THE OCTOPUS

A Story of California

by Frank Norris

BOOK 1

CHAPTER I

Just after passing Caraher's saloon, on the County Road that ran southfrom Bonneville, and that divided the Broderson ranch from that of LosMuertos, Presley was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowingof a steam whistle that he knew must come from the railroad shops nearthe depot at Bonneville. In starting out from the ranch house thatmorning, he had forgotten his watch, and was now perplexed to knowwhether the whistle was blowing for twelve or for one o'clock. He hopedthe former. Early that morning he had decided to make a long excursionthrough the neighbouring country, partly on foot and partly on hisbicycle, and now noon was come already, and as yet he had hardlystarted. As he was leaving the house after breakfast, Mrs. Derrick hadasked him to go for the mail at Bonneville, and he had not been able torefuse. 

He took a firmer hold of the cork grips of his handlebars--the roadbeing in a wretched condition after the recent hauling of the crop--andquickened his pace. He told himself that, no matter what the time was, he would not stop for luncheon at the ranch house, but would push onto Guadalajara and have a Spanish dinner at Solotari's, as he hadoriginally planned. 

There had not been much of a crop to haul that year. Half of the wheaton the Broderson ranch had failed entirely, and Derrick himself hadhardly raised more than enough to supply seed for the winter's sowing. But such little hauling as there had been had reduced the roadsthereabouts to a lamentable condition, and, during the dry season of thepast few months, the layer of dust had deepened and thickened to suchan extent that more than once Presley was obliged to dismount and trudgealong on foot, pushing his bicycle in front of him. 

It was the last half of September, the very end of the dry season, andall Tulare County, all the vast reaches of the San Joaquin Valley--infact all South Central California, was bone dry, parched, and bakedand crisped after four months of cloudless weather, when the day seemedalways at noon, and the sun blazed white hot over the valley from theCoast Range in the west to the foothills of the Sierras in the east. 

As Presley drew near to the point where what was known as the Lower Roadstruck off through the Rancho de Los Muertos, leading on to Guadalajara, he came upon one of the county watering-tanks, a great, iron-hoopedtower of wood, straddling clumsily on its four uprights by the roadside. Since the day of its completion, the storekeepers and retailers ofBonneville had painted their advertisements upon it. It was a landmark. In that reach of level fields, the white letters upon it could be readfor miles. A watering-trough stood near by, and, as he was very thirsty, Presley resolved to stop for a moment to get a drink. 

He drew abreast of the tank and halted there, leaning his bicycleagainst the fence. A couple of men in white overalls were repaintingthe surface of the tank, seated on swinging platforms that hung by hooksfrom the roof. They were painting a sign--an advertisement. It was allbut finished and read, "S. Behrman, Real Estate, Mortgages, Main Street, Bonneville, Opposite the Post Office. " On the horse-trough that stoodin the shadow of the tank was another freshly painted inscription: "S. Behrman Has Something To Say To You. "

As Presley straightened up after drinking from the faucet at one end ofthe horse-trough, the watering-cart itself laboured into view aroundthe turn of the Lower Road. Two mules and two horses, white with dust, strained leisurely in the traces, moving at a snail's pace, their limpears marking the time; while perched high upon the seat, under a yellowcotton wagon umbrella, Presley recognised Hooven, one of Derrick'stenants, a German, whom every one called "Bismarck, " an excitable littleman with a perpetual grievance and an endless flow of broken English. 

"Hello, Bismarck, " said Presley, as Hooven brought his team to astandstill by the tank, preparatory to refilling. 

"Yoost der men I look for, Mist'r Praicely, " cried the other, twistingthe reins around the brake. "Yoost one minute, you wait, hey? I wantatalk mit you. "

Presley was impatient to be on his way again. A little more time wasted, and the day would be lost. He had nothing to do with the managementof the ranch, and if Hooven wanted any advice from him, it was so muchbreath wasted. These uncouth brutes of farmhands and petty ranchers, grimed with the soil they worked upon, were odious to him beyond words. Never could he feel in sympathy with them, nor with their lives, theirways, their marriages, deaths, bickerings, and all the monotonous roundof their sordid existence. 

"Well, you must be quick about it, Bismarck, " he answered sharply. "I'mlate for dinner, as it is. "

"Soh, now. Two minuten, und I be mit you. " He drew down the overhangingspout of the tank to the vent in the circumference of the cart andpulled the chain that let out the water. Then he climbed down from theseat, jumping from the tire of the wheel, and taking Presley by the armled him a few steps down the road. 

"Say, " he began. "Say, I want to hef some converzations mit you. Yoostder men I want to see. Say, Caraher, he tole me dis morgen--say, he toleme Mist'r Derrick gowun to farm der whole demn rench hisseluf der nextyahr. No more tenants. Say, Caraher, he tole me all der tenants get dersach; Mist'r Derrick gowun to work der whole demn rench hisseluf, hey?ME, I get der sach alzoh, hey? You hef hear about dose ting? Say, me, Ihef on der ranch been sieben yahr--seven yahr. Do I alzoh----"

"You'll have to see Derrick himself or Harran about that, Bismarck, "interrupted Presley, trying to draw away. "That's something outside ofme entirely. "

But Hooven was not to be put off. No doubt he had been meditating hisspeech all the morning, formulating his words, preparing his phrases. 

