to detect traces of a more deep-seated travail. Something was in
the wind. the times were troublous. What next was about to
happen? What fresh calamity impended?
One morning, toward the very end of the week, Presley woke early
in his small, white-painted iron bed. He hastened to get up and
dress. There was much to be done that day. Until late the night
before, he had been at work on a collection of some of his
verses, gathered from the magazines in which they had first
appeared. Presley had received a liberal offer for the
publication of these verses in book form. "The Toilers" was to
be included in this book, and, indeed, was to give it its name--
"The Toilers and Other Poems." Thus it was that, until the
previous midnight, he had been preparing the collection for
publication, revising, annotating, arranging. The book was to be
sent off that morning.
But also Presley had received a typewritten note from Annixter,
inviting him to Quien Sabe that same day. Annixter explained
that it was Hilma's birthday, and that he had planned a picnic on
the high ground of his ranch, at the headwaters of Broderson
Creek. They were to go in the carry-all, Hilma, Presley, Mrs.
Dyke, Sidney, and himself, and were to make a day of it. They
would leave Quien Sabe at ten in the morning. Presley had at
once resolved to go. He was immensely fond of Annixter--more so
than ever since his marriage with Hilma and the astonishing
transformation of his character. Hilma, as well, was delightful
as Mrs. Annixter; and Mrs. Dyke and the little tad had always
been his friends. He would have a good time.
But nobody was to go into Bonneville that morning with the mail,
and if he wished to send his manuscript, he would have to take it
in himself. He had resolved to do this, getting an early start,
and going on horseback to Quien Sabe, by way of Bonneville.
It was barely six o'clock when Presley sat down to his coffee and
eggs in the dining-room of Los Muertos. The day promised to be
hot, and for the first time, Presley had put on a new khaki
riding suit, very English-looking, though in place of the
regulation top-boots, he wore his laced knee-boots, with a great
spur on the left heel. Harran joined him at breakfast, in his
working clothes of blue canvas. He was bound for the irrigating
ditch to see how the work was getting on there.
"How is the wheat looking?" asked Presley.
"Bully," answered the other, stirring his coffee. "The Governor
has had his usual luck. Practically, every acre of the ranch was
sown to wheat, and everywhere the stand is good. I was over on
Two, day before yesterday, and if nothing happens, I believe it
will go thirty sacks to the acre there. Cutter reports that
there are spots on Four where we will get forty-two or three.
Hooven, too, brought up some wonderful fine ears for me to look
at. The grains were just beginning to show. Some of the ears
carried twenty grains. That means nearly forty bushels of wheat
to every acre. I call it a bonanza year."
"Have you got any mail?" said Presley, rising. "I'm going into
town."
Harran shook his head, and took himself away, and Presley went
down to the stable-corral to get his pony.
As he rode out of the stable-yard and passed by the ranch house,
on the driveway, he was surprised to see Magnus on the lowest
step of the porch.
"Good morning, Governor," called Presley. "Aren't you up pretty
early?"
"Good morning, Pres, my boy." The Governor came forward and,
putting his hand on the pony's withers, walked along by his side.
"Going to town, Pres?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Can I do anything for you, Governor?"
Magnus drew a sealed envelope from his pocket.
"I wish you would drop in at the office of the Mercury for me,"
he said, "and see Mr. Genslinger personally, and give him this
envelope. It is a package of papers, but they involve a
considerable sum of money, and you must be careful of them. A
few years ago, when our enmity was not so strong, Mr. Genslinger
and I had some business dealings with each other. I thought it
as well just now, considering that we are so openly opposed, to
terminate the whole affair, and break off relations. We came to
a settlement a few days ago. These are the final papers. They
must be given to him in person, Presley. You understand."
Presley cantered on, turning into the county road and holding
northward by the mammoth watering tank and Broderson's popular
windbreak. As he passed Caraher's, he saw the saloon-keeper in
the doorway of his place, and waved him a salutation which the
other returned.
By degrees, Presley had come to consider Caraher in a more
favourable light. He found, to his immense astonishment, that
Caraher knew something of Mill and Bakounin, not, however, from
their books, but from extracts and quotations from their
writings, reprinted in the anarchistic journals to which he
subscribed. More than once, the two had held long conversations,
and from Caraher's own lips, Presley heard the terrible story of
the death of his wife, who had been accidentally killed by
Pinkertons during a "demonstration" of strikers. It invested the
saloon-keeper, in Presley's imagination, with all the dignity of
the tragedy. He could not blame Caraher for being a "red." He
even wondered how it was the saloon-keeper had not put his
theories into practice, and adjusted his ancient wrong with his
"six inches of plugged gas-pipe." Presley began to conceive of
the man as a "character."
"You wait, Mr. Presley," the saloon-keeper had once said, when
Presley had protested against his radical ideas. "You don't know
the Railroad yet. Watch it and its doings long enough, and
you'll come over to my way of thinking, too."
It was about half-past seven when Presley reached Bonneville.
The business part of the town was as yet hardly astir; he
despatched his manuscript, and then hurried to the office of the
"Mercury." Genslinger, as he feared, had not yet put in
appearance, but the janitor of the building gave Presley the
address of the editor's residence, and it was there he found him
in the act of sitting down to breakfast. Presley was hardly
courteous to the little man, and abruptly refused his offer of a
drink. He delivered Magnus's envelope to him and departed.
It had occurred to him that it would not do to present himself at
Quien Sabe on Hilma's birthday, empty-handed, and, on leaving
Genslinger's house, he turned his pony's head toward the business
part of the town again pulling up in front of the jeweller's,
just as the clerk was taking down the shutters.
At the jeweller's, he purchased a little brooch for Hilma and at
the cigar stand in the lobby of the Yosemite House, a box of
superfine cigars, which, when it was too late, he realised that
the master of Quien Sabe would never smoke, holding, as he did,
with defiant inconsistency, to miserable weeds, black, bitter,
and flagrantly doctored, which he bought, three for a nickel, at
Guadalajara.
Presley arrived at Quien Sabe nearly half an hour behind the
appointed time; but, as he had expected, the party were in no way
ready to start. The carry-all, its horses covered with white
fly-nets, stood under a tree near the house, young Vacca dozing
on the seat. Hilma and Sidney, the latter exuberant with a
gayety that all but brought the tears to Presley's eyes, were
making sandwiches on the back porch. Mrs. Dyke was nowhere to be
seen, and Annixter was shaving himself in his bedroom.
This latter put a half-lathered face out of the window as Presley
cantered through the gate, and waved his razor with a beckoning
motion.
"Come on in, Pres," he cried. "Nobody's ready yet. You're hours
ahead of time."
Presley came into the bedroom, his huge spur clinking on the
straw matting. Annixter was without coat, vest or collar, his
blue silk suspenders hung in loops over either hip, his hair was
disordered, the crown lock stiffer than ever.
"Glad to see you, old boy," he announced, as Presley came in.
"No, don't shake hands, I'm all lather. Here, find a chair, will
you? I won't be long."
"I thought you said ten o'clock," observed Presley, sitting down
on the edge of the bed.
"Well, I did, but----"
"But, then again, in a way, you didn't, hey?" his friend
interrupted.
Annixter grunted good-humouredly, and turned to strop his razor.
Presley looked with suspicious disfavour at his suspenders.
"Why is it," he observed, "that as soon as a man is about to get
married, he buys himself pale blue suspenders, silk ones? Think
of it. You, Buck Annixter, with sky-blue, silk suspenders. It
ought to be a strap and a nail."
"Old fool," observed Annixter, whose repartee was the heaving of
brick bats. "Say," he continued, holding the razor from his
face, and jerking his head over his shoulder, while he looked at
Presley's reflection in his mirror; "say, look around. Isn't
this a nifty little room? We refitted the whole house, you know.
Notice she's all painted?"
"I have been looking around," answered Presley, sweeping the room
with a series of glances. He forebore criticism. Annixter was
so boyishly proud of the effect that it would have been unkind to
have undeceived him. Presley looked at the marvellous,
department-store bed of brass, with its brave, gay canopy; the
mill-made wash-stand, with its pitcher and bowl of blinding red
and green china, the straw-framed lithographs of symbolic female
figures against the multi-coloured, new wall-paper; the
inadequate spindle chairs of white and gold; the sphere of tissue
paper hanging from the gas fixture, and the plumes of pampas
grass tacked to the wall at artistic angles, and overhanging two
astonishing oil paintings, in dazzling golden frames.
"Say, how about those paintings, Pres?" inquired Annixter a
little uneasily. "I don't know whether they're good or not.
They were painted by a three-fingered Chinaman in Monterey, and I
got the lot for thirty dollars, frames thrown in. Why, I think
the frames alone are worth thirty dollars."
"Well, so do I," declared Presley. He hastened to change the
subject.
"Buck," he said, "I hear you've brought Mrs. Dyke and Sidney to
live with you. You know, I think that's rather white of you."
"Oh, rot, Pres," muttered Annixter, turning abruptly to his
shaving.
"And you can't fool me, either, old man," Presley continued.
"You're giving this picnic as much for Mrs. Dyke and the little
tad as you are for your wife, just to cheer them up a bit."
"Oh, pshaw, you make me sick."
"Well, that's the right thing to do, Buck, and I'm as glad for
your sake as I am for theirs. There was a time when you would
have let them all go to grass, and never so much as thought of
them. I don't want to seem to be officious, but you've changed
for the better, old man, and I guess I know why. She--" Presley
caught his friend's eye, and added gravely, "She's a good woman,
Buck."
Annixter turned around abruptly, his face flushing under its
lather.
"Pres," he exclaimed, "she's made a man of me. I was a machine
before, and if another man, or woman, or child got in my way, I
rode 'em down, and I never DREAMED of anybody else but myself.
But as soon as I woke up to the fact that I really loved her,
why, it was glory hallelujah all in a minute, and, in a way, I
kind of loved everybody then, and wanted to be everybody's
friend. And I began to see that a fellow can't live FOR himself
any more than he can live BY himself. He's got to think of
others. If he's got brains, he's got to think for the poor ducks
that haven't 'em, and not give 'em a boot in the backsides
because they happen to be stupid; and if he's got money, he's got
to help those that are busted, and if he's got a house, he's got
to think of those that ain't got anywhere to go. I've got a
whole lot of ideas since I began to love Hilma, and just as soon
as I can, I'm going to get in and HELP people, and I'm going to
keep to that idea the rest of my natural life. That ain't much
of a religion, but it's the best I've got, and Henry Ward Beecher
couldn't do any more than that. And it's all come about because
of Hilma, and because we cared for each other."
Presley jumped up, and caught Annixter about the shoulders with
one arm, gripping his hand hard. This absurd figure, with
dangling silk suspenders, lathered chin, and tearful eyes, seemed
to be suddenly invested with true nobility. Beside this
blundering struggle to do right, to help his fellows, Presley's
own vague schemes, glittering systems of reconstruction,
collapsed to ruin, and he himself, with all his refinement, with
all his poetry, culture, and education, stood, a bungler at the
world's workbench.
"You're all RIGHT, old man," he exclaimed, unable to think of
anything adequate. "You're all right. That's the way to talk,
and here, by the way, I brought you a box of cigars."
Annixter stared as Presley laid the box on the edge of the
washstand.
"Old fool," he remarked, "what in hell did you do that for?"
"Oh, just for fun."
"I suppose they're rotten stinkodoras, or you wouldn't give 'em
away."
"This cringing gratitude--" Presley began.
"Shut up," shouted Annixter, and the incident was closed.
Annixter resumed his shaving, and Presley lit a cigarette.
"Any news from Washington?" he queried.
"Nothing that's any good," grunted Annixter. "Hello," he added,
raising his head, "there's somebody in a hurry for sure."
The noise of a horse galloping so fast that the hoof-beats
sounded in one uninterrupted rattle, abruptly made itself heard.
The noise was coming from the direction of the road that led from
the Mission to Quien Sabe. With incredible swiftness, the hoofbeats
drew nearer. There was that in their sound which brought
Presley to his feet. Annixter threw open the window.
"Runaway," exclaimed Presley.
Annixter, with thoughts of the Railroad, and the "Jumping" of the
ranch, flung his hand to his hip pocket.
"What is it, Vacca?" he cried.
Young Vacca, turning in his seat in the carryall, was looking up
the road. All at once, he jumped from his place, and dashed
towards the window.
"Dyke," he shouted. "Dyke, it's Dyke."
While the words were yet in his mouth, the sound of the hoofbeats
rose to a roar, and a great, bell-toned voice shouted:
"Annixter, Annixter, Annixter!"
It was Dyke's voice, and the next instant he shot into view in
the open square in front of the house.
"Oh, my God!" cried Presley.
The ex-engineer threw the horse on its haunches, springing from
the saddle; and, as he did so, the beast collapsed, shuddering,
to the ground. Annixter sprang from the window, and ran forward,
Presley following.
There was Dyke, hatless, his pistol in his hand, a gaunt terrible
figure the beard immeasurably long, the cheeks fallen in, the
eyes sunken. His clothes ripped and torn by weeks of flight and
hiding in the chaparral, were ragged beyond words, the boots were
shreds of leather, bloody to the ankle with furious spurring.
"Annixter," he shouted, and again, rolling his sunken eyes,
"Annixter, Annixter!"
"Here, here," cried Annixter.
The other turned, levelling his pistol.
"Give me a horse, give me a horse, quick, do you hear? Give me a
horse, or I'll shoot."
"Steady, steady. That won't do. You know me, Dyke. We're
friends here."
The other lowered his weapon.
"I know, I know," he panted. "I'd forgotten. I'm unstrung, Mr.
Annixter, and I'm running for my life. They're not ten minutes
behind me."
"Come on, come on," shouted Annixter, dashing stablewards, his
suspenders flying.
"Here's a horse."
"Mine?" exclaimed Presley. "He wouldn't carry you a mile."
Annixter was already far ahead, trumpeting orders.
"The buckskin," he yelled. "Get her out, Billy. Where's the
stable-man? Get out that buckskin. Get out that saddle."
Then followed minutes of furious haste, Presley, Annixter, Billy
the stable-man, and Dyke himself, darting hither and thither
about the yellow mare, buckling, strapping, cinching, their lips
pale, their fingers trembling with excitement.
"Want anything to eat?" Annixter's head was under the saddle flap
as he tore at the cinch. "Want anything to eat? Want any money?
Want a gun?"
"Water," returned Dyke. "They've watched every spring. I'm
killed with thirst."
"There's the hydrant. Quick now."
"I got as far as the Kern River, but they turned me back," he
said between breaths as he drank.
"Don't stop to talk."
"My mother, and the little tad----"
"I'm taking care of them. They're stopping with me."
Here?
"You won't see 'em; by the Lord, you won't. You'll get away.
Where's that back cinch strap, BILLY? God damn it, are you going
to let him be shot before he can get away? Now, Dyke, up you go.
She'll kill herself running before they can catch you."
"God bless you, Annixter. Where's the little tad? Is she well,
Annixter, and the mother? Tell them----"
"Yes, yes, yes. All clear, Pres? Let her have her own gait,
Dyke. You're on the best horse in the county now. Let go her
head, Billy. Now, Dyke,--shake hands? You bet I will. That's
all right. Yes, God bless you. Let her go. You're OFF."
Answering the goad of the spur, and already quivering with the
excitement of the men who surrounded her, the buckskin cleared
the stable-corral in two leaps; then, gathering her legs under
her, her head low, her neck stretched out, swung into the road
from out the driveway disappearing in a blur of dust.
With the agility of a monkey, young Vacca swung himself into the
framework of the artesian well, clambering aloft to its very top.
He swept the country with a glance.
"Well?" demanded Annixter from the ground. The others cocked
their heads to listen.
"I see him; I see him!" shouted Vacca. "He's going like the
devil. He's headed for Guadalajara."
"Look back, up the road, toward the Mission. Anything there?"
The answer came down in a shout of apprehension.
"There's a party of men. Three or four--on horse-back. There's
dogs with 'em. They're coming this way. Oh, I can hear the
dogs. And, say, oh, say, there's another party coming down the
Lower Road, going towards Guadalajara, too. They got guns. I
can see the shine of the barrels. And, oh, Lord, say, there's
three more men on horses coming down on the jump from the hills
on the Los Muertos stock range. They're making towards
Guadalajara. And I can hear the courthouse bell in Bonneville
ringing. Say, the whole county is up."
As young Vacca slid down to the ground, two small black-and-tan
hounds, with flapping ears and lolling tongues, loped into view
on the road in front of the house. They were grey with dust,
their noses were to the ground. At the gate where Dyke had
turned into the ranch house grounds, they halted in confusion a
moment. One started to follow the highwayman's trail towards the
stable corral, but the other, quartering over the road with
lightning swiftness, suddenly picked up the new scent leading on
towards Guadalajara. He tossed his head in the air, and Presley
abruptly shut his hands over his ears.
Ah, that terrible cry! deep-toned, reverberating like the
bourdon of a great bell. It was the trackers exulting on the
trail of the pursued, the prolonged, raucous howl, eager,
ominous, vibrating with the alarm of the tocsin, sullen with the
heavy muffling note of death. But close upon the bay of the
hounds, came the gallop of horses. Five men, their eyes upon the
hounds, their rifles across their pommels, their horses reeking
and black with sweat, swept by in a storm of dust, glinting
hoofs, and streaming manes.
"That was Delaney's gang," exclaimed Annixter. "I saw him."
"The other was that chap Christian," said Vacca, "S. Behrman's
cousin. He had two deputies with him; and the chap in the white
slouch hat was the sheriff from Visalia."
"By the Lord, they aren't far behind," declared Annixter.
As the men turned towards the house again they saw Hilma and Mrs.
Dyke in the doorway of the little house where the latter lived.
They were looking out, bewildered, ignorant of what had happened.
But on the porch of the Ranch house itself, alone, forgotten in
the excitement, Sidney--the little tad--stood, with pale face and
serious, wide-open eyes. She had seen everything, and had
understood. She said nothing. Her head inclined towards the
roadway, she listened to the faint and distant baying of the
dogs.
Dyke thundered across the railway tracks by the depot at
Guadalajara not five minutes ahead of his pursuers. Luck seemed
to have deserted him. The station, usually so quiet, was now
occupied by the crew of a freight train that lay on the down
track; while on the up line, near at hand and headed in the same
direction, was a detached locomotive, whose engineer and fireman
recognized him, he was sure, as the buckskin leaped across the
rails.
He had had no time to formulate a plan since that morning, when,
tortured with thirst, he had ventured near the spring at the
headwaters of Broderson Creek, on Quien Sabe, and had all but
fallen into the hands of the posse that had been watching for
that very move. It was useless now to regret that he had tried
to foil pursuit by turning back on his tracks to regain the
mountains east of Bonneville. Now Delaney was almost on him. To
distance that posse, was the only thing to be thought of now. It
was no longer a question of hiding till pursuit should flag; they
had driven him out from the shelter of the mountains, down into
this populous countryside, where an enemy might be met with at
every turn of the road. Now it was life or death. He would
either escape or be killed. He knew very well that he would
never allow himself to be taken alive. But he had no mind to be
killed--to turn and fight--till escape was blocked. His one
thought was to leave pursuit behind.
Weeks of flight had sharpened Dyke's every sense. As he turned
into the Upper Road beyond Guadalajara, he saw the three men
galloping down from Derrick's stock range, making for the road
ahead of him. They would cut him off there. He swung the
buckskin about. He must take the Lower Road across Los Muertos
from Guadalajara, and he must reach it before Delaney's dogs and
posse. Back he galloped, the buckskin measuring her length with
every leap. Once more the station came in sight. Rising in his
stirrups, he looked across the fields in the direction of the
Lower Road. There was a cloud of dust there. From a wagon? No,
horses on the run, and their riders were armed! He could catch
the flash of gun barrels. They were all closing in on him,
converging on Guadalajara by every available road. The Upper
Road west of Guadalajara led straight to Bonneville. That way
was impossible. Was he in a trap? Had the time for fighting
come at last?
But as Dyke neared the depot at Guadalajara, his eye fell upon
the detached locomotive that lay quietly steaming on the up line,
and with a thrill of exultation, he remembered that he was an
engineer born and bred. Delaney's dogs were already to be heard,
and the roll of hoofs on the Lower Road was dinning in his ears,
as he leaped from the buckskin before the depot. The train crew
scattered like frightened sheep before him, but Dyke ignored
them. His pistol was in his hand as, once more on foot, he
sprang toward the lone engine.
"Out of the cab," he shouted. "Both of you. Quick, or I'll kill
you both."
The two men tumbled from the iron apron of the tender as Dyke
swung himself up, dropping his pistol on the floor of the cab and
reaching with the old instinct for the familiar levers.
The great compound hissed and trembled as the steam was released,
and the huge drivers stirred, turning slowly on the tracks. But
there was a shout. Delaney's posse, dogs and men, swung into
view at the turn of the road, their figures leaning over as they
took the curve at full speed. Dyke threw everything wide open
and caught up his revolver. From behind came the challenge of a
Winchester. The party on the Lower Road were even closer than
Delaney. They had seen his manoeuvre, and the first shot of the
fight shivered the cab windows above the engineer's head.
But spinning futilely at first, the drivers of the engine at last
caught the rails. The engine moved, advanced, travelled past the
depot and the freight train, and gathering speed, rolled out on
the track beyond. Smoke, black and boiling, shot skyward from
the stack; not a joint that did not shudder with the mighty
strain of the steam; hut the great iron brute--one of Baldwin's
newest and best--came to call, obedient and docile as soon as
ever the great pulsing heart of it felt a master hand upon its
levers. It gathered its speed, bracing its steel muscles, its
thews of iron, and roared out upon the open track, filling the
air with the rasp of its tempest-breath, blotting the sunshine
with the belch of its hot, thick smoke. Already it was lessening
in the distance, when Delaney, Christian, and the sheriff of
Visalia dashed up to the station.
The posse had seen everything.
"Stuck. Curse the luck!" vociferated the cow-Puncher.
But the sheriff was already out of the saddle and into the
telegraph office.
"There's a derailing switch between here and Pixley, isn't
there?" he cried.
"Yes."
"Wire ahead to open it. We'll derail him there. Come on;" he
turned to Delaney and the others. They sprang into the cab of
the locomotive that was attached to the freight train.
"Name of the State of California," shouted the sheriff to the
bewildered engineer. "Cut off from your train."
The sheriff was a man to be obeyed without hesitating. Time was
not allowed the crew of the freight train for debating as to the
right or the wrong of requisitioning the engine, and before
anyone thought of the safety or danger of the affair, the freight
engine was already flying out upon the down line, hot in pursuit
of Dyke, now far ahead upon the up track.
"I remember perfectly well there's a derailing switch between
here and Pixley," shouted the sheriff above the roar of the
locomotive. "They use it in case they have to derail runaway
engines. It runs right off into the country. We'll pile him up
there. Ready with your guns, boys."
"If we should meet another train coming up on this track----"
protested the frightened engineer.
"Then we'd jump or be smashed. Hi! look! There he is." As the
freight engine rounded a curve, Dyke's engine came into view,
shooting on some quarter of a mile ahead of them, wreathed in
whirling smoke.
"The switch ain't much further on," clamoured the engineer. "You
can see Pixley now."
Dyke, his hand on the grip of the valve that controlled the
steam, his head out of the cab window, thundered on. He was back
in his old place again; once more he was the engineer; once more
he felt the engine quiver under him; the familiar noises were in
his ears; the familiar buffeting of the wind surged, roaring at
his face; the familiar odours of hot steam and smoke reeked in
his nostrils, and on either side of him, parallel panoramas, the
two halves of the landscape sliced, as it were, in two by the
clashing wheels of his engine, streamed by in green and brown
blurs.
He found himself settling to the old position on the cab seat,
leaning on his elbow from the window, one hand on the controller.
All at once, the instinct of the pursuit that of late had become
so strong within him, prompted him to shoot a glance behind. He
saw the other engine on the down line, plunging after him,
rocking from side to side with the fury of its gallop. Not yet
had he shaken the trackers from his heels; not yet was he out of
the reach of danger. He set his teeth and, throwing open the
fire-door, stoked vigorously for a few moments. The indicator of
the steam gauge rose; his speed increased; a glance at the
telegraph poles told him he was doing his fifty miles an hour.
The freight engine behind him was never built for that pace.
Barring the terrible risk of accident, his chances were good.
But suddenly--the engineer dominating the highway-man--he shut
off his steam and threw back his brake to the extreme notch.
Directly ahead of him rose a semaphore, placed at a point where
evidently a derailing switch branched from the line. The
semaphore's arm was dropped over the track, setting the danger
signal that showed the switch was open.
In an instant, Dyke saw the trick. They had meant to smash him
here; had been clever enough, quick-witted enough to open the
switch, but had forgotten the automatic semaphore that worked
simultaneously with the movement of the rails. To go forward was
certain destruction. Dyke reversed. There was nothing for it
but to go back. With a wrench and a spasm of all its metal
fibres, the great compound braced itself, sliding with rigid
wheels along the rails. Then, as Dyke applied the reverse, it
drew back from the greater danger, returning towards the less.
Inevitably now the two engines, one on the up, the other on the
down line, must meet and pass each other.
Dyke released the levers, reaching for his revolver. The
engineer once more became the highwayman, in peril of his life.
Now, beyond all doubt, the time for fighting was at hand.
The party in the heavy freight engine, that lumbered after in
pursuit, their eyes fixed on the smudge of smoke on ahead that
marked the path of the fugitive, suddenly raised a shout.
"He's stopped. He's broke down. Watch, now, and see if he jumps
off."
"Broke NOTHING. HE'S COMING BACK. Ready, now, he's got to pass
us."
The engineer applied the brakes, but the heavy freight
locomotive, far less mobile than Dyke's flyer, was slow to obey.
The smudge on the rails ahead grew swiftly larger.
"He's coming. He's coming--look out, there's a shot. He's
shooting already."
A bright, white sliver of wood leaped into the air from the sooty
window sill of the cab.
"Fire on him! Fire on him!"
While the engines were yet two hundred yards apart, the duel
began, shot answering shot, the sharp staccato reports
punctuating the thunder of wheels and the clamour of steam.
Then the ground trembled and rocked; a roar as of heavy ordnance
developed with the abruptness of an explosion. The two engines
passed each other, the men firing the while, emptying their
revolvers, shattering wood, shivering glass, the bullets clanging
against the metal work as they struck and struck and struck. The
men leaned from the cabs towards each other, frantic with
excitement, shouting curses, the engines rocking, the steam
roaring; confusion whirling in the scene like the whirl of a
witch's dance, the white clouds of steam, the black eddies from
the smokestack, the blue wreaths from the hot mouths of
revolvers, swirling together in a blinding maze of vapour,
spinning around them, dazing them, dizzying them, while the head
rang with hideous clamour and the body twitched and trembled with
the leap and jar of the tumult of machinery.
Roaring, clamouring, reeking with the smell of powder and hot
oil, spitting death, resistless, huge, furious, an abrupt vision
of chaos, faces, rage-distorted, peering through smoke, hands
gripping outward from sudden darkness, prehensile, malevolent;
terrible as thunder, swift as lightning, the two engines met and
passed.
"He's hit," cried Delaney. "I know I hit him. He can't go far
now. After him again. He won't dare go through Bonneville."
It was true. Dyke had stood between cab and tender throughout
all the duel, exposed, reckless, thinking only of attack and not
of defence, and a bullet from one of the pistols had grazed his
hip. How serious was the wound he did not know, but he had no
thought of giving up. He tore back through the depot at
Guadalajara in a storm of bullets, and, clinging to the broken
window ledge of his cab, was carried towards Bonneville, on over
the Long Trestle and Broderson Creek and through the open country
between the two ranches of Los Muertos and Quien Sabe.
But to go on to Bonneville meant certain death. Before, as well
as behind him, the roads were now blocked. Once more he thought
of the mountains. He resolved to abandon the engine and make
another final attempt to get into the shelter of the hills in the
northernmost corner of Quien Sabe. He set his teeth. He would
not give in. There was one more fight left in him yet. Now to
try the final hope.
He slowed the engine down, and, reloading his revolver, jumped
from the platform to the road. He looked about him, listening.
All around him widened an ocean of wheat. There was no one in
sight.
The released engine, alone, unattended, drew slowly away from
him, jolting ponderously over the rail joints. As he watched it
go, a certain indefinite sense of abandonment, even in that
moment, came over Dyke. His last friend, that also had been his
first, was leaving him. He remembered that day, long ago, when
he had opened the throttle of his first machine. To-day, it was
leaving him alone, his last friend turning against him. Slowly
it was going back towards Bonneville, to the shops of the
Railroad, the camp of the enemy, that enemy that had ruined him
and wrecked him. For the last time in his life, he had been the
engineer. Now, once more, he became the highwayman, the outlaw
against whom all hands were raised, the fugitive skulking in the
mountains, listening for the cry of dogs.
But he would not give in. They had not broken him yet. Never,
while he could fight, would he allow S. Behrman the triumph of
his capture.
He found his wound was not bad. He plunged into the wheat on
Quien Sabe, making northward for a division house that rose with
its surrounding trees out of the wheat like an island. He
reached it, the blood squelching in his shoes. But the sight of
two men, Portuguese farm-hands, staring at him from an angle of
the barn, abruptly roused him to action. He sprang forward with
peremptory commands, demanding a horse.
At Guadalajara, Delaney and the sheriff descended from the
freight engine.
"Horses now," declared the sheriff. "He won't go into
Bonneville, that's certain. He'll leave the engine between here
and there, and strike off into the country. We'll follow after
him now in the saddle. Soon as he leaves his engine, HE'S on
foot. We've as good as got him now."
Their horses, including even the buckskin mare that Dyke had
ridden, were still at the station. The party swung themselves
up, Delaney exclaiming, "Here's MY mount," as he bestrode the
buckskin.
At Guadalajara, the two bloodhounds were picked up again. Urging
the jaded horses to a gallop, the party set off along the Upper
Road, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left for traces of
Dyke's abandonment of the engine.
Three miles beyond the Long Trestle, they found S. Behrman
holding his saddle horse by the bridle, and looking attentively
at a trail that had been broken through the standing wheat on
Quien Sabe. The party drew rein.
"The engine passed me on the tracks further up, and empty," said
S. Behrman. "Boys, I think he left her here."
But before anyone could answer, the bloodhounds gave tongue
again, as they picked up the scent.
"That's him," cried S. Behrman. "Get on, boys."
They dashed forward, following the hounds. S. Behrman
laboriously climbed to his saddle, panting, perspiring, mopping
the roll of fat over his coat collar, and turned in after them,
trotting along far in the rear, his great stomach and tremulous
jowl shaking with the horse's gait.
"What a day," he murmured. "What a day."
Dyke's trail was fresh, and was followed as easily as if made on
new-fallen snow. In a short time, the posse swept into the open
space around the division house. The two Portuguese were still
there, wide-eyed, terribly excited.
Yes, yes, Dyke had been there not half an hour since, had held
them up, taken a horse and galloped to the northeast, towards the
foothills at the headwaters of Broderson Creek.
On again, at full gallop, through the young wheat, trampling it
under the flying hoofs; the hounds hot on the scent, baying
continually; the men, on fresh mounts, secured at the division
house, bending forward in their saddles, spurring relentlessly.
S. Behrman jolted along far in the rear.
And even then, harried through an open country, where there was
no place to hide, it was a matter of amazement how long a chase
the highwayman led them. Fences were passed; fences whose barbed
wire had been slashed apart by the fugitive's knife. The ground
rose under foot; the hills were at hand; still the pursuit held
on. The sun, long past the meridian, began to turn earthward.
Would night come on before they were up with him?
"Look! Look! There he is! Quick, there he goes!"
High on the bare slope of the nearest hill, all the posse,
looking in the direction of Delaney's gesture, saw the figure of
a horseman emerge from an arroyo, filled with chaparral, and
struggle at a labouring gallop straight up the slope. Suddenly,
every member of the party shouted aloud. The horse had fallen,
pitching the rider from the saddle. The man rose to his feet,
caught at the bridle, missed it and the horse dashed on alone.
The man, pausing for a second looked around, saw the chase
drawing nearer, then, turning back, disappeared in the chaparral.
Delaney raised a great whoop.
"We've got you now."
Into the slopes and valleys of the hills dashed the band of
horsemen, the trail now so fresh that it could be easily
discerned by all. On and on it led them, a furious, wild
scramble straight up the slopes. The minutes went by. The dry
bed of a rivulet was passed; then another fence; then a tangle of
manzanita; a meadow of wild oats, full of agitated cattle; then
an arroyo, thick with chaparral and scrub oaks, and then, without
warning, the pistol shots ripped out and ran from rider to rider
with the rapidity of a gatling discharge, and one of the deputies
bent forward in the saddle, both hands to his face, the blood
jetting from between his fingers.
Dyke was there, at bay at last, his back against a bank of rock,
the roots of a fallen tree serving him as a rampart, his revolver
smoking in his hand.
"You're under arrest, Dyke," cried the sheriff. "It's not the
least use to fight. The whole country is up."
Dyke fired again, the shot splintering the foreleg of the horse
the sheriff rode.
The posse, four men all told--the wounded deputy having crawled
out of the fight after Dyke's first shot--fell back after the
preliminary fusillade, dismounted, and took shelter behind rocks
and trees. On that rugged ground, fighting from the saddle was
impracticable. Dyke, in the meanwhile, held his fire, for he
knew that, once his pistol was empty, he would never be allowed
time to reload.
"Dyke," called the sheriff again, "for the last time, I summon
you to surrender."
Dyke did not reply. The sheriff, Delaney, and the man named
Christian conferred together in a low voice. Then Delaney and
Christian left the others, making a wide detour up the sides of
the arroyo, to gain a position to the left and somewhat to the
rear of Dyke.
But it was at this moment that S. Behrman arrived. It could not
be said whether it was courage or carelessness that brought the
Railroad's agent within reach of Dyke's revolver. Possibly he
was really a brave man; possibly occupied with keeping an
uncertain seat upon the back of his labouring, scrambling horse,
he had not noticed that he was so close upon that scene of
battle. He certainly did not observe the posse lying upon the
ground behind sheltering rocks and trees, and before anyone could
call a warning, he had ridden out into the open, within thirty
paces of Dyke's intrenchment.
Dyke saw. There was the arch-enemy; the man of all men whom he
most hated; the man who had ruined him, who had exasperated him
and driven him to crime, and who had instigated tireless pursuit
through all those past terrible weeks. Suddenly, inviting death,
he leaped up and forward; he had forgotten all else, all other
considerations, at the sight of this man. He would die, gladly,
so only that S. Behrman died before him.
"I've got YOU, anyway," he shouted, as he ran forward.
The muzzle of the weapon was not ten feet from S. Behrman's huge
stomach as Dyke drew the trigger. Had the cartridge exploded,
death, certain and swift, would have followed, but at this, of
all moments, the revolver missed fire.