"Say, no, no, " he continued. "Me, I wanta stay bei der place; seven yahrI hef stay. Mist'r Derrick, he doand want dot I should be ge-sacked. Who, den, will der ditch ge-tend? Say, you tell 'um Bismarck hef gottasure stay bei der place. Say, you hef der pull mit der Governor. Youspeak der gut word for me. "

"Harran is the man that has the pull with his father, Bismarck, "answered Presley. "You get Harran to speak for you, and you're allright. "

"Sieben yahr I hef stay, " protested Hooven, "and who will der ditchge-tend, und alle dem cettles drive?"

"Well, Harran's your man, " answered Presley, preparing to mount hisbicycle. 

"Say, you hef hear about dose ting?"

"I don't hear about anything, Bismarck. I don't know the first thingabout how the ranch is run. "

"UND DER PIPE-LINE GE-MEND, " Hooven burst out, suddenly remembering aforgotten argument. He waved an arm. "Ach, der pipe-line bei der MissionGreek, und der waater-hole for dose cettles. Say, he doand doo utHIMSELLUF, berhaps, I doand tink. "

"Well, talk to Harran about it. "

"Say, he doand farm der whole demn rench bei hisseluf. Me, I gottastay. "

But on a sudden the water in the cart gushed over the sides from thevent in the top with a smart sound of splashing. Hooven was forced toturn his attention to it. Presley got his wheel under way. 

"I hef some converzations mit Herran, " Hooven called after him. "Hedoand doo ut bei hisseluf, den, Mist'r Derrick; ach, no. I stay bei derrench to drive dose cettles. "

He climbed back to his seat under the wagon umbrella, and, as hestarted his team again with great cracks of his long whip, turned to thepainters still at work upon the sign and declared with some defiance:

"Sieben yahr; yais, sir, seiben yahr I hef been on dis rench. Git oop, you mule you, hoop!"

Meanwhile Presley had turned into the Lower Road. He was now onDerrick's land, division No. I, or, as it was called, the Home ranch, of the great Los Muertos Rancho. The road was better here, the dust laidafter the passage of Hooven's watering-cart, and, in a few minutes, hehad come to the ranch house itself, with its white picket fence, its fewflower beds, and grove of eucalyptus trees. On the lawn at the sideof the house, he saw Harran in the act of setting out the automaticsprinkler. In the shade of the house, by the porch, were two or threeof the greyhounds, part of the pack that were used to hunt downjack-rabbits, and Godfrey, Harran's prize deerhound. 

Presley wheeled up the driveway and met Harran by the horse-block. Harran was Magnus Derrick's youngest son, a very well-looking youngfellow of twenty-three or twenty-five. He had the fine carriage thatmarked his father, and still further resembled him in that he had theDerrick nose--hawk-like and prominent, such as one sees in the laterportraits of the Duke of Wellington. He was blond, and incessantexposure to the sun had, instead of tanning him brown, merely heightenedthe colour of his cheeks. His yellow hair had a tendency to curl in aforward direction, just in front of the ears. 

Beside him, Presley made the sharpest of contrasts. Presley seemed tohave come of a mixed origin; appeared to have a nature more composite, a temperament more complex. Unlike Harran Derrick, he seemed more of acharacter than a type. The sun had browned his face till it was almostswarthy. His eyes were a dark brown, and his forehead was the foreheadof the intellectual, wide and high, with a certain unmistakable liftabout it that argued education, not only of himself, but of his peoplebefore him. The impression conveyed by his mouth and chin was that ofa delicate and highly sensitive nature, the lips thin and loosely shuttogether, the chin small and rather receding. One guessed that Presley'srefinement had been gained only by a certain loss of strength. Oneexpected to find him nervous, introspective, to discover that his mentallife was not at all the result of impressions and sensations that cameto him from without, but rather of thoughts and reflections germinatingfrom within. Though morbidly sensitive to changes in his physicalsurroundings, he would be slow to act upon such sensations, would notprove impulsive, not because he was sluggish, but because he was merelyirresolute. It could be foreseen that morally he was of that sortwho avoid evil through good taste, lack of decision, and want ofopportunity. His temperament was that of the poet; when he told himselfhe had been thinking, he deceived himself. He had, on such occasions, been only brooding. 

Some eighteen months before this time, he had been threatened withconsumption, and, taking advantage of a standing invitation on the partof Magnus Derrick, had come to stay in the dry, even climate of the SanJoaquin for an indefinite length of time. He was thirty years old, and had graduated and post-graduated with high honours from anEastern college, where he had devoted himself to a passionate study ofliterature, and, more especially, of poetry. 

It was his insatiable ambition to write verse. But up to this time, his work had been fugitive, ephemeral, a note here and there, heard, appreciated, and forgotten. He was in search of a subject; somethingmagnificent, he did not know exactly what; some vast, tremendous theme, heroic, terrible, to be unrolled in all the thundering progression ofhexameters. 

But whatever he wrote, and in whatever fashion, Presley was determinedthat his poem should be of the West, that world's frontier of Romance, where a new race, a new people--hardy, brave, and passionate--werebuilding an empire; where the tumultuous life ran like fire from dawnto dark, and from dark to dawn again, primitive, brutal, honest, andwithout fear. Something (to his idea not much) had been done to catch atthat life in passing, but its poet had not yet arisen. The few sporadicattempts, thus he told himself, had only touched the keynote. He strovefor the diapason, the great song that should embrace in itself a wholeepoch, a complete era, the voice of an entire people, wherein all peopleshould be included--they and their legends, their folk lore, theirfightings, their loves and their lusts, their blunt, grim humour, theirstoicism under stress, their adventures, their treasures found in a dayand gambled in a night, their direct, crude speech, their generosityand cruelty, their heroism and bestiality, their religion and profanity, their self-sacrifice and obscenity--a true and fearless setting forth ofa passing phase of history, un-compromising, sincere; each group in itsproper environment; the valley, the plain, and the mountain; the ranch, the range, and the mine--all this, all the traits and types of everycommunity from the Dakotas to the Mexicos, from Winnipeg to Guadalupe, gathered together, swept together, welded and riven together in onesingle, mighty song, the Song of the West. That was what he dreamed, while things without names--thoughts for which no man had yet inventedwords, terrible formless shapes, vague figures, colossal, monstrous, distorted--whirled at a gallop through his imagination. 

As Harran came up, Presley reached down into the pouches of thesun-bleached shooting coat he wore and drew out and handed him thepacket of letters and papers. 

"Here's the mail. I think I shall go on. "

"But dinner is ready, " said Harran; "we are just sitting down. "

Presley shook his head. "No, I'm in a hurry. Perhaps I shall havesomething to eat at Guadalajara. I shall be gone all day. "

He delayed a few moments longer, tightening a loose nut on his forwardwheel, while Harran, recognising his father's handwriting on one of theenvelopes, slit it open and cast his eye rapidly over its pages. 

"The Governor is coming home, " he exclaimed, "to-morrow morning on theearly train; wants me to meet him with the team at Guadalajara; AND, " hecried between his clenched teeth, as he continued to read, "we've lostthe case. "

"What case? Oh, in the matter of rates?"

Harran nodded, his eyes flashing, his face growing suddenly scarlet. 

"Ulsteen gave his decision yesterday, " he continued, reading from hisfather's letter. "He holds, Ulsteen does, that 'grain rates as low asthe new figure would amount to confiscation of property, and that, onsuch a basis, the railroad could not be operated at a legitimate profit. As he is powerless to legislate in the matter, he can only put the ratesback at what they originally were before the commissioners made thecut, and it is so ordered. ' That's our friend S. Behrman again, " addedHarran, grinding his teeth. "He was up in the city the whole of the timethe new schedule was being drawn, and he and Ulsteen and the RailroadCommission were as thick as thieves. He has been up there all this lastweek, too, doing the railroad's dirty work, and backing Ulsteen up. 'Legitimate profit, legitimate profit, '" he broke out. "Can we raisewheat at a legitimate profit with a tariff of four dollars a ton formoving it two hundred miles to tide-water, with wheat at eighty-sevencents? Why not hold us up with a gun in our faces, and say, 'hands up, 'and be done with it?"

He dug his boot-heel into the ground and turned away to the houseabruptly, cursing beneath his breath. 

"By the way, " Presley called after him, "Hooven wants to see you. Heasked me about this idea of the Governor's of getting along without thetenants this year. Hooven wants to stay to tend the ditch and look afterthe stock. I told him to see you. "

Harran, his mind full of other things, nodded to say he understood. Presley only waited till he had disappeared indoors, so that he mightnot seem too indifferent to his trouble; then, remounting, struck atonce into a brisk pace, and, turning out from the carriage gate, heldon swiftly down the Lower Road, going in the direction of Guadalajara. These matters, these eternal fierce bickerings between the farmers ofthe San Joaquin and the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad irritated himand wearied him. He cared for none of these things. They did not belongto his world. In the picture of that huge romantic West that he saw inhis imagination, these dissensions made the one note of harsh colourthat refused to enter into the great scheme of harmony. It was material, sordid, deadly commonplace. But, however he strove to shut his eyes toit or his ears to it, the thing persisted and persisted. The romanceseemed complete up to that point. There it broke, there it failed, thereit became realism, grim, unlovely, unyielding. To be true--and it wasthe first article of his creed to be unflinchingly true--he could notignore it. All the noble poetry of the ranch--the valley--seemed in hismind to be marred and disfigured by the presence of certain immovablefacts. Just what he wanted, Presley hardly knew. On one hand, it was hisambition to portray life as he saw it--directly, frankly, and through nomedium of personality or temperament. But, on the other hand, as well, he wished to see everything through a rose-coloured mist--a mist thatdulled all harsh outlines, all crude and violent colours. He toldhimself that, as a part of the people, he loved the people andsympathised with their hopes and fears, and joys and griefs; and yetHooven, grimy and perspiring, with his perpetual grievance and hiscontracted horizon, only revolted him. He had set himself the task ofgiving true, absolutely true, poetical expression to the life of theranch, and yet, again and again, he brought up against the railroad, that stubborn iron barrier against which his romance shattered itself tofroth and disintegrated, flying spume. His heart went out to the people, and his groping hand met that of a slovenly little Dutchman, whom it wasimpossible to consider seriously. He searched for the True Romance, and, in the end, found grain rates and unjust freight tariffs. 