S. Behrman, with an unexpected agility, leaped from the saddle,
and, keeping his horse between him and Dyke, ran, dodging and
ducking, from tree to tree. His first shot a failure, Dyke fired
again and again at his enemy, emptying his revolver, reckless of
consequences. His every shot went wild, and before he could draw
his knife, the whole posse was upon him.
Without concerted plans, obeying no signal but the promptings of
the impulse that snatched, unerring, at opportunity--the men,
Delaney and Christian from one side, the sheriff and the deputy
from the other, rushed in. They did not fire. It was Dyke alive
they wanted. One of them had a riata snatched from a saddlepommel,
and with this they tried to bind him.
The fight was four to one--four men with law on their side, to
one wounded freebooter, half-starved, exhausted by days and
nights of pursuit, worn down with loss of sleep, thirst,
privation, and the grinding, nerve-racking consciousness of an
ever-present peril.
They swarmed upon him from all sides, gripping at his legs, at
his arms, his throat, his head, striking, clutching, kicking,
falling to the ground, rolling over and over, now under, now
above, now staggering forward, now toppling back.
Still Dyke fought. Through that scrambling, struggling group,
through that maze of twisting bodies, twining arms, straining
legs, S. Behrman saw him from moment to moment, his face flaming,
his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted with sweat. Now he was down,
pinned under, two men across his legs, and now half-way up again,
struggling to one knee. Then upright again, with half his
enemies hanging on his back. His colossal strength seemed
doubled; when his arms were held, he fought bull-like with his
head. A score of times, it seemed as if they were about to
secure him finally and irrevocably, and then he would free an
arm, a leg, a shoulder, and the group that, for the fraction of
an instant, had settled, locked and rigid, on its prey, would
break up again as he flung a man from him, reeling and bloody,
and he himself twisting, squirming, dodging, his great fists
working like pistons, backed away, dragging and carrying the
others with him.
More than once, he loosened almost every grip, and for an instant
stood nearly free, panting, rolling his eyes, his clothes torn
from his body, bleeding, dripping with sweat, a terrible figure,
nearly free. The sheriff, under his breath, uttered an
exclamation:
"By God, he'll get away yet."
S. Behrman watched the fight complacently.
"That all may show obstinacy," he commented, "but it don't show
common sense."
Yet, however Dyke might throw off the clutches and fettering
embraces that encircled him, however he might disintegrate and
scatter the band of foes that heaped themselves upon him, however
he might gain one instant of comparative liberty, some one of his
assailants always hung, doggedly, blindly to an arm, a leg, or a
foot, and the others, drawing a second's breath, closed in again,
implacable, unconquerable, ferocious, like hounds upon a wolf.
At length, two of the men managed to bring Dyke's wrists close
enough together to allow the sheriff to snap the handcuffs on.
Even then, Dyke, clasping his hands, and using the handcuffs
themselves as a weapon, knocked down Delaney by the crushing
impact of the steel bracelets upon the cow-puncher's forehead.
But he could no longer protect himself from attacks from behind,
and the riata was finally passed around his body, pinioning his
arms to his sides. After this it was useless to resist.
The wounded deputy sat with his back to a rock, holding his
broken jaw in both hands. The sheriff's horse, with its
splintered foreleg, would have to be shot. Delaney's head was
cut from temple to cheekbone. The right wrist of the sheriff was
all but dislocated. The other deputy was so exhausted he had to
be helped to his horse. But Dyke was taken.
He himself had suddenly lapsed into semi-unconsciousness, unable
to walk. They sat him on the buckskin, S. Behrman supporting
him, the sheriff, on foot, leading the horse by the bridle. The
little procession formed, and descended from the hills, turning
in the direction of Bonneville. A special train, one car and an
engine, would be made up there, and the highwayman would sleep in
the Visalia jail that night.
Delaney and S. Behrman found themselves in the rear of the
cavalcade as it moved off. The cow-puncher turned to his chief:
"Well, captain," he said, still panting, as he bound up his
forehead; "well--we GOT him."
VI
Osterman cut his wheat that summer before any of the other
ranchers, and as soon as his harvest was over organized a jackrabbit
drive. Like Annixter's barn-dance, it was to be an event
in which all the country-side should take part. The drive was to
begin on the most western division of the Osterman ranch, whence
it would proceed towards the southeast, crossing into the
northern part of Quien Sabe--on which Annixter had sown no wheat--
and ending in the hills at the headwaters of Broderson Creek,
where a barbecue was to be held.
Early on the morning of the day of the drive, as Harran and
Presley were saddling their horses before the stables on Los
Muertos, the foreman, Phelps, remarked:
"I was into town last night, and I hear that Christian has been
after Ruggles early and late to have him put him in possession
here on Los Muertos, and Delaney is doing the same for Quien
Sabe."
It was this man Christian, the real estate broker, and cousin of
S. Behrman, one of the main actors in the drama of Dyke's
capture, who had come forward as a purchaser of Los Muertos when
the Railroad had regraded its holdings on the ranches around
Bonneville.
"He claims, of course," Phelps went on, "that when he bought Los
Muertos of the Railroad he was guaranteed possession, and he
wants the place in time for the harvest."
"That's almost as thin," muttered Harran as he thrust the bit
into his horse's mouth. "as Delaney buying Annixter's Home
ranch. That slice of Quien Sabe, according to the Railroad's
grading, is worth about ten thousand dollars; yes, even fifteen,
and I don't believe Delaney is worth the price of a good horse.
Why, those people don't even try to preserve appearances. Where
would Christian find the money to buy Los Muertos? There's no
one man in all Bonneville rich enough to do it. Damned rascals!
as if we didn't see that Christian and Delaney are S. Behrman's
right and left hands. Well, he'll get 'em cut off," he cried
with sudden fierceness, "if he comes too near the machine."
"How is it, Harran," asked Presley as the two young men rode out
of the stable yard, "how is it the Railroad gang can do anything
before the Supreme Court hands down a decision?"
"Well, you know how they talk," growled Harran. "They have
claimed that the cases taken up to the Supreme Court were not
test cases as WE claim they ARE, and that because neither
Annixter nor the Governor appealed, they've lost their cases by
default. It's the rottenest kind of sharp practice, but it won't
do any good. The League is too strong. They won't dare move on
us yet awhile. Why, Pres, the moment they'd try to jump any of
these ranches around here, they would have six hundred rifles
cracking at them as quick as how-do-you-do. Why, it would take a
regiment of U. S. soldiers to put any one of us off our land.
No, sir; they know the League means business this time."
As Presley and Harran trotted on along the county road they
continually passed or overtook other horsemen, or buggies, carryalls,
buck-boards or even farm wagons, going in the same
direction. These were full of the farming people from all the
country round about Bonneville, on their way to the rabbit drive--
the same people seen at the barn-dance--in their Sunday finest,
the girls in muslin frocks and garden hats, the men with linen
dusters over their black clothes; the older women in prints and
dotted calicoes. Many of these latter had already taken off
their bonnets--the day was very hot--and pinning them in
newspapers, stowed them under the seats. They tucked their
handkerchiefs into the collars of their dresses, or knotted them
about their fat necks, to keep out the dust. From the axle trees
of the vehicles swung carefully covered buckets of galvanised
iron, in which the lunch was packed. The younger children, the
boys with great frilled collars, the girls with ill-fitting shoes
cramping their feet, leaned from the sides of buggy and carryall,
eating bananas and "macaroons," staring about with ox-like
stolidity. Tied to the axles, the dogs followed the horses'
hoofs with lolling tongues coated with dust.
The California summer lay blanket-wise and smothering over all
the land. The hills, bone-dry, were browned and parched. The
grasses and wild-oats, sear and yellow, snapped like glass
filaments under foot. The roads, the bordering fences, even the
lower leaves and branches of the trees, were thick and grey with
dust. All colour had been burned from the landscape, except in
the irrigated patches, that in the waste of brown and dull yellow
glowed like oases.
The wheat, now close to its maturity, had turned from pale yellow
to golden yellow, and from that to brown. Like a gigantic
carpet, it spread itself over all the land. There was nothing
else to be seen but the limitless sea of wheat as far as the eye
could reach, dry, rustling, crisp and harsh in the rare breaths
of hot wind out of the southeast.
As Harran and Presley went along the county road, the number of
vehicles and riders increased. They overtook and passed Hooven
and his family in the former's farm wagon, a saddled horse tied
to the back board. The little Dutchman, wearing the old frock
coat of Magnus Derrick, and a new broad-brimmed straw hat, sat on
the front seat with Mrs. Hooven. The little girl Hilda, and the
older daughter Minna, were behind them on a board laid across the
sides of the wagon. Presley and Harran stopped to shake hands.
"Say," cried Hooven, exhibiting an old, but extremely well kept,
rifle, "say, bei Gott, me, I tek some schatz at dose rebbit, you
bedt. Ven he hef shtop to run und sit oop soh, bei der hind
laigs on, I oop mit der guhn und--bing! I cetch um."
"The marshals won't allow you to shoot, Bismarck," observed
Presley, looking at Minna.
Hooven doubled up with merriment.
"Ho! dot's hell of some fine joak. Me, I'M ONE OAF DOSE
MAIRSCHELL MINE-SELLUF," he roared with delight, beating his
knee. To his notion, the joke was irresistible. All day long,
he could be heard repeating it. "Und Mist'r Praicelie, he say,
'Dose mairschell woand led you schoot, Bismarck,' und ME, ach
Gott, ME, aindt I mine-selluf one oaf dose mairschell?"
As the two friends rode on, Presley had in his mind the image of
Minna Hooven, very pretty in a clean gown of pink gingham, a
cheap straw sailor hat from a Bonneville store on her blue black
hair. He remembered her very pale face, very red lips and eyes
of greenish blue,--a pretty girl certainly, always trailing a
group of men behind her. Her love affairs were the talk of all
Los Muertos.
"I hope that Hooven girl won't go to the bad," Presley said to
Harran.
"Oh, she's all right," the other answered. "There's nothing
vicious about Minna, and I guess she'll marry that foreman on the
ditch gang, right enough."
"Well, as a matter of course, she's a good girl," Presley
hastened to reply, "only she's too pretty for a poor girl, and
too sure of her prettiness besides. That's the kind," he
continued, "who would find it pretty easy to go wrong if they
lived in a city."
Around Caraher's was a veritable throng. Saddle horses and
buggies by the score were clustered underneath the shed or
hitched to the railings in front of the watering trough. Three
of Broderson's Portuguese tenants and a couple of workmen from
the railroad shops in Bonneville were on the porch, already very
drunk.
Continually, young men, singly or in groups, came from the doorway,
wiping their lips with sidelong gestures of the hand. The
whole place exhaled the febrile bustle of the saloon on a holiday
morning.
The procession of teams streamed on through Bonneville,
reenforced at every street corner. Along the Upper Road from
Quien Sabe and Guadalajara came fresh auxiliaries, Spanish-
Mexicans from the town itself,--swarthy young men on capering
horses, dark-eyed girls and matrons, in red and black and yellow,
more Portuguese in brand-new overalls, smoking long thin cigars.
Even Father Sarria appeared.
"Look," said Presley, "there goes Annixter and Hilma. He's got
his buckskin back." The master of Quien Sabe, in top laced boots
and campaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, followed along beside the
carry-all. Hilma and Mrs. Derrick were on the back seat, young
Vacca driving. Harran and Presley bowed, taking off their hats.
"Hello, hello, Pres," cried Annixter, over the heads of the
intervening crowd, standing up in his stirrups and waving a hand,
"Great day! What a mob, hey? Say when this thing is over and
everybody starts to walk into the barbecue, come and have lunch
with us. I'll look for you, you and Harran. Hello, Harran,
where's the Governor?"
"He didn't come to-day," Harran shouted back, as the crowd
carried him further away from Annixter. "Left him and old
Broderson at Los Muertos."
The throng emerged into the open country again, spreading out
upon the Osterman ranch. From all directions could be seen
horses and buggies driving across the stubble, converging upon
the rendezvous. Osterman's Ranch house was left to the eastward;
the army of the guests hurrying forward--for it began to be late--
to where around a flag pole, flying a red flag, a vast crowd of
buggies and horses was already forming. The marshals began to
appear. Hooven, descending from the farm wagon, pinned his white
badge to his hat brim and mounted his horse. Osterman, in
marvellous riding clothes of English pattern, galloped up and
down upon his best thoroughbred, cracking jokes with everybody,
chaffing, joshing, his great mouth distended in a perpetual grin
of amiability.
"Stop here, stop here," he vociferated, dashing along in front of
Presley and Harran, waving his crop. The procession came to a
halt, the horses' heads pointing eastward. The line began to be
formed. The marshals perspiring, shouting, fretting, galloping
about, urging this one forward, ordering this one back, ranged
the thousands of conveyances and cavaliers in a long line, shaped
like a wide open crescent. Its wings, under the command of
lieutenants, were slightly advanced. Far out before its centre
Osterman took his place, delighted beyond expression at his
conspicuousness, posing for the gallery, making his horse dance.
"Wail, aindt dey gowun to gommence den bretty soohn," exclaimed
Mrs. Hooven, who had taken her husband's place on the forward
seat of the wagon.
"I never was so warm," murmured Minna, fanning herself with her
hat. All seemed in readiness. For miles over the flat expanse
of stubble, curved the interminable lines of horses and vehicles.
At a guess, nearly five thousand people were present. The drive
was one of the largest ever held. But no start was made;
immobilized, the vast crescent stuck motionless under the blazing
sun. Here and there could be heard voices uplifted in jocular
remonstrance.
"Oh, I say, get a move on, somebody."
"ALL aboard."
"Say, I'll take root here pretty soon."
Some took malicious pleasure in starting false alarms.
"Ah, HERE we go."
"Off, at last."
"We're off."
Invariably these jokes fooled some one in the line. An old man,
or some old woman, nervous, hard of hearing, always gathered up
the reins and started off, only to be hustled and ordered back
into the line by the nearest marshal. This manoeuvre never
failed to produce its effect of hilarity upon those near at hand.
Everybody laughed at the blunderer, the joker jeering audibly.
"Hey, come back here."
"Oh, he's easy."
"Don't be in a hurry, Grandpa."
"Say, you want to drive all the rabbits yourself."
Later on, a certain group of these fellows started a huge "josh."
"Say, that's what we're waiting for, the 'do-funny.'"
"The do-funny?"
"Sure, you can't drive rabbits without the 'do-funny.'"
"What's the do-funny?"
"Oh, say, she don't know what the do-funny is. We can't start
without it, sure. Pete went back to get it."
"Oh, you're joking me, there's no such thing."
"Well, aren't we WAITING for it?"
"Oh, look, look," cried some women in a covered rig. "See, they
are starting already 'way over there."
In fact, it did appear as if the far extremity of the line was in
motion. Dust rose in the air above it.
"They ARE starting. Why don't we start?"
"No, they've stopped. False alarm."
"They've not, either. Why don't we move?"
But as one or two began to move off, the nearest marshal shouted
wrathfully:
"Get back there, get back there."
"Well, they've started over there."
"Get back, I tell you."
"Where's the 'do-funny?'"
"Say, we're going to miss it all. They've all started over
there."
A lieutenant came galloping along in front of the line, shouting:
"Here, what's the matter here? Why don't you start?"
There was a great shout. Everybody simultaneously uttered a
prolonged "Oh-h."
"We're off."
"Here we go for sure this time."
"Remember to keep the alignment," roared the lieutenant. "Don't
go too fast."
And the marshals, rushing here and there on their sweating horses
to points where the line bulged forward, shouted, waving their
arms: "Not too fast, not too fast....Keep back here....Here, keep
closer together here. Do you want to let all the rabbits run
back between you?"
A great confused sound rose into the air,--the creaking of axles,
the jolt of iron tires over the dry clods, the click of brittle
stubble under the horses' hoofs, the barking of dogs, the shouts
of conversation and laughter.
The entire line, horses, buggies, wagons, gigs, dogs, men and
boys on foot, and armed with clubs, moved slowly across the
fields, sending up a cloud of white dust, that hung above the
scene like smoke. A brisk gaiety was in the air. Everyone was
in the best of humor, calling from team to team, laughing,
skylarking, joshing. Garnett, of the Ruby Rancho, and Gethings,
of the San Pablo, both on horseback, found themselves side by
side. Ignoring the drive and the spirit of the occasion, they
kept up a prolonged and serious conversation on an expected rise
in the price of wheat. Dabney, also on horseback, followed them,
listening attentively to every word, but hazarding no remark.
Mrs. Derrick and Hilma sat in the back seat of the carry-all,
behind young Vacca. Mrs. Derrick, a little disturbed by such a
great concourse of people, frightened at the idea of the killing
of so many rabbits, drew back in her place, her young-girl eyes
troubled and filled with a vague distress. Hilma, very much
excited, leaned from the carry-all, anxious to see everything,
watching for rabbits, asking innumerable questions of Annixter,
who rode at her side.
The change that had been progressing in Hilma, ever since the
night of the famous barn-dance, now seemed to be approaching its
climax; first the girl, then the woman, last of all the Mother.
Conscious dignity, a new element in her character, developed.
The shrinking, the timidity of the girl just awakening to the
consciousness of sex, passed away from her. The confusion, the
troublous complexity of the woman, a mystery even to herself,
disappeared. Motherhood dawned, the old simplicity of her maiden
days came back to her. It was no longer a simplicity of
ignorance, but of supreme knowledge, the simplicity of the
perfect, the simplicity of greatness. She looked the world
fearlessly in the eyes. At last, the confusion of her ideas,
like frightened birds, re-settling, adjusted itself, and she
emerged from the trouble calm, serene, entering into her divine
right, like a queen into the rule of a realm of perpetual peace.
And with this, with the knowledge that the crown hung poised
above her head, there came upon Hilma a gentleness infinitely
beautiful, infinitely pathetic; a sweetness that touched all who
came near her with the softness of a caress. She moved
surrounded by an invisible atmosphere of Love. Love was in her
wide-opened brown eyes, Love--the dim reflection of that
descending crown poised over her head--radiated in a faint lustre
from her dark, thick hair. Around her beautiful neck, sloping to
her shoulders with full, graceful curves, Love lay encircled like
a necklace--Love that was beyond words, sweet, breathed from her
parted lips. From her white, large arms downward to her pink
finger-tips--Love, an invisible electric fluid, disengaged
itself, subtle, alluring. In the velvety huskiness of her voice,
Love vibrated like a note of unknown music.
Annixter, her uncouth, rugged husband, living in this influence
of a wife, who was also a mother, at all hours touched to the
quick by this sense of nobility, of gentleness and of love, the
instincts of a father already clutching and tugging at his heart,
was trembling on the verge of a mighty transformation. The
hardness and inhumanity of the man was fast breaking up. One
night, returning late to the Ranch house, after a compulsory
visit to the city, he had come upon Hilma asleep. He had never
forgotten that night. A realization of his boundless happiness
in this love he gave and received, the thought that Hilma TRUSTED
him, a knowledge of his own unworthiness, a vast and humble
thankfulness that his God had chosen him of all men for this
great joy, had brought him to his knees for the first time in all
his troubled, restless life of combat and aggression. He prayed,
he knew not what,--vague words, wordless thoughts, resolving
fiercely to do right, to make some return for God's gift thus
placed within his hands.
Where once Annixter had thought only of himself, he now thought
only of Hilma. The time when this thought of another should
broaden and widen into thought of OTHERS, was yet to come; but
already it had expanded to include the unborn child--already, as
in the case of Mrs. Dyke, it had broadened to enfold another
child and another mother bound to him by no ties other than those
of humanity and pity. In time, starting from this point it would
reach out more and more till it should take in all men and all
women, and the intolerant selfish man, while retaining all of his
native strength, should become tolerant and generous, kind and
forgiving.
For the moment, however, the two natures struggled within him. A
fight was to be fought, one more, the last, the fiercest, the
attack of the enemy who menaced his very home and hearth, was to
be resisted. Then, peace attained, arrested development would
once more proceed.
Hilma looked from the carry-all, scanning the open plain in front
of the advancing line of the drive.
"Where are the rabbits?" she asked of Annixter. "I don't see any
at all."
"They are way ahead of us yet," he said. "Here, take the
glasses."
He passed her his field glasses, and she adjusted them.
"Oh, yes," she cried, "I see. I can see five or six, but oh, so
far off."
"The beggars run 'way ahead, at first."
"I should say so. See them run,--little specks. Every now and
then they sit up, their ears straight up, in the air."
"Here, look, Hilma, there goes one close by."
From out of the ground apparently, some twenty yards distant, a
great jack sprang into view, bounding away with tremendous leaps,
his black-tipped ears erect. He disappeared, his grey body
losing itself against the grey of the ground.
"Oh, a big fellow."
"Hi, yonder's another."
"Yes, yes, oh, look at him run."
From off the surface of the ground, at first apparently empty of
all life, and seemingly unable to afford hiding place for so much
as a field-mouse, jack-rabbits started up at every moment as the
line went forward. At first, they appeared singly and at long
intervals; then in twos and threes, as the drive continued to
advance. They leaped across the plain, and stopped in the
distance, sitting up with straight ears, then ran on again, were
joined by others; sank down flush to the soil--their ears
flattened; started up again, ran to the side, turned back once
more, darted away with incredible swiftness, and were lost to
view only to be replaced by a score of others.
Gradually, the number of jacks to be seen over the expanse of
stubble in front of the line of teams increased. Their antics
were infinite. No two acted precisely alike. Some lay
stubbornly close in a little depression between two clods, till
the horses' hoofs were all but upon them, then sprang out from
their hiding-place at the last second. Others ran forward but a
few yards at a time, refusing to take flight, scenting a greater
danger before them than behind. Still others, forced up at the
last moment, doubled with lightning alacrity in their tracks,
turning back to scuttle between the teams, taking desperate
chances. As often as this occurred, it was the signal for a
great uproar.
"Don't let him get through; don t let him get through."
"Look out for him, there he goes."
Horns were blown, bells rung, tin pans clamorously beaten.
Either the jack escaped, or confused by the noise, darted back
again, fleeing away as if his life depended on the issue of the
instant. Once even, a bewildered rabbit jumped fair into Mrs.
Derrick's lap as she sat in the carry-all, and was out again like
a flash.
"Poor frightened thing," she exclaimed; and for a long time
afterward, she retained upon her knees the sensation of the four
little paws quivering with excitement, and the feel of the
trembling furry body, with its wildly beating heart, pressed
against her own.
By noon the number of rabbits discernible by Annixter's field
glasses on ahead was far into the thousands. What seemed to be
ground resolved itself, when seen through the glasses, into a
maze of small, moving bodies, leaping, ducking, doubling, running
back and forth--a wilderness of agitated ears, white tails and
twinkling legs. The outside wings of the curved line of vehicles
began to draw in a little; Osterman's ranch was left behind, the
drive continued on over Quien Sabe.
As the day advanced, the rabbits, singularly enough, became less
wild. When flushed, they no longer ran so far nor so fast,
limping off instead a few feet at a time, and crouching down,
their ears close upon their backs. Thus it was, that by degrees
the teams began to close up on the main herd. At every instant
the numbers increased. It was no longer thousands, it was tens
of thousands. The earth was alive with rabbits.
Denser and denser grew the throng. In all directions nothing was
to be seen but the loose mass of the moving jacks. The horns of
the crescent of teams began to contract. Far off the corral came
into sight. The disintegrated mass of rabbits commenced, as it
were, to solidify, to coagulate. At first, each jack was some
three feet distant from his nearest neighbor, but this space
diminished to two feet, then to one, then to but a few inches.
The rabbits began leaping over one another.
Then the strange scene defined itself. It was no longer a herd
covering the earth. It was a sea, whipped into confusion,
tossing incessantly, leaping, falling, agitated by unseen forces.
At times the unexpected tameness of the rabbits all at once
vanished. Throughout certain portions of the herd eddies of
terror abruptly burst forth. A panic spread; then there would
ensue a blind, wild rushing together of thousands of crowded
bodies, and a furious scrambling over backs, till the scuffing
thud of innumerable feet over the earth rose to a reverberating
murmur as of distant thunder, here and there pierced by the
strange, wild cry of the rabbit in distress.
The line of vehicles was halted. To go forward now meant to
trample the rabbits under foot. The drive came to a standstill
while the herd entered the corral. This took time, for the
rabbits were by now too crowded to run. However, like an opened
sluice-gate, the extending flanks of the entrance of the corral
slowly engulfed the herd. The mass, packed tight as ever, by
degrees diminished, precisely as a pool of water when a dam is
opened. The last stragglers went in with a rush, and the gate
was dropped.
"Come, just have a lock in here," called Annixter.
Hilma, descending from the carry-all and joined by Presley and
Harran, approached and looked over the high board fence.
"Oh, did you ever see anything like that?" she exclaimed.
The corral, a really large enclosure, had proved all too small
for the number of rabbits collected by the drive. Inside it was
a living, moving, leaping, breathing, twisting mass. The rabbits
were packed two, three, and four feet deep. They were in
constant movement; those beneath struggling to the top, those on
top sinking and disappearing below their fellows. All wildness,
all fear of man, seemed to have entirely disappeared. Men and
boys reaching over the sides of the corral, picked up a jack in
each hand, holding them by the ears, while two reporters from San
Francisco papers took photographs of the scene. The noise made
by the tens of thousands of moving bodies was as the noise of
wind in a forest, while from the hot and sweating mass there rose
a strange odor, penetrating, ammoniacal, savouring of wild life.
On signal, the killing began. Dogs that had been brought there
for that purpose when let into the corral refused, as had been
half expected, to do the work. They snuffed curiously at the
pile, then backed off, disturbed, perplexed. But the men and
boys--Portuguese for the most part--were more eager. Annixter
drew Hilma away, and, indeed, most of the people set about the
barbecue at once.
In the corral, however, the killing went forward. Armed with a
club in each hand, the young fellows from Guadalajara and
Bonneville, and the farm boys from the ranches, leaped over the
rails of the corral. They walked unsteadily upon the myriad of
crowding bodies underfoot, or, as space was cleared, sank almost
waist deep into the mass that leaped and squirmed about them.
Blindly, furiously, they struck and struck. The Anglo-Saxon
spectators round about drew back in disgust, but the hot,
degenerated blood of Portuguese, Mexican, and mixed Spaniard
boiled up in excitement at this wholesale slaughter.
But only a few of the participants of the drive cared to look on.
All the guests betook themselves some quarter of a mile farther
on into the hills.
The picnic and barbecue were to be held around the spring where
Broderson Creek took its rise. Already two entire beeves were
roasting there; teams were hitched, saddles removed, and men,
women, and children, a great throng, spread out under the shade
of the live oaks. A vast confused clamour rose in the air, a
babel of talk, a clatter of tin plates, of knives and forks.
Bottles were uncorked, napkins and oil-cloths spread over the
ground. The men lit pipes and cigars, the women seized the
occasion to nurse their babies.
Osterman, ubiquitous as ever, resplendent in his boots and
English riding breeches, moved about between the groups, keeping
up an endless flow of talk, cracking jokes, winking, nudging,
gesturing, putting his tongue in his cheek, never at a loss for a
reply, playing the goat.
"That josher, Osterman, always at his monkey-shines, but a good
fellow for all that; brainy too. Nothing stuck up about him
either, like Magnus Derrick."
"Everything all right, Buck?" inquired Osterman, coming up to
where Annixter, Hilma and Mrs. Derrick were sitting down to their
lunch.
"Yes, yes, everything right. But we've no cork-screw."
"No screw-cork--no scare-crow? Here you are," and he drew from
his pocket a silver-plated jack-knife with a cork-screw
attachment.
Harran and Presley came up, bearing between them a great smoking,
roasted portion of beef just off the fire. Hilma hastened to put
forward a huge china platter.
Osterman had a joke to crack with the two boys, a joke that was
rather broad, but as he turned about, the words almost on his
lips, his glance fell upon Hilma herself, whom he had not seen
for more than two months.
She had handed Presley the platter, and was now sitting with her
back against the tree, between two boles of the roots. The
position was a little elevated and the supporting roots on either
side of her were like the arms of a great chair--a chair of
state. She sat thus, as on a throne, raised above the rest, the
radiance of the unseen crown of motherhood glowing from her
forehead, the beauty of the perfect woman surrounding her like a
glory.
And the josh died away on Osterman's lips, and unconsciously and
swiftly he bared his head. Something was passing there in the
air about him that he did not understand, something, however,
that imposed reverence and profound respect. For the first time
in his life, embarrassment seized upon him, upon this joker, this
wearer of clothes, this teller of funny stories, with his large,
red ears, bald head and comic actor's face. He stammered
confusedly and took himself away, for the moment abstracted,
serious, lost in thought.
By now everyone was eating. It was the feeding of the People,
elemental, gross, a great appeasing of appetite, an enormous
quenching of thirst. Quarters of beef, roasts, ribs, shoulders,
haunches were consumed, loaves of bread by the thousands
disappeared, whole barrels of wine went down the dry and dusty
throats of the multitude. Conversation lagged while the People
ate, while hunger was appeased. Everybody had their fill. One
ate for the sake of eating, resolved that there should be nothing
left, considering it a matter of pride to exhibit a clean plate.
After dinner, preparations were made for games. On a flat
plateau at the top of one of the hills the contestants were to
strive. There was to be a footrace of young girls under
seventeen, a fat men's race, the younger fellows were to put the
shot, to compete in the running broad jump, and the standing high
jump, in the hop, skip, and step and in wrestling.
Presley was delighted with it all. It was Homeric, this
feasting, this vast consuming of meat and bread and wine,
followed now by games of strength. An epic simplicity and
directness, an honest Anglo-Saxon mirth and innocence, commended
it. Crude it was; coarse it was, but no taint of viciousness was
here. These people were good people, kindly, benignant even,
always readier to give than to receive, always more willing to
help than to be helped. They were good stock. Of such was the
backbone of the nation--sturdy Americans everyone of them. Where
else in the world round were such strong, honest men, such
strong, beautiful women?
Annixter, Harran, and Presley climbed to the level plateau where
the games were to be held, to lay out the courses, and mark the
distances. It was the very place where once Presley had loved to
lounge entire afternoons, reading his books of poems, smoking and
dozing. From this high point one dominated the entire valley to
the south and west. The view was superb. The three men paused
for a moment on the crest of the hill to consider it.
Young Vacca came running and panting up the hill after them,
calling for Annixter.
"Well, well, what is it?"
"Mr. Osterman's looking for you, sir, you and Mr. Harran.
Vanamee, that cow-boy over at Derrick's, has just come from the
Governor with a message. I guess it's important."
"Hello, what's up now?" muttered Annixter, as they turned back.
They found Osterman saddling his horse in furious haste. Near-by
him was Vanamee holding by the bridle an animal that was one
lather of sweat. A few of the picnickers were turning their
heads curiously in that direction. Evidently something of moment
was in the wind.
"What's all up?" demanded Annixter, as he and Harran, followed by
Presley, drew near.
"There's hell to pay," exclaimed Osterman under his breath.
"Read that. Vanamee just brought it."
He handed Annixter a sheet of note paper, and turned again to the
cinching of his saddle.
"We've got to be quick," he cried. "They've stolen a march on
us."
Annixter read the note, Harran and Presley looking over his
shoulder.
"Ah, it's them, is it," exclaimed Annixter.
Harran set his teeth. "Now for it," he exclaimed.
"They've been to your place already, Mr. Annixter," said Vanamee.
"I passed by it on my way up. They have put Delaney in
possession, and have set all your furniture out in the road."
Annixter turned about, his lips white. Already Presley and
Harran had run to their horses.
"Vacca," cried Annixter, "where's Vacca? Put the saddle on the
buckskin, QUICK. Osterman, get as many of the League as are here
together at THIS spot, understand. I'll be back in a minute. I
must tell Hilma this."
Hooven ran up as Annixter disappeared. His little eyes were
blazing, he was dragging his horse with him.
"Say, dose fellers come, hey? Me, I'm alretty, see I hev der
guhn."
"They've jumped the ranch, little girl," said Annixter, putting
one arm around Hilma. "They're in our house now. I'm off. Go
to Derrick's and wait for me there."
She put her arms around his neck.
"You're going?" she demanded.
"I must. Don't be frightened. It will be all right. Go to
Derrick's and--good-bye."
She said never a word. She looked once long into his eyes, then
kissed him on the mouth.
Meanwhile, the news had spread. The multitude rose to its feet.
Women and men, with pale faces, looked at each other speechless,
or broke forth into inarticulate exclamations. A strange,
unfamiliar murmur took the place of the tumultuous gaiety of the
previous moments. A sense of dread, of confusion, of impending
terror weighed heavily in the air. What was now to happen?
When Annixter got back to Osterman, he found a number of the
Leaguers already assembled. They were all mounted. Hooven was
there and Harran, and besides these, Garnett of the Ruby ranch
and Gethings of the San Pablo, Phelps the foreman of Los Muertos,
and, last of all, Dabney, silent as ever, speaking to no one.
Presley came riding up.
"Best keep out of this, Pres," cried Annixter.
"Are we ready?" exclaimed Gethings.
"Ready, ready, we're all here."
"ALL. Is this all of us?" cried Annixter. "Where are the six
hundred men who were going to rise when this happened?"
They had wavered, these other Leaguers. Now, when the actual
crisis impended, they were smitten with confusion. Ah, no, they
were not going to stand up and be shot at just to save Derrick's
land. They were not armed. What did Annixter and Osterman take
them for? No, sir; the Railroad had stolen a march on them.
After all his big talk Derrick had allowed them to be taken by
surprise. The only thing to do was to call a meeting of the
Executive Committee. That was the only thing. As for going down
there with no weapons in their hands, NO, sir. That was asking a
little TOO much.
"Come on, then, boys," shouted Osterman, turning his back on the
others. "The Governor says to meet him at Hooven's. We'll make
for the Long Trestle and strike the trail to Hooven's there."
They set off. It was a terrible ride. Twice during the
scrambling descent from the hills, Presley's pony fell beneath
him. Annixter, on his buckskin, and Osterman, on his
thoroughbred, good horsemen both, led the others, setting a
terrific pace. The hills were left behind. Broderson Creek was
crossed and on the levels of Quien Sabe, straight through the
standing wheat, the nine horses, flogged and spurred, stretched
out to their utmost. Their passage through the wheat sounded
like the rip and tear of a gigantic web of cloth. The landscape
on either hand resolved itself into a long blur. Tears came to
the eyes, flying pebbles, clods of earth, grains of wheat flung
up in the flight, stung the face like shot. Osterman's
thoroughbred took the second crossing of Broderson's Creek in a
single leap. Down under the Long Trestle tore the cavalcade in a
shower of mud and gravel; up again on the further bank, the
horses blowing like steam engines; on into the trail to Hooven's,
single file now, Presley's pony lagging, Hooven's horse bleeding
at the eyes, the buckskin, game as a fighting cock, catching her
second wind, far in the lead now, distancing even the English
thoroughbred that Osterman rode.