"But the stuff is HERE, " he muttered, as he sent his wheel rumblingacross the bridge over Broderson Creek. "The romance, the real romance, is here somewhere. I'll get hold of it yet. "

He shot a glance about him as if in search of the inspiration. By now hewas not quite half way across the northern and narrowest corner of LosMuertos, at this point some eight miles wide. He was still on the Homeranch. A few miles to the south he could just make out the line of wirefence that separated it from the third division; and to the north, seenfaint and blue through the haze and shimmer of the noon sun, a long fileof telegraph poles showed the line of the railroad and marked Derrick'snortheast boundary. The road over which Presley was travelling ranalmost diametrically straight. In front of him, but at a great distance, he could make out the giant live-oak and the red roof of Hooven's barnthat stood near it. 

All about him the country was flat. In all directions he could see formiles. The harvest was just over. Nothing but stubble remained on theground. With the one exception of the live-oak by Hooven's place, therewas nothing green in sight. The wheat stubble was of a dirty yellow; theground, parched, cracked, and dry, of a cheerless brown. By the roadsidethe dust lay thick and grey, and, on either hand, stretching on towardthe horizon, losing itself in a mere smudge in the distance, ran theillimitable parallels of the wire fence. And that was all; that and theburnt-out blue of the sky and the steady shimmer of the heat. 

The silence was infinite. After the harvest, small though that harvesthad been, the ranches seemed asleep. It was as though the earth, afterits period of reproduction, its pains of labour, had been delivered ofthe fruit of its loins, and now slept the sleep of exhaustion. 

It was the period between seasons, when nothing was being done, when thenatural forces seemed to hang suspended. There was no rain, there was nowind, there was no growth, no life; the very stubble had no force evento rot. The sun alone moved. 

Toward two o'clock, Presley reached Hooven's place, two or three grimyframe buildings, infested with a swarm of dogs. A hog or two wanderedaimlessly about. Under a shed by the barn, a broken-down seeder layrusting to its ruin. But overhead, a mammoth live-oak, the largest treein all the country-side, towered superb and magnificent. Grey bunchesof mistletoe and festoons of trailing moss hung from its bark. From itslowest branch hung Hooven's meat-safe, a square box, faced with wirescreens. 

What gave a special interest to Hooven's was the fact that here was theintersection of the Lower Road and Derrick's main irrigating ditch, avast trench not yet completed, which he and Annixter, who worked theQuien Sabe ranch, were jointly constructing. It ran directly acrossthe road and at right angles to it, and lay a deep groove in the fieldbetween Hooven's and the town of Guadalajara, some three miles fartheron. Besides this, the ditch was a natural boundary between two divisionsof the Los Muertos ranch, the first and fourth. 

Presley now had the choice of two routes. His objective point was thespring at the headwaters of Broderson Creek, in the hills on theeastern side of the Quien Sabe ranch. The trail afforded him a short cutthitherward. As he passed the house, Mrs. Hooven came to the door, herlittle daughter Hilda, dressed in a boy's overalls and clumsy boots, ather skirts. Minna, her oldest daughter, a very pretty girl, whoselove affairs were continually the talk of all Los Muertos, was visiblethrough a window of the house, busy at the week's washing. Mrs. Hoovenwas a faded, colourless woman, middle-aged and commonplace, and offeringnot the least characteristic that would distinguish her from a thousandother women of her class and kind. She nodded to Presley, watchinghim with a stolid gaze from under her arm, which she held across herforehead to shade her eyes. 

But now Presley exerted himself in good earnest. His bicycle flew. He resolved that after all he would go to Guadalajara. He crossed thebridge over the irrigating ditch with a brusque spurt of hollow sound, and shot forward down the last stretch of the Lower Road that yetintervened between Hooven's and the town. He was on the fourth divisionof the ranch now, the only one whereon the wheat had been successful, nodoubt because of the Little Mission Creek that ran through it. But he nolonger occupied himself with the landscape. His only concern was to geton as fast as possible. He had looked forward to spending nearly thewhole day on the crest of the wooded hills in the northern corner of theQuien Sabe ranch, reading, idling, smoking his pipe. But now he woulddo well if he arrived there by the middle of the afternoon. In a fewmoments he had reached the line fence that marked the limits of theranch. Here were the railroad tracks, and just beyond--a huddled mass ofroofs, with here and there an adobe house on its outskirts--the littletown of Guadalajara. Nearer at hand, and directly in front of Presley, were the freight and passenger depots of the P. And S. W. , painted inthe grey and white, which seemed to be the official colours of all thebuildings owned by the corporation. The station was deserted. No trainspassed at this hour. From the direction of the ticket window, Presleyheard the unsteady chittering of the telegraph key. In the shadow ofone of the baggage trucks upon the platform, the great yellow cat thatbelonged to the agent dozed complacently, her paws tucked under herbody. Three flat cars, loaded with bright-painted farming machines, were on the siding above the station, while, on the switch below, a hugefreight engine that lacked its cow-catcher sat back upon its monstrousdriving-wheels, motionless, solid, drawing long breaths that werepunctuated by the subdued sound of its steam-pump clicking at exactintervals. 