At last Hooven's unpainted house, beneath the enormous live oak
tree, came in sight. Across the Lower Road, breaking through
fences and into the yard around the house, thundered the
Leaguers. Magnus was waiting for them.
The riders dismounted, hardly less exhausted than their horses.
"Why, where's all the men?" Annixter demanded of Magnus.
"Broderson is here and Cutter," replied the Governor, "no one
else. I thought YOU would bring more men with you."
"There are only nine of us."
"And the six hundred Leaguers who were going to rise when this
happened!" exclaimed Garnett, bitterly.
"Rot the League," cried Annixter. "It's gone to pot--went to
pieces at the first touch."
"We have been taken by surprise, gentlemen, after all," said
Magnus. "Totally off our guard. But there are eleven of us. It
is enough."
"Well, what's the game? Has the marshal come? How many men are
with him?"
"The United States marshal from San Francisco," explained Magnus,
"came down early this morning and stopped at Guadalajara. We
learned it all through our friends in Bonneville about an hour
ago. They telephoned me and Mr. Broderson. S. Behrman met him
and provided about a dozen deputies. Delaney, Ruggles, and
Christian joined them at Guadalajara. They left Guadalajara,
going towards Mr. Annixter's ranch house on Quien Sabe. They are
serving the writs in ejectment and putting the dummy buyers in
possession. They are armed. S. Behrman is with them."
"Where are they now?"
"Cutter is watching them from the Long Trestle. They returned to
Guadalajara. They are there now."
"Well," observed Gethings, "From Guadalajara they can only go to
two places. Either they will take the Upper Road and go on to
Osterman's next, or they will take the Lower Road to Mr.
Derrick's."
"That is as I supposed," said Magnus. "That is why I wanted you
to come here. From Hooven's, here, we can watch both roads
simultaneously."
"Is anybody on the lookout on the Upper Road?"
"Cutter. He is on the Long Trestle."
"Say," observed Hooven, the instincts of the old-time soldier
stirring him, "say, dose feller pretty demn schmart, I tink. We
got to put some picket way oudt bei der Lower Roadt alzoh, und he
tek dose glassus Mist'r Ennixt'r got bei um. Say, look at dose
irregation ditsch. Dot ditsch he run righd across BOTH dose
road, hey? Dat's some fine entrenchment, you bedt. We fighd um
from dose ditsch."
In fact, the dry irrigating ditch was a natural trench, admirably
suited to the purpose, crossing both roads as Hooven pointed out
and barring approach from Guadalajara to all the ranches save
Annixter's--which had already been seized.
Gethings departed to join Cutter on the Long Trestle, while
Phelps and Harran, taking Annixter's field glasses with them, and
mounting their horses, went out towards Guadalajara on the Lower
Road to watch for the marshal's approach from that direction.
After the outposts had left them, the party in Hooven's cottage
looked to their weapons. Long since, every member of the League
had been in the habit of carrying his revolver with him. They
were all armed and, in addition, Hooven had his rifle. Presley
alone carried no weapon.
The main room of Hooven's house, in which the Leaguers were now
assembled, was barren, poverty-stricken, but tolerably clean. An
old clock ticked vociferously on a shelf. In one corner was a
bed, with a patched, faded quilt. In the centre of the room,
straddling over the bare floor, stood a pine table. Around this
the men gathered, two or three occupying chairs, Annixter sitting
sideways on the table, the rest standing.
"I believe, gentlemen," said Magnus, "that we can go through this
day without bloodshed. I believe not one shot need be fired.
The Railroad will not force the issue, will not bring about
actual fighting. When the marshal realises that we are
thoroughly in earnest, thoroughly determined, I am convinced that
he will withdraw."
There were murmurs of assent.
"Look here," said Annixter, "if this thing can by any means be
settled peaceably, I say let's do it, so long as we don't give
in."
The others stared. Was this Annixter who spoke--the Hotspur of
the League, the quarrelsome, irascible fellow who loved and
sought a quarrel? Was it Annixter, who now had been the first
and only one of them all to suffer, whose ranch had been seized,
whose household possessions had been flung out into the road?
"When you come right down to it," he continued, "killing a man,
no matter what he's done to you, is a serious business. I
propose we make one more attempt to stave this thing off. Let's
see if we can't get to talk with the marshal himself; at any
rate, warn him of the danger of going any further. Boys, let's
not fire the first shot. What do you say?"
The others agreed unanimously and promptly; and old Broderson,
tugging uneasily at his long beard, added:
"No--no--no violence, no UNNECESSARY violence, that is. I should
hate to have innocent blood on my hands--that is, if it IS
innocent. I don't know, that S. Behrman--ah, he is a--a--surely
he had innocent blood on HIS head. That Dyke affair, terrible,
terrible; but then Dyke WAS in the wrong--driven to it, though;
the Railroad did drive him to it. I want to be fair and just to
everybody"
"There's a team coming up the road from Los Muertos," announced
Presley from the door.
"Fair and just to everybody," murmured old Broderson, wagging his
head, frowning perplexedly. "I don't want to--to--to harm
anybody unless they harm me."
"Is the team going towards Guadalajara?" enquired Garnett,
getting up and coming to the door.
"Yes, it's a Portuguese, one of the garden truck men."
"We must turn him back," declared Osterman. "He can't go through
here. We don't want him to take any news on to the marshal and
S. Behrman."
"I'll turn him back," said Presley.
He rode out towards the market cart, and the others, watching
from the road in front of Hooven's, saw him halt it. An excited
interview followed. They could hear the Portuguese expostulating
volubly, but in the end he turned back.
"Martial law on Los Muertos, isn't it?" observed Osterman.
"Steady all," he exclaimed as he turned about, "here comes
Harran."
Harran rode up at a gallop. The others surrounded him.
"I saw them," he cried. "They are coming this way. S. Behrman
and Ruggles are in a two-horse buggy. All the others are on
horseback. There are eleven of them. Christian and Delaney are
with them. Those two have rifles. I left Hooven watching them."
"Better call in Gethings and Cutter right away," said Annixter.
"We'll need all our men."
"I'll call them in," Presley volunteered at once. "Can I have
the buckskin? My pony is about done up."
He departed at a brisk gallop, but on the way met Gethings and
Cutter returning. They, too, from their elevated position, had
observed the marshal's party leaving Guadalajara by the Lower
Road. Presley told them of the decision of the Leaguers not to
fire until fired upon.
"All right," said Gethings. "But if it comes to a gun-fight,
that means it's all up with at least one of us. Delaney never
misses his man."
When they reached Hooven's again, they found that the Leaguers
had already taken their position in the ditch. The plank bridge
across it had been torn up. Magnus, two long revolvers lying on
the embankment in front of him, was in the middle, Harran at his
side. On either side, some five feet intervening between each
man, stood the other Leaguers, their revolvers ready. Dabney,
the silent old man, had taken off his coat.
"Take your places between Mr. Osterman and Mr. Broderson," said
Magnus, as the three men rode up. "Presley," he added, "I forbid
you to take any part in this affair."
"Yes, keep him out of it," cried Annixter from his position at
the extreme end of the line. "Go back to Hooven's house, Pres,
and look after the horses," he added. "This is no business of
yours. And keep the road behind us clear. Don't let ANY ONE
come near, not ANY ONE, understand?"
Presley withdrew, leading the buckskin and the horses that
Gethings and Cutter had ridden. He fastened them under the great
live oak and then came out and stood in the road in front of the
house to watch what was going on.
In the ditch, shoulder deep, the Leaguers, ready, watchful,
waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the white shimmer of the
road leading to Guadalajara.
"Where's Hooven?" enquired Cutter.
"I don't know," Osterman replied. "He was out watching the Lower
Road with Harran Derrick. Oh, Harran," he called, "isn't Hooven
coming in?"
"I don't know what he is waiting for," answered Harran. "He was
to have come in just after me. He thought maybe the marshal's
party might make a feint in this direction, then go around by the
Upper Road, after all. He wanted to watch them a little longer.
But he ought to be here now."
"Think he'll take a shot at them on his own account?"
"Oh, no, he wouldn't do that."
"Maybe they took him prisoner."
"Well, that's to be thought of, too."
Suddenly there was a cry. Around the bend of the road in front
of them came a cloud of dust. From it emerged a horse's head.
"Hello, hello, there's something."
"Remember, we are not to fire first."
"Perhaps that's Hooven; I can't see. Is it? There only seems to
be one horse."
"Too much dust for one horse."
Annixter, who had taken his field glasses from Harran, adjusted
them to his eyes.
"That's not them," he announced presently, "nor Hooven either.
That's a cart." Then after another moment, he added, "The
butcher's cart from Guadalajara."
The tension was relaxed. The men drew long breaths, settling
back in their places.
"Do we let him go on, Governor?"
"The bridge is down. He can't go by and we must not let him go
back. We shall have to detain him and question him. I wonder
the marshal let him pass."
The cart approached at a lively trot.
"Anybody else in that cart, Mr. Annixter?" asked Magnus. "Look
carefully. It may be a ruse. It is strange the marshal should
have let him pass."
The Leaguers roused themselves again. Osterman laid his hand on
his revolver.
"No," called Annixter, in another instant, "no, there's only one
man in it."
The cart came up, and Cutter and Phelps, clambering from the
ditch, stopped it as it arrived in front of the party.
"Hey--what--what?" exclaimed the young butcher, pulling up. "Is
that bridge broke?"
But at the idea of being held, the boy protested at top voice,
badly frightened, bewildered, not knowing what was to happen
next.
"No, no, I got my meat to deliver. Say, you let me go. Say, I
ain't got nothing to do with you."
He tugged at the reins, trying to turn the cart about. Cutter,
with his jack-knife, parted the reins just back of the bit.
"You'll stay where you are, m' son, for a while. We're not going
to hurt you. But you are not going back to town till we say so.
Did you pass anybody on the road out of town?"
In reply to the Leaguers' questions, the young butcher at last
told them he had passed a two-horse buggy and a lot of men on
horseback just beyond the railroad tracks. They were headed for
Los Muertos.
"That's them, all right," muttered Annixter. "They're coming by
this road, sure."
The butcher's horse and cart were led to one side of the road,
and the horse tied to the fence with one of the severed lines.
The butcher, himself, was passed over to Presley, who locked him
in Hooven's barn.
"Well, what the devil," demanded Osterman, "has become of
Bismarck?"
In fact, the butcher had seen nothing of Hooven. The minutes
were passing, and still he failed to appear.
"What's he up to, anyways?"
"Bet you what you like, they caught him. Just like that crazy
Dutchman to get excited and go too near. You can always depend
on Hooven to lose his head."
Five minutes passed, then ten. The road towards Guadalajara lay
empty, baking and white under the sun.
"Well, the marshal and S. Behrman don't seem to be in any hurry,
either."
"Shall I go forward and reconnoitre, Governor?" asked Harran.
But Dabney, who stood next to Annixter, touched him on the
shoulder and, without speaking, pointed down the road. Annixter
looked, then suddenly cried out:
"Here comes Hooven."
The German galloped into sight, around the turn of the road, his
rifle laid across his saddle. He came on rapidly, pulled up, and
dismounted at the ditch.
"Dey're commen," he cried, trembling with excitement. "I watch
um long dime bei der side oaf der roadt in der busches. Dey
shtop bei der gate oder side der relroadt trecks and talk long
dime mit one n'udder. Den dey gome on. Dey're gowun sure do zum
monkey-doodle pizeness. Me, I see Gritschun put der kertridges
in his guhn. I tink dey gowun to gome MY blace first. Dey gowun
to try put me off, tek my home, bei Gott."
"All right, get down in here and keep quiet, Hooven. Don't fire
unless----"
"Here they are."
A half-dozen voices uttered the cry at once.
There could be no mistake this time. A buggy, drawn by two
horses, came into view around the curve of the road. Three
riders accompanied it, and behind these, seen at intervals in a
cloud of dust were two--three--five--six others.
This, then, was S. Behrman with the United States marshal and his
posse. The event that had been so long in preparation, the event
which it had been said would never come to pass, the last trial
of strength, the last fight between the Trust and the People, the
direct, brutal grapple of armed men, the law defied, the
Government ignored, behold, here it was close at hand.
Osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound silence that
had fallen upon the scene, the click was plainly audible from end
to end of the line.
"Remember our agreement, gentlemen," cried Magnus, in a warning
voice. "Mr. Osterman, I must ask you to let down the hammer of
your weapon."
No one answered. In absolute quiet, standing motionless in their
places, the Leaguers watched the approach of the marshal.
Five minutes passed. The riders came on steadily. They drew
nearer. The grind of the buggy wheels in the grit and dust of
the road, and the prolonged clatter of the horses' feet began to
make itself heard. The Leaguers could distinguish the faces of
their enemies.
In the buggy were S. Behrman and Cyrus Ruggles, the latter
driving. A tall man in a frock coat and slouched hat--the
marshal, beyond question--rode at the left of the buggy; Delaney,
carrying a Winchester, at the right. Christian, the real estate
broker, S. Behrman's cousin, also with a rifle, could be made out
just behind the marshal. Back of these, riding well up, was a
group of horsemen, indistinguishable in the dust raised by the
buggy's wheels.
Steadily the distance between the Leaguers and the posse
diminished.
"Don't let them get too close, Governor," whispered Harran.
When S. Behrman's buggy was about one hundred yards distant from
the irrigating ditch, Magnus sprang out upon the road, leaving
his revolvers behind him. He beckoned Garnett and Gethings to
follow, and the three ranchers, who, with the exception of
Broderson, were the oldest men present, advanced, without arms,
to meet the marshal.
Magnus cried aloud:
"Halt where you are."
From their places in the ditch, Annixter, Osterman, Dabney,
Harran, Hooven, Broderson, Cutter, and Phelps, their hands laid
upon their revolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for
anything.
At the Governor's words, they saw Ruggles pull sharply on the
reins. The buggy came to a standstill, the riders doing
likewise. Magnus approached the marshal, still followed by
Garnett and Gethings, and began to speak. His voice was audible
to the men in the ditch, but his words could not be made out.
They heard the marshal reply quietly enough and the two shook
hands. Delaney came around from the side of the buggy, his horse
standing before the team across the road. He leaned from the
saddle, listening to what was being said, but made no remark.
From time to time, S. Behrman and Ruggles, from their seats in
the buggy, interposed a sentence or two into the conversation,
but at first, so far as the Leaguers could discern, neither
Magnus nor the marshal paid them any attention. They saw,
however, that the latter repeatedly shook his head and once they
heard him exclaim in a loud voice:
"I only know my duty, Mr. Derrick."
Then Gethings turned about, and seeing Delaney close at hand,
addressed an unheard remark to him. The cow-puncher replied
curtly and the words seemed to anger Gethings. He made a
gesture, pointing back to the ditch, showing the intrenched
Leaguers to the posse. Delaney appeared to communicate the news
that the Leaguers were on hand and prepared to resist, to the
other members of the party. They all looked toward the ditch and
plainly saw the ranchers there, standing to their arms.
But meanwhile Ruggles had addressed himself more directly to
Magnus, and between the two an angry discussion was going
forward. Once even Harran heard his father exclaim:
"The statement is a lie and no one knows it better than
yourself."
"Here," growled Annixter to Dabney, who stood next him in the
ditch, "those fellows are getting too close. Look at them edging
up. Don't Magnus see that?"
The other members of the marshal's force had come forward from
their places behind the buggy and were spread out across the
road. Some of them were gathered about Magnus, Garnett, and
Gethings; and some were talking together, looking and pointing
towards the ditch. Whether acting upon signal or not, the
Leaguers in the ditch could not tell, but it was certain that one
or two of the posse had moved considerably forward. Besides
this, Delaney had now placed his horse between Magnus and the
ditch, and two others riding up from the rear had followed his
example. The posse surrounded the three ranchers, and by now,
everybody was talking at once.
"Look here," Harran called to Annixter, "this won't do. I don't
like the looks of this thing. They all seem to be edging up, and
before we know it they may take the Governor and the other men
prisoners."
"They ought to come back," declared Annixter.
"Somebody ought to tell them that those fellows are creeping up."
By now, the angry argument between the Governor and Ruggles had
become more heated than ever. Their voices were raised; now and
then they made furious gestures.
"They ought to come back," cried Osterman. "We couldn't shoot
now if anything should happen, for fear of hitting them."
"Well, it sounds as though something were going to happen pretty
soon."
They could hear Gethings and Delaney wrangling furiously; another
deputy joined in.
"I'm going to call the Governor back," exclaimed Annixter,
suddenly clambering out of the ditch.
"No, no," cried Osterman, "keep in the ditch. They can't drive
us out if we keep here."
Hooven and Harran, who had instinctively followed Annixter,
hesitated at Osterman's words and the three halted irresolutely
on the road before the ditch, their weapons in their hands.
"Governor," shouted Harran, "come on back. You can't do
anything."
Still the wrangle continued, and one of the deputies, advancing a
little from out the group, cried out:
"Keep back there! Keep back there, you!"
"Go to hell, will you?" shouted Harran on the instant. "You're
on my land."
"Oh, come back here, Harran," called Osterman. "That ain't going
to do any good."
"There--listen," suddenly exclaimed Harran. "The Governor is
calling us. Come on; I'm going."
Osterman got out of the ditch and came forward, catching Harran
by the arm and pulling him back.
"He didn't call. Don't get excited. You'll ruin everything.
Get back into the ditch again."
But Cutter, Phelps, and the old man Dabney, misunderstanding what
was happening, and seeing Osterman leave the ditch, had followed
his example. All the Leaguers were now out of the ditch, and a
little way down the road, Hooven, Osterman, Annixter, and Harran
in front, Dabney, Phelps, and Cutter coming up from behind.
"Keep back, you," cried the deputy again.
In the group around S. Behrman's buggy, Gethings and Delaney were
yet quarrelling, and the angry debate between Magnus, Garnett,
and the marshal still continued.
Till this moment, the real estate broker, Christian, had taken no
part in the argument, but had kept himself in the rear of the
buggy. Now, however, he pushed forward. There was but little
room for him to pass, and, as he rode by the buggy, his horse
scraped his flank against the hub of the wheel. The animal
recoiled sharply, and, striking against Garnett, threw him to the
ground. Delaney's horse stood between the buggy and the Leaguers
gathered on the road in front of the ditch; the incident,
indistinctly seen by them, was misinterpreted.
Garnett had not yet risen when Hooven raised a great shout:
"HOCH, DER KAISER! HOCH, DER VATERLAND!"
With the words, he dropped to one knee, and sighting his rifle
carefully, fired into the group of men around the buggy.
Instantly the revolvers and rifles seemed to go off of
themselves. Both sides, deputies and Leaguers, opened fire
simultaneously. At first, it was nothing but a confused roar of
explosions; then the roar lapsed to an irregular, quick
succession of reports, shot leaping after shot; then a moment's
silence, and, last of all, regular as clock-ticks, three shots at
exact intervals. Then stillness.
Delaney, shot through the stomach, slid down from his horse, and,
on his hands and knees, crawled from the road into the standing
wheat. Christian fell backward from the saddle toward the buggy,
and hung suspended in that position, his head and shoulders on
the wheel, one stiff leg still across his saddle. Hooven, in
attempting to rise from his kneeling position, received a rifle
ball squarely in the throat, and rolled forward upon his face.
Old Broderson, crying out, "Oh, they've shot me, boys," staggered
sideways, his head bent, his hands rigid at his sides, and fell
into the ditch. Osterman, blood running from his mouth and nose,
turned about and walked back. Presley helped him across the
irrigating ditch and Osterman laid himself down, his head on his
folded arms. Harran Derrick dropped where he stood, turning over
on his face, and lay motionless, groaning terribly, a pool of
blood forming under his stomach. The old man Dabney, silent as
ever, received his death, speechless. He fell to his knees, got
up again, fell once more, and died without a word. Annixter,
instantly killed, fell his length to the ground, and lay without
movement, just as he had fallen, one arm across his face.
VII
On their way to Derrick's ranch house, Hilma and Mrs. Derrick
heard the sounds of distant firing.
"Stop!" cried Hilma, laying her hand upon young Vacca's arm.
"Stop the horses. Listen, what was that?"
The carry-all came to a halt and from far away across the
rustling wheat came the faint rattle of rifles and revolvers.
"Say," cried Vacca, rolling his eyes, "oh, say, they're fighting
over there."
Mrs. Derrick put her hands over her face.
"Fighting," she cried, "oh, oh, it's terrible. Magnus is there--
and Harran."
"Where do you think it is?" demanded Hilma.
"That's over toward Hooven's."
"I'm going. Turn back. Drive to Hooven's, quick."
"Better not, Mrs. Annixter," protested the young man. "Mr.
Annixter said we were to go to Derrick's. Better keep away from
Hooven's if there's trouble there. We wouldn't get there till
it's all over, anyhow."
"Yes, yes, let's go home," cried Mrs. Derrick, "I'm afraid. Oh,
Hilma, I'm afraid."
"Come with me to Hooven's then."
"There, where they are fighting? Oh, I couldn't. I--I can't.
It would be all over before we got there as Vacca says."
"Sure," repeated young Vacca.
"Drive to Hooven's," commanded Hilma. "If you won't, I'll walk
there." She threw off the lap-robes, preparing to descend. "And
you," she exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Derrick, "how CAN you--when
Harran and your husband may be--may--are in danger."
Grumbling, Vacca turned the carry-all about and drove across the
open fields till he reached the road to Guadalajara, just below
the Mission.
"Hurry!" cried Hilma.
The horses started forward under the touch of the whip. The
ranch houses of Quien Sabe came in sight.
"Do you want to stop at the house?" inquired Vacca over his
shoulder.
"No, no; oh, go faster--make the horses run."
They dashed through the houses of the Home ranch.
"Oh, oh," cried Hilma suddenly, "look, look there. Look what
they have done."
Vacca pulled the horses up, for the road in front of Annixter's
house was blocked.
A vast, confused heap of household effects was there--chairs,
sofas, pictures, fixtures, lamps. Hilma's little home had been
gutted; everything had been taken from it and ruthlessly flung
out upon the road, everything that she and her husband had bought
during that wonderful week after their marriage. Here was the
white enamelled "set" of the bedroom furniture, the three chairs,
wash-stand and bureau,--the bureau drawers falling out, spilling
their contents into the dust; there were the white wool rugs of
the sitting-room, the flower stand, with its pots all broken, its
flowers wilting; the cracked goldfish globe, the fishes already
dead; the rocking chair, the sewing machine, the great round
table of yellow oak, the lamp with its deep shade of crinkly red
tissue paper, the pretty tinted photographs that had hung on the
wall--the choir boys with beautiful eyes, the pensive young girls
in pink gowns--the pieces of wood carving that represented quails
and ducks, and, last of all, its curtains of crisp, clean muslin,
cruelly torn and crushed--the bed, the wonderful canopied bed so
brave and gay, of which Hilma had been so proud, thrust out there
into the common road, torn from its place, from the discreet
intimacy of her bridal chamber, violated, profaned, flung out
into the dust and garish sunshine for all men to stare at, a
mockery and a shame.
To Hilma it was as though something of herself, of her person,
had been thus exposed and degraded; all that she held sacred
pilloried, gibbeted, and exhibited to the world's derision.
Tears of anguish sprang to her eyes, a red flame of outraged
modesty overspread her face.
"Oh," she cried, a sob catching her throat, "oh, how could they
do it?" But other fears intruded; other greater terrors impended.
"Go on," she cried to Vacca, "go on quickly."
But Vacca would go no further. He had seen what had escaped
Hilma's attention, two men, deputies, no doubt, on the porch of
the ranch house. They held possession there, and the evidence of
the presence of the enemy in this raid upon Quien Sabe had
daunted him.
"No, SIR," he declared, getting out of the carry-all, "I ain't
going to take you anywhere where you're liable to get hurt.
Besides, the road's blocked by all this stuff. You can't get the
team by."
Hilma sprang from the carry-all.
"Come," she said to Mrs. Derrick.
The older woman, trembling, hesitating, faint with dread, obeyed,
and Hilma, picking her way through and around the wreck of her
home, set off by the trail towards the Long Trestle and Hooven's.
When she arrived, she found the road in front of the German's
house, and, indeed, all the surrounding yard, crowded with
people. An overturned buggy lay on the side of the road in the
distance, its horses in a tangle of harness, held by two or three
men. She saw Caraher's buckboard under the live oak and near it
a second buggy which she recognised as belonging to a doctor in
Guadalajara.
"Oh, what has happened; oh, what has happened?" moaned Mrs.
Derrick.
"Come," repeated Hilma. The young girl took her by the hand and
together they pushed their way through the crowd of men and women
and entered the yard.
The throng gave way before the two women, parting to right and
left without a word.
"Presley," cried Mrs. Derrick, as she caught sight of him in the
doorway of the house, "oh, Presley, what has happened? Is Harran
safe? Is Magnus safe? Where are they?"
"Don't go in, Mrs. Derrick," said Presley, coming forward, "don't
go in."
"Where is my husband?" demanded Hilma.
Presley turned away and steadied himself against the jamb of the
door.
Hilma, leaving Mrs. Derrick, entered the house. The front room
was full of men. She was dimly conscious of Cyrus Ruggles and S.
Behrman, both deadly pale, talking earnestly and in whispers to
Cutter and Phelps. There was a strange, acrid odour of an
unfamiliar drug in the air. On the table before her was a
satchel, surgical instruments, rolls of bandages, and a blue,
oblong paper box full of cotton. But above the hushed noises of
voices and footsteps, one terrible sound made itself heard--the
prolonged, rasping sound of breathing, half choked, laboured,
agonised.
"Where is my husband?" she cried. She pushed the men aside. She
saw Magnus, bareheaded, three or four men lying on the floor, one
half naked, his body swathed in white bandages; the doctor in
shirt sleeves, on one knee beside a figure of a man stretched out
beside him.
Garnett turned a white face to her.
"Where is my husband?"
The other did not reply, but stepped aside and Hilma saw the dead
body of her husband lying upon the bed. She did not cry out.
She said no word. She went to the bed, and sitting upon it, took
Annixter's head in her lap, holding it gently between her hands.
Thereafter she did not move, but sat holding her dead husband's
head in her lap, looking vaguely about from face to face of those
in the room, while, without a sob, without a cry, the great tears
filled her wide-opened eyes and rolled slowly down upon her
cheeks.
On hearing that his wife was outside, Magnus came quickly
forward. She threw herself into his arms.
"Tell me, tell me," she cried, "is Harran--is----"
"We don't know yet," he answered. "Oh, Annie----"
Then suddenly the Governor checked himself. He, the indomitable,
could not break down now.
"The doctor is with him," he said; "we are doing all we can. Try
and be brave, Annie. There is always hope. This is a terrible
day's work. God forgive us all."
She pressed forward, but he held her back.
"No, don't see him now. Go into the next room. Garnett, take
care of her."
But she would not be denied. She pushed by Magnus, and, breaking
through the group that surrounded her son, sank on her knees
beside him, moaning, in compassion and terror.
Harran lay straight and rigid upon the floor, his head propped by
a pillow, his coat that had been taken off spread over his chest.
One leg of his trousers was soaked through and through with
blood. His eyes were half-closed, and with the regularity of a
machine, the eyeballs twitched and twitched. His face was so
white that it made his yellow hair look brown, while from his
opened mouth, there issued that loud and terrible sound of
guttering, rasping, laboured breathing that gagged and choked and
gurgled with every inhalation.
"Oh, Harrie, Harrie," called Mrs. Derrick, catching at one of his
hands.
The doctor shook his head.
"He is unconscious, Mrs. Derrick."
"Where was he--where is--the--the----"
"Through the lungs."
"Will he get well? Tell me the truth."
"I don't know. Mrs. Derrick."
She had all but fainted, and the old rancher, Garnett, halfcarrying,
half-leading her, took her to the one adjoining room--
Minna Hooven's bedchamber. Dazed, numb with fear, she sat down
on the edge of the bed, rocking herself back and forth,
murmuring:
"Harrie, Harrie, oh, my son, my little boy."
In the outside room, Presley came and went, doing what he could
to be of service, sick with horror, trembling from head to foot.
The surviving members of both Leaguers and deputies--the warring
factions of the Railroad and the People--mingled together now
with no thought of hostility. Presley helped the doctor to cover
Christian's body. S. Behrman and Ruggles held bowls of water
while Osterman was attended to. The horror of that dreadful
business had driven all other considerations from the mind. The
sworn foes of the last hour had no thought of anything but to
care for those whom, in their fury, they had shot down. The
marshal, abandoning for that day the attempt to serve the writs,
departed for San Francisco.
The bodies had been brought in from the road where they fell.
Annixter's corpse had been laid upon the bed; those of Dabney and
Hooven, whose wounds had all been in the face and head, were
covered with a tablecloth. Upon the floor, places were made for
the others. Cutter and Ruggles rode into Guadalajara to bring
out the doctor there, and to telephone to Bonneville for others.
Osterman had not at any time since the shooting, lost
consciousness. He lay upon the floor of Hooven's house, bare to
the waist, bandages of adhesive tape reeved about his abdomen and
shoulder. His eyes were half-closed. Presley, who looked after
him, pending the arrival of a hack from Bonneville that was to
take him home, knew that he was in agony.
But this poser, this silly fellow, this cracker of jokes, whom no
one had ever taken very seriously, at the last redeemed himself.
When at length, the doctor had arrived, he had, for the first
time, opened his eyes.
"I can wait," he said. "Take Harran first."
And when at length, his turn had come, and while the sweat rolled
from his forehead as the doctor began probing for the bullet, he
had reached out his free arm and taken Presley's hand in his,
gripping it harder and harder, as the probe entered the wound.
His breath came short through his nostrils; his face, the face of
a comic actor, with its high cheek bones, bald forehead, and
salient ears, grew paler and paler, his great slit of a mouth
shut tight, but he uttered no groan.
When the worst anguish was over and he could find breath to
speak, his first words had been:
"Were any of the others badly hurt?"
As Presley stood by the door of the house after bringing in a
pail of water for the doctor, he was aware of a party of men who
had struck off from the road on the other side of the irrigating
ditch and were advancing cautiously into the field of wheat. He
wondered what it meant and Cutter, coming up at that moment,
Presley asked him if he knew.
"It's Delaney," said Cutter. "It seems that when he was shot he
crawled off into the wheat. They are looking for him there."
Presley had forgotten all about the buster and had only a vague
recollection of seeing him slide from his horse at the beginning
of the fight. Anxious to know what had become of him, he hurried
up and joined the party of searchers.
"We better look out," said one of the young men, "how we go
fooling around in here. If he's alive yet he's just as liable as
not to think we're after him and take a shot at us."
"I guess there ain't much fight left in him," another answered.
"Look at the wheat here."
"Lord! He's bled like a stuck pig."
"Here's his hat," abruptly exclaimed the leader of the party.
"He can't be far off. Let's call him."
They called repeatedly without getting any answer, then proceeded
cautiously. All at once the men in advance stopped so suddenly
that those following carromed against them. There was an
outburst of exclamation.
"Here he is!"
"Good Lord! Sure, that's him."
"Poor fellow, poor fellow."
The cow-puncher lay on his back, deep in the wheat, his knees
drawn up, his eyes wide open, his lips brown. Rigidly gripped in
one hand was his empty revolver.
The men, farm hands from the neighbouring ranches, young fellows
from Guadalajara, drew back in instinctive repulsion. One at
length ventured near, peering down into the face.
"Is he dead?" inquired those in the rear.
"I don't know."
"Well, put your hand on his heart."
"No! I--I don't want to."
"What you afraid of?"
"Well, I just don't want to touch him, that's all. It's bad
luck. YOU feel his heart."
"You can't always tell by that."
"How can you tell, then? Pshaw, you fellows make me sick. Here,
let me get there. I'll do it."
There was a long pause, as the other bent down and laid his hand
on the cow-puncher's breast.
"Well?"
"I can't tell. Sometimes I think I feel it beat and sometimes I
don't. I never saw a dead man before."
"Well, you can't tell by the heart."
"What's the good of talking so blame much. Dead or not, let's
carry him back to the house."
Two or three ran back to the road for planks from the broken
bridge. When they returned with these a litter was improvised,
and throwing their coats over the body, the party carried it back
to the road. The doctor was summoned and declared the cowpuncher
to have been dead over half an hour.
"What did I tell you?" exclaimed one of the group.
"Well, I never said he wasn't dead," protested the other. "I
only said you couldn't always tell by whether his heart beat or
not."
But all at once there was a commotion. The wagon containing Mrs.
Hooven, Minna, and little Hilda drove up.
"Eh, den, my men," cried Mrs. Hooven, wildly interrogating the
faces of the crowd. "Whadt has happun? Sey, den, dose vellers,
hev dey hurdt my men, eh, whadt?"
She sprang from the wagon, followed by Minna with Hilda in her
arms. The crowd bore back as they advanced, staring at them in
silence.
"Eh, whadt has happun, whadt has happun?" wailed Mrs. Hooven, as
she hurried on, her two hands out before her, the fingers spread
wide. "Eh, Hooven, eh, my men, are you alle righdt?"
She burst into the house. Hooven's body had been removed to an
adjoining room, the bedroom of the house, and to this room Mrs.
Hooven--Minna still at her heels--proceeded, guided by an
instinct born of the occasion. Those in the outside room, saying
no word, made way for them. They entered, closing the door
behind them, and through all the rest of that terrible day, no
sound nor sight of them was had by those who crowded into and
about that house of death. Of all the main actors of the tragedy
of the fight in the ditch, they remained the least noted,
obtruded themselves the least upon the world's observation. They
were, for the moment, forgotten.
But by now Hooven's house was the centre of an enormous crowd. A
vast concourse of people from Bonneville, from Guadalajara, from
the ranches, swelled by the thousands who had that morning
participated in the rabbit drive, surged about the place; men and
women, young boys, young girls, farm hands, villagers,
townspeople, ranchers, railroad employees, Mexicans, Spaniards,
Portuguese. Presley, returning from the search for Delaney's
body, had to fight his way to the house again.
And from all this multitude there rose an indefinable murmur. As
yet, there was no menace in it, no anger. It was confusion
merely, bewilderment, the first long-drawn "oh!" that greets the
news of some great tragedy. The people had taken no thought as
yet. Curiosity was their dominant impulse. Every one wanted to
see what had been done; failing that, to hear of it, and failing
that, to be near the scene of the affair. The crowd of people
packed the road in front of the house for nearly a quarter of a
mile in either direction. They balanced themselves upon the
lower strands of the barbed wire fence in their effort to see
over each others' shoulders; they stood on the seats of their
carts, buggies, and farm wagons, a few even upon the saddles of
their riding horses. They crowded, pushed, struggled, surged
forward and back without knowing why, converging incessantly upon
Hooven's house.