But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should be stopped atevery point of his ride that day, for, as he was pushing his bicycleacross the tracks, he was surprised to hear his name called. "Hello, there, Mr. Presley. What's the good word?"

Presley looked up quickly, and saw Dyke, the engineer, leaning onhis folded arms from the cab window of the freight engine. But at theprospect of this further delay, Presley was less troubled. Dyke and hewere well acquainted and the best of friends. The picturesqueness of theengineer's life was always attractive to Presley, and more than once hehad ridden on Dyke's engine between Guadalajara and Bonneville. Once, even, he had made the entire run between the latter town and SanFrancisco in the cab. 

Dyke's home was in Guadalajara. He lived in one of the remodelled 'dobecottages, where his mother kept house for him. His wife had died somefive years before this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney, tobring up as best he could. Dyke himself was a heavy built, well-lookingfellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley, with great shoulders andmassive, hairy arms, and a tremendous, rumbling voice. 

"Hello, old man, " answered Presley, coming up to the engine. "What areyou doing about here at this time of day? I thought you were on thenight service this month. "

"We've changed about a bit, " answered the other. "Come up here and sitdown, and get out of the sun. They've held us here to wait orders, " heexplained, as Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender, climbed to the fireman's seat of worn green leather. "They are changingthe run of one of the crack passenger engines down below, and aresending her up to Fresno. There was a smash of some kind on theBakersfield division, and she's to hell and gone behind her time. Isuppose when she comes, she'll come a-humming. It will be stand clearand an open track all the way to Fresno. They have held me here to lether go by. "

He took his pipe, an old T. D. Clay, but coloured to a beautiful shinyblack, from the pocket of his jumper and filled and lit it. 

"Well, I don't suppose you object to being held here, " observed Presley. "Gives you a chance to visit your mother and the little girl. "

"And precisely they choose this day to go up to Sacramento, " answeredDyke. "Just my luck. Went up to visit my brother's people. By the way, my brother may come down here--locate here, I mean--and go into thehop-raising business. He's got an option on five hundred acres just backof the town here. He says there is going to be money in hops. I don'tknow; may be I'll go in with him. "

"Why, what's the matter with railroading?"

Dyke drew a couple of puffs on his pipe, and fixed Presley with aglance. 

"There's this the matter with it, " he said; "I'm fired. "

"Fired! You!" exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him. "That'swhat I'm telling you, " returned Dyke grimly. 

"You don't mean it. Why, what for, Dyke?"

"Now, YOU tell me what for, " growled the other savagely. "Boy and man, I've worked for the P. And S. W. For over ten years, and never one yelpof a complaint did I ever hear from them. They know damn well they'venot got a steadier man on the road. And more than that, more than that, I don't belong to the Brotherhood. And when the strike came along, Istood by them--stood by the company. You know that. And you know, andthey know, that at Sacramento that time, I ran my train according toschedule, with a gun in each hand, never knowing when I was going over amined culvert, and there was talk of giving me a gold watch at thetime. To hell with their gold watches! I want ordinary justice and fairtreatment. And now, when hard times come along, and they are cuttingwages, what do they do? Do they make any discrimination in my case? Dothey remember the man that stood by them and risked his life in theirservice? No. They cut my pay down just as off-hand as they do the payof any dirty little wiper in the yard. Cut me along with--listen tothis--cut me along with men that they had BLACK-LISTED; strikers thatthey took back because they were short of hands. " He drew fiercely onhis pipe. "I went to them, yes, I did; I went to the General Office, andate dirt. I told them I was a family man, and that I didn't see howI was going to get along on the new scale, and I reminded them of myservice during the strike. The swine told me that it wouldn't be fairto discriminate in favour of one man, and that the cut must apply to alltheir employees alike. Fair!" he shouted with laughter. "Fair! Hear theP. And S. W. Talking about fairness and discrimination. That's good, that is. Well, I got furious. I was a fool, I suppose. I told them that, in justice to myself, I wouldn't do first-class work for third-classpay. And they said, 'Well, Mr. Dyke, you know what you can do. ' Well, Idid know. I said, 'I'll ask for my time, if you please, ' and they gaveit to me just as if they were glad to be shut of me. So there you are, Presley. That's the P. & S. W. Railroad Company of California. I am onmy last run now. "

"Shameful, " declared Presley, his sympathies all aroused, now that thetrouble concerned a friend of his. "It's shameful, Dyke. But, " he added, an idea occurring to him, "that don't shut you out from work. There areother railroads in the State that are not controlled by the P. And S. W. "

Dyke smote his knee with his clenched fist. 

"NAME ONE. "

Presley was silent. Dyke's challenge was unanswerable. There was a lapsein their talk, Presley drumming on the arm of the seat, meditating onthis injustice; Dyke looking off over the fields beyond the town, hisfrown lowering, his teeth rasping upon his pipestem. The station agentcame to the door of the depot, stretching and yawning. On ahead of theengine, the empty rails of the track, reaching out toward the horizon, threw off visible layers of heat. The telegraph key clicked incessantly. 