When, at length, Presley got to the gate, he found a carry-all
drawn up before it. Between the gate and the door of the house a
lane had been formed, and as he paused there a moment, a group of
Leaguers, among whom were Garnett and Gethings, came slowly from
the door carrying old Broderson in their arms. The doctor,
bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, squinting in the sunlight,
attended them, repeating at every step:
"Slow, slow, take it easy, gentlemen."
Old Broderson was unconscious. His face was not pale, no
bandages could be seen. With infinite precautions, the men bore
him to the carry-all and deposited him on the back seat; the rain
flaps were let down on one side to shut off the gaze of the
multitude.
But at this point a moment of confusion ensued. Presley, because
of half a dozen people who stood in his way, could not see what
was going on. There were exclamations, hurried movements. The
doctor uttered a sharp command and a man ran back to the house
returning on the instant with the doctor's satchel. By this
time, Presley was close to the wheels of the carry-all and could
see the doctor inside the vehicle bending over old Broderson.
"Here it is, here it is," exclaimed the man who had been sent to
the house.
"I won't need it," answered the doctor, "he's dying now."
At the words a great hush widened throughout the throng near at
hand. Some men took off their hats.
"Stand back," protested the doctor quietly, "stand back, good
people, please."
The crowd bore back a little. In the silence, a woman began to
sob. The seconds passed, then a minute. The horses of the
carry-all shifted their feet and whisked their tails, driving off
the flies. At length, the doctor got down from the carry-all,
letting down the rain-flaps on that side as well.
"Will somebody go home with the body?" he asked. Gethings
stepped forward and took his place by the driver. The carry-all
drove away.
Presley reentered the house. During his absence it had been
cleared of all but one or two of the Leaguers, who had taken part
in the fight. Hilma still sat on the bed with Annixter's head in
her lap. S. Behrman, Ruggles, and all the railroad party had
gone. Osterman had been taken away in a hack and the tablecloth
over Dabney's body replaced with a sheet. But still unabated,
agonised, raucous, came the sounds of Harran's breathing.
Everything possible had already been done. For the moment it was
out of the question to attempt to move him. His mother and
father were at his side, Magnus, with a face of stone, his look
fixed on those persistently twitching eyes, Annie Derrick
crouching at her son's side, one of his hands in hers, fanning
his face continually with the crumpled sheet of an old newspaper.
Presley on tip-toes joined the group, looking on attentively.
One of the surgeons who had been called from Bonneville stood
close by, watching Harran's face, his arms folded.
"How is he?" Presley whispered.
"He won't live," the other responded.
By degrees the choke and gurgle of the breathing became more
irregular and the lids closed over the twitching eyes. All at
once the breath ceased. Magnus shot an inquiring glance at the
surgeon.
"He is dead, Mr. Derrick," the surgeon replied.
Annie Derrick, with a cry that rang through all the house,
stretched herself over the body of her son, her head upon his
breast, and the Governor's great shoulders bowed never to rise
again.
"God help me and forgive me," he groaned.
Presley rushed from the house, beside himself with grief, with
horror, with pity, and with mad, insensate rage. On the porch
outside Caraher met him.
"Is he--is he--" began the saloon-keeper.
"Yes, he's dead," cried Presley. "They're all dead, murdered,
shot down, dead, dead, all of them. Whose turn is next?"
"That's the way they killed my wife, Presley."
"Caraher," cried Presley, "give me your hand. I've been wrong
all the time. The League is wrong. All the world is wrong. You
are the only one of us all who is right. I'm with you from now
on. BY GOD, I TOO, I'M A RED!"
In course of time, a farm wagon from Bonneville arrived at
Hooven's. The bodies of Annixter and Harran were placed in it,
and it drove down the Lower Road towards the Los Muertos ranch
houses.
The bodies of Delaney and Christian had already been carried to
Guadalajara and thence taken by train to Bonneville .
Hilma followed the farm wagon in the Derricks' carry-all, with
Magnus and his wife. During all that ride none of them spoke a
word. It had been arranged that, since Quien Sabe was in the
hands of the Railroad, Hilma should come to Los Muertos. To that
place also Annixter's body was carried.
Later on in the day, when it was almost evening, the undertaker's
black wagon passed the Derricks' Home ranch on its way from
Hooven's and turned into the county road towards Bonneville. The
initial excitement of the affair of the irrigating ditch had died
down; the crowd long since had dispersed. By the time the wagon
passed Caraher's saloon, the sun had set. Night was coming on.
And the black wagon went on through the darkness, unattended,
ignored, solitary, carrying the dead body of Dabney, the silent
old man of whom nothing was known but his name, who made no
friends, whom nobody knew or spoke to, who had come from no one
knew whence and who went no one knew whither.
Towards midnight of that same day, Mrs. Dyke was awakened by the
sounds of groaning in the room next to hers. Magnus Derrick was
not so occupied by Harran's death that he could not think of
others who were in distress, and when he had heard that Mrs. Dyke
and Sidney, like Hilma, had been turned out of Quien Sabe, he had
thrown open Los Muertos to them.
"Though," he warned them, "it is precarious hospitality at the
best."
Until late, Mrs. Dyke had sat up with Hilma, comforting her as
best she could, rocking her to and fro in her arms, crying with
her, trying to quiet her, for once having given way to her grief,
Hilma wept with a terrible anguish and a violence that racked her
from head to foot, and at last, worn out, a little child again,
had sobbed herself to sleep in the older woman's arms, and as a
little child, Mrs. Dyke had put her to bed and had retired
herself.
Aroused a few hours later by the sounds of a distress that was
physical, as well as mental, Mrs. Dyke hurried into Hilma's room,
carrying the lamp with her.
Mrs. Dyke needed no enlightenment. She woke Presley and besought
him to telephone to Bonneville at once, summoning a doctor. That
night Hilma in great pain suffered a miscarriage.
Presley did not close his eyes once during the night; he did not
even remove his clothes. Long after the doctor had departed and
that house of tragedy had quieted down, he still remained in his
place by the open window of his little room, looking off across
the leagues of growing wheat, watching the slow kindling of the
dawn. Horror weighed intolerably upon him. Monstrous things,
huge, terrible, whose names he knew only too well, whirled at a
gallop through his imagination, or rose spectral and grisly
before the eyes of his mind. Harran dead, Annixter dead,
Broderson dead, Osterman, perhaps, even at that moment dying.
Why, these men had made up his world. Annixter had been his best
friend, Harran, his almost daily companion; Broderson and
Osterman were familiar to him as brothers. They were all his
associates, his good friends, the group was his environment,
belonging to his daily life. And he, standing there in the dust
of the road by the irrigating ditch, had seen them shot. He
found himself suddenly at his table, the candle burning at his
elbow, his journal before him, writing swiftly, the desire for
expression, the craving for outlet to the thoughts that clamoured
tumultuous at his brain, never more insistent, more imperious.
Thus he wrote:
"Dabney dead, Hooven dead, Harran dead, Annixter dead, Broderson
dead, Osterman dying, S. Behrman alive, successful; the Railroad
in possession of Quien Sabe. I saw them shot. Not twelve hours
since I stood there at the irrigating ditch. Ah, that terrible
moment of horror and confusion! powder smoke--flashing pistol
barrels--blood stains--rearing horses--men staggering to their
death--Christian in a horrible posture, one rigid leg high in the
air across his saddle--Broderson falling sideways into the ditch--
Osterman laying himself down, his head on his arms, as if tired,
tired out. These things, I have seen them. The picture of this
day's work is from henceforth part of my mind, part of ME. They
have done it, S. Behrman and the owners of the railroad have done
it, while all the world looked on, while the people of these
United States looked on. Oh, come now and try your theories upon
us, us of the ranchos, us, who have suffered, us, who KNOW. Oh,
talk to US now of the 'rights of Capital,' talk to US of the
Trust, talk to US of the 'equilibrium between the classes.' Try
your ingenious ideas upon us. WE KNOW. I cannot tell whether or
not your theories are excellent. I do not know if your ideas are
plausible. I do not know how practical is your scheme of
society. I do not know if the Railroad has a right to our lands,
but I DO know that Harran is dead, that Annixter is dead, that
Broderson is dead, that Hooven is dead, that Osterman is dying,
and that S. Behrman is alive, successful, triumphant; that he has
ridden into possession of a principality over the dead bodies of
five men shot down by his hired associates.
"I can see the outcome. The Railroad will prevail. The Trust
will overpower us. Here in this corner of a great nation, here,
on the edge of the continent, here, in this valley of the West,
far from the great centres, isolated, remote, lost, the great
iron hand crushes life from us, crushes liberty and the pursuit
of happiness from us, and our little struggles, our moment's
convulsion of death agony causes not one jar in the vast,
clashing machinery of the nation's life; a fleck of grit in the
wheels, perhaps, a grain of sand in the cogs--the momentary creak
of the axle is the mother's wail of bereavement, the wife's cry
of anguish--and the great wheel turns, spinning smooth again,
even again, and the tiny impediment of a second, scarce noticed,
is forgotten. Make the people believe that the faint tremour in
their great engine is a menace to its function? What a folly to
think of it. Tell them of the danger and they will laugh at you.
Tell them, five years from now, the story of the fight between
the League of the San Joaquin and the Railroad and it will not be
believed. What! a pitched battle between Farmer and Railroad, a
battle that cost the lives of seven men? Impossible, it could
not have happened. Your story is fiction--is exaggerated.
"Yet it is Lexington--God help us, God enlighten us, God rouse us
from our lethargy--it is Lexington; farmers with guns in their
hands fighting for Liberty. Is our State of California the only
one that has its ancient and hereditary foe? Are there no other
Trusts between the oceans than this of the Pacific and
Southwestern Railroad? Ask yourselves, you of the Middle West,
ask yourselves, you of the North, ask yourselves, you of the
East, ask yourselves, you of the South--ask yourselves, every
citizen of every State from Maine to Mexico, from the Dakotas to
the Carolinas, have you not the monster in your boundaries? If
it is not a Trust of transportation, it is only another head of
the same Hydra. Is not our death struggle typical? Is it not
one of many, is it not symbolical of the great and terrible
conflict that is going on everywhere in these United States? Ah,
you people, blind, bound, tricked, betrayed, can you not see it?
Can you not see how the monsters have plundered your treasures
and holding them in the grip of their iron claws, dole them out
to you only at the price of your blood, at the price of the lives
of your wives and your little children? You give your babies to
Moloch for the loaf of bread you have kneaded yourselves. You
offer your starved wives to Juggernaut for the iron nail you have
yourselves compounded."
He spent the night over his journal, writing down such thoughts
as these or walking the floor from wall to wall, or, seized at
times with unreasoning horror and blind rage, flinging himself
face downward upon his bed, vowing with inarticulate cries that
neither S. Behrman nor Shelgrim should ever live to consummate
their triumph.
Morning came and with it the daily papers and news. Presley did
not even glance at the "Mercury." Bonneville published two other
daily journals that professed to voice the will and reflect the
temper of the people and these he read eagerly.
Osterman was yet alive and there were chances of his recovery.
The League--some three hundred of its members had gathered at
Bonneville over night and were patrolling the streets and, still
resolved to keep the peace, were even guarding the railroad shops
and buildings. Furthermore, the Leaguers had issued manifestoes,
urging all citizens to preserve law and order, yet summoning an
indignation meeting to be convened that afternoon at the City
Opera House.
It appeared from the newspapers that those who obstructed the
marshal in the discharge of his duty could be proceeded against
by the District Attorney on information or by bringing the matter
before the Grand Jury. But the Grand Jury was not at that time
in session, and it was known that there were no funds in the
marshal's office to pay expenses for the summoning of jurors or
the serving of processes. S. Behrman and Ruggles in interviews
stated that the Railroad withdrew entirely from the fight; the
matter now, according to them, was between the Leaguers and the
United States Government; they washed their hands of the whole
business. The ranchers could settle with Washington. But it
seemed that Congress had recently forbade the use of troops for
civil purposes; the whole matter of the League-Railroad contest
was evidently for the moment to be left in status quo.
But to Presley's mind the most important piece of news that
morning was the report of the action of the Railroad upon hearing
of the battle.
Instantly Bonneville had been isolated. Not a single local train
was running, not one of the through trains made any halt at the
station. The mails were not moved. Further than this, by some
arrangement difficult to understand, the telegraph operators at
Bonneville and Guadalajara, acting under orders, refused to
receive any telegrams except those emanating from railway
officials. The story of the fight, the story creating the first
impression, was to be told to San Francisco and the outside world
by S. Behrman, Ruggles, and the local P. and S. W. agents.
An hour before breakfast, the undertakers arrived and took charge
of the bodies of Harran and Annixter. Presley saw neither Hilma,
Magnus, nor Mrs. Derrick. The doctor came to look after Hilma.
He breakfasted with Mrs. Dyke and Presley, and from him Presley
learned that Hilma would recover both from the shock of her
husband's death and from her miscarriage of the previous night.
"She ought to have her mother with her," said the physician.
"She does nothing but call for her or beg to be allowed to go to
her. I have tried to get a wire through to Mrs. Tree, but the
company will not take it, and even if I could get word to her,
how could she get down here? There are no trains."
But Presley found that it was impossible for him to stay at Los
Muertos that day. Gloom and the shadow of tragedy brooded heavy
over the place. A great silence pervaded everything, a silence
broken only by the subdued coming and going of the undertaker and
his assistants. When Presley, having resolved to go into
Bonneville, came out through the doorway of the house, he found
the undertaker tying a long strip of crape to the bell-handle.
Presley saddled his pony and rode into town. By this time, after
long hours of continued reflection upon one subject, a sombre
brooding malevolence, a deep-seated desire of revenge, had grown
big within his mind. The first numbness had passed off;
familiarity with what had been done had blunted the edge of
horror, and now the impulse of retaliation prevailed. At first,
the sullen anger of defeat, the sense of outrage, had only
smouldered, but the more he brooded, the fiercer flamed his rage.
Sudden paroxysms of wrath gripped him by the throat; abrupt
outbursts of fury injected his eyes with blood. He ground his
teeth, his mouth filled with curses, his hands clenched till they
grew white and bloodless. Was the Railroad to triumph then in
the end? After all those months of preparation, after all those
grandiloquent resolutions, after all the arrogant presumption of
the League! The League! what a farce; what had it amounted to
when the crisis came? Was the Trust to crush them all so easily?
Was S. Behrman to swallow Los Muertos? S. Behrman! Presley saw
him plainly, huge, rotund, white; saw his jowl tremulous and
obese, the roll of fat over his collar sprinkled with sparse
hairs, the great stomach with its brown linen vest and heavy
watch chain of hollow links, clinking against the buttons of
imitation pearl. And this man was to crush Magnus Derrick--had
already stamped the life from such men as Harran and Annixter.
This man, in the name of the Trust, was to grab Los Muertos as he
had grabbed Quien Sabe, and after Los Muertos, Broderson's ranch,
then Osterman's, then others, and still others, the whole valley,
the whole State.
Presley beat his forehead with his clenched fist as he rode on.
"No," he cried, "no, kill him, kill him, kill him with my hands."
The idea of it put him beside himself. Oh, to sink his fingers
deep into the white, fat throat of the man, to clutch like iron
into the great puffed jowl of him, to wrench out the life, to
batter it out, strangle it out, to pay him back for the long
years of extortion and oppression, to square accounts for bribed
jurors, bought judges, corrupted legislatures, to have justice
for the trick of the Ranchers' Railroad Commission, the
charlatanism of the "ten per cent. cut," the ruin of Dyke, the
seizure of Quien Sabe, the murder of Harran, the assassination of
Annixter!
It was in such mood that he reached Caraher's. The saloon-keeper
had just opened his place and was standing in his doorway,
smoking his pipe. Presley dismounted and went in and the two had
a long talk.
When, three hours later, Presley came out of the saloon and rode
on towards Bonneville, his face was very pale, his lips shut
tight, resolute, determined. His manner was that of a man whose
mind is made up.
The hour for the mass meeting at the Opera House had been set for
one o'clock, but long before noon the street in front of the
building and, in fact, all the streets in its vicinity, were
packed from side to side with a shifting, struggling, surging,
and excited multitude. There were few women in the throng, but
hardly a single male inhabitant of either Bonneville or
Guadalajara was absent. Men had even come from Visalia and
Pixley. It was no longer the crowd of curiosity seekers that had
thronged around Hooven's place by the irrigating ditch; the
People were no longer confused, bewildered. A full realisation
of just what had been done the day before was clear now in the
minds of all. Business was suspended; nearly all the stores were
closed. Since early morning the members of the League had put in
an appearance and rode from point to point, their rifles across
their saddle pommels. Then, by ten o'clock, the streets had
begun to fill up, the groups on the corners grew and merged into
one another; pedestrians, unable to find room on the sidewalks,
took to the streets. Hourly the crowd increased till shoulders
touched and elbows, till free circulation became impeded, then
congested, then impossible. The crowd, a solid mass, was wedged
tight from store front to store front. And from all this throng,
this single unit, this living, breathing organism--the People--
there rose a droning, terrible note. It was not yet the wild,
fierce clamour of riot and insurrection, shrill, high pitched;
but it was a beginning, the growl of the awakened brute, feeling
the iron in its flank, heaving up its head with bared teeth, the
throat vibrating to the long, indrawn snarl of wrath.
Thus the forenoon passed, while the people, their bulk growing
hourly vaster, kept to the streets, moving slowly backward and
forward, oscillating in the grooves of the thoroughfares, the
steady, low-pitched growl rising continually into the hot, still
air.
Then, at length, about twelve o'clock, the movement of the throng
assumed definite direction. It set towards the Opera House.
Presley, who had left his pony at the City livery stable, found
himself caught in the current and carried slowly forward in its
direction. His arms were pinioned to his sides by the press, the
crush against his body was all but rib-cracking, he could hardly
draw his breath. All around him rose and fell wave after wave of
faces, hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands, red,
lowering, sullen. All were set in one direction and slowly,
slowly they advanced, crowding closer, till they almost touched
one another. For reasons that were inexplicable, great,
tumultuous heavings, like ground-swells of an incoming tide,
surged over and through the multitude. At times, Presley, lifted
from his feet, was swept back, back, back, with the crowd, till
the entrance of the Opera House was half a block away; then, the
returning billow beat back again and swung him along, gasping,
staggering, clutching, till he was landed once more in the vortex
of frantic action in front of the foyer. Here the waves were
shorter, quicker, the crushing pressure on all sides of his body
left him without strength to utter the cry that rose to his lips;
then, suddenly the whole mass of struggling, stamping, fighting,
writhing men about him seemed, as it were, to rise, to lift,
multitudinous, swelling, gigantic. A mighty rush dashed Presley
forward in its leap. There was a moment's whirl of confused
sights, congested faces, opened mouths, bloodshot eyes, clutching
hands; a moment's outburst of furious sound, shouts, cheers,
oaths; a moment's jam wherein Presley veritably believed his ribs
must snap like pipestems and he was carried, dazed, breathless,
helpless, an atom on the crest of a storm-driven wave, up the
steps of the Opera House, on into the vestibule, through the
doors, and at last into the auditorium of the house itself.
There was a mad rush for places; men disdaining the aisle,
stepped from one orchestra chair to another, striding over the
backs of seats, leaving the print of dusty feet upon the red
plush cushions. In a twinkling the house was filled from stage
to topmost gallery. The aisles were packed solid, even on the
edge of the stage itself men were sitting, a black fringe on
either side of the footlights.
The curtain was up, disclosing a half-set scene,--the flats,
leaning at perilous angles,--that represented some sort of
terrace, the pavement, alternate squares of black and white
marble, while red, white, and yellow flowers were represented as
growing from urns and vases. A long, double row of chairs
stretched across the scene from wing to wing, flanking a table
covered with a red cloth, on which was set a pitcher of water and
a speaker's gavel.
Promptly these chairs were filled up with members of the League,
the audience cheering as certain well-known figures made their
appearance--Garnett of the Ruby ranch, Gethings of the San Pablo,
Keast of the ranch of the same name, Chattern of the Bonanza,
elderly men, bearded, slow of speech, deliberate.
Garnett opened the meeting; his speech was plain,
straightforward, matter-of-fact. He simply told what had
happened. He announced that certain resolutions were to be drawn
up. He introduced the next speaker.
This one pleaded for moderation. He was conservative. All along
he had opposed the idea of armed resistance except as the very
last resort. He "deplored" the terrible affair of yesterday. He
begged the people to wait in patience, to attempt no more
violence. He informed them that armed guards of the League were,
at that moment, patrolling Los Muertos, Broderson's, and
Osterman's. It was well known that the United States marshal
confessed himself powerless to serve the writs. There would be
no more bloodshed.
"We have had," he continued, "bloodshed enough, and I want to say
right here that I am not so sure but what yesterday's terrible
affair might have been avoided. A gentleman whom we all esteem,
who from the first has been our recognised leader, is, at this
moment, mourning the loss of a young son, killed before his eyes.
God knows that I sympathise, as do we all, in the affliction of
our President. I am sorry for him. My heart goes out to him in
this hour of distress, but, at the same time, the position of the
League must be defined. We owe it to ourselves, we owe it to the
people of this county. The League armed for the very purpose of
preserving the peace, not of breaking it. We believed that with
six hundred armed and drilled men at our disposal, ready to
muster at a moment's call, we could so overawe any attempt to
expel us from our lands that such an attempt would not be made
until the cases pending before the Supreme Court had been
decided. If when the enemy appeared in our midst yesterday they
had been met by six hundred rifles, it is not conceivable that
the issue would have been forced. No fight would have ensued,
and to-day we would not have to mourn the deaths of four of our
fellow-citizens. A mistake has been made and we of the League
must not be held responsible."
The speaker sat down amidst loud applause from the Leaguers and
less pronounced demonstrations on the part of the audience.
A second Leaguer took his place, a tall, clumsy man, halfrancher,
half-politician.
"I want to second what my colleague has just said," he began.
"This matter of resisting the marshal when he tried to put the
Railroad dummies in possession on the ranches around here, was
all talked over in the committee meetings of the League long ago.
It never was our intention to fire a single shot. No such
absolute authority as was assumed yesterday was delegated to
anybody. Our esteemed President is all right, but we all know
that he is a man who loves authority and who likes to go his own
gait without accounting to anybody. We--the rest of us Leaguers--
never were informed as to what was going on. We supposed, of
course, that watch was being kept on the Railroad so as we
wouldn't be taken by surprise as we were yesterday. And it seems
no watch was kept at all, or if there was, it was mighty
ineffective. Our idea was to forestall any movement on the part
of the Railroad and then when we knew the marshal was coming
down, to call a meeting of our Executive Committee and decide as
to what should be done. We ought to have had time to call out
the whole League. Instead of that, what happens? While we're
all off chasing rabbits, the Railroad is allowed to steal a march
on us and when it is too late, a handful of Leaguers is got
together and a fight is precipitated and our men killed. I'M
sorry for our President, too. No one is more so, but I want to
put myself on record as believing he did a hasty and
inconsiderate thing. If he had managed right, he could have had
six hundred men to oppose the Railroad and there would not have
been any gun fight or any killing. He DIDN'T manage right and
there WAS a killing and I don't see as how the League ought to be
held responsible. The idea of the League, the whole reason why
it was organised, was to protect ALL the ranches of this valley
from the Railroad, and it looks to me as if the lives of our
fellow-citizens had been sacrificed, not in defending ALL of our
ranches, but just in defence of one of them--Los Muertos--the one
that Mr. Derrick owns."
The speaker had no more than regained his seat when a man was
seen pushing his way from the back of the stage towards Garnett.
He handed the rancher a note, at the same time whispering in his
ear. Garnett read the note, then came forward to the edge of the
stage, holding up his hand. When the audience had fallen silent
he said:
"I have just received sad news. Our friend and fellow-citizen,
Mr. Osterman, died this morning between eleven and twelve
o'clock."
Instantly there was a roar. Every man in the building rose to
his feet, shouting, gesticulating. The roar increased, the Opera
House trembled to it, the gas jets in the lighted chandeliers
vibrated to it. It was a raucous howl of execration, a bellow of
rage, inarticulate, deafening.
A tornado of confusion swept whirling from wall to wall and the
madness of the moment seized irresistibly upon Presley. He
forgot himself; he no longer was master of his emotions or his
impulses. All at once he found himself upon the stage, facing
the audience, flaming with excitement, his imagination on fire,
his arms uplifted in fierce, wild gestures, words leaping to his
mind in a torrent that could not be withheld.
"One more dead," he cried, "one more. Harran dead, Annixter
dead, Broderson dead, Dabney dead, Osterman dead, Hooven dead;
shot down, killed, killed in the defence of their homes, killed
in the defence of their rights, killed for the sake of liberty.
How long must it go on? How long must we suffer? Where is the
end; what is the end? How long must the iron-hearted monster
feed on our life's blood? How long must this terror of steam and
steel ride upon our necks? Will you never be satisfied, will you
never relent, you, our masters, you, our lords, you, our kings,
you, our task-masters, you, our Pharoahs. Will you never listen
to that command 'LET MY PEOPLE GO'? Oh, that cry ringing down
the ages. Hear it, hear it. It is the voice of the Lord God
speaking in his prophets. Hear it, hear it--'Let My people go!'
Rameses heard it in his pylons at Thebes, Caesar heard it on the
Palatine, the Bourbon Louis heard it at Versailles, Charles
Stuart heard it at Whitehall, the white Czar heard it in the
Kremlin,--'LET MY PEOPLE GO.' It is the cry of the nations, the
great voice of the centuries; everywhere it is raised. The voice
of God is the voice of the People. The people cry out 'Let us,
the People, God's people, go.' You, our masters, you, our kings,
you, our tyrants, don't you hear us? Don't you hear God speaking
in us? Will you never let us go? How long at length will you
abuse our patience? How long will you drive us? How long will
you harass us? Will nothing daunt you? Does nothing check you?
Do you not know that to ignore our cry too long is to wake the
Red Terror? Rameses refused to listen to it and perished
miserably. Caesar refused to listen and was stabbed in the
Senate House. The Bourbon Louis refused to listen and died on
the guillotine; Charles Stuart refused to listen and died on the
block; the white Czar refused to listen and was blown up in his
own capital. Will you let it come to that? Will you drive us to
it? We who boast of our land of freedom, we who live in the
country of liberty?
"Go on as you have begun and it WILL come to that. Turn a deaf
ear to that cry of 'Let My people go' too long and another cry
will be raised, that you cannot choose but hear, a cry that you
cannot shut out. It will be the cry of the man on the street,
the 'a la Bastille' that wakes the Red Terror and unleashes
Revolution. Harassed, plundered, exasperated, desperate, the
people will turn at last as they have turned so many, many times
before. You, our lords, you, our task-masters, you, our kings;
you have caught your Samson, you have made his strength your own.
You have shorn his head; you have put out his eyes; you have set
him to turn your millstones, to grind the grist for your mills;
you have made him a shame and a mock. Take care, oh, as you love
your lives, take care, lest some day calling upon the Lord his
God he reach not out his arms for the pillars of your temples."
The audience, at first bewildered, confused by this unexpected
invective, suddenly took fire at his last words. There was a
roar of applause; then, more significant than mere vociferation,
Presley's listeners, as he began to speak again, grew suddenly
silent. His next sentences were uttered in the midst of a
profound stillness.
"They own us, these task-masters of ours; they own our homes,
they own our legislatures. We cannot escape from them. There is
no redress. We are told we can defeat them by the ballot-box.
They own the ballot-box. We are told that we must look to the
courts for redress; they own the courts. We know them for what
they are,--ruffians in politics, ruffians in finance, ruffians in
law, ruffians in trade, bribers, swindlers, and tricksters. No
outrage too great to daunt them, no petty larceny too small to
shame them; despoiling a government treasury of a million
dollars, yet picking the pockets of a farm hand of the price of a
loaf of bread.
"They swindle a nation of a hundred million and call it
Financiering; they levy a blackmail and call it Commerce; they
corrupt a legislature and call it Politics; they bribe a judge
and call it Law; they hire blacklegs to carry out their plans and
call it Organisation; they prostitute the honour of a State and
call it Competition.
"And this is America. We fought Lexington to free ourselves; we
fought Gettysburg to free others. Yet the yoke remains; we have
only shifted it to the other shoulder. We talk of liberty--oh,
the farce of it, oh, the folly of it! We tell ourselves and
teach our children that we have achieved liberty, that we no
longer need fight for it. Why, the fight is just beginning and
so long as our conception of liberty remains as it is to-day, it
will continue.
"For we conceive of Liberty in the statues we raise to her as a
beautiful woman, crowned, victorious, in bright armour and white
robes, a light in her uplifted hand--a serene, calm, conquering
goddess. Oh, the farce of it, oh, the folly of it! Liberty is
NOT a crowned goddess, beautiful, in spotless garments,
victorious, supreme. Liberty is the Man In the Street, a
terrible figure, rushing through powder smoke, fouled with the
mud and ordure of the gutter, bloody, rampant, brutal, yelling
curses, in one hand a smoking rifle, in the other, a blazing
torch.
"Freedom is NOT given free to any who ask; Liberty is not born of
the gods. She is a child of the People, born in the very height
and heat of battle, born from death, stained with blood, grimed
with powder. And she grows to be not a goddess, but a Fury, a
fearful figure, slaying friend and foe alike, raging, insatiable,
merciless, the Red Terror."
Presley ceased speaking. Weak, shaking, scarcely knowing what he
was about, he descended from the stage. A prolonged explosion of
applause followed, the Opera House roaring to the roof, men
cheering, stamping, waving their hats. But it was not
intelligent applause. Instinctively as he made his way out,
Presley knew that, after all, he had not once held the hearts of
his audience. He had talked as he would have written; for all
his scorn of literature, he had been literary. The men who
listened to him, ranchers, country people, store-keepers,
attentive though they were, were not once sympathetic. Vaguely
they had felt that here was something which other men--more
educated--would possibly consider eloquent. They applauded
vociferously but perfunctorily, in order to appear to understand.
Presley, for all his love of the people, saw clearly for one
moment that he was an outsider to their minds. He had not helped
them nor their cause in the least; he never would.
Disappointed, bewildered, ashamed, he made his way slowly from
the Opera House and stood on the steps outside, thoughtful, his
head bent.
He had failed, thus he told himself. In that moment of crisis,
that at the time he believed had been an inspiration, he had
failed. The people would not consider him, would not believe
that he could do them service. Then suddenly he seemed to
remember. The resolute set of his lips returned once more.
Pushing his way through the crowded streets, he went on towards
the stable where he had left his pony.
Meanwhile, in the Opera House, a great commotion had occurred.
Magnus Derrick had appeared.
Only a sense of enormous responsibility, of gravest duty could
have prevailed upon Magnus to have left his house and the dead
body of his son that day. But he was the President of the
League, and never since its organisation had a meeting of such
importance as this one been held. He had been in command at the
irrigating ditch the day before. It was he who had gathered the
handful of Leaguers together. It was he who must bear the
responsibility of the fight.
When he had entered the Opera House, making his way down the
central aisle towards the stage, a loud disturbance had broken
out, partly applause, partly a meaningless uproar. Many had
pressed forward to shake his hand, but others were not found
wanting who, formerly his staunch supporters, now scenting
opposition in the air, held back, hesitating, afraid to
compromise themselves by adhering to the fortunes of a man whose
actions might be discredited by the very organisation of which he
was the head.
Declining to take the chair of presiding officer which Garnett
offered him, the Governor withdrew to an angle of the stage,
where he was joined by Keast.
This one, still unalterably devoted to Magnus, acquainted him
briefly with the tenor of the speeches that had been made.
"I am ashamed of them, Governor," he protested indignantly, "to
lose their nerve now! To fail you now! it makes my blood boil.
If you had succeeded yesterday, if all had gone well, do you
think we would have heard of any talk of 'assumption of
authority,' or 'acting without advice and consent'? As if there
was any time to call a meeting of the Executive Committee. If
you hadn't acted as you did, the whole county would have been
grabbed by the Railroad. Get up, Governor, and bring 'em all up
standing. Just tear 'em all to pieces, show 'em that you are the
head, the boss. That's what they need. That killing yesterday
has shaken the nerve clean out of them."
For the instant the Governor was taken all aback. What, his
lieutenants were failing him? What, he was to be questioned,
interpolated upon yesterday's "irrepressible conflict"? Had
disaffection appeared in the ranks of the League--at this, of all
moments? He put from him his terrible grief. The cause was in
danger. At the instant he was the President of the League only,
the chief, the master. A royal anger surged within him, a wide,
towering scorn of opposition. He would crush this disaffection
in its incipiency, would vindicate himself and strengthen the
cause at one and the same time. He stepped forward and stood in
the speaker's place, turning partly toward the audience, partly
toward the assembled Leaguers.
"Gentlemen of the League," he began, "citizens of Bonneville"
But at once the silence in which the Governor had begun to speak
was broken by a shout. It was as though his words had furnished
a signal. In a certain quarter of the gallery, directly
opposite, a man arose, and in a voice partly of derision, partly
of defiance, cried out:
"How about the bribery of those two delegates at Sacramento?
Tell us about that. That's what we want to hear about."
A great confusion broke out. The first cry was repeated not only
by the original speaker, but by a whole group of which he was but
a part. Others in the audience, however, seeing in the
disturbance only the clamour of a few Railroad supporters,
attempted to howl them down, hissing vigorously and exclaiming:
"Put 'em out, put 'em out."
"Order, order," called Garnett, pounding with his gavel. The
whole Opera House was in an uproar.
But the interruption of the Governor's speech was evidently not
unpremeditated. It began to look like a deliberate and planned
attack. Persistently, doggedly, the group in the gallery
vociferated:
"Tell us how you bribed the delegates at Sacramento. Before you
throw mud at the Railroad, let's see if you are clean yourself."
"Put 'em out, put 'em out."
"Briber, briber--Magnus Derrick, unconvicted briber! Put him
out.
Keast, beside himself with anger, pushed down the aisle
underneath where the recalcitrant group had its place and,
shaking his fist, called up at them:
"You were paid to break up this meeting. If you have anything to
say; you will be afforded the opportunity, but if you do not let
the gentleman proceed, the police will be called upon to put you
out."
But at this, the man who had raised the first shout leaned over
the balcony rail, and, his face flaming with wrath, shouted:
"YAH! talk to me of your police. Look out we don't call on them
first to arrest your President for bribery. You and your howl
about law and justice and corruption! Here "--he turned to the
audience--" read about him, read the story of how the Sacramento
convention was bought by Magnus Derrick, President of the San
Joaquin League. Here's the facts printed and proved."