"So I'm going to quit, " Dyke remarked after a while, his anger somewhatsubsided. "My brother and I will take up this hop ranch. I've saved agood deal in the last ten years, and there ought to be money in hops. "

Presley went on, remounting his bicycle, wheeling silently through thedeserted streets of the decayed and dying Mexican town. It was the hourof the siesta. Nobody was about. There was no business in the town. Itwas too close to Bonneville for that. Before the railroad came, andin the days when the raising of cattle was the great industry ofthe country, it had enjoyed a fierce and brilliant life. Now it wasmoribund. The drug store, the two bar-rooms, the hotel at the corner ofthe old Plaza, and the shops where Mexican "curios" were sold to thoseoccasional Eastern tourists who came to visit the Mission of San Juan, sufficed for the town's activity. 

At Solotari's, the restaurant on the Plaza, diagonally across from thehotel, Presley ate his long-deferred Mexican dinner--an omelette inSpanish-Mexican style, frijoles and tortillas, a salad, and a glassof white wine. In a corner of the room, during the whole course of hisdinner, two young Mexicans (one of whom was astonishingly handsome, after the melodramatic fashion of his race) and an old fellow! thecentenarian of the town, decrepit beyond belief, sang an interminablelove-song to the accompaniment of a guitar and an accordion. 

These Spanish-Mexicans, decayed, picturesque, vicious, and romantic, never failed to interest Presley. A few of them still remained inGuadalajara, drifting from the saloon to the restaurant, and from therestaurant to the Plaza, relics of a former generation, standing for adifferent order of things, absolutely idle, living God knew how, happywith their cigarette, their guitar, their glass of mescal, and theirsiesta. The centenarian remembered Fremont and Governor Alvarado, andthe bandit Jesus Tejeda, and the days when Los Muertos was a Spanishgrant, a veritable principality, leagues in extent, and when therewas never a fence from Visalia to Fresno. Upon this occasion, Presleyoffered the old man a drink of mescal, and excited him to talk of thethings he remembered. Their talk was in Spanish, a language with whichPresley was familiar. 

"De La Cuesta held the grant of Los Muertos in those days, " thecentenarian said; "a grand man. He had the power of life and death overhis people, and there was no law but his word. There was no thought ofwheat then, you may believe. It was all cattle in those days, sheep, horses--steers, not so many--and if money was scarce, there was alwaysplenty to eat, and clothes enough for all, and wine, ah, yes, by thevat, and oil too; the Mission Fathers had that. Yes, and there was wheatas well, now that I come to think; but a very little--in the field northof the Mission where now it is the Seed ranch; wheat fields were there, and also a vineyard, all on Mission grounds. Wheat, olives, and thevine; the Fathers planted those, to provide the elements of the HolySacrament--bread, oil, and wine, you understand. It was like that, thoseindustries began in California--from the Church; and now, " he put hischin in the air, "what would Father Ullivari have said to such a cropas Senor Derrick plants these days? Ten thousand acres of wheat! Nothingbut wheat from the Sierra to the Coast Range. I remember when De LaCuesta was married. He had never seen the young lady, only her miniatureportrait, painted"--he raised a shoulder--"I do not know by whom, small, a little thing to be held in the palm. But he fell in love with that, and marry her he would. The affair was arranged between him and thegirl's parents. But when the time came that De La Cuesta was to go toMonterey to meet and marry the girl, behold, Jesus Tejeda broke in uponthe small rancheros near Terrabella. It was no time for De La Cuesta tobe away, so he sent his brother Esteban to Monterey to marry the girl byproxy for him. I went with Esteban. We were a company, nearly a hundredmen. And De La Cuesta sent a horse for the girl to ride, white, purewhite; and the saddle was of red leather; the head-stall, the bit, and buckles, all the metal work, of virgin silver. Well, there wasa ceremony in the Monterey Mission, and Esteban, in the name of hisbrother, was married to the girl. On our way back, De La Cuesta rodeout to meet us. His company met ours at Agatha dos Palos. Never willI forget De La Cuesta's face as his eyes fell upon the girl. It was alook, a glance, come and gone like THAT, " he snapped his fingers. "Noone but I saw it, but I was close by. There was no mistaking that look. De La Cuesta was disappointed. "

"And the girl?" demanded Presley. 

"She never knew. Ah, he was a grand gentleman, De La Cuesta. Always hetreated her as a queen. Never was husband more devoted, more respectful, more chivalrous. But love?" The old fellow put his chin in the air, shutting his eyes in a knowing fashion. "It was not there. I could tell. They were married over again at the Mission San Juan de Guadalajara--OURMission--and for a week all the town of Guadalajara was in fete. Therewere bull-fights in the Plaza--this very one--for five days, and to eachof his tenants-in-chief, De La Cuesta gave a horse, a barrel of tallow, an ounce of silver, and half an ounce of gold dust. Ah, those were days. That was a gay life. This"--he made a comprehensive gesture with hisleft hand--"this is stupid. "

"You may well say that, " observed Presley moodily, discouraged by theother's talk. All his doubts and uncertainty had returned to him. Neverwould he grasp the subject of his great poem. To-day, the life wascolourless. Romance was dead. He had lived too late. To write of thepast was not what he desired. Reality was what he longed for, thingsthat he had seen. Yet how to make this compatible with romance. He rose, putting on his hat, offering the old man a cigarette. The centenarianaccepted with the air of a grandee, and extended his horn snuff-box. Presley shook his head. 