With the words, he stooped down and from under his seat dragged
forth a great package of extra editions of the "Bonneville
Mercury," not an hour off the presses. Other equally large
bundles of the paper appeared in the hands of the surrounding
group. The strings were cut and in handfuls and armfuls the
papers were flung out over the heads of the audience underneath.
The air was full of the flutter of the newly printed sheets.
They swarmed over the rim of the gallery like clouds of
monstrous, winged insects, settled upon the heads and into the
hands of the audience, were passed swiftly from man to man, and
within five minutes of the first outbreak every one in the Opera
House had read Genslinger's detailed and substantiated account of
Magnus Derrick's "deal" with the political bosses of the
Sacramento convention.
Genslinger, after pocketing the Governor's hush money, had "sold
him out."
Keast, one quiver of indignation, made his way back upon the
stage. The Leaguers were in wild confusion. Half the assembly
of them were on their feet, bewildered, shouting vaguely. From
proscenium wall to foyer, the Opera House was a tumult of noise.
The gleam of the thousands of the "Mercury" extras was like the
flash of white caps on a troubled sea.
Keast faced the audience.
"Liars," he shouted, striving with all the power of his voice to
dominate the clamour, "liars and slanderers. Your paper is the
paid organ of the corporation. You have not one shadow of proof
to back you up. Do you choose this, of all times, to heap your
calumny upon the head of an honourable gentleman, already
prostrated by your murder of his son? Proofs--we demand your
proofs!"
"We've got the very assemblymen themselves," came back the
answering shout. "Let Derrick speak. Where is he hiding? If
this is a lie, let him deny it. Let HIM DISPROVE the charge."
"Derrick, Derrick," thundered the Opera House.
Keast wheeled about. Where was Magnus? He was not in sight upon
the stage. He had disappeared. Crowding through the throng of
Leaguers, Keast got from off the stage into the wings. Here the
crowd was no less dense. Nearly every one had a copy of the
"Mercury." It was being read aloud to groups here and there, and
once Keast overheard the words, "Say, I wonder if this is true,
after all?"
"Well, and even if it was," cried Keast, turning upon the
speaker, "we should be the last ones to kick. In any case, it
was done for our benefit. It elected the Ranchers' Commission."
"A lot of benefit we got out of the Ranchers' Commission,"
retorted the other.
"And then," protested a third speaker, "that ain't the way to do--
if he DID do it--bribing legislatures. Why, we were bucking
against corrupt politics. We couldn't afford to be corrupt."
Keast turned away with a gesture of impatience. He pushed his
way farther on. At last, opening a small door in a hallway back
of the stage, he came upon Magnus.
The room was tiny. It was a dressing-room. Only two nights
before it had been used by the leading actress of a comic opera
troupe which had played for three nights at Bonneville. A
tattered sofa and limping toilet table occupied a third of the
space. The air was heavy with the smell of stale grease paint,
ointments, and sachet. Faded photographs of young women in
tights and gauzes ornamented the mirror and the walls.
Underneath the sofa was an old pair of corsets. The spangled
skirt of a pink dress, turned inside out, hung against the wall.
And in the midst of such environment, surrounded by an excited
group of men who gesticulated and shouted in his very face, pale,
alert, agitated, his thin lips pressed tightly together, stood
Magnus Derrick.
"Here," cried Keast, as he entered, closing the door behind him,
"where's the Governor? Here, Magnus, I've been looking for you.
The crowd has gone wild out there. You've got to talk 'em down.
Come out there and give those blacklegs the lie. They are saying
you are hiding."
But before Magnus could reply, Garnett turned to Keast.
"Well, that's what we want him to do, and he won't do it."
"Yes, yes," cried the half-dozen men who crowded around Magnus,
"yes, that's what we want him to do."
Keast turned to Magnus.
"Why, what's all this, Governor?" he exclaimed. "You've got to
answer that. Hey? why don't you give 'em the lie?"
"I--I," Magnus loosened the collar about his throat "it is a lie.
I will not stoop--I would not--would be--it would be beneath my--
my--it would be beneath me."
Keast stared in amazement. Was this the Great Man the Leader,
indomitable, of Roman integrity, of Roman valour, before whose
voice whole conventions had quailed? Was it possible he was
AFRAID to face those hired villifiers?
"Well, how about this?" demanded Garnett suddenly. "It is a lie,
isn't it? That Commission was elected honestly, wasn't it?"
"How dare you, sir!" Magnus burst out. "How dare you question
me--call me to account! Please understand, sir, that I tolerate----"
"Oh, quit it!" cried a voice from the group. "You can't scare
us, Derrick. That sort of talk was well enough once, but it
don't go any more. We want a yes or no answer."
It was gone--that old-time power of mastery, that faculty of
command. The ground crumbled beneath his feet. Long since it
had been, by his own hand, undermined. Authority was gone. Why
keep up this miserable sham any longer? Could they not read the
lie in his face, in his voice? What a folly to maintain the
wretched pretence! He had failed. He was ruined. Harran was
gone. His ranch would soon go; his money was gone. Lyman was
worse than dead. His own honour had been prostituted. Gone,
gone, everything he held dear, gone, lost, and swept away in that
fierce struggle. And suddenly and all in a moment the last
remaining shells of the fabric of his being, the sham that had
stood already wonderfully long, cracked and collapsed.
"Was the Commission honestly elected?" insisted Garnett. "Were
the delegates--did you bribe the delegates?"
"We were obliged to shut our eyes to means," faltered Magnus.
"There was no other way to--" Then suddenly and with the last
dregs of his resolution, he concluded with: "Yes, I gave them two
thousand dollars each."
"Oh, hell! Oh, my God!" exclaimed Keast, sitting swiftly down
upon the ragged sofa.
There was a long silence. A sense of poignant embarrassment
descended upon those present. No one knew what to say or where
to look. Garnett, with a laboured attempt at nonchalance,
murmured:
"I see. Well, that's what I was trying to get at. Yes, I see."
"Well," said Gethings at length, bestirring himself, "I guess
I'LL go home."
There was a movement. The group broke up, the men making for the
door. One by one they went out. The last to go was Keast. He
came up to Magnus and shook the Governor's limp hand.
"Good-bye, Governor," he said. "I'll see you again pretty soon.
Don't let this discourage you. They'll come around all right
after a while. So long."
He went out, shutting the door.
And seated in the one chair of the room, Magnus Derrick remained
a long time, looking at his face in the cracked mirror that for
so many years had reflected the painted faces of soubrettes, in
this atmosphere of stale perfume and mouldy rice powder.
It had come--his fall, his ruin. After so many years of
integrity and honest battle, his life had ended here--in an
actress's dressing-room, deserted by his friends, his son
murdered, his dishonesty known, an old man, broken, discarded,
discredited, and abandoned.
Before nightfall of that day, Bonneville was further excited by
an astonishing bit of news. S. Behrman lived in a detached house
at some distance from the town, surrounded by a grove of live oak
and eucalyptus trees. At a little after half-past six, as he was
sitting down to his supper, a bomb was thrown through the window
of his dining-room, exploding near the doorway leading into the
hall. The room was wrecked and nearly every window of the house
shattered. By a miracle, S. Behrman, himself, remained
untouched.
VIII
On a certain afternoon in the early part of July, about a month
after the fight at the irrigating ditch and the mass meeting at
Bonneville, Cedarquist, at the moment opening his mail in his
office in San Francisco, was genuinely surprised to receive a
visit from Presley.
"Well, upon my word, Pres," exclaimed the manufacturer, as the
young man came in through the door that the office boy held open
for him, "upon my word, have you been sick? Sit down, my boy.
Have a glass of sherry. I always keep a bottle here."
Presley accepted the wine and sank into the depths of a great
leather chair near by.
"Sick?" he answered. "Yes, I have been sick. I'm sick now. I'm
gone to pieces, sir."
His manner was the extreme of listlessness--the listlessness of
great fatigue. "Well, well," observed the other. "I'm right
sorry to hear that. What's the trouble, Pres?"
"Oh, nerves mostly, I suppose, and my head, and insomnia, and
weakness, a general collapse all along the line, the doctor tells
me. 'Over-cerebration,' he says; 'over-excitement.' I fancy I
rather narrowly missed brain fever."
"Well, I can easily suppose it," answered Cedarquist gravely,
"after all you have been through."
Presley closed his eyes--they were sunken in circles of dark
brown flesh--and pressed a thin hand to the back of his head.
"It is a nightmare," he murmured. "A frightful nightmare, and
it's not over yet. You have heard of it all only through the
newspaper reports. But down there, at Bonneville, at Los
Muertos--oh, you can have no idea of it, of the misery caused by
the defeat of the ranchers and by this decision of the Supreme
Court that dispossesses them all. We had gone on hoping to the
last that we would win there. We had thought that in the Supreme
Court of the United States, at least, we could find justice. And
the news of its decision was the worst, last blow of all. For
Magnus it was the last--positively the very last."
"Poor, poor Derrick," murmured Cedarquist. "Tell me about him,
Pres. How does he take it? What is he going to do?"
"It beggars him, sir. He sunk a great deal more than any of us
believed in his ranch, when he resolved to turn off most of the
tenants and farm the ranch himself. Then the fight he made
against the Railroad in the Courts and the political campaign he
went into, to get Lyman on the Railroad Commission, took more of
it. The money that Genslinger blackmailed him of, it seems, was
about all he had left. He had been gambling--you know the
Governor--on another bonanza crop this year to recoup him. Well,
the bonanza came right enough--just in time for S. Behrman and
the Railroad to grab it. Magnus is ruined."
"What a tragedy! what a tragedy!" murmured the other. "Lyman
turning rascal, Harran killed, and now this; and all within so
short a time--all at the SAME time, you might almost say."
"If it had only killed him," continued Presley; "but that is the
worst of it."
"How the worst?"
"I'm afraid, honestly, I'm afraid it is going to turn his wits,
sir. It's broken him; oh, you should see him, you should see
him. A shambling, stooping, trembling old man, in his dotage
already. He sits all day in the dining-room, turning over
papers, sorting them, tying them up, opening them again,
forgetting them--all fumbling and mumbling and confused. And at
table sometimes he forgets to eat. And, listen, you know, from
the house we can hear the trains whistling for the Long Trestle.
As often as that happens the Governor seems to be--oh, I don't
know, frightened. He will sink his head between his shoulders,
as though he were dodging something, and he won't fetch a long
breath again till the train is out of hearing. He seems to have
conceived an abject, unreasoned terror of the Railroad."
"But he will have to leave Los Muertos now, of course?"
"Yes, they will all have to leave. They have a fortnight more.
The few tenants that were still on Los Muertos are leaving. That
is one thing that brings me to the city. The family of one of
the men who was killed--Hooven was his name--have come to the
city to find work. I think they are liable to be in great
distress, unless they have been wonderfully lucky, and I am
trying to find them in order to look after them."
"You need looking after yourself, Pres."
"Oh, once away from Bonneville and the sight of the ruin there,
I'm better. But I intend to go away. And that makes me think, I
came to ask you if you could help me. If you would let me take
passage on one of your wheat ships. The Doctor says an ocean
voyage would set me up."
"Why, certainly, Pres," declared Cedarquist. "But I'm sorry
you'll have to go. We expected to have you down in the country
with us this winter."
Presley shook his head.
"No," he answered. "I must go. Even if I had all my health, I
could not bring myself to stay in California just now. If you
can introduce me to one of your captains"
"With pleasure. When do you want to go? You may have to wait a
few weeks. Our first ship won't clear till the end of the
month."
"That would do very well. Thank you, sir."
But Cedarquist was still interested in the land troubles of the
Bonneville farmers, and took the first occasion to ask:
"So, the Railroad are in possession on most of the ranches?"
"On all of them," returned Presley. "The League went all to
pieces, so soon as Magnus was forced to resign. The old story--
they got quarrelling among themselves. Somebody started a
compromise party, and upon that issue a new president was
elected. Then there were defections. The Railroad offered to
lease the lands in question to the ranchers--the ranchers who
owned them," he exclaimed bitterly, "and because the terms were
nominal--almost nothing--plenty of the men took the chance of
saving themselves. And, of course, once signing the lease, they
acknowledged the Railroad's title. But the road would not lease
to Magnus. S. Behrman takes over Los Muertos in a few weeks
now."
"No doubt, the road made over their title in the property to
him," observed Cedarquist, "as a reward of his services."
"No doubt," murmured Presley wearily. He rose to go.
"By the way," said Cedarquist, "what have you on hand for, let us
say, Friday evening? Won't you dine with us then? The girls are
going to the country Monday of next week, and you probably won't
see them again for some time if you take that ocean voyage of
yours."
"I'm afraid I shall be very poor company, sir," hazarded Presley.
"There's no 'go,' no life in me at all these days. I am like a
clock with a broken spring."
"Not broken, Pres, my boy;" urged the other, "only run down. Try
and see if we can't wind you up a bit. Say that we can expect
you. We dine at seven."
"Thank you, sir. Till Friday at seven, then."
Regaining the street, Presley sent his valise to his club (where
he had engaged a room) by a messenger boy, and boarded a Castro
Street car. Before leaving Bonneville, he had ascertained, by
strenuous enquiry, Mrs. Hooven's address in the city, and
thitherward he now directed his steps.
When Presley had told Cedarquist that he was ill, that he was
jaded, worn out, he had only told half the truth. Exhausted he
was, nerveless, weak, but this apathy was still invaded from time
to time with fierce incursions of a spirit of unrest and revolt,
reactions, momentary returns of the blind, undirected energy that
at one time had prompted him to a vast desire to acquit himself
of some terrible deed of readjustment, just what, he could not
say, some terrifying martyrdom, some awe-inspiring immolation,
consummate, incisive, conclusive. He fancied himself to be fired
with the purblind, mistaken heroism of the anarchist, hurling his
victim to destruction with full knowledge that the catastrophe
shall sweep him also into the vortex it creates.
But his constitutional irresoluteness obstructed his path
continually; brain-sick, weak of will, emotional, timid even, he
temporised, procrastinated, brooded; came to decisions in the
dark hours of the night, only to abandon them in the morning.
Once only he had ACTED. And at this moment, as he was carried
through the windy, squalid streets, he trembled at the
remembrance of it. The horror of "what might have been"
incompatible with the vengeance whose minister he fancied he was,
oppressed him. The scene perpetually reconstructed itself in his
imagination. He saw himself under the shade of the encompassing
trees and shrubbery, creeping on his belly toward the house, in
the suburbs of Bonneville, watching his chances, seizing
opportunities, spying upon the lighted windows where the raised
curtains afforded a view of the interior. Then had come the
appearance in the glare of the gas of the figure of the man for
whom he waited. He saw himself rise and run forward. He
remembered the feel and weight in his hand of Caraher's bomb--the
six inches of plugged gas pipe. His upraised arm shot forward.
There was a shiver of smashed window-panes, then--a void--a red
whirl of confusion, the air rent, the ground rocking, himself
flung headlong, flung off the spinning circumference of things
out into a place of terror and vacancy and darkness. And then
after a long time the return of reason, the consciousness that
his feet were set upon the road to Los Muertos, and that he was
fleeing terror-stricken, gasping, all but insane with hysteria.
Then the never-to-be-forgotten night that ensued, when he
descended into the pit, horrified at what he supposed he had
done, at one moment ridden with remorse, at another raging
against his own feebleness, his lack of courage, his wretched,
vacillating spirit. But morning had come, and with it the
knowledge that he had failed, and the baser assurance that he was
not even remotely suspected. His own escape had been no less
miraculous than that of his enemy, and he had fallen on his knees
in inarticulate prayer, weeping, pouring out his thanks to God
for the deliverance from the gulf to the very brink of which his
feet had been drawn.
After this, however, there had come to Presley a deep-rooted
suspicion that he was--of all human beings, the most wretched--a
failure. Everything to which he had set his mind failed--his
great epic, his efforts to help the people who surrounded him,
even his attempted destruction of the enemy, all these had come
to nothing. Girding his shattered strength together, he resolved
upon one last attempt to live up to the best that was in him, and
to that end had set himself to lift out of the despair into which
they had been thrust, the bereaved family of the German, Hooven.
After all was over, and Hooven, together with the seven others
who had fallen at the irrigating ditch, was buried in the
Bonneville cemetery, Mrs. Hooven, asking no one's aid or advice,
and taking with her Minna and little Hilda, had gone to San
Francisco--had gone to find work, abandoning Los Muertos and her
home forever. Presley only learned of the departure of the
family after fifteen days had elapsed.
At once, however, the suspicion forced itself upon him that Mrs.
Hooven--and Minna, too for the matter of that--country-bred,
ignorant of city ways, might easily come to grief in the hard,
huge struggle of city life. This suspicion had swiftly hardened
to a conviction, acting at last upon which Presley had followed
them to San Francisco, bent upon finding and assisting them.
The house to which Presley was led by the address in his
memorandum book was a cheap but fairly decent hotel near the
power house of the Castro Street cable. He inquired for Mrs.
Hooven.
The landlady recollected the Hoovens perfectly.
"German woman, with a little girl-baby, and an older daughter,
sure. The older daughter was main pretty. Sure I remember them,
but they ain't here no more. They left a week ago. I had to ask
them for their room.
As it was, they owed a week's room-rent. Mister, I can't afford----"
"Well, do you know where they went? Did you hear what address
they had their trunk expressed to?"
"Ah, yes, their trunk," vociferated the woman, clapping her hands
to her hips, her face purpling. "Their trunk, ah, sure. I got
their trunk, and what are you going to do about it? I'm holding
it till I get my money. What have you got to say about it?
Let's hear it."
Presley turned away with a gesture of discouragement, his heart
sinking. On the street corner he stood for a long time, frowning
in trouble and perplexity. His suspicions had been only too well
founded. So long ago as a week, the Hoovens had exhausted all
their little store of money. For seven days now they had been
without resources, unless, indeed, work had been found; "and
what," he asked himself, "what work in God's name could they find
to do here in the city?"
Seven days! He quailed at the thought of it. Seven days without
money, knowing not a soul in all that swarming city. Ignorant of
city life as both Minna and her mother were, would they even
realise that there were institutions built and generously endowed
for just such as they? He knew them to have their share of
pride, the dogged sullen pride of the peasant; even if they knew
of charitable organisations, would they, could they bring
themselves to apply there? A poignant anxiety thrust itself
sharply into Presley's heart. Where were they now? Where had
they slept last night? Where breakfasted this morning? Had
there even been any breakfast this morning? Had there even been
any bed last night? Lost, and forgotten in the plexus of the
city's life, what had befallen them? Towards what fate was the
ebb tide of the streets drifting them?
Was this to be still another theme wrought out by iron hands upon
the old, the world-old, world-wide keynote? How far were the
consequences of that dreadful day's work at the irrigating ditch
to reach? To what length was the tentacle of the monster to
extend?
Presley returned toward the central, the business quarter of the
city, alternately formulating and dismissing from his mind plan
after plan for the finding and aiding of Mrs. Hooven and her
daughters. He reached Montgomery Street, and turned toward his
club, his imagination once more reviewing all the causes and
circumstances of the great battle of which for the last eighteen
months he had been witness.
All at once he paused, his eye caught by a sign affixed to the
wall just inside the street entrance of a huge office building,
and smitten with an idea, stood for an instant motionless, upon
the sidewalk, his eyes wide, his fists shut tight.
The building contained the General Office of the Pacific and
Southwestern Railroad. Large though it was, it nevertheless, was
not pretentious, and during his visits to the city, Presley must
have passed it, unheeding, many times.
But for all that it was the stronghold of the enemy--the centre
of all that vast ramifying system of arteries that drained the
life-blood of the State; the nucleus of the web in which so many
lives, so many fortunes, so many destinies had been enmeshed.
From this place--so he told himself--had emanated that policy of
extortion, oppression and injustice that little by little had
shouldered the ranchers from their rights, till, their backs to
the wall, exasperated and despairing they had turned and fought
and died. From here had come the orders to S. Behrman, to Cyrus
Ruggles and to Genslinger, the orders that had brought Dyke to a
prison, that had killed Annixter, that had ruined Magnus, that
had corrupted Lyman. Here was the keep of the castle, and here,
behind one of those many windows, in one of those many offices,
his hand upon the levers of his mighty engine, sat the master,
Shelgrim himself.
Instantly, upon the realisation of this fact an ungovernable
desire seized upon Presley, an inordinate curiosity. Why not
see, face to face, the man whose power was so vast, whose will
was so resistless, whose potency for evil so limitless, the man
who for so long and so hopelessly they had all been fighting. By
reputation he knew him to be approachable; why should he not then
approach him? Presley took his resolution in both hands. If he
failed to act upon this impulse, he knew he would never act at
all. His heart beating, his breath coming short, he entered the
building, and in a few moments found himself seated in an anteroom,
his eyes fixed with hypnotic intensity upon the frosted
pane of an adjoining door, whereon in gold letters was inscribed
the word, "PRESIDENT."
In the end, Presley had been surprised to find that Shelgrim was
still in. It was already very late, after six o'clock, and the
other offices in the building were in the act of closing. Many
of them were already deserted. At every instant, through the
open door of the ante-room, he caught a glimpse of clerks, office
boys, book-keepers, and other employees hurrying towards the
stairs and elevators, quitting business for the day. Shelgrim,
it seemed, still remained at his desk, knowing no fatigue,
requiring no leisure.
"What time does Mr. Shelgrim usually go home?" inquired Presley
of the young man who sat ruling forms at the table in the anteroom.
"Anywhere between half-past six and seven," the other answered,
adding, "Very often he comes back in the evening."
And the man was seventy years old. Presley could not repress a
murmur of astonishment. Not only mentally, then, was the
President of the P. and S. W. a giant. Seventy years of age and
still at his post, holding there with the energy, with a
concentration of purpose that would have wrecked the health and
impaired the mind of many men in the prime of their manhood.
But the next instant Presley set his teeth.
"It is an ogre's vitality," he said to himself. "Just so is the
man-eating tiger strong. The man should have energy who has
sucked the life-blood from an entire People."
A little electric bell on the wall near at hand trilled a
warning. The young man who was ruling forms laid down his pen,
and opening the door of the President's office, thrust in his
head, then after a word exchanged with the unseen occupant of the
room, he swung the door wide, saying to Presley:
"Mr. Shelgrim will see you, sir."
Presley entered a large, well lighted, but singularly barren
office. A well-worn carpet was on the floor, two steel
engravings hung against the wall, an extra chair or two stood
near a large, plain, littered table. That was absolutely all,
unless he excepted the corner wash-stand, on which was set a
pitcher of ice water, covered with a clean, stiff napkin. A man,
evidently some sort of manager's assistant, stood at the end of
the table, leaning on the back of one of the chairs. Shelgrim
himself sat at the table.
He was large, almost to massiveness. An iron-grey beard and a
mustache that completely hid the mouth covered the lower part of
his face. His eyes were a pale blue, and a little watery; here
and there upon his face were moth spots. But the enormous
breadth of the shoulders was what, at first, most vividly forced
itself upon Presley's notice. Never had he seen a broader man;
the neck, however, seemed in a manner to have settled into the
shoulders, and furthermore they were humped and rounded, as if to
bear great responsibilities, and great abuse.
At the moment he was wearing a silk skull-cap, pushed to one side
and a little awry, a frock coat of broadcloth, with long sleeves,
and a waistcoat from the lower buttons of which the cloth was
worn and, upon the edges, rubbed away, showing the metal
underneath. At the top this waistcoat was unbuttoned and in the
shirt front disclosed were two pearl studs.
Presley, uninvited, unnoticed apparently, sat down. The
assistant manager was in the act of making a report. His voice
was not lowered, and Presley heard every word that was spoken.
The report proved interesting. It concerned a book-keeper in the
office of the auditor of disbursements. It seems he was at most
times thoroughly reliable, hard-working, industrious, ambitious.
But at long intervals the vice of drunkenness seized upon the man
and for three days rode him like a hag. Not only during the
period of this intemperance, but for the few days immediately
following, the man was useless, his work untrustworthy. He was a
family man and earnestly strove to rid himself of his habit; he
was, when sober, valuable. In consideration of these facts, he
had been pardoned again and again.
"You remember, Mr. Shelgrim," observed the manager, "that you
have more than once interfered in his behalf, when we were
disposed to let him go. I don't think we can do anything with
him, sir. He promises to reform continually, but it is the same
old story. This last time we saw nothing of him for four days.
Honestly, Mr. Shelgrim, I think we ought to let Tentell out. We
can't afford to keep him. He is really losing us too much money.
Here's the order ready now, if you care to let it go."
There was a pause. Presley all attention, listened breathlessly.
The assistant manager laid before his President the typewritten
order in question. The silence lengthened; in the hall outside,
the wrought-iron door of the elevator cage slid to with a clash.
Shelgrim did not look at the order. He turned his swivel chair
about and faced the windows behind him, looking out with unseeing
eyes. At last he spoke:
"Tentell has a family, wife and three children. How much do we
pay him?"
"One hundred and thirty."
"Let's double that, or say two hundred and fifty. Let's see how
that will do."
"Why--of course--if you say so, but really, Mr. Shelgrim"
"Well, we'll try that, anyhow."
Presley had not time to readjust his perspective to this new
point of view of the President of the P. and S. W. before the
assistant manager had withdrawn. Shelgrim wrote a few memoranda
on his calendar pad, and signed a couple of letters before
turning his attention to Presley. At last, he looked up and
fixed the young man with a direct, grave glance. He did not
smile. It was some time before he spoke. At last, he said:
"Well, sir."
Presley advanced and took a chair nearer at hand. Shelgrim
turned and from his desk picked up and consulted Presley's card.
Presley observed that he read without the use of glasses.
"You," he said, again facing about, "you are the young man who
wrote the poem called 'The Toilers.'"
"Yes, sir."
"It seems to have made a great deal of talk. I've read it, and
I've seen the picture in Cedarquist's house, the picture you took
the idea from."
Presley, his senses never more alive, observed that, curiously
enough, Shelgrim did not move his body. His arms moved, and his
head, but the great bulk of the man remained immobile in its
place, and as the interview proceeded and this peculiarity
emphasised itself, Presley began to conceive the odd idea that
Shelgrim had, as it were, placed his body in the chair to rest,
while his head and brain and hands went on working independently.
A saucer of shelled filberts stood near his elbow, and from time
to time he picked up one of these in a great thumb and forefinger
and put it between his teeth.
"I've seen the picture called 'The Toilers,'" continued Shelgrim,
"and of the two, I like the picture better than the poem."
"The picture is by a master," Presley hastened to interpose.
"And for that reason," said Shelgrim, "it leaves nothing more to
be said. You might just as well have kept quiet. There's only
one best way to say anything. And what has made the picture of
'The Toilers' great is that the artist said in it the BEST that
could be said on the subject."
"I had never looked at it in just that light," observed Presley.
He was confused, all at sea, embarrassed. What he had expected
to find in Shelgrim, he could not have exactly said. But he had
been prepared to come upon an ogre, a brute, a terrible man of
blood and iron, and instead had discovered a sentimentalist and
an art critic. No standards of measurement in his mental
equipment would apply to the actual man, and it began to dawn
upon him that possibly it was not because these standards were
different in kind, but that they were lamentably deficient in
size. He began to see that here was the man not only great, but
large; many-sided, of vast sympathies, who understood with equal
intelligence, the human nature in an habitual drunkard, the
ethics of a masterpiece of painting, and the financiering and
operation of ten thousand miles of railroad.
"I had never looked at it in just that light," repeated Presley.
"There is a great deal in what you say."
"If I am to listen," continued Shelgrim, "to that kind of talk, I
prefer to listen to it first hand. I would rather listen to what
the great French painter has to say, than to what YOU have to say
about what he has already said."
His speech, loud and emphatic at first, when the idea of what he
had to say was fresh in his mind, lapsed and lowered itself at
the end of his sentences as though he had already abandoned and
lost interest in that thought, so that the concluding words were
indistinct, beneath the grey beard and mustache. Also at times
there was the faintest suggestion of a lisp.
"I wrote that poem," hazarded Presley, "at a time when I was
terribly upset. I live," he concluded, "or did live on the Los
Muertos ranch in Tulare County--Magnus Derrick's ranch."
"The Railroad's ranch LEASED to Mr. Derrick," observed Shelgrim.
Presley spread out his hands with a helpless, resigned gesture.
"And," continued the President of the P. and S. W. with grave
intensity, looking at Presley keenly, "I suppose you believe I am
a grand old rascal."
"I believe," answered Presley, "I am persuaded----" He hesitated,
searching for his words.
"Believe this, young man," exclaimed Shelgrim, laying a thick
powerful forefinger on the table to emphasise his words, "try to
believe this--to begin with--THAT RAILROADS BUILD THEMSELVES.
Where there is a demand sooner or later there will be a supply.
Mr. Derrick, does he grow his wheat? The Wheat grows itself.
What does he count for? Does he supply the force? What do I
count for? Do I build the Railroad? You are dealing with
forces, young man, when you speak of Wheat and the Railroads, not
with men. There is the Wheat, the supply. It must be carried to
feed the People. There is the demand. The Wheat is one force,
the Railroad, another, and there is the law that governs them--
supply and demand. Men have only little to do in the whole
business. Complications may arise, conditions that bear hard on
the individual--crush him maybe--BUT THE WHEAT WILL BE CARRIED TO
FEED THE PEOPLE as inevitably as it will grow. If you want to
fasten the blame of the affair at Los Muertos on any one person,
you will make a mistake. Blame conditions, not men."
"But--but," faltered Presley, "you are the head, you control the
road."
"You are a very young man. Control the road! Can I stop it? I
can go into bankruptcy if you like. But otherwise if I run my
road, as a business proposition, I can do nothing. I can not
control it. It is a force born out of certain conditions, and I--
no man--can stop it or control it. Can your Mr. Derrick stop
the Wheat growing? He can burn his crop, or he can give it away,
or sell it for a cent a bushel--just as I could go into
bankruptcy--but otherwise his Wheat must grow. Can any one stop
the Wheat? Well, then no more can I stop the Road."
Presley regained the street stupefied, his brain in a whirl.
This new idea, this new conception dumfounded him. Somehow, he
could not deny it. It rang with the clear reverberation of
truth. Was no one, then, to blame for the horror at the
irrigating ditch? Forces, conditions, laws of supply and demand--
were these then the enemies, after all? Not enemies; there was
no malevolence in Nature. Colossal indifference only, a vast
trend toward appointed goals. Nature was, then, a gigantic
engine, a vast cyclopean power, huge, terrible, a leviathan with
a heart of steel, knowing no compunction, no forgiveness, no
tolerance; crushing out the human atom standing in its way, with
nirvanic calm, the agony of destruction sending never a jar,
never the faintest tremour through all that prodigious mechanism
of wheels and cogs.
He went to his club and ate his supper alone, in gloomy
agitation. He was sombre, brooding, lost in a dark maze of
gloomy reflections. However, just as he was rising from the
table an incident occurred that for the moment roused him and
sharply diverted his mind.
His table had been placed near a window and as he was sipping his
after-dinner coffee, he happened to glance across the street.
His eye was at once caught by the sight of a familiar figure.
Was it Minna Hooven? The figure turned the street corner and was
lost to sight; but it had been strangely like. On the moment,
Presley had risen from the table and, clapping on his hat, had
hurried into the streets, where the lamps were already beginning
to shine.
But search though he would, Presley could not again come upon the
young woman, in whom he fancied he had seen the daughter of the
unfortunate German. At last, he gave up the hunt, and returning
to his club--at this hour almost deserted--smoked a few
cigarettes, vainly attempted to read from a volume of essays in
the library, and at last, nervous, distraught, exhausted, retired
to his bed.
But none the less, Presley had not been mistaken. The girl whom
he had tried to follow had been indeed Minna Hooven.
When Minna, a week before this time, had returned to the lodging
house on Castro Street, after a day's unsuccessful effort to find
employment, and was told that her mother and Hilda had gone, she
was struck speechless with surprise and dismay. She had never
before been in any town larger than Bonneville, and now knew not
which way to turn nor how to account for the disappearance of her
mother and little Hilda. That the landlady was on the point of
turning them out, she understood, but it had been agreed that the
family should be allowed to stay yet one more day, in the hope
that Minna would find work. Of this she reminded the land-lady.
But this latter at once launched upon her such a torrent of
vituperation, that the girl was frightened to speechless
submission.
"Oh, oh," she faltered, "I know. I am sorry. I know we owe you
money, but where did my mother go? I only want to find her."
"Oh, I ain't going to be bothered," shrilled the other. "How do
I know?"
The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Hooven, afraid to stay in
the vicinity of the house, after her eviction, and threatened
with arrest by the landlady if she persisted in hanging around,
had left with the woman a note scrawled on an old blotter, to be
given to Minna when she returned. This the landlady had lost.
To cover her confusion, she affected a vast indignation, and a
turbulent, irascible demeanour.
"I ain't going to be bothered with such cattle as you," she
vociferated in Minna's face. "I don't know where your folks is.
Me, I only have dealings with honest people. I ain't got a word
to say so long as the rent is paid. But when I'm soldiered out
of a week's lodging, then I'm done. You get right along now. I
don't know you. I ain't going to have my place get a bad name by
having any South of Market Street chippies hanging around. You
get along, or I'll call an officer."
Minna sought the street, her head in a whirl. It was about five
o'clock. In her pocket was thirty-five cents, all she had in the
world. What now?
All at once, the Terror of the City, that blind, unreasoned fear
that only the outcast knows, swooped upon her, and clutched her
vulture-wise, by the throat.
Her first few days' experience in the matter of finding
employment, had taught her just what she might expect from this
new world upon which she had been thrown. What was to become of
her? What was she to do, where was she to go? Unanswerable,
grim questions, and now she no longer had herself to fear for.
Her mother and the baby, little Hilda, both of them equally
unable to look after themselves, what was to become of them,
where were they gone? Lost, lost, all of them, herself as well.
But she rallied herself, as she walked along. The idea of her
starving, of her mother and Hilda starving, was out of all
reason. Of course, it would not come to that, of course not. It
was not thus that starvation came. Something would happen, of
course, it would--in time. But meanwhile, meanwhile, how to get
through this approaching night, and the next few days. That was
the thing to think of just now.
The suddenness of it all was what most unnerved her. During all
the nineteen years of her life, she had never known what it meant
to shift for herself. Her father had always sufficed for the
family; he had taken care of her, then, all of a sudden, her
father had been killed, her mother snatched from her. Then all
of a sudden there was no help anywhere. Then all of a sudden a
terrible voice demanded of her, "Now just what can you do to keep
yourself alive?" Life faced her; she looked the huge stone image
squarely in the lustreless eyes.
It was nearly twilight. Minna, for the sake of avoiding
observation--for it seemed to her that now a thousand prying
glances followed her--assumed a matter-of-fact demeanour, and
began to walk briskly toward the business quarter of the town.
She was dressed neatly enough, in a blue cloth skirt with a blue
plush belt, fairly decent shoes, once her mother's, a pink shirt
waist, and jacket and a straw sailor. She was, in an unusual
fashion, pretty. Even her troubles had not dimmed the bright
light of her pale, greenish-blue eyes, nor faded the astonishing
redness of her lips, nor hollowed her strangely white face. Her
blue-black hair was trim. She carried her well-shaped, wellrounded
figure erectly. Even in her distress, she observed that
men looked keenly at her, and sometimes after her as she went
along. But this she noted with a dim sub-conscious faculty. The
real Minna, harassed, terrified, lashed with a thousand
anxieties, kept murmuring under her breath:
"What shall I do, what shall I do, oh, what shall I do, now?"
After an interminable walk, she gained Kearney Street, and held
it till the well-lighted, well-kept neighbourhood of the shopping
district gave place to the vice-crowded saloons and concert halls
of the Barbary Coast. She turned aside in avoidance of this,
only to plunge into the purlieus of Chinatown, whence only she
emerged, panic-stricken and out of breath, after a half hour of
never-to-be-forgotten terrors, and at a time when it had grown
quite dark.
On the corner of California and Dupont streets, she stood a long
moment, pondering.
I MUST do something," she said to herself. "I must do
SOMETHING."
She was tired out by now, and the idea occurred to her to enter
the Catholic church in whose shadow she stood, and sit down and
rest. This she did. The evening service was just being
concluded. But long after the priests and altar boys had
departed from the chancel, Minna still sat in the dim, echoing
interior, confronting her desperate situation as best she might.
Two or three hours later, the sexton woke her. The church was
being closed; she must leave. Once more, chilled with the sharp
night air, numb with long sitting in the same attitude, still
oppressed with drowsiness, confused, frightened, Minna found
herself on the pavement. She began to be hungry, and, at length,
yielding to the demand that every moment grew more imperious,
bought and eagerly devoured a five-cent bag of fruit. Then, once
more she took up the round of walking.
At length, in an obscure street that branched from Kearney
Street, near the corner of the Plaza, she came upon an
illuminated sign, bearing the inscription, "Beds for the Night,
15 and 25 cents."
Fifteen cents! Could she afford it? It would leave her with
only that much more, that much between herself and a state of
privation of which she dared not think; and, besides, the
forbidding look of the building frightened her. It was dark,
gloomy, dirty, a place suggestive of obscure crimes and hidden
terrors. For twenty minutes or half an hour, she hesitated,
walking twice and three times around the block. At last, she
made up her mind. Exhaustion such as she had never known,
weighed like lead upon her shoulders and dragged at her heels.
She must sleep. She could not walk the streets all night. She
entered the door-way under the sign, and found her way up a
filthy flight of stairs. At the top, a man in a blue checked
"jumper" was filling a lamp behind a high desk. To him Minna
applied.
"I should like," she faltered, "to have a room--a bed for the
night. One of those for fifteen cents will be good enough, I
think."
"Well, this place is only for men," said the man, looking up from
the lamp.
"Oh," said Minna, "oh--I--I didn't know."
She looked at him stupidly, and he, with equal stupidity,
returned the gaze. Thus, for a long moment, they held each
other's eyes.
"I--I didn't know," repeated Minna.
"Yes, it's for men," repeated the other.
She slowly descended the stairs, and once more came out upon the
streets.
And upon those streets that, as the hours advanced, grew more and
more deserted, more and more silent, more and more oppressive
with the sense of the bitter hardness of life towards those who
have no means of living, Minna Hooven spent the first night of
her struggle to keep her head above the ebb-tide of the city's
sea, into which she had been plunged.
Morning came, and with it renewed hunger. At this time, she had
found her way uptown again, and towards ten o'clock was sitting
upon a bench in a little park full of nurse-maids and children.
A group of the maids drew their baby-buggies to Minna's bench,
and sat down, continuing a conversation they had already begun.
Minna listened. A friend of one of the maids had suddenly thrown
up her position, leaving her "madame" in what would appear to
have been deserved embarrassment.
"Oh," said Minna, breaking in, and lying with sudden unwonted
fluency, "I am a nurse-girl. I am out of a place. Do you think
I could get that one?"
The group turned and fixed her--so evidently a country girl--with
a supercilious indifference.
"Well, you might try," said one of them. "Got good references?"
"References?" repeated Minna blankly. She did not know what this
meant.
"Oh, Mrs. Field ain't the kind to stick about references," spoke
up the other, "she's that soft. Why, anybody could work her."
"I'll go there," said Minna. "Have you the address?" It was told
to her.
"Lorin," she murmured. "Is that out of town?"
"Well, it's across the Bay."
"Across the Bay."
"Um. You're from the country, ain't you?"
"Yes. How--how do I get there? Is it far?"
"Well, you take the ferry at the foot of Market Street, and then
the train on the other side. No, it ain't very far. Just ask
any one down there. They'll tell you."
It was a chance; but Minna, after walking down to the ferry
slips, found that the round trip would cost her twenty cents. If
the journey proved fruitless, only a dime would stand between her
and the end of everything. But it was a chance; the only one
that had, as yet, presented itself. She made the trip.
And upon the street-railway cars, upon the ferryboats, on the
locomotives and way-coaches of the local trains, she was reminded
of her father's death, and of the giant power that had reduced
her to her present straits, by the letters, P. and S. W. R. R.
To her mind, they occurred everywhere. She seemed to see them in
every direction. She fancied herself surrounded upon every hand
by the long arms of the monster.
Minute after minute, her hunger gnawed at her. She could not
keep her mind from it. As she sat on the boat, she found herself
curiously scanning the faces of the passengers, wondering how
long since such a one had breakfasted, how long before this other
should sit down to lunch.
When Minna descended from the train, at Lorin on the other side
of the Bay, she found that the place was one of those suburban
towns, not yet become fashionable, such as may be seen beyond the
outskirts of any large American city. All along the line of the
railroad thereabouts, houses, small villas--contractors'
ventures--were scattered, the advantages of suburban lots and
sites for homes being proclaimed in seven-foot letters upon
mammoth bill-boards close to the right of way.
Without much trouble, Minna found the house to which she had been
directed, a pretty little cottage, set back from the street and
shaded by palms, live oaks, and the inevitable eucalyptus. Her
heart warmed at the sight of it. Oh, to find a little niche for
herself here, a home, a refuge from those horrible city streets,
from the rat of famine, with its relentless tooth. How she would
work, how strenuously she would endeavour to please, how patient
of rebuke she would be, how faithful, how conscientious. Nor
were her pretensions altogether false; upon her, while at home,
had devolved almost continually the care of the baby Hilda, her
little sister. She knew the wants and needs of children.
Her heart beating, her breath failing, she rang the bell set
squarely in the middle of the front door.
The lady of the house herself, an elderly lady, with pleasant,
kindly face, opened the door. Minna stated her errand.
"But I have already engaged a girl," she said.
"Oh," murmured Minna, striving with all her might to maintain
appearances. "Oh--I thought perhaps--" She turned away.
"I'm sorry," said the lady. Then she added, "Would you care to
look after so many as three little children, and help around in
light housework between whiles?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Because my sister--she lives in North Berkeley, above here--
she's looking far a girl. Have you had lots of experience? Got
good references?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, I'll give you the address. She lives up in North
Berkeley."
She turned back into the house a moment, and returned, handing
Minna a card.
"That's where she lives--careful not to BLOT it, child, the ink's
wet yet--you had better see her."
"Is it far? Could I walk there?"
"My, no; you better take the electric cars, about six blocks
above here."
When Minna arrived in North Berkeley, she had no money left. By
a cruel mistake, she had taken a car going in the wrong
direction, and though her error was rectified easily enough, it
had cost her her last five-cent piece. She was now to try her
last hope. Promptly it crumbled away. Like the former, this
place had been already filled, and Minna left the door of the
house with the certainty that her chance had come to naught, and
that now she entered into the last struggle with life--the death
struggle--shorn of her last pitiful defence, her last safeguard,
her last penny.
As she once more resumed her interminable walk, she realised she
was weak, faint; and she knew that it was the weakness of
complete exhaustion, and the faintness of approaching starvation.
Was this the end coming on? Terror of death aroused her.
"I MUST, I MUST do something, oh, anything. I must have
something to eat."
At this late hour, the idea of pawning her little jacket occurred
to her, but now she was far away from the city and its pawnshops,
and there was no getting back.
She walked on. An hour passed. She lost her sense of direction,
became confused, knew not where she was going, turned corners and
went up by-streets without knowing why, anything to keep moving,
for she fancied that so soon as she stood still, the rat in the
pit of her stomach gnawed more eagerly.
At last, she entered what seemed to be, if not a park, at least
some sort of public enclosure. There were many trees; the place
was beautiful; well-kept roads and walks led sinuously and
invitingly underneath the shade. Through the trees upon the
other side of a wide expanse of turf, brown and sear under the
summer sun, she caught a glimpse of tall buildings and a
flagstaff. The whole place had a vaguely public, educational
appearance, and Minna guessed, from certain notices affixed to
the trees, warning the public against the picking of flowers,
that she had found her way into the grounds of the State
University. She went on a little further. The path she was
following led her, at length, into a grove of gigantic live oaks,
whose lower branches all but swept the ground. Here the grass
was green, the few flowers in bloom, the shade very thick. A
more lovely spot she had seldom seen. Near at hand was a bench,
built around the trunk of the largest live oak, and here, at
length, weak from hunger, exhausted to the limits of her
endurance, despairing, abandoned, Minna Hooven sat down to
enquire of herself what next she could do.
But once seated, the demands of the animal--so she could believe--
became more clamorous, more insistent. To eat, to rest, to be
safely housed against another night, above all else, these were
the things she craved; and the craving within her grew so mighty
that she crisped her poor, starved hands into little fists, in an
agony of desire, while the tears ran from her eyes, and the sobs
rose thick from her breast and struggled and strangled in her
aching throat.
But in a few moments Minna was aware that a woman, apparently of
some thirty years of age, had twice passed along the walk in
front of the bench where she sat, and now, as she took more
notice of her, she remembered that she had seen her on the ferryboat
coming over from the city.
The woman was gowned in silk, tightly corseted, and wore a hat of
rather ostentatious smartness. Minna became convinced that the
person was watching her, but before she had a chance to act upon
this conviction she was surprised out of all countenance by the
stranger coming up to where she sat and speaking to her.
"Here is a coincidence," exclaimed the new-comer, as she sat
down; "surely you are the young girl who sat opposite me on the
boat. Strange I should come across you again. I've had you in
mind ever since."
On this nearer view Minna observed that the woman's face bore
rather more than a trace of enamel and that the atmosphere about
was impregnated with sachet. She was not otherwise conspicuous,
but there was a certain hardness about her mouth and a certain
droop of fatigue in her eyelids which, combined with an
indefinite self-confidence of manner, held Minna's attention.
"Do you know," continued the woman, "I believe you are in
trouble. I thought so when I saw you on the boat, and I think so
now. Are you? Are you in trouble? You're from the country,
ain't you?"
Minna, glad to find a sympathiser, even in this chance
acquaintance, admitted that she was in distress; that she had
become separated from her mother, and that she was indeed from
the country.
"I've been trying to find a situation," she hazarded in
conclusion, "but I don't seem to succeed. I've never been in a
city before, except Bonneville."
"Well, it IS a coincidence," said the other. "I know I wasn't
drawn to you for nothing. I am looking for just such a young
girl as you. You see, I live alone a good deal and I've been
wanting to find a nice, bright, sociable girl who will be a sort
of COMPANION to me. Understand? And there's something about you
that I like. I took to you the moment I saw you on the boat.
Now shall we talk this over?"
Towards the end of the week, one afternoon, as Presley was
returning from his club, he came suddenly face to face with Minna
upon a street corner.
"Ah," he cried, coming toward her joyfully. "Upon my word, I had
almost given you up. I've been looking everywhere for you. I
was afraid you might not be getting along, and I wanted to see if
there was anything I could do. How are your mother and Hilda?
Where are you stopping? Have you got a good place?"
"I don't know where mamma is," answered Minna. "We got
separated, and I never have been able to find her again."
Meanwhile, Presley had been taking in with a quick eye the
details of Minna's silk dress, with its garniture of lace, its
edging of velvet, its silver belt-buckle. Her hair was arranged
in a new way and on her head was a wide hat with a flare to one
side, set off with a gilt buckle and a puff of bright blue plush.
He glanced at her sharply.
"Well, but--but how are you getting on?" he demanded.
Minna laughed scornfully.
"I?" she cried. "Oh, I'VE gone to hell. It was either that or
starvation."
Presley regained his room at the club, white and trembling.
Worse than the worst he had feared had happened. He had not been
soon enough to help. He had failed again. A superstitious fear
assailed him that he was, in a manner, marked; that he was
foredoomed to fail. Minna had come--had been driven to this; and
he, acting too late upon his tardy resolve, had not been able to
prevent it. Were the horrors, then, never to end? Was the
grisly spectre of consequence to forever dance in his vision?
Were the results, the far-reaching results of that battle at the
irrigating ditch to cross his path forever? When would the
affair be terminated, the incident closed? Where was that spot
to which the tentacle of the monster could not reach?
By now, he was sick with the dread of it all. He wanted to get
away, to be free from that endless misery, so that he might not
see what he could no longer help. Cowardly he now knew himself
to be. He thought of himself only with loathing.
Bitterly self-contemptuous that he could bring himself to a
participation in such trivialities, he began to dress to keep his
engagement to dine with the Cedarquists.
He arrived at the house nearly half an hour late, but before he
could take off his overcoat, Mrs. Cedarquist appeared in the
doorway of the drawing-room at the end of the hall. She was
dressed as if to go out.
"My DEAR Presley," she exclaimed, her stout, over-dressed body
bustling toward him with a great rustle of silk. "I never was so
glad. You poor, dear poet, you are thin as a ghost. You need a
better dinner than I can give you, and that is just what you are
to have."
"Have I blundered?" Presley hastened to exclaim. "Did not Mr.
Cedarquist mention Friday evening?"
"No, no, no," she cried; "it was he who blundered. YOU
blundering in a social amenity! Preposterous! No; Mr.
Cedarquist forgot that we were dining out ourselves to-night, and
when he told me he had asked you here for the same evening, I
fell upon the man, my dear, I did actually, tooth and nail. But
I wouldn't hear of his wiring you. I just dropped a note to our
hostess, asking if I could not bring you, and when I told her who
you WERE, she received the idea with, oh, empressement. So,
there it is, all settled. Cedarquist and the girls are gone on
ahead, and you are to take the old lady like a dear, dear poet.
I believe I hear the carriage. Allons! En voiture!"
Once settled in the cool gloom of the coupe, odorous of leather
and upholstery, Mrs. Cedarquist exclaimed:
"And I've never told you who you were to dine with; oh, a
personage, really. Fancy, you will be in the camp of your
dearest foes. You are to dine with the Gerard people, one of the
Vice-Presidents of your bete noir, the P. and S. W. Railroad."
Presley started, his fists clenching so abruptly as to all but
split his white gloves. He was not conscious of what he said in
reply, and Mrs. Cedarquist was so taken up with her own endless
stream of talk that she did not observe his confusion.
"Their daughter Honora is going to Europe next week; her mother
is to take her, and Mrs. Gerard is to have just a few people to
dinner--very informal, you know--ourselves, you and, oh, I don't
know, two or three others. Have you ever seen Honora? The
prettiest little thing, and will she be rich? Millions, I would
not dare say how many. Tiens. Nous voici."
The coupe drew up to the curb, and Presley followed Mrs.
Cedarquist up the steps to the massive doors of the great house.
In a confused daze, he allowed one of the footmen to relieve him
of his hat and coat; in a daze he rejoined Mrs. Cedarquist in a
room with a glass roof, hung with pictures, the art gallery, no
doubt, and in a daze heard their names announced at the entrance
of another room, the doors of which were hung with thick, blue
curtains.
He entered, collecting his wits for the introductions and
presentations that he foresaw impended.
The room was very large, and of excessive loftiness. Flat,
rectagonal pillars of a rose-tinted, variegated marble, rose from
the floor almost flush with the walls, finishing off at the top
with gilded capitals of a Corinthian design, which supported the
ceiling. The ceiling itself, instead of joining the walls at
right angles, curved to meet them, a device that produced a sort
of dome-like effect. This ceiling was a maze of golden
involutions in very high relief, that adjusted themselves to form
a massive framing for a great picture, nymphs and goddesses,
white doves, golden chariots and the like, all wreathed about
with clouds and garlands of roses. Between the pillars around
the sides of the room were hangings of silk, the design--of a
Louis Quinze type--of beautiful simplicity and faultless taste.
The fireplace was a marvel. It reached from floor to ceiling;
the lower parts, black marble, carved into crouching Atlases,
with great muscles that upbore the superstructure. The design of
this latter, of a kind of purple marble, shot through with white
veinings, was in the same style as the design of the silk
hangings. In its midst was a bronze escutcheon, bearing an
undecipherable monogram and a Latin motto. Andirons of brass,
nearly six feet high, flanked the hearthstone.
The windows of the room were heavily draped in sombre brocade and
ecru lace, in which the initials of the family were very
beautifully worked. But directly opposite the fireplace, an
extra window, lighted from the adjoining conservatory, threw a
wonderful, rich light into the apartment. It was a Gothic window
of stained glass, very large, the centre figures being armed
warriors, Parsifal and Lohengrin; the one with a banner, the
other with a swan. The effect was exquisite, the window a
veritable masterpiece, glowing, flaming, and burning with a
hundred tints and colours--opalescent, purple, wine-red, clouded
pinks, royal blues, saffrons, violets so dark as to be almost
black.
Under foot, the carpet had all the softness of texture of grass;
skins (one of them of an enormous polar bear) and rugs of silk
velvet were spread upon the floor. A Renaissance cabinet of
ebony, many feet taller than Presley's head, and inlaid with
ivory and silver, occupied one corner of the room, while in its
centre stood a vast table of Flemish oak, black, heavy as iron,
massive. A faint odour of sandalwood pervaded the air. From the
conservatory near-by, came the splashing of a fountain. A row of
electric bulbs let into the frieze of the walls between the
golden capitals, and burning dimly behind hemispheres of clouded
glass, threw a subdued light over the whole scene.
Mrs. Gerard came forward.
"This is Mr. Presley, of course, our new poet of whom we are all
so proud. I was so afraid you would be unable to come. You have
given me a real pleasure in allowing me to welcome you here."
The footman appeared at her elbow.
"Dinner is served, madame," he announced.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Mrs. Hooven had left the boarding-house on Castro Street,
she had taken up a position on a neighbouring corner, to wait for
Minna's reappearance. Little Hilda, at this time hardly more
than six years of age, was with her, holding to her hand.
Mrs. Hooven was by no means an old woman, but hard work had aged
her. She no longer had any claim to good looks. She no longer
took much interest in her personal appearance. At the time of
her eviction from the Castro Street boarding-house, she wore a
faded black bonnet, garnished with faded artificial flowers of
dirty pink. A plaid shawl was about her shoulders. But this day
of misfortune had set Mrs. Hooven adrift in even worse condition
than her daughter. Her purse, containing a miserable handful of
dimes and nickels, was in her trunk, and her trunk was in the
hands of the landlady. Minna had been allowed such reprieve as
her thirty-five cents would purchase. The destitution of Mrs.
Hooven and her little girl had begun from the very moment of her
eviction.
While she waited for Minna, watching every street car and every
approaching pedestrian, a policeman appeared, asked what she did,
and, receiving no satisfactory reply, promptly moved her on.
Minna had had little assurance in facing the life struggle of the
city. Mrs. Hooven had absolutely none. In her, grief, distress,
the pinch of poverty, and, above all, the nameless fear of the
turbulent, fierce life of the streets, had produced a numbness,
an embruted, sodden, silent, speechless condition of dazed mind,
and clogged, unintelligent speech. She was dumb, bewildered,
stupid, animated but by a single impulse. She clung to life, and
to the life of her little daughter Hilda, with the blind tenacity
of purpose of a drowning cat.
Thus, when ordered to move on by the officer, she had silently
obeyed, not even attempting to explain her situation. She walked
away to the next street-crossing. Then, in a few moments
returned, taking up her place on the corner near the boardinghouse,
spying upon the approaching cable cars, peeping anxiously
down the length of the sidewalks.
Once more, the officer ordered her away, and once more,
unprotesting, she complied. But when for the third time the
policeman found her on the forbidden spot, he had lost his
temper. This time when Mrs. Hooven departed, he had followed
her, and when, bewildered, persistent, she had attempted to turn
back, he caught her by the shoulder.
"Do you want to get arrested, hey?" he demanded. "Do you want me
to lock you up? Say, do you, speak up?"
The ominous words at length reached Mrs. Hooven's comprehension.
Arrested! She was to be arrested. The countrywoman's fear of
the Jail nipped and bit eagerly at her unwilling heels. She
hurried off, thinking to return to her post after the policeman
should have gone away. But when, at length, turning back, she
tried to find the boarding-house, she suddenly discovered that
she was on an unfamiliar street. Unwittingly, no doubt, she had
turned a corner. She could not retrace her steps. She and Hilda
were lost.
"Mammy, I'm tired," Hilda complained.
Her mother picked her up.
"Mammy, where're we gowun, mammy?"
Where, indeed? Stupefied, Mrs. Hooven looked about her at the
endless blocks of buildings, the endless procession of vehicles
in the streets, the endless march of pedestrians on the
sidewalks. Where was Minna; where was she and her baby to sleep
that night? How was Hilda to be fed?
She could not stand still. There was no place to sit down; but
one thing was left, walk.
Ah, that via dolorosa of the destitute, that chemin de la croix
of the homeless. Ah, the mile after mile of granite pavement
that MUST be, MUST be traversed. Walk they must. Move, they
must; onward, forward, whither they cannot tell; why, they do not
know. Walk, walk, walk with bleeding feet and smarting joints;
walk with aching back and trembling knees; walk, though the
senses grow giddy with fatigue, though the eyes droop with sleep,
though every nerve, demanding rest, sets in motion its tiny alarm
of pain. Death is at the end of that devious, winding maze of
paths, crossed and re-crossed and crossed again. There is but
one goal to the via dolorosa; there is no escape from the central
chamber of that labyrinth. Fate guides the feet of them that are
set therein. Double on their steps though they may, weave in and
out of the myriad corners of the city's streets, return, go
forward, back, from side to side, here, there, anywhere, dodge,
twist, wind, the central chamber where Death sits is reached
inexorably at the end.
Sometimes leading and sometimes carrying Hilda, Mrs. Hooven set
off upon her objectless journey. Block after block she walked,
street after street. She was afraid to stop, because of the
policemen. As often as she so much as slackened her pace, she
was sure to see one of these terrible figures in the distance,
watching her, so it seemed to her, waiting for her to halt for
the fraction of a second, in order that he might have an excuse
to arrest her.
Hilda fretted incessantly.
"Mammy, where're we gowun? Mammy, I'm tired." Then, at last,
for the first time, that plaint that stabbed the mother's heart:
"Mammy, I'm hungry."
"Be qui-ut, den," said Mrs. Hooven. "Bretty soon we'll hev der
subber."
Passers-by on the sidewalk, men and women in the great six
o'clock homeward march, jostled them as they went along. With
dumb, dull curiousness, she looked into one after another of the
limitless stream of faces, and she fancied she saw in them every
emotion but pity. The faces were gay, were anxious, were
sorrowful, were mirthful, were lined with thought, or were merely
flat and expressionless, but not one was turned toward her in
compassion. The expressions of the faces might be various, but
an underlying callousness was discoverable beneath every mask.
The people seemed removed from her immeasurably; they were
infinitely above her. What was she to them, she and her baby,
the crippled outcasts of the human herd, the unfit, not able to
survive, thrust out on the heath to perish?
To beg from these people did not yet occur to her. There was no
pride, however, in the matter. She would have as readily asked
alms of so many sphinxes.
She went on. Without willing it, her feet carried her in a wide
circle. Soon she began to recognise the houses; she had been in
that street before. Somehow, this was distasteful to her; so,
striking off at right angles, she walked straight before her for
over a dozen blocks. By now, it was growing darker. The sun had
set. The hands of a clock on the power-house of a cable line
pointed to seven. No doubt, Minna had come long before this
time, had found her mother gone, and had--just what had she done,
just what COULD she do? Where was her daughter now? Walking the
streets herself, no doubt. What was to become of Minna, pretty
girl that she was, lost, houseless and friendless in the maze of
these streets? Mrs. Hooven, roused from her lethargy, could not
repress an exclamation of anguish. Here was misfortune indeed;
here was calamity. She bestirred herself, and remembered the
address of the boarding-house. She might inquire her way back
thither. No doubt, by now the policeman would be gone home for
the night. She looked about. She was in the district of modest
residences, and a young man was coming toward her, carrying a new
garden hose looped around his shoulder.
"Say, Meest'r; say, blease----"
The young man gave her a quick look and passed on, hitching the
coil of hose over his shoulder. But a few paces distant, he
slackened in his walk and fumbled in his vest pocket with his
fingers. Then he came back to Mrs. Hooven and put a quarter into
her hand.
Mrs. Hooven stared at the coin stupefied. The young man
disappeared. He thought, then, that she was begging. It had
come to that; she, independent all her life, whose husband had
held five hundred acres of wheat land, had been taken for a
beggar. A flush of shame shot to her face. She was about to
throw the money after its giver. But at the moment, Hilda again
exclaimed:
"Mammy, I'm hungry."
With a movement of infinite lassitude and resigned acceptance of
the situation, Mrs. Hooven put the coin in her pocket. She had
no right to be proud any longer. Hilda must have food.
That evening, she and her child had supper at a cheap restaurant
in a poor quarter of the town, and passed the night on the
benches of a little uptown park.
Unused to the ways of the town, ignorant as to the customs and
possibilities of eating-houses, she spent the whole of her
quarter upon supper for herself and Hilda, and had nothing left
wherewith to buy a lodging.
The night was dreadful; Hilda sobbed herself to sleep on her
mother's shoulder, waking thereafter from hour to hour, to
protest, though wrapped in her mother's shawl, that she was cold,
and to enquire why they did not go to bed. Drunken men snored
and sprawled near at hand. Towards morning, a loafer, reeking of
alcohol, sat down beside her, and indulged in an incoherent
soliloquy, punctuated with oaths and obscenities. It was not
till far along towards daylight that she fell asleep.
She awoke to find it broad day. Hilda--mercifully--slept. Her
mother's limbs were stiff and lame with cold and damp; her head
throbbed. She moved to another bench which stood in the rays of
the sun, and for a long two hours sat there in the thin warmth,
till the moisture of the night that clung to her clothes was
evaporated.
A policeman came into view. She woke Hilda, and carrying her in
her arms, took herself away.
"Mammy," began Hilda as soon as she was well awake; "Mammy, I'm
hungry. I want mein breakfest."
"Sure, sure, soon now, leedle tochter."
She herself was hungry, but she had but little thought of that.
How was Hilda to be fed? She remembered her experience of the
previous day, when the young man with the hose had given her
money. Was it so easy, then, to beg? Could charity be had for
the asking? So it seemed; but all that was left of her sturdy
independence revolted at the thought. SHE beg! SHE hold out the
hand to strangers!
"Mammy, I'm hungry."
There was no other way. It must come to that in the end. Why
temporise, why put off the inevitable? She sought out a
frequented street where men and women were on their way to work.
One after another, she let them go by, searching their faces,
deterred at the very last moment by some trifling variation of
expression, a firm set mouth, a serious, level eyebrow, an
advancing chin. Then, twice, when she had made a choice, and
brought her resolution to the point of speech, she quailed,
shrinking, her ears tingling, her whole being protesting against
the degradation. Every one must be looking at her. Her shame
was no doubt the object of an hundred eyes.
"Mammy, I'm hungry," protested Hilda again.
She made up her mind. What, though, was she to say? In what
words did beggars ask for assistance?
She tried to remember how tramps who had appeared at her back
door on Los Muertos had addressed her; how and with what formula
certain mendicants of Bonneville had appealed to her. Then,
having settled upon a phrase, she approached a whiskered
gentleman with a large stomach, walking briskly in the direction
of the town.
"Say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."
The gentleman passed on.
"Perhaps he doand hear me," she murmured.
Two well-dressed women advanced, chattering gayly.
"Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."
One of the women paused, murmuring to her companion, and from her
purse extracted a yellow ticket which she gave to Mrs. Hooven
with voluble explanations. But Mrs. Hooven was confused, she did
not understand. What could the ticket mean? The women went on
their way.
The next person to whom she applied was a young girl of about
eighteen, very prettily dressed.
"Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."
In evident embarrassment, the young girl paused and searched in
her little pocketbook.
"I think I have--I think--I have just ten cents here somewhere,"
she murmured again and again.
In the end, she found a dime, and dropped it into Mrs. Hooven's
palm.
That was the beginning. The first step once taken, the others
became easy. All day long, Mrs. Hooven and Hilda followed the
streets, begging, begging. Here it was a nickel, there a dime,
here a nickel again. But she was not expert in the art, nor did
she know where to buy food the cheapest; and the entire day's
work resulted only in barely enough for two meals of bread, milk,
and a wretchedly cooked stew. Tuesday night found the pair once
more shelterless.
Once more, Mrs. Hooven and her baby passed the night on the park
benches. But early on Wednesday morning, Mrs. Hooven found
herself assailed by sharp pains and cramps in her stomach. What
was the cause she could not say; but as the day went on, the
pains increased, alternating with hot flushes over all her body,
and a certain weakness and faintness. As the day went on, the
pain and the weakness increased. When she tried to walk, she
found she could do so only with the greatest difficulty. Here
was fresh misfortune. To beg, she must walk. Dragging herself
forward a half-block at a time, she regained the street once
more. She succeeded in begging a couple of nickels, bought a bag
of apples from a vender, and, returning to the park, sank
exhausted upon a bench.
Here she remained all day until evening, Hilda alternately
whimpering for her bread and milk, or playing languidly in the
gravel walk at her feet. In the evening, she started out again.
This time, it was bitter hard. Nobody seemed inclined to give.
Twice she was "moved on" by policemen. Two hours' begging
elicited but a single dime. With this, she bought Hilda's bread
and milk, and refusing herself to eat, returned to the bench--the
only home she knew--and spent the night shivering with cold,
burning with fever.
From Wednesday morning till Friday evening, with the exception of
the few apples she had bought, and a quarter of a loaf of hard
bread that she found in a greasy newspaper--scraps of a workman's
dinner--Mrs. Hooven had nothing to eat. In her weakened
condition, begging became hourly more difficult, and such little
money as was given her, she resolutely spent on Hilda's bread and
milk in the morning and evening.
By Friday afternoon, she was very weak, indeed. Her eyes
troubled her. She could no longer see distinctly, and at times
there appeared to her curious figures, huge crystal goblets of
the most graceful shapes, floating and swaying in the air in
front of her, almost within arm's reach. Vases of elegant forms,
made of shimmering glass, bowed and courtesied toward her. Glass
bulbs took graceful and varying shapes before her vision, now
rounding into globes, now evolving into hour-glasses, now
twisting into pretzel-shaped convolutions.
"Mammy, I'm hungry," insisted Hilda, passing her hands over her
face. Mrs. Hooven started and woke. It was Friday evening.
Already the street lamps were being lit.
"Gome, den, leedle girl," she said, rising and taking Hilda's
hand. "Gome, den, we go vind subber, hey?"
She issued from the park and took a cross street, directly away
from the locality where she had begged the previous days. She
had had no success there of late. She would try some other
quarter of the town. After a weary walk, she came out upon Van
Ness Avenue, near its junction with Market Street. She turned
into the avenue, and went on toward the Bay, painfully traversing
block after block, begging of all whom she met (for she no longer
made any distinction among the passers-by) .
"Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."
"Mammy, mammy, I'm hungry."
It was Friday night, between seven and eight. The great deserted
avenue was already dark. A sea fog was scudding overhead, and by
degrees descending lower. The warmth was of the meagerest, and
the street lamps, birds of fire in cages of glass, fluttered and
danced in the prolonged gusts of the trade wind that threshed and
weltered in the city streets from off the ocean.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Presley entered the dining-room of the Gerard mansion with little
Miss Gerard on his arm. The other guests had preceded them--
Cedarquist with Mrs. Gerard; a pale-faced, languid young man
(introduced to Presley as Julian Lambert) with Presley's cousin
Beatrice, one of the twin daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Cedarquist;
his brother Stephen, whose hair was straight as an Indian's, but
of a pallid straw color, with Beatrice's sister; Gerard himself,
taciturn, bearded, rotund, loud of breath, escorted Mrs.
Cedarquist. Besides these, there were one or two other couples,
whose names Presley did not remember.
The dining-room was superb in its appointments. On three sides
of the room, to the height of some ten feet, ran a continuous
picture, an oil painting, divided into long sections by narrow
panels of black oak. The painting represented the personages in
the Romaunt de la Rose, and was conceived in an atmosphere of the
most delicate, most ephemeral allegory. One saw young
chevaliers, blue-eyed, of elemental beauty and purity; women with
crowns, gold girdles, and cloudy wimples; young girls, entrancing
in their loveliness, wearing snow-white kerchiefs, their golden
hair unbound and flowing, dressed in white samite, bearing
armfuls of flowers; the whole procession defiling against a
background of forest glades, venerable oaks, half-hidden
fountains, and fields of asphodel and roses.
Otherwise, the room was simple. Against the side of the wall
unoccupied by the picture stood a sideboard of gigantic size,
that once had adorned the banquet hall of an Italian palace of
the late Renaissance. It was black with age, and against its
sombre surfaces glittered an array of heavy silver dishes and
heavier cut-glass bowls and goblets.
The company sat down to the first course of raw Blue Point
oysters, served upon little pyramids of shaved ice, and the two
butlers at once began filling the glasses of the guests with cool
Haut Sauterne.
Mrs. Gerard, who was very proud of her dinners, and never able to
resist the temptation of commenting upon them to her guests,
leaned across to Presley and Mrs. Cedarquist, murmuring, "Mr.
Presley, do you find that Sauterne too cold? I always believe it
is so bourgeois to keep such a delicate wine as Sauterne on the
ice, and to ice Bordeaux or Burgundy--oh, it is nothing short of
a crime."
"This is from your own vineyard, is it not?" asked Julian
Lambert. "I think I recognise the bouquet."
He strove to maintain an attitude of fin gourmet, unable to
refrain from comment upon the courses as they succeeded one
another.
Little Honora Gerard turned to Presley:
"You know," she explained, "Papa has his own vineyards in
southern France. He is so particular about his wines; turns up
his nose at California wines. And I am to go there next summer.
Ferrieres is the name of the place where our vineyards are, the
dearest village!"