"I was born too late for that, " he declared, "for that, and for manyother things. Adios. "

"You are travelling to-day, senor?"

"A little turn through the country, to get the kinks out of themuscles, " Presley answered. "I go up into the Quien Sabe, into the highcountry beyond the Mission. "

"Ah, the Quien Sabe rancho. The sheep are grazing there this week. "

Solotari, the keeper of the restaurant, explained:

"Young Annixter sold his wheat stubble on the ground to the sheepraisers off yonder;" he motioned eastward toward the Sierra foothills. "Since Sunday the herd has been down. Very clever, that young Annixter. He gets a price for his stubble, which else he would have to burn, andalso manures his land as the sheep move from place to place. A trueYankee, that Annixter, a good gringo. "

After his meal, Presley once more mounted his bicycle, and leaving therestaurant and the Plaza behind him, held on through the main street ofthe drowsing town--the street that farther on developed into the roadwhich turned abruptly northward and led onward through the hop-fieldsand the Quien Sabe ranch toward the Mission of San Juan. 

The Home ranch of the Quien Sabe was in the little triangle bounded onthe south by the railroad, on the northwest by Broderson Creek, and onthe east by the hop fields and the Mission lands. It was traversed inall directions, now by the trail from Hooven's, now by the irrigatingditch--the same which Presley had crossed earlier in the day--and againby the road upon which Presley then found himself. In its centre wereAnnixter's ranch house and barns, topped by the skeleton-like tower ofthe artesian well that was to feed the irrigating ditch. Farther on, the course of Broderson Creek was marked by a curved line of grey-greenwillows, while on the low hills to the north, as Presley advanced, theancient Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, with its belfry tower andred-tiled roof, began to show itself over the crests of the venerablepear trees that clustered in its garden. 

When Presley reached Annixter's ranch house, he found young Annixterhimself stretched in his hammock behind the mosquito-bar on the frontporch, reading "David Copperfield, " and gorging himself with driedprunes. 

Annixter--after the two had exchanged greetings--complained of terrificcolics all the preceding night. His stomach was out of whack, butyou bet he knew how to take care of himself; the last spell, he hadconsulted a doctor at Bonneville, a gibbering busy-face who had filledhim up to the neck with a dose of some hogwash stuff that had made himworse--a healthy lot the doctors knew, anyhow. HIS case was peculiar. HEknew; prunes were what he needed, and by the pound. 

Annixter, who worked the Quien Sabe ranch--some four thousand acresof rich clay and heavy loams--was a very young man, younger even thanPresley, like him a college graduate. He looked never a year older thanhe was. He was smooth-shaven and lean built. But his youthful appearancewas offset by a certain male cast of countenance, the lower lip thrustout, the chin large and deeply cleft. His university course had hardenedrather than polished him. He still remained one of the people, roughalmost to insolence, direct in speech, intolerant in his opinions, relying upon absolutely no one but himself; yet, with all this, ofan astonishing degree of intelligence, and possessed of an executiveability little short of positive genius. He was a ferocious worker, allowing himself no pleasures, and exacting the same degree of energyfrom all his subordinates. He was widely hated, and as widely trusted. Every one spoke of his crusty temper and bullying disposition, invariably qualifying the statement with a commendation of his resourcesand capabilities. The devil of a driver, a hard man to get along with, obstinate, contrary, cantankerous; but brains! No doubt of that; brainsto his boots. One would like to see the man who could get ahead of himon a deal. Twice he had been shot at, once from ambush on Osterman'sranch, and once by one of his own men whom he had kicked from thesacking platform of his harvester for gross negligence. At college, he had specialised on finance, political economy, and scientificagriculture. After his graduation (he stood almost at the very top ofhis class) he had returned and obtained the degree of civil engineer. Then suddenly he had taken a notion that a practical knowledge of lawwas indispensable to a modern farmer. In eight months he did the work ofthree years, studying for his bar examinations. His method of study wascharacteristic. He reduced all the material of his text-books to notes. Tearing out the leaves of these note-books, he pasted them upon thewalls of his room; then, in his shirt-sleeves, a cheap cigar in histeeth, his hands in his pockets, he walked around and around the room, scowling fiercely at his notes, memorising, devouring, digesting. Atintervals, he drank great cupfuls of unsweetened, black coffee. When thebar examinations were held, he was admitted at the very head of all theapplicants, and was complimented by the judge. Immediately afterwards, he collapsed with nervous prostration; his stomach "got out of whack, "and he all but died in a Sacramento boarding-house, obstinately refusingto have anything to do with doctors, whom he vituperated as a rabbleof quacks, dosing himself with a patent medicine and stuffing himselfalmost to bursting with liver pills and dried prunes. 