She was a beautiful little girl of a dainty porcelain type, her
colouring low in tone. She wore no jewels, but her little,
undeveloped neck and shoulders, of an exquisite immaturity, rose
from the tulle bodice of her first decollete gown.
"Yes," she continued; "I'm to go to Europe for the first time.
Won't it be gay? And I am to have my own bonne, and Mamma and I
are to travel--so many places, Baden, Homburg, Spa, the Tyrol.
Won't it be gay?"
Presley assented in meaningless words. He sipped his wine
mechanically, looking about that marvellous room, with its
subdued saffron lights, its glitter of glass and silver, its
beautiful women in their elaborate toilets, its deft, correct
servants; its array of tableware--cut glass, chased silver, and
Dresden crockery. It was Wealth, in all its outward and visible
forms, the signs of an opulence so great that it need never be
husbanded. It was the home of a railway "Magnate," a Railroad
King. For this, then, the farmers paid. It was for this that S.
Behrman turned the screw, tightened the vise. It was for this
that Dyke had been driven to outlawry and a jail. It was for
this that Lyman Derrick had been bought, the Governor ruined and
broken, Annixter shot down, Hooven killed.
The soup, puree a la Derby, was served, and at the same time, as
hors d'oeuvres, ortolan patties, together with a tiny sandwich
made of browned toast and thin slices of ham, sprinkled over with
Parmesan cheese. The wine, so Mrs. Gerard caused it to be
understood, was Xeres, of the 1815 vintage.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mrs. Hooven crossed the avenue. It was growing late. Without
knowing it, she had come to a part of the city that experienced
beggars shunned. There was nobody about. Block after block of
residences stretched away on either hand, lighted, full of
people. But the sidewalks were deserted.
"Mammy," whimpered Hilda. "I'm tired, carry me."
Using all her strength, Mrs. Hooven picked her up and moved on
aimlessly.
Then again that terrible cry, the cry of the hungry child
appealing to the helpless mother:
"Mammy, I'm hungry."
"Ach, Gott, leedle girl," exclaimed Mrs. Hooven, holding her
close to her shoulder, the tears starting from her eyes. "Ach,
leedle tochter. Doand, doand, doand. You praik my hairt. I
cen't vind any subber. We got noddings to eat, noddings,
noddings."
"When do we have those bread'n milk again, Mammy?"
"To-morrow--soon--py-and-py, Hilda. I doand know what pecome oaf
us now, what pecome oaf my leedle babby."
She went on, holding Hilda against her shoulder with one arm as
best she might, one hand steadying herself against the fence
railings along the sidewalk. At last, a solitary pedestrian came
into view, a young man in a top hat and overcoat, walking
rapidly. Mrs. Hooven held out a quivering hand as he passed her.
"Say, say, den, Meest'r, blease hellup a boor womun."
The other hurried on.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The fish course was grenadins of bass and small salmon, the
latter stuffed, and cooked in white wine and mushroom liquor.
"I have read your poem, of course, Mr. Presley," observed Mrs.
Gerard. "'The Toilers,' I mean. What a sermon you read us, you
dreadful young man. I felt that I ought at once to 'sell all
that I have and give to the poor.' Positively, it did stir me up.
You may congratulate yourself upon making at least one convert.
Just because of that poem Mrs. Cedarquist and I have started a
movement to send a whole shipload of wheat to the starving people
in India. Now, you horrid reactionnaire, are you satisfied?"
"I am very glad," murmured Presley.
"But I am afraid," observed Mrs. Cedarquist, "that we may be too
late. They are dying so fast, those poor people. By the time
our ship reaches India the famine may be all over."
"One need never be afraid of being 'too late' in the matter of
helping the destitute," answered Presley. "Unfortunately, they
are always a fixed quantity. 'The poor ye have always with
you.'"
"How very clever that is," said Mrs. Gerard.
Mrs. Cedarquist tapped the table with her fan in mild applause.
"Brilliant, brilliant," she murmured, "epigrammatical."
"Honora," said Mrs. Gerard, turning to her daughter, at that
moment in conversation with the languid Lambert, "Honora,
entends-tu, ma cherie, l'esprit de notre jeune Lamartine."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mrs. Hooven went on, stumbling from street to street, holding
Hilda to her breast. Famine gnawed incessantly at her stomach;
walk though she might, turn upon her tracks up and down the
streets, back to the avenue again, incessantly and relentlessly
the torture dug into her vitals. She was hungry, hungry, and if
the want of food harassed and rended her, full-grown woman that
she was, what must it be in the poor, starved stomach of her
little girl? Oh, for some helping hand now, oh, for one little
mouthful, one little nibble! Food, food, all her wrecked body
clamoured for nourishment; anything to numb those gnawing teeth--
an abandoned loaf, hard, mouldered; a half-eaten fruit, yes, even
the refuse of the gutter, even the garbage of the ash heap. On
she went, peering into dark corners, into the areaways, anywhere,
everywhere, watching the silent prowling of cats, the intent
rovings of stray dogs. But she was growing weaker; the pains and
cramps in her stomach returned. Hilda's weight bore her to the
pavement. More than once a great giddiness, a certain wheeling
faintness all but overcame her. Hilda, however, was asleep. To
wake her would only mean to revive her to the consciousness of
hunger; yet how to carry her further? Mrs. Hooven began to fear
that she would fall with her child in her arms. The terror of a
collapse upon those cold pavements glistening with fog-damp
roused her; she must make an effort to get through the night.
She rallied all her strength, and pausing a moment to shift the
weight of her baby to the other arm, once more set off through
the night. A little while later she found on the edge of the
sidewalk the peeling of a banana. It had been trodden upon and
it was muddy, but joyfully she caught it up.
"Hilda," she cried, "wake oop, leedle girl. See, loog den,
dere's somedings to eat. Look den, hey? Dat's goot, ain't it?
Zum bunaner."
But it could not be eaten. Decayed, dirty, all but rotting, the
stomach turned from the refuse, nauseated.
"No, no," cried Hilda, "that's not good. I can't eat it. Oh,
Mammy, please gif me those bread'n milk."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
By now the guests of Mrs. Gerard had come to the entrees--
Londonderry pheasants, escallops of duck, and rissolettes a la
pompadour. The wine was Chateau Latour.
All around the table conversations were going forward gayly. The
good wines had broken up the slight restraint of the early part
of the evening and a spirit of good humour and good fellowship
prevailed. Young Lambert and Mr. Gerard were deep in
reminiscences of certain mutual duck-shooting expeditions. Mrs.
Gerard and Mrs. Cedarquist discussed a novel--a strange mingling
of psychology, degeneracy, and analysis of erotic conditions--
which had just been translated from the Italian. Stephen Lambert
and Beatrice disputed over the merits of a Scotch collie just
given to the young lady. The scene was gay, the electric bulbs
sparkled, the wine flashing back the light. The entire table was
a vague glow of white napery, delicate china, and glass as
brilliant as crystal. Behind the guests the serving-men came and
went, filling the glasses continually, changing the covers,
serving the entrees, managing the dinner without interruption,
confusion, or the slightest unnecessary noise.
But Presley could find no enjoyment in the occasion. From that
picture of feasting, that scene of luxury, that atmosphere of
decorous, well-bred refinement, his thoughts went back to Los
Muertos and Quien Sabe and the irrigating ditch at Hooven's. He
saw them fall, one by one, Harran, Annixter, Osterman, Broderson,
Hooven. The clink of the wine glasses was drowned in the
explosion of revolvers. The Railroad might indeed be a force
only, which no man could control and for which no man was
responsible, but his friends had been killed, but years of
extortion and oppression had wrung money from all the San
Joaquin, money that had made possible this very scene in which he
found himself. Because Magnus had been beggared, Gerard had
become Railroad King; because the farmers of the valley were
poor, these men were rich.
The fancy grew big in his mind, distorted, caricatured, terrible.
Because the farmers had been killed at the irrigation ditch,
these others, Gerard and his family, fed full. They fattened on
the blood of the People, on the blood of the men who had been
killed at the ditch. It was a half-ludicrous, half-horrible "dog
eat dog," an unspeakable cannibalism. Harran, Annixter, and
Hooven were being devoured there under his eyes. These dainty
women, his cousin Beatrice and little Miss Gerard, frail,
delicate; all these fine ladies with their small fingers and
slender necks, suddenly were transfigured in his tortured mind
into harpies tearing human flesh. His head swam with the horror
of it, the terror of it. Yes, the People WOULD turn some day,
and turning, rend those who now preyed upon them. It would be
"dog eat dog " again, with positions reversed, and he saw for one
instant of time that splendid house sacked to its foundations,
the tables overturned, the pictures torn, the hangings blazing,
and Liberty, the red-handed Man in the Street, grimed with powder
smoke, foul with the gutter, rush yelling, torch in hand, through
every door.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At ten o'clock Mrs. Hooven fell.
Luckily she was leading Hilda by the hand at the time and the
little girl was not hurt. In vain had Mrs. Hooven, hour after
hour, walked the streets. After a while she no longer made any
attempt to beg; nobody was stirring, nor did she even try to hunt
for food with the stray dogs and cats. She had made up her mind
to return to the park in order to sit upon the benches there, but
she had mistaken the direction, and following up Sacramento
Street, had come out at length, not upon the park, but upon a
great vacant lot at the very top of the Clay Street hill. The
ground was unfenced and rose above her to form the cap of the
hill, all overgrown with bushes and a few stunted live oaks. It
was in trying to cross this piece of ground that she fell. She
got upon her feet again.
"Ach, Mammy, did you hurt yourself?" asked Hilda.
"No, no."
"Is that house where we get those bread'n milk?"
Hilda pointed to a single rambling building just visible in the
night, that stood isolated upon the summit of the hill in a grove
of trees.
"No, no, dere aindt no braid end miluk, leedle tochter."
Hilda once more began to sob.
"Ach, Mammy, please, PLEASE, I want it. I'm hungry."
The jangled nerves snapped at last under the tension, and Mrs.
Hooven, suddenly shaking Hilda roughly, cried out:
"Stop, stop. Doand say ut egen, you. My Gott, you kill me yet."
But quick upon this came the reaction. The mother caught her
little girl to her, sinking down upon her knees, putting her arms
around her, holding her close.
"No, no, gry all so mudge es you want. Say dot you are hongry.
Say ut egen, say ut all de dime, ofer end ofer egen. Say ut,
poor, starfing, leedle babby. Oh, mein poor, leedle tochter. My
Gott, oh, I go crazy bretty soon, I guess. I cen't hellup you.
I cen't ged you noddings to eat, noddings, noddings. Hilda, we
gowun to die togedder. Put der arms roundt me, soh, tighd,
leedle babby. We gowun to die, we gowun to vind Popper. We
aindt gowun to be hongry eny more."
"Vair we go now?" demanded Hilda.
"No places. Mommer's soh tiredt. We stop heir, leedle while,
end rest."
Underneath a large bush that afforded a little shelter from the
wind, Mrs. Hooven lay down, taking Hilda in her arms and wrapping
her shawl about her. The infinite, vast night expanded gigantic
all around them. At this elevation they were far above the city.
It was still. Close overhead whirled the chariots of the fog,
galloping landward, smothering lights, blurring outlines. Soon
all sight of the town was shut out; even the solitary house on
the hilltop vanished. There was nothing left but grey, wheeling
fog, and the mother and child, alone, shivering in a little strip
of damp ground, an island drifting aimlessly in empty space.
Hilda's fingers touched a leaf from the bush and instinctively
closed upon it and carried it to her mouth.
"Mammy," she said, "I'm eating those leaf. Is those good?"
Her mother did not reply.
"You going to sleep, Mammy?" inquired Hilda, touching her face.
Mrs. Hooven roused herself a little.
"Hey? Vat you say? Asleep? Yais, I guess I wass asleep."
Her voice trailed unintelligibly to silence again. She was not,
however, asleep. Her eyes were open. A grateful numbness had
begun to creep over her, a pleasing semi-insensibility. She no
longer felt the pain and cramps of her stomach, even the hunger
was ceasing to bite.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"These stuffed artichokes are delicious, Mrs. Gerard," murmured
young Lambert, wiping his lips with a corner of his napkin.
"Pardon me for mentioning it, but your dinner must be my excuse."
"And this asparagus--since Mr. Lambert has set the bad example,"
observed Mrs. Cedarquist, "so delicate, such an exquisite
flavour. How do you manage?"
"We get all our asparagus from the southern part of the State,
from one particular ranch," explained Mrs. Gerard. "We order it
by wire and get it only twenty hours after cutting. My husband
sees to it that it is put on a special train. It stops at this
ranch just to take on our asparagus. Extravagant, isn't it, but
I simply cannot eat asparagus that has been cut more than a day."
"Nor I," exclaimed Julian Lambert, who posed as an epicure. "I
can tell to an hour just how long asparagus has been picked."
"Fancy eating ordinary market asparagus," said Mrs. Gerard, "that
has been fingered by Heaven knows how many hands."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Mammy, mammy, wake up," cried Hilda, trying to push open Mrs.
Hooven's eyelids, at last closed. "Mammy, don't. You're just
trying to frighten me."
Feebly Hilda shook her by the shoulder. At last Mrs. Hooven's
lips stirred. Putting her head down, Hilda distinguished the
whispered words:
"I'm sick. Go to schleep....Sick....Noddings to eat."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The dessert was a wonderful preparation of alternate layers of
biscuit glaces, ice cream, and candied chestnuts.
"Delicious, is it not?" observed Julian Lambert, partly to
himself, partly to Miss Cedarquist. "This Moscovite fouette--
upon my word, I have never tasted its equal."
"And you should know, shouldn't you?" returned the young lady.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Mammy, mammy, wake up," cried Hilda. "Don't sleep so. I'm
frightenedt."
Repeatedly she shook her; repeatedly she tried to raise the inert
eyelids with the point of her finger. But her mother no longer
stirred. The gaunt, lean body, with its bony face and sunken
eye-sockets, lay back, prone upon the ground, the feet upturned
and showing the ragged, worn soles of the shoes, the forehead and
grey hair beaded with fog, the poor, faded bonnet awry, the poor,
faded dress soiled and torn.
Hilda drew close to her mother, kissing her face, twining her
arms around her neck. For a long time, she lay that way,
alternately sobbing and sleeping. Then, after a long time, there
was a stir. She woke from a doze to find a police officer and
two or three other men bending over her. Some one carried a
lantern. Terrified, smitten dumb, she was unable to answer the
questions put to her. Then a woman, evidently a mistress of the
house on the top of the hill, arrived and took Hilda in her arms
and cried over her.
"I'll take the little girl," she said to the police officer.
"But the mother, can you save her? Is she too far gone?"
"I've sent for a doctor," replied the other.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Just before the ladies left the table, young Lambert raised his
glass of Madeira. Turning towards the wife of the Railroad King,
he said:
"My best compliments for a delightful dinner."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The doctor who had been bending over Mrs. Hooven, rose.
"It's no use," he said; "she has been dead some time--exhaustion
from starvation."
IX
On Division Number Three of the Los Muertos ranch the wheat had
already been cut, and S. Behrman on a certain morning in the
first week of August drove across the open expanse of stubble
toward the southwest, his eyes searching the horizon for the
feather of smoke that would mark the location of the steam
harvester. However, he saw nothing. The stubble extended onward
apparently to the very margin of the world.
At length, S. Behrman halted his buggy and brought out his field
glasses from beneath the seat. He stood up in his place and,
adjusting the lenses, swept the prospect to the south and west.
It was the same as though the sea of land were, in reality, the
ocean, and he, lost in an open boat, were scanning the waste
through his glasses, looking for the smoke of a steamer, hull
down, below the horizon. "Wonder," he muttered, "if they're
working on Four this morning?"
At length, he murmured an "Ah" of satisfaction. Far to the south
into the white sheen of sky, immediately over the horizon, he
made out a faint smudge--the harvester beyond doubt.
Thither S. Behrman turned his horse's head. It was all of an
hour's drive over the uneven ground and through the crackling
stubble, but at length he reached the harvester. He found,
however, that it had been halted. The sack sewers, together with
the header-man, were stretched on the ground in the shade of the
machine, while the engineer and separator-man were pottering
about a portion of the works.
"What's the matter, Billy?" demanded S. Behrman reining up.
The engineer turned about.
"The grain is heavy in here. We thought we'd better increase the
speed of the cup-carrier, and pulled up to put in a smaller
sprocket."
S. Behrman nodded to say that was all right, and added a
question.
"How is she going?"
"Anywheres from twenty-five to thirty sacks to the acre right
along here; nothing the matter with THAT I guess."
"Nothing in the world, Bill."
One of the sack sewers interposed:
"For the last half hour we've been throwing off three bags to the
minute."
"That's good, that's good."
It was more than good; it was " bonanza," and all that division
of the great ranch was thick with just such wonderful wheat.
Never had Los Muertos been more generous, never a season more
successful. S. Behrman drew a long breath of satisfaction. He
knew just how great was his share in the lands which had just
been absorbed by the corporation he served, just how many
thousands of bushels of this marvellous crop were his property.
Through all these years of confusion, bickerings, open hostility
and, at last, actual warfare he had waited, nursing his patience,
calm with the firm assurance of ultimate success. The end, at
length, had come; he had entered into his reward and saw himself
at last installed in the place he had so long, so silently
coveted; saw himself chief of a principality, the Master of the
Wheat.
The sprocket adjusted, the engineer called up the gang and the
men took their places. The fireman stoked vigorously, the two
sack sewers resumed their posts on the sacking platform, putting
on the goggles that kept the chaff from their eyes. The
separator-man and header-man gripped their levers.
The harvester, shooting a column of thick smoke straight upward,
vibrating to the top of the stack, hissed, clanked, and lurched
forward. Instantly, motion sprang to life in all its component
parts; the header knives, cutting a thirty-six foot swath,
gnashed like teeth; beltings slid and moved like smooth flowing
streams; the separator whirred, the agitator jarred and crashed;
cylinders, augers, fans, seeders and elevators, drapers and
chaff-carriers clattered, rumbled, buzzed, and clanged. The
steam hissed and rasped; the ground reverberated a hollow note,
and the thousands upon thousands of wheat stalks sliced and
slashed in the clashing shears of the header, rattled like dry
rushes in a hurricane, as they fell inward, and were caught up by
an endless belt, to disappear into the bowels of the vast brute
that devoured them.
It was that and no less. It was the feeding of some prodigious
monster, insatiable, with iron teeth, gnashing and threshing into
the fields of standing wheat; devouring always, never glutted,
never satiated, swallowing an entire harvest, snarling and
slobbering in a welter of warm vapour, acrid smoke, and blinding,
pungent clouds of chaff. It moved belly-deep in the standing
grain, a hippopotamus, half-mired in river ooze, gorging rushes,
snorting, sweating; a dinosaur wallowing through thick, hot
grasses, floundering there, crouching, grovelling there as its
vast jaws crushed and tore, and its enormous gullet swallowed,
incessant, ravenous, and inordinate.
S. Behrman, very much amused, changed places with one of the sack
sewers, allowing him to hold his horse while he mounted the
sacking platform and took his place. The trepidation and
jostling of the machine shook him till his teeth chattered in his
head. His ears were shocked and assaulted by a myriad-tongued
clamour, clashing steel, straining belts, jarring woodwork, while
the impalpable chaff powder from the separators settled like dust
in his hair, his ears, eyes, and mouth.
Directly in front of where he sat on the platform was the chute
from the cleaner, and from this into the mouth of a half-full
sack spouted an unending gush of grain, winnowed, cleaned,
threshed, ready for the mill.
The pour from the chute of the cleaner had for S. Behrman an
immense satisfaction. Without an instant's pause, a thick
rivulet of wheat rolled and dashed tumultuous into the sack. In
half a minute--sometimes in twenty seconds--the sack was full,
was passed over to the second sewer, the mouth reeved up, and the
sack dumped out upon the ground, to be picked up by the wagons
and hauled to the railroad.
S. Behrman, hypnotised, sat watching that river of grain. All
that shrieking, bellowing machinery, all that gigantic organism,
all the months of labour, the ploughing, the planting, the
prayers for rain, the years of preparation, the heartaches, the
anxiety, the foresight, all the whole business of the ranch, the
work of horses, of steam, of men and boys, looked to this spot--
the grain chute from the harvester into the sacks. Its volume
was the index of failure or success, of riches or poverty. And
at this point, the labour of the rancher ended. Here, at the lip
of the chute, he parted company with his grain, and from here the
wheat streamed forth to feed the world. The yawning mouths of
the sacks might well stand for the unnumbered mouths of the
People, all agape for food; and here, into these sacks, at first
so lean. so flaccid, attenuated like starved stomachs, rushed
the living stream of food, insistent, interminable, filling the
empty, fattening the shrivelled, making it sleek and heavy and
solid.
Half an hour later, the harvester stopped again. The men on the
sacking platform had used up all the sacks. But S. Behrman's
foreman, a new man on Los Muertos, put in an appearance with the
report that the wagon bringing a fresh supply was approaching.
"How is the grain elevator at Port Costa getting on, sir?"
"Finished," replied S. Behrman.
The new master of Los Muertos had decided upon accumulating his
grain in bulk in a great elevator at the tide-water port, where
the grain ships for Liverpool and the East took on their cargoes.
To this end, he had bought and greatly enlarged a building at
Port Costa, that was already in use for that purpose, and to this
elevator all the crop of Los Muertos was to be carried. The P.
and S. W. made S. Behrman a special rate.
"By the way," said S. Behrman to his superintendent, "we're in
luck. Fallon's buyer was in Bonneville yesterday. He's buying
for Fallon and for Holt, too. I happened to run into him, and
I've sold a ship load."
"A ship load!"
"Of Los Muertos wheat. He's acting for some Indian Famine Relief
Committee--lot of women people up in the city--and wanted a whole
cargo. I made a deal with him. There's about fifty thousand
tons of disengaged shipping in San Francisco Bay right now, and
ships are fighting for charters. I wired McKissick and got a
long distance telephone from him this morning. He got me a
barque, the 'Swanhilda.' She'll dock day after to-morrow, and
begin loading."
"Hadn't I better take a run up," observed the superintendent,
"and keep an eye on things?"
"No," answered S. Behrman, "I want you to stop down here, and see
that those carpenters hustle the work in the ranch house.
Derrick will be out by then. You see this deal is peculiar. I'm
not selling to any middle-man--not to Fallon's buyer. He only
put me on to the thing. I'm acting direct with these women
people, and I've got to have some hand in shipping this stuff
myself. But I made my selling figure cover the price of a
charter. It's a queer, mixed-up deal, and I don't fancy it much,
but there's boodle in it. I'll go to Port Costa myself."
A little later on in the day, when S. Behrman had satisfied
himself that his harvesting was going forward favourably, he
reentered his buggy and driving to the County Road turned
southward towards the Los Muertos ranch house. He had not gone
far, however, before he became aware of a familiar figure on
horse-back, jogging slowly along ahead of him. He recognised
Presley; he shook the reins over his horse's back and very soon
ranging up by the side of the young man passed the time of day
with him.
"Well, what brings you down here again, Mr. Presley?" he
observed. "I thought we had seen the last of you."
"I came down to say good-bye to my friends," answered Presley
shortly.
"Going away?"
"Yes--to India."
"Well, upon my word. For your health, hey?"
"Yes."
"You LOOK knocked up," asserted the other. "By the way," he
added, "I suppose you've heard the news?"
Presley shrank a little. Of late the reports of disasters had
followed so swiftly upon one another that he had begun to tremble
and to quail at every unexpected bit of information.
"What news do you mean?" he asked.
"About Dyke. He has been convicted. The judge sentenced him for
life."
For life! Riding on by the side of this man through the ranches
by the County Road, Presley repeated these words to himself till
the full effect of them burst at last upon him.
Jailed for life! No outlook. No hope for the future. Day after
day, year after year, to tread the rounds of the same gloomy
monotony. He saw the grey stone walls, the iron doors; the
flagging of the "yard" bare of grass or trees--the cell, narrow,
bald, cheerless; the prison garb, the prison fare, and round all
the grim granite of insuperable barriers, shutting out the world,
shutting in the man with outcasts, with the pariah dogs of
society, thieves, murderers, men below the beasts, lost to all
decency, drugged with opium, utter reprobates. To this, Dyke had
been brought, Dyke, than whom no man had been more honest, more
courageous, more jovial. This was the end of him, a prison; this
was his final estate, a criminal.
Presley found an excuse for riding on, leaving S. Behrman behind
him. He did not stop at Caraher's saloon, for the heat of his
rage had long since begun to cool, and dispassionately, he saw
things in their true light. For all the tragedy of his wife's
death, Caraher was none the less an evil influence among the
ranchers, an influence that worked only to the inciting of crime.
Unwilling to venture himself, to risk his own life, the anarchist
saloon-keeper had goaded Dyke and Presley both to murder; a bad
man, a plague spot in the world of the ranchers, poisoning the
farmers' bodies with alcohol and their minds with discontent.
At last, Presley arrived at the ranch house of Los Muertos. The
place was silent; the grass on the lawn was half dead and over a
foot high; the beginnings of weeds showed here and there in the
driveway. He tied his horse to a ring in the trunk of one of the
larger eucalyptus trees and entered the house.
Mrs. Derrick met him in the dining-room. The old look of
uneasiness, almost of terror, had gone from her wide-open brown
eyes. There was in them instead, the expression of one to whom a
contingency, long dreaded, has arrived and passed. The stolidity
of a settled grief, of an irreparable calamity, of a despair from
which there was no escape was in her look, her manner, her voice.
She was listless, apathetic, calm with the calmness of a woman
who knows she can suffer no further.
"We are going away," she told Presley, as the two sat down at
opposite ends of the dining table. "Just Magnus and myself--all
there is left of us. There is very little money left; Magnus can
hardly take care of himself, to say nothing of me. I must look
after him now. We are going to Marysville."
"Why there?"
"You see," she explained, "it happens that my old place is vacant
in the Seminary there. I am going back to teach--literature."
She smiled wearily. "It is beginning all over again, isn't it?
Only there is nothing to look forward to now. Magnus is an old
man already, and I must take care of him."
"He will go with you, then," Presley said, "that will be some
comfort to you at least."
"I don't know," she said slowly, "you have not seen Magnus
lately."
"Is he--how do you mean? Isn't he any better?"
"Would you like to see him? He is in the office. You can go
right in."
Presley rose. He hesitated a moment, then:
"Mrs. Annixter," he asked, "Hilma--is she still with you? I
should like to see her before I go."
"Go in and see Magnus," said Mrs. Derrick. "I will tell her you
are here."
Presley stepped across the stone-paved hallway with the glass
roof, and after knocking three times at the office door pushed it
open and entered.
Magnus sat in the chair before the desk and did not look up as
Presley entered. He had the appearance of a man nearer eighty
than sixty. All the old-time erectness was broken and bent. It
was as though the muscles that once had held the back rigid, the
chin high, had softened and stretched. A certain fatness, the
obesity of inertia, hung heavy around the hips and abdomen, the
eye was watery and vague, the cheeks and chin unshaven and
unkempt, the grey hair had lost its forward curl towards the
temples and hung thin and ragged around the ears. The hawk-like
nose seemed hooked to meet the chin; the lips were slack, the
mouth half-opened.
Where once the Governor had been a model of neatness in his
dress, the frock coat buttoned, the linen clean, he now sat in
his shirt sleeves, the waistcoat open and showing the soiled
shirt. His hands were stained with ink, and these, the only
members of his body that yet appeared to retain their activity,
were busy with a great pile of papers,--oblong, legal documents,
that littered the table before him. Without a moment's
cessation, these hands of the Governor's came and went among the
papers, deft, nimble, dexterous.
Magnus was sorting papers. From the heap upon his left hand he
selected a document, opened it, glanced over it, then tied it
carefully, and laid it away upon a second pile on his right hand.
When all the papers were in one pile, he reversed the process,
taking from his right hand to place upon his left, then back from
left to right again, then once more from right to left. He spoke
no word, he sat absolutely still, even his eyes did not move,
only his hands, swift, nervous, agitated, seemed alive.
"Why, how are you, Governor?" said Presley, coming forward.
Magnus turned slowly about and looked at him and at the hand in
which he shook his own.
"Ah," he said at length, "Presley...yes."
Then his glance fell, and he looked aimlessly about upon the
floor.
"I've come to say good-bye, Governor," continued Presley, "I'm
going away."
"Going away...yes, why it's Presley. Good-day, Presley."
"Good-day, Governor. I'm going away. I've come to say goodbye."
"Good-bye?" Magnus bent his brows, "what are you saying good-bye
for?"
"I'm going away, sir."
The Governor did not answer. Staring at the ledge of the desk,
he seemed lost in thought. There was a long silence. Then, at
length, Presley said:
"How are you getting on, Governor?"
Magnus looked up slowly.
"Why it's Presley," he said. "How do you do, Presley."
"Are you getting on all right, sir?"
"Yes," said Magnus after a while, "yes, all right. I am going
away. I've come to say good-bye. No--" He interrupted himself
with a deprecatory smile, "YOU said THAT, didn't you?"
"Well, you are going away, too, your wife tells me."
"Yes, I'm going away. I can't stay on..." he hesitated a long
time, groping for the right word, "I can't stay on--on--what's
the name of this place?"
"Los Muertos," put in Presley.
"No, it isn't. Yes, it is, too, that's right, Los Muertos. I
don't know where my memory has gone to of late."
"Well, I hope you will be better soon, Governor."
As Presley spoke the words, S. Behrman entered the room, and the
Governor sprang up with unexpected agility and stood against the
wall, drawing one long breath after another, watching the
railroad agent with intent eyes.
S. Behrman saluted both men affably and sat down near the desk,
drawing the links of his heavy watch chain through his fat
fingers.
"There wasn't anybody outside when I knocked, but I heard your
voice in here, Governor, so I came right in. I wanted to ask
you, Governor, if my carpenters can begin work in here day after
to-morrow. I want to take down that partition there, and throw
this room and the next into one. I guess that will be O. K.,
won't it? You'll be out of here by then, won't you?"
There was no vagueness about Magnus's speech or manner now.
There was that same alertness in his demeanour that one sees in a
tamed lion in the presence of its trainer.
"Yes, yes," he said quickly, "you can send your men here. I will
be gone by to-morrow."
"I don't want to seem to hurry you, Governor."
"No, you will not hurry me. I am ready to go now."
"Anything I can do for you, Governor?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, there is, Governor," insisted S. Behrman. "I think now
that all is over we ought to be good friends. I think I can do
something for you. We still want an assistant in the local
freight manager's office. Now, what do you say to having a try
at it? There's a salary of fifty a month goes with it. I guess
you must be in need of money now, and there's always the wife to
support; what do you say? Will you try the place?"
Presley could only stare at the man in speechless wonder. What
was he driving at? What reason was there back of this new move,
and why should it be made thus openly and in his hearing? An
explanation occurred to him. Was this merely a pleasantry on the
part of S. Behrman, a way of enjoying to the full his triumph;
was he testing the completeness of his victory, trying to see
just how far he could go, how far beneath his feet he could push
his old-time enemy?
"What do you say?" he repeated. "Will you try the place?"
"You--you INSIST?" inquired the Governor.
"Oh, I'm not insisting on anything," cried S. Behrman. "I'm
offering you a place, that's all. Will you take it?"
"Yes, yes, I'll take it."
"You'll come over to our side?"
"Yes, I'll come over."
"You'll have to turn 'railroad,' understand?"
"I'll turn railroad."
"Guess there may be times when you'll have to take orders from
me."
"I'll take orders from you."
"You'll have to be loyal to railroad, you know. No funny
business."
"I'll be loyal to the railroad."
"You would like the place then?"
"Yes."
S. Behrman turned from Magnus, who at once resumed his seat and
began again to sort his papers.
"Well, Presley," said the railroad agent: "I guess I won't see
you again."
"I hope not," answered the other.
"Tut, tut, Presley, you know you can't make me angry."
He put on his hat of varnished straw and wiped his fat forehead
with his handkerchief. Of late, he had grown fatter than ever,
and the linen vest, stamped with a multitude of interlocked
horseshoes, strained tight its imitation pearl buttons across the
great protuberant stomach.
Presley looked at the man a moment before replying.
But a few weeks ago he could not thus have faced the great enemy
of the farmers without a gust of blind rage blowing tempestuous
through all his bones. Now, however, he found to his surprise
that his fury had lapsed to a profound contempt, in which there
was bitterness, but no truculence. He was tired, tired to death
of the whole business.
"Yes," he answered deliberately, "I am going away. You have
ruined this place for me. I couldn't live here where I should
have to see you, or the results of what you have done, whenever I
stirred out of doors."
"Nonsense, Presley," answered the other, refusing to become
angry. "That's foolishness, that kind of talk; though, of
course, I understand how you feel. I guess it was you, wasn't
it, who threw that bomb into my house?"
"It was."
"Well, that don't show any common sense, Presley," returned
S. Behrman with perfect aplomb. "What could you have gained by
killing me?"
"Not so much probably as you have gained by killing Harran and
Annixter. But that's all passed now. You're safe from me." The
strangeness of this talk, the oddity of the situation burst upon
him and he laughed aloud. "It don't seem as though you could be
brought to book, S. Behrman, by anybody, or by any means, does
it? They can't get at you through the courts,--the law can't get
you, Dyke's pistol missed fire for just your benefit, and you
even escaped Caraher's six inches of plugged gas pipe. Just what
are we going to do with you?"
"Best give it up, Pres, my boy," returned the other. "I guess
there ain't anything can touch me. Well, Magnus," he said,
turning once more to the Governor. "Well, I'll think over what
you say, and let you know if I can get the place for you in a day
or two. You see," he added, "you're getting pretty old, Magnus
Derrick."
Presley flung himself from the room, unable any longer to witness
the depths into which Magnus had fallen. What other scenes of
degradation were enacted in that room, how much further S.
Behrman carried the humiliation, he did not know. He suddenly
felt that the air of the office was choking him.
He hurried up to what once had been his own room. On his way he
could not but note that much of the house was in disarray, a
great packing-up was in progress; trunks, half-full, stood in the
hallways, crates and cases in a litter of straw encumbered the
rooms. The servants came and went with armfuls of books,
ornaments, articles of clothing.
Presley took from his room only a few manuscripts and note-books,
and a small valise full of his personal effects; at the doorway
he paused and, holding the knob of the door in his hand, looked
back into the room a very long time.
He descended to the lower floor and entered the dining-room.
Mrs. Derrick had disappeared. Presley stood for a long moment in
front of the fireplace, looking about the room, remembering the
scenes that he had witnessed there--the conference when Osterman
had first suggested the fight for Railroad Commissioner and then
later the attack on Lyman Derrick and the sudden revelation of
that inconceivable treachery. But as he stood considering these
things a door to his right opened and Hilma entered the room.
Presley came forward, holding out his hand, all unable to believe
his eyes. It was a woman, grave, dignified, composed, who
advanced to meet him. Hilma was dressed in black, the cut and
fashion of the gown severe, almost monastic. All the little
feminine and contradictory daintinesses were nowhere to be seen.
Her statuesque calm evenness of contour yet remained, but it was
the calmness of great sorrow, of infinite resignation. Beautiful
she still remained, but she was older. The seriousness of one
who has gained the knowledge of the world--knowledge of its evil--
seemed to envelope her. The calm gravity of a great suffering
past, but not forgotten, sat upon her. Not yet twenty-one, she
exhibited the demeanour of a woman of forty.
The one-time amplitude of her figure, the fulness of hip and
shoulder, the great deep swell from waist to throat were gone.
She had grown thinner and, in consequence, seemed unusually,
almost unnaturally tall. Her neck was slender, the outline of
her full lips and round chin was a little sharp; her arms, those
wonderful, beautiful arms of hers, were a little shrunken. But
her eyes were as wide open as always, rimmed as ever by the thin,
intensely black line of the lashes and her brown, fragrant hair
was still thick, still, at times, glittered and coruscated in the
sun. When she spoke, it was with the old-time velvety huskiness
of voice that Annixter had learned to love so well.
"Oh, it is you," she said, giving him her hand. "You were good
to want to see me before you left. I hear that you are going
away."
She sat down upon the sofa.
"Yes," Presley answered, drawing a chair near to her, "yes, I
felt I could not stay--down here any longer. I am going to take
a long ocean voyage. My ship sails in a few days. But you, Mrs.
Annixter, what are you going to do? Is there any way I can serve
you?"
"No," she answered, "nothing. Papa is doing well. We are living
here now."
"You are well?"
She made a little helpless gesture with both her hands, smiling
very sadly.
"As you see," she answered.
As he talked, Presley was looking at her intently. Her dignity
was a new element in her character and the certain slender effect
of her figure, emphasised now by the long folds of the black gown
she wore, carried it almost superbly. She conveyed something of
the impression of a queen in exile. But she had lost none of her
womanliness; rather, the contrary. Adversity had softened her,
as well as deepened her. Presley saw that very clearly. Hilma
had arrived now at her perfect maturity; she had known great love
and she had known great grief, and the woman that had awakened in
her with her affection for Annixter had been strengthened and
infinitely ennobled by his death.
What if things had been different? Thus, as he conversed with
her, Presley found himself wondering. Her sweetness, her
beautiful gentleness, and tenderness were almost like palpable
presences. It was almost as if a caress had been laid softly
upon his cheek, as if a gentle hand closed upon his. Here, he
knew, was sympathy; here, he knew, was an infinite capacity for
love.
Then suddenly all the tired heart of him went out towards her. A
longing to give the best that was in him to the memory of her, to
be strong and noble because of her, to reshape his purposeless,
half-wasted life with her nobility and purity and gentleness for
his inspiration leaped all at once within him, leaped and stood
firm, hardening to a resolve stronger than any he had ever known.
For an instant he told himself that the suddenness of this new
emotion must be evidence of its insincerity. He was perfectly
well aware that his impulses were abrupt and of short duration.
But he knew that this was not sudden. Without realising it, he
had been from the first drawn to Hilma, and all through these
last terrible days, since the time he had seen her at Los
Muertos, just after the battle at the ditch, she had obtruded
continually upon his thoughts. The sight of her to-day, more
beautiful than ever, quiet, strong, reserved, had only brought
matters to a culmination.
"Are you," he asked her, "are you so unhappy, Hilma, that you can
look forward to no more brightness in your life?"
"Unless I could forget--forget my husband," she answered, "how
can I be happy? I would rather be unhappy in remembering him
than happy in forgetting him. He was my whole world, literally
and truly. Nothing seemed to count before I knew him, and
nothing can count for me now, after I have lost him."
"You think now," he answered, "that in being happy again you
would be disloyal to him. But you will find after a while--years
from now--that it need not be so. The part of you that belonged
to your husband can always keep him sacred, that part of you
belongs to him and he to it. But you are young; you have all
your life to live yet. Your sorrow need not be a burden to you.
If you consider it as you should--as you WILL some day, believe
me--it will only be a great help to you. It will make you more
noble, a truer woman, more generous."
"I think I see," she answered, "and I never thought about it in
that light before."
"I want to help you," he answered, "as you have helped me. I
want to be your friend, and above all things I do not want to see
your life wasted. I am going away and it is quite possible I
shall never see you again, but you will always be a help to me."
"I do not understand," she answered, "but I know you mean to be
very, very kind to me. Yes, I hope when you come back--if you
ever do--you will still be that. I do not know why you should
want to be so kind, unless--yes, of course--you were my husband's
dearest friend."
They talked a little longer, and at length Presley rose.
"I cannot bring myself to see Mrs. Derrick again," he said. "It
would only serve to make her very unhappy. Will you explain that
to her? I think she will understand."
"Yes," answered Hilma. "Yes, I will."
There was a pause. There seemed to be nothing more for either of
them to say. Presley held out his hand.
"Good-bye," she said, as she gave him hers.
He carried it to his lips.
"Good-bye," he answered. "Good-bye and may God bless you."
He turned away abruptly and left the room.
But as he was quietly making his way out of the house, hoping to
get to his horse unobserved, he came suddenly upon Mrs. Dyke and
Sidney on the porch of the house. He had forgotten that since
the affair at the ditch, Los Muertos had been a home to the
engineer's mother and daughter.
"And you, Mrs. Dyke," he asked as he took her hand, "in this
break-up of everything, where do you go?"
"To the city," she answered, "to San Francisco. I have a sister
there who will look after the little tad."
"But you, how about yourself, Mrs. Dyke?"
She answered him in a quiet voice, monotonous, expressionless:
"I am going to die very soon, Mr. Presley. There is no reason
why I should live any longer. My son is in prison for life,
everything is over for me, and I am tired, worn out."
"You mustn't talk like that, Mrs. Dyke," protested Presley,
"nonsense; you will live long enough to see the little tad
married." He tried to be cheerful. But he knew his words lacked
the ring of conviction. Death already overshadowed the face of
the engineer's mother. He felt that she spoke the truth, and as
he stood there speaking to her for the last time, his arm about
little Sidney's shoulder, he knew that he was seeing the
beginnings of the wreck of another family and that, like Hilda
Hooven, another baby girl was to be started in life, through no
fault of hers, fearfully handicapped, weighed down at the
threshold of existence with a load of disgrace. Hilda Hooven and
Sidney Dyke, what was to be their histories? the one, sister of
an outcast; the other, daughter of a convict. And he thought of
that other young girl, the little Honora Gerard, the heiress of
millions, petted, loved, receiving adulation from all who came
near to her, whose only care was to choose from among the
multitude of pleasures that the world hastened to present to her
consideration.
"Good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Sidney."
He kissed the little girl, clasped Mrs. Dyke's hand a moment with
his; then, slinging his satchel about his shoulders by the long
strap with which it was provided, left the house, and mounting
his horse rode away from Los Muertos never to return.
Presley came out upon the County Road. At a little distance to
his left he could see the group of buildings where once Broderson
had lived. These were being remodelled, at length, to suit the
larger demands of the New Agriculture. A strange man came out by
the road gate; no doubt, the new proprietor. Presley turned
away, hurrying northwards along the County Road by the mammoth
watering-tank and the long wind-break of poplars.
He came to Caraher's place. There was no change here. The
saloon had weathered the storm, indispensable to the new as well
as to the old regime. The same dusty buggies and buckboards were
tied under the shed, and as Presley hurried by he could
distinguish Caraher's voice, loud as ever, still proclaiming his
creed of annihilation.
Bonneville Presley avoided. He had no associations with the
town. He turned aside from the road, and crossing the northwest
corner of Los Muertos and the line of the railroad, turned back
along the Upper Road till he came to the Long Trestle and
Annixter's,--Silence, desolation, abandonment.
A vast stillness, profound, unbroken, brooded low over all the
place. No living thing stirred. The rusted wind-mill on the
skeleton-like tower of the artesian well was motionless; the
great barn empty; the windows of the ranch house, cook house, and
dairy boarded up. Nailed upon a tree near the broken gateway was
a board, white painted, with stencilled letters, bearing the
inscription:
"Warning. ALL PERSONS FOUND TRESPASSING ON THESE PREMISES WILL
BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW. By order P. and
S. W. R. R."
As he had planned, Presley reached the hills by the head waters
of Broderson's Creek late in the afternoon. Toilfully he climbed
them, reached the highest crest, and turning about, looked long
and for the last time at all the reach of the valley unrolled
beneath him. The land of the ranches opened out forever and
forever under the stimulus of that measureless range of vision.
The whole gigantic sweep of the San Joaquin expanded Titanic
before the eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering and
shimmering under the sun's red eye. It was the season after the
harvest, and the great earth, the mother, after its period of
reproduction, its pains of labour, delivered of the fruit of its
loins, slept the sleep of exhaustion in the infinite repose of
the colossus, benignant, eternal, strong, the nourisher of
nations, the feeder of an entire world.
And as Presley looked there came to him strong and true the sense
and the significance of all the enigma of growth. He seemed for
one instant to touch the explanation of existence. Men were
nothings, mere animalculae, mere ephemerides that fluttered and
fell and were forgotten between dawn and dusk. Vanamee had said
there was no death. But for one second Presley could go one step
further. Men were naught, death was naught, life was naught;
FORCE only existed--FORCE that brought men into the world, FORCE
that crowded them out of it to make way for the succeeding
generation, FORCE that made the wheat grow, FORCE that garnered
it from the soil to give place to the succeeding crop.
It was the mystery of creation, the stupendous miracle of
recreation; the vast rhythm of the seasons, measured,
alternative, the sun and the stars keeping time as the eternal
symphony of reproduction swung in its tremendous cadences like
the colossal pendulum of an almighty machine--primordial energy
flung out from the hand of the Lord God himself, immortal, calm,
infinitely strong.
But as he stood thus looking down upon the great valley he was
aware of the figure of a man, far in the distance, moving
steadily towards the Mission of San Juan. The man was hardly
more than a dot, but there was something unmistakably familiar in
his gait; and besides this, Presley could fancy that he was
hatless. He touched his pony with his spur. The man was Vanamee
beyond all doubt, and a little later Presley, descending the maze
of cow-paths and cattle-trails that led down towards the
Broderson Creek, overtook his friend.
Instantly Presley was aware of an immense change. Vanamee's face
was still that of an ascetic, still glowed with the rarefied
intelligence of a young seer, a half-inspired shepherd-prophet of
Hebraic legends; but the shadow of that great sadness which for
so long had brooded over him was gone; the grief that once he had
fancied deathless was, indeed, dead, or rather swallowed up in a
victorious joy that radiated like sunlight at dawn from the deepset
eyes, and the hollow, swarthy cheeks. They talked together
till nearly sundown, but to Presley's questions as to the reasons
for Vanamee's happiness, the other would say nothing. Once only
he allowed himself to touch upon the subject.
"Death and grief are little things," he said. "They are
transient. Life must be before death, and joy before grief.
Else there are no such things as death or grief. These are only
negatives. Life is positive. Death is only the absence of life,
just as night is only the absence of day, and if this is so,
there is no such thing as death. There is only life, and the
suppression of life, that we, foolishly, say is death.
'Suppression,' I say, not extinction. I do not say that life
returns. Life never departs. Life simply IS. For certain
seasons, it is hidden in the dark, but is that death, extinction,
annihilation? I take it, thank God, that it is not. Does the
grain of wheat, hidden for certain seasons in the dark, die? The
grain we think is dead RESUMES AGAIN; but how? Not as one grain,
but as twenty. So all life. Death is only real for all the
detritus of the world, for all the sorrow, for all the injustice,
for all the grief. Presley, the good never dies; evil dies,
cruelty, oppression, selfishness, greed--these die; but nobility,
but love, but sacrifice, but generosity, but truth, thank God for
it, small as they are, difficult as it is to discover them--these
live forever, these are eternal. You are all broken, all cast
down by what you have seen in this valley, this hopeless
struggle, this apparently hopeless despair. Well, the end is not
yet. What is it that remains after all is over, after the dead
are buried and the hearts are broken? Look at it all from the
vast height of humanity--'the greatest good to the greatest
numbers.' What remains? Men perish, men are corrupted, hearts
are rent asunder, but what remains untouched, unassailable,
undefiled? Try to find that, not only in this, but in every
crisis of the world's life, and you will find, if your view be
large enough, that it is not evil, but good, that in the end
remains."
There was a long pause. Presley, his mind full of new thoughts,
held his peace, and Vanamee added at length:
"I believed Angele dead. I wept over her grave; mourned for her
as dead in corruption. She has come back to me, more beautiful
than ever. Do not ask me any further. To put this story, this
idyl, into words, would, for me, be a profanation. This must
suffice you. Angele has returned to me, and I am happy. Adios."
He rose suddenly. The friends clasped each other's hands.
"We shall probably never meet again," said Vanamee; "but if these
are the last words I ever speak to you, listen to them, and
remember them, because I know I speak the truth. Evil is shortlived.
Never judge of the whole round of life by the mere
segment you can see. The whole is, in the end, perfect."
Abruptly he took himself away. He was gone. Presley, alone,
thoughtful, his hands clasped behind him, passed on through the
ranches--here teeming with ripened wheat--his face set from them
forever.
Not so Vanamee. For hours he roamed the countryside, now through
the deserted cluster of buildings that had once been Annixter's
home; now through the rustling and, as yet, uncut wheat of Quien
Sabe! now treading the slopes of the hills far to the north, and
again following the winding courses of the streams. Thus he
spent the night.
At length, the day broke, resplendent, cloudless. The night was
passed. There was all the sparkle and effervescence of joy in
the crystal sunlight as the dawn expanded roseate, and at length
flamed dazzling to the zenith when the sun moved over the edge of
the world and looked down upon all the earth like the eye of God
the Father.
At the moment, Vanamee stood breast-deep in the wheat in a
solitary corner of the Quien Sabe rancho. He turned eastward,
facing the celestial glory of the day and sent his voiceless call
far from him across the golden grain out towards the little
valley of flowers.
Swiftly the answer came. It advanced to meet him. The flowers
of the Seed ranch were gone, dried and parched by the summer's
sun, shedding their seed by handfuls to be sown again and blossom
yet another time. The Seed ranch was no longer royal with
colour. The roses, the lilies, the carnations, the hyacinths,
the poppies, the violets, the mignonette, all these had vanished,
the little valley was without colour; where once it had exhaled
the most delicious perfume, it was now odourless. Under the
blinding light of the day it stretched to its hillsides, bare,
brown, unlovely. The romance of the place had vanished, but with
it had vanished the Vision.
It was no longer a figment of his imagination, a creature of
dreams that advanced to meet Vanamee. It was Reality--it was
Angele in the flesh, vital, sane, material, who at last issued
forth from the entrance of the little valley. Romance had
vanished, but better than romance was here. Not a manifestation,
not a dream, but her very self. The night was gone, but the sun
had risen; the flowers had disappeared, but strong, vigorous,
noble, the wheat had come.
In the wheat he waited for her. He saw her coming. She was
simply dressed. No fanciful wreath of tube-roses was about her
head now, no strange garment of red and gold enveloped her now.
It was no longer an ephemeral illusion of the night, evanescent,
mystic, but a simple country girl coming to meet her lover. The
vision of the night had been beautiful, but what was it compared
to this? Reality was better than Romance. The simple honesty of
a loving, trusting heart was better than a legend of flowers, an
hallucination of the moonlight. She came nearer. Bathed in
sunlight, he saw her face to face, saw her hair hanging in two
straight plaits on either side of her face, saw the enchanting
fulness of her lips, the strange, balancing movement of her head
upon her slender neck. But now she was no longer asleep. The
wonderful eyes, violet blue, heavy-lidded, with their perplexing,
oriental slant towards the temples, were wide open and fixed upon
his.
From out the world of romance, out of the moonlight and the star
sheen, out of the faint radiance of the lilies and the still air
heavy with perfume, she had at last come to him. The moonlight,
the flowers, and the dream were all vanished away. Angele was
realised in the Wheat. She stood forth in the sunlight, a fact,
and no longer a fancy.
He ran forward to meet her and she held out her arms to him. He
caught her to him, and she, turning her face to his, kissed him
on the mouth.
"I love you, I love you," she murmured.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Upon descending from his train at Port Costa, S. Behrman asked to
be directed at once to where the bark "Swanhilda" was taking on
grain. Though he had bought and greatly enlarged his new
elevator at this port, he had never seen it. The work had been
carried on through agents, S. Behrman having far too many and
more pressing occupations to demand his presence and attention.
Now, however, he was to see the concrete evidence of his success
for the first time.
He picked his way across the railroad tracks to the line of
warehouses that bordered the docks, numbered with enormous Roman
numerals and full of grain in bags.
The sight of these bags of grain put him in mind of the fact that
among all the other shippers he was practically alone in his way
of handling his wheat. They handled the grain in bags; he,
however, preferred it in the bulk. Bags were sometimes four
cents apiece, and he had decided to build his elevator and bulk
his grain therein, rather than to incur this expense. Only a
small part of his wheat--that on Number Three division--had been
sacked. All the rest, practically two-thirds of the entire
harvest of Los Muertos, now found itself warehoused in his
enormous elevator at Port Costa.
To a certain degree it had been the desire of observing the
working of his system of handling the wheat in bulk that had
drawn S. Behrman to Port Costa. But the more powerful motive had
been curiosity, not to say downright sentiment. So long had he
planned for this day of triumph, so eagerly had he looked forward
to it, that now, when it had come, he wished to enjoy it to its
fullest extent, wished to miss no feature of the disposal of the
crop. He had watched it harvested, he had watched it hauled to
the railway, and now would watch it as it poured into the hold of
the ship, would even watch the ship as she cleared and got under
way.
He passed through the warehouses and came out upon the dock that
ran parallel with the shore of the bay. A great quantity of
shipping was in view, barques for the most part, Cape Horners,
great, deep sea tramps, whose iron-shod forefeet had parted every
ocean the world round from Rangoon to Rio Janeiro, and from
Melbourne to Christiania. Some were still in the stream, loaded
with wheat to the Plimsoll mark, ready to depart with the next
tide. But many others laid their great flanks alongside the
docks and at that moment were being filled by derrick and crane
with thousands upon thousands of bags of wheat. The scene was
brisk; the cranes creaked and swung incessantly with a rattle of
chains; stevedores and wharfingers toiled and perspired;
boatswains and dock-masters shouted orders, drays rumbled, the
water lapped at the piles; a group of sailors, painting the
flanks of one of the great ships, raised an occasional chanty;
the trade wind sang aeolian in the cordages, filling the air with
the nimble taint of salt. All around were the noises of ships
and the feel and flavor of the sea.
S. Behrman soon discovered his elevator. It was the largest
structure discernible, and upon its red roof, in enormous white
letters, was his own name. Thither, between piles of grain bags,
halted drays, crates and boxes of merchandise, with an occasional
pyramid of salmon cases, S. Behrman took his way. Cabled to the
dock, close under his elevator, lay a great ship with lofty masts
and great spars. Her stern was toward him as he approached, and
upon it, in raised golden letters, he could read the words
"Swanhilda--Liverpool."
He went aboard by a very steep gangway and found the mate on the
quarter deck. S. Behrman introduced himself.
"Well," he added, "how are you getting on?"
"Very fairly, sir," returned the mate, who was an Englishman.
"We'll have her all snugged down tight by this time, day after
to-morrow. It's a great saving of time shunting the stuff in her
like that, and three men can do the work of seven."
"I'll have a look 'round, I believe," returned S. Behrman.
"Right--oh," answered the mate with a nod.
S. Behrman went forward to the hatch that opened down into the
vast hold of the ship. A great iron chute connected this hatch
with the elevator, and through it was rushing a veritable
cataract of wheat.
It came from some gigantic bin within the elevator itself,
rushing down the confines of the chute to plunge into the roomy,
gloomy interior of the hold with an incessant, metallic roar,
persistent, steady, inevitable. No men were in sight. The place
was deserted. No human agency seemed to be back of the movement
of the wheat. Rather, the grain seemed impelled with a force of
its own, a resistless, huge force, eager, vivid, impatient for
the sea.
S. Behrman stood watching, his ears deafened with the roar of the
hard grains against the metallic lining of the chute. He put his
hand once into the rushing tide, and the contact rasped the flesh
of his fingers and like an undertow drew his hand after it in its
impetuous dash.
Cautiously he peered down into the hold. A musty odour rose to
his nostrils, the vigorous, pungent aroma of the raw cereal. It
was dark. He could see nothing; but all about and over the
opening of the hatch the air was full of a fine, impalpable dust
that blinded the eyes and choked the throat and nostrils.
As his eyes became used to the shadows of the cavern below him,
he began to distinguish the grey mass of the wheat, a great
expanse, almost liquid in its texture, which, as the cataract
from above plunged into it, moved and shifted in long, slow
eddies. As he stood there, this cataract on a sudden increased
in volume. He turned about, casting his eyes upward toward the
elevator to discover the cause. His foot caught in a coil of
rope, and he fell headforemost into the hold.
The fall was a long one and he struck the surface of the wheat
with the sodden impact of a bundle of damp clothes. For the
moment he was stunned. All the breath was driven from his body.
He could neither move nor cry out. But, by degrees, his wits
steadied themselves and his breath returned to him. He looked
about and above him. The daylight in the hold was dimmed and
clouded by the thick, chaff-dust thrown off by the pour of grain,
and even this dimness dwindled to twilight at a short distance
from the opening of the hatch, while the remotest quarters were
lost in impenetrable blackness. He got upon his feet only to
find that he sunk ankle deep in the loose packed mass underfoot.
"Hell," he muttered, "here's a fix."
Directly underneath the chute, the wheat, as it poured in, raised
itself in a conical mound, but from the sides of this mound it
shunted away incessantly in thick layers, flowing in all
directions with the nimbleness of water. Even as S. Behrman
spoke, a wave of grain poured around his legs and rose rapidly to
the level of his knees. He stepped quickly back. To stay near
the chute would soon bury him to the waist.
No doubt, there was some other exit from the hold, some companion
ladder that led up to the deck. He scuffled and waded across the
wheat, groping in the dark with outstretched hands. With every
inhalation he choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with
dust than with air. At times he could not breathe at all, but
gagged and gasped, his lips distended. But search as he would he
could find no outlet to the hold, no stairway, no companion
ladder. Again and again, staggering along in the black darkness,
he bruised his knuckles and forehead against the iron sides of
the ship. He gave up the attempt to find any interior means of
escape and returned laboriously to the space under the open
hatchway. Already he could see that the level of the wheat was
raised.
"God," he said, "this isn't going to do at all." He uttered a
great shout. "Hello, on deck there, somebody. For God's sake."
The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat drowned out his
voice. He could scarcely hear it himself above the rush of the
cataract. Besides this, he found it impossible to stay under the
hatch. The flying grains of wheat, spattering as they fell,
stung his face like wind-driven particles of ice. It was a
veritable torture; his hands smarted with it. Once he was all
but blinded. Furthermore, the succeeding waves of wheat, rolling
from the mound under the chute, beat him back, swirling and
dashing against his legs and knees, mounting swiftly higher,
carrying him off his feet.
Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath the hatch. He
stood still for a moment and shouted again. It was in vain. His
voice returned upon him, unable to penetrate the thunder of the
chute, and horrified, he discovered that so soon as he stood
motionless upon the wheat, he sank into it. Before he knew it,
he was knee-deep again, and a long swirl of grain sweeping
outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming pyramid below the
chute, poured around his thighs, immobolising him.
A frenzy of terror suddenly leaped to life within him. The
horror of death, the Fear of The Trap, shook him like a dry reed.
Shouting, he tore himself free of the wheat and once more
scrambled and struggled towards the hatchway. He stumbled as he
reached it and fell directly beneath the pour. Like a storm of
small shot, mercilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered multitude of
hurtling grains flagellated and beat and tore his flesh. Blood
streamed from his forehead and, thickening with the powder-like
chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled to his feet once
more. An avalanche from the cone of wheat buried him to his
thighs. He was forced back and back and back, beating the air,
falling, rising, howling for aid. He could no longer see; his
eyes, crammed with dust, smarted as if transfixed with needles
whenever he opened them. His mouth was full of the dust, his
lips were dry with it; thirst tortured him, while his outcries
choked and gagged in his rasped throat.
And all the while without stop, incessantly, inexorably, the
wheat, as if moving with a force all its own, shot downward in a
prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.
He retreated to a far corner of the hold and sat down with his
back against the iron hull of the ship and tried to collect his
thoughts, to calm himself. Surely there must be some way of
escape; surely he was not to die like this, die in this dreadful
substance that was neither solid nor fluid. What was he to do?
How make himself heard?
But even as he thought about this, the cone under the chute broke
again and sent a great layer of grain rippling and tumbling
toward him. It reached him where he sat and buried his hand and
one foot.
He sprang up trembling and made for another corner.
"By God," he cried, "by God, I must think of something pretty
quick!"
Once more the level of the wheat rose and the grains began piling
deeper about him. Once more he retreated. Once more he crawled
staggering to the foot of the cataract, screaming till his ears
sang and his eyeballs strained in their sockets, and once more
the relentless tide drove him back.
Then began that terrible dance of death; the man dodging,
doubling, squirming, hunted from one corner to another, the wheat
slowly, inexorably flowing, rising, spreading to every angle, to
every nook and cranny. It reached his middle. Furious and with
bleeding hands and broken nails, he dug his way out to fall
backward, all but exhausted, gasping for breath in the dustthickened
air. Roused again by the slow advance of the tide, he
leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with the agony in his eyes,
only to crash against the metal hull of the vessel. He turned
about, the blood streaming from his face, and paused to collect
his senses, and with a rush, another wave swirled about his
ankles and knees. Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still
meant to sink; to lie or sit meant to be buried the quicker; and
all this in the dark, all this in an air that could scarcely be
breathed, all this while he fought an enemy that could not be
gripped, toiling in a sea that could not be stayed.
Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman crawled on
hands and knees toward the hatchway. Once more he raised his
voice in a shout for help. His bleeding throat and raw, parched
lips refused to utter but a wheezing moan. Once more he tried to
look toward the one patch of faint light above him. His eyelids,
clogged with chaff, could no longer open. The Wheat poured
about his waist as he raised himself upon his knees.
Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain, blinded and
made dumb with its chaff, he threw himself forward with clutching
fingers, rolling upon his back, and lay there, moving feebly, the
head rolling from side to side. The Wheat, leaping continuously
from the chute, poured around him. It filled the pockets of the
coat, it crept up the sleeves and trouser legs, it covered the
great, protuberant stomach, it ran at last in rivulets into the
distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face.
Upon the surface of the Wheat, under the chute, nothing moved but
the Wheat itself. There was no sign of life. Then, for an
instant, the surface stirred. A hand, fat, with short fingers
and swollen veins, reached up, clutching, then fell limp and
prone. In another instant it was covered. In the hold of the
"Swanhilda" there was no movement but the widening ripples that
spread flowing from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming cone; no
sound, but the rushing of the Wheat that continued to plunge
incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar, persistent,
steady, inevitable.
CONCLUSION
The "Swanhilda" cast off from the docks at Port Costa two days
after Presley had left Bonneville and the ranches and made her
way up to San Francisco, anchoring in the stream off the City
front. A few hours after her arrival, Presley, waiting at his
club, received a despatch from Cedarquist to the effect that she
would clear early the next morning and that he must be aboard of
her before midnight.
He sent his trunks aboard and at once hurried to Cedarquist's
office to say good-bye. He found the manufacturer in excellent
spirits.
"What do you think of Lyman Derrick now, Presley?" he said, when
Presley had sat down. "He's in the new politics with a
vengeance, isn't he? And our own dear Railroad openly
acknowledges him as their candidate. You've heard of his
canvass."
"Yes, yes," answered Presley. "Well, he knows his business
best."
But Cedarquist was full of another idea: his new venture--the
organizing of a line of clipper wheat ships for Pacific and
Oriental trade--was prospering.
"The 'Swanhilda' is the mother of the fleet, Pres. I had to buy
HER, but the keel of her sister ship will be laid by the time she
discharges at Calcutta. We'll carry our wheat into Asia yet.
The Anglo-Saxon started from there at the beginning of everything
and it's manifest destiny that he must circle the globe and fetch
up where he began his march. You are up with procession, Pres,
going to India this way in a wheat ship that flies American
colours. By the way, do you know where the money is to come from
to build the sister ship of the 'Swanhilda'? From the sale of
the plant and scrap iron of the Atlas Works. Yes, I've given it
up definitely, that business. The people here would not back me
up. But I'm working off on this new line now. It may break me,
but we'll try it on. You know the 'Million Dollar Fair' was
formally opened yesterday. There is," he added with a wink, "a
Midway Pleasance in connection with the thing. Mrs. Cedarquist
and our friend Hartrath 'got up a subscription' to construct a
figure of California--heroic size--out of dried apricots. I
assure you," he remarked With prodigious gravity, "it is a real
work of art and quite a 'feature' of the Fair. Well, good luck
to you, Pres. Write to me from Honolulu, and bon voyage. My
respects to the hungry Hindoo. Tell him 'we're coming, Father
Abraham, a hundred thousand more.' Tell the men of the East to
look out for the men of the West. The irrepressible Yank is
knocking at the doors of their temples and he will want to sell
'em carpet-sweepers for their harems and electric light plants
for their temple shrines. Good-bye to you."
"Good-bye, sir."
"Get fat yourself while you're about it, Presley," he observed,
as the two stood up and shook hands.
"There shouldn't be any lack of food on a wheat ship. Bread
enough, surely."
"Little monotonous, though. 'Man cannot live by bread alone.'
Well, you're really off. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir."
And as Presley issued from the building and stepped out into the
street, he was abruptly aware of a great wagon shrouded in white
cloth, inside of which a bass drum was being furiously beaten.
On the cloth, in great letters, were the words:
"Vote for Lyman Derrick, Regular Republican Nominee for Governor
of California."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The "Swanhilda" lifted and rolled slowly, majestically on the
ground swell of the Pacific, the water hissing and boiling under
her forefoot, her cordage vibrating and droning in the steady
rush of the trade winds. It was drawing towards evening and her
lights had just been set. The master passed Presley, who was
leaning over the rail smoking a cigarette, and paused long enough
to remark:
"The land yonder, if you can make it out, is Point Gordo, and if
you were to draw a line from our position now through that point
and carry it on about a hundred miles further, it would just
about cross Tulare County not very far from where you used to
live."
"I see," answered Presley, "I see. Thanks. I am glad to know
that."
The master passed on, and Presley, going up to the quarter deck,
looked long and earnestly at the faint line of mountains that
showed vague and bluish above the waste of tumbling water.
Those were the mountains of the Coast range and beyond them was
what once had been his home. Bonneville was there, and
Guadalajara and Los Muertos and Quien Sabe, the Mission of San
Juan, the Seed ranch, Annixter's desolated home and Dyke's ruined
hop-fields.
Well, it was all over now, that terrible drama through which he
had lived. Already it was far distant from him; but once again
it rose in his memory, portentous, sombre, ineffaceable. He
passed it all in review from the day of his first meeting with
Vanamee to the day of his parting with Hilma. He saw it all--the
great sweep of country opening to view from the summit of the
hills at the head waters of Broderson's Creek; the barn dance at
Annixter's, the harness room with its jam of furious men; the
quiet garden of the Mission; Dyke's house, his flight upon the
engine, his brave fight in the chaparral; Lyman Derrick at bay in
the dining-room of the ranch house; the rabbit drive; the fight
at the irrigating ditch, the shouting mob in the Bonneville Opera
House.
The drama was over. The fight of Ranch and Railroad had been
wrought out to its dreadful close. It was true, as Shelgrim had
said, that forces rather than men had locked horns in that
struggle, but for all that the men of the Ranch and not the men
of the Railroad had suffered. Into the prosperous valley, into
the quiet community of farmers, that galloping monster, that
terror of steel and steam had burst, shooting athwart the
horizons, flinging the echo of its thunder over all the ranches
of the valley, leaving blood and destruction in its path.
Yes, the Railroad had prevailed. The ranches had been seized in
the tentacles of the octopus; the iniquitous burden of
extortionate freight rates had been imposed like a yoke of iron.
The monster had killed Harran, had killed Osterman, had killed
Broderson, had killed Hooven. It had beggared Magnus and had
driven him to a state of semi-insanity after he had wrecked his
honour in the vain attempt to do evil that good might come. It
had enticed Lyman into its toils to pluck from him his manhood
and his honesty, corrupting him and poisoning him beyond
redemption; it had hounded Dyke from his legitimate employment
and had made of him a highwayman and criminal. It had cast forth
Mrs. Hooven to starve to death upon the City streets. It had
driven Minna to prostitution. It had slain Annixter at the very
moment when painfully and manfully he had at last achieved his
own salvation and stood forth resolved to do right, to act
unselfishly and to live for others. It had widowed Hilma in the
very dawn of her happiness. It had killed the very babe within
the mother's womb, strangling life ere yet it had been born,
stamping out the spark ordained by God to burn through all
eternity.
What then was left? Was there no hope, no outlook for the
future, no rift in the black curtain, no glimmer through the
night? Was good to be thus overthrown? Was evil thus to be
strong and to prevail? Was nothing left?
Then suddenly Vanamee's words came back to his mind. What was
the larger view, what contributed the greatest good to the
greatest numbers? What was the full round of the circle whose
segment only he beheld? In the end, the ultimate, final end of
all, what was left? Yes, good issued from this crisis,
untouched, unassailable, undefiled.
Men--motes in the sunshine--perished, were shot down in the very
noon of life, hearts were broken, little children started in life
lamentably handicapped; young girls were brought to a life of
shame; old women died in the heart of life for lack of food. In
that little, isolated group of human insects, misery, death, and
anguish spun like a wheel of fire.
BUT THE WHEAT REMAINED. Untouched, unassailable, undefiled, that
mighty world-force, that nourisher of nations, wrapped in
Nirvanic calm, indifferent to the human swarm, gigantic,
resistless, moved onward in its appointed grooves. Through the
welter of blood at the irrigation ditch, through the sham charity
and shallow philanthropy of famine relief committees, the great
harvest of Los Muertos rolled like a flood from the Sierras to
the Himalayas to feed thousands of starving scarecrows on the
barren plains of India.
Falseness dies; injustice and oppression in the end of everything
fade and vanish away. Greed, cruelty, selfishness, and
inhumanity are short-lived; the individual suffers, but the race
goes on. Annixter dies, but in a far distant corner of the world
a thousand lives are saved. The larger view always and through
all shams, all wickednesses, discovers the Truth that will, in
the end, prevail, and all things, surely, inevitably,
resistlessly work together for good.