He had taken a trip to Europe after this sickness to put himselfcompletely to rights. He intended to be gone a year, but returned atthe end of six weeks, fulminating abuse of European cooking. Nearly hisentire time had been spent in Paris; but of this sojourn he had broughtback but two souvenirs, an electro-plated bill-hook and an empty birdcage which had tickled his fancy immensely. 

He was wealthy. Only a year previous to this his father--a widower, whohad amassed a fortune in land speculation--had died, and Annixter, theonly son, had come into the inheritance. 

For Presley, Annixter professed a great admiration, holding in deeprespect the man who could rhyme words, deferring to him whenever therewas question of literature or works of fiction. No doubt, there wasnot much use in poetry, and as for novels, to his mind, there were onlyDickens's works. Everything else was a lot of lies. But just the same, it took brains to grind out a poem. It wasn't every one who could rhyme"brave" and "glaive, " and make sense out of it. Sure not. 

But Presley's case was a notable exception. On no occasion wasAnnixter prepared to accept another man's opinion without reserve. In conversation with him, it was almost impossible to make any directstatement, however trivial, that he would accept without eithermodification or open contradiction. He had a passion for violentdiscussion. He would argue upon every subject in the range ofhuman knowledge, from astronomy to the tariff, from the doctrine ofpredestination to the height of a horse. Never would he admit himself tobe mistaken; when cornered, he would intrench himself behind the remark, "Yes, that's all very well. In some ways, it is, and then, again, insome ways, it ISN'T. "

Singularly enough, he and Presley were the best of friends. More thanonce, Presley marvelled at this state of affairs, telling himselfthat he and Annixter had nothing in common. In all his circle ofacquaintances, Presley was the one man with whom Annixter had neverquarrelled. The two men were diametrically opposed in temperament. Presley was easy-going; Annixter, alert. Presley was a confirmeddreamer, irresolute, inactive, with a strong tendency to melancholy;the young farmer was a man of affairs, decisive, combative, whoseonly reflection upon his interior economy was a morbid concern inthe vagaries of his stomach. Yet the two never met without a mutualpleasure, taking a genuine interest in each other's affairs, and oftenputting themselves to great inconvenience to be of trifling service tohelp one another. 

As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a woman-hater, forno other reason than that he was a very bull-calf of awkwardness infeminine surroundings. Feemales! Rot! There was a fine way for a man towaste his time and his good money, lally gagging with a lot of feemales. No, thank you; none of it in HIS, if you please. Once only he had anaffair--a timid, little creature in a glove-cleaning establishment inSacramento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how. After his returnto his ranch, a correspondence had been maintained between the two, Annixter taking the precaution to typewrite his letters, and neveraffixing his signature, in an excess of prudence. He furthermore madecarbon copies of all his letters, filing them away in a compartmentof his safe. Ah, it would be a clever feemale who would get him into amess. Then, suddenly smitten with a panic terror that he had committedhimself, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had abruptly sentthe little woman about her business. It was his only love affair. Afterthat, he kept himself free. No petticoats should ever have a hold onhim. Sure not. 

As Presley came up to the edge of the porch, pushing his bicycle infront of him, Annixter excused himself for not getting up, alleging thatthe cramps returned the moment he was off his back. 

"What are you doing up this way?" he demanded. 

"Oh, just having a look around, " answered Presley. "How's the ranch?"

"Say, " observed the other, ignoring his question, "what's this I hearabout Derrick giving his tenants the bounce, and working Los Muertoshimself--working ALL his land?"

Presley made a sharp movement of impatience with his free hand. "I'veheard nothing else myself since morning. I suppose it must be so. "

"Huh!" grunted Annixter, spitting out a prune stone. "You give MagnusDerrick my compliments and tell him he's a fool. " "What do you mean?"

"I suppose Derrick thinks he's still running his mine, and that the sameprinciples will apply to getting grain out of the earth as to gettinggold. Oh, let him go on and see where he brings up. That's right, there's your Western farmer, " he exclaimed contemptuously. "Get theguts out of your land; work it to death; never give it a rest. Neveralternate your crop, and then when your soil is exhausted, sit down androar about hard times. "

"I suppose Magnus thinks the land has had rest enough these last two dryseasons, " observed Presley. "He has raised no crop to speak of for twoyears. The land has had a good rest. "

"Ah, yes, that sounds well, " Annixter contradicted, unwilling to beconvinced. "In a way, the land's been rested, and then, again, in a way, it hasn't. "

But Presley, scenting an argument, refrained from answering, andbethought himself of moving on. 

"I'm going to leave my wheel here for a while, Buck, " he said, "if youdon't mind. I'm going up to the spring, and the road is rough betweenhere and there. "

"Stop in for dinner on your way back, " said Annixter. "There'll be avenison steak. One of the boys got a deer over in the foothills lastweek. Out of season, but never mind that. I can't eat it. This stomachof mine wouldn't digest sweet oil to-day. Get here about six. "

"Well, maybe I will, thank you, " said Presley, moving off. "By the way, "he added, "I see your barn is about done. "

"You bet, " answered Annixter. "In about a fortnight now she'll be allready. "

"It's a big barn, " murmured Presley, glancing around the angle of thehouse toward where the great structure stood. 

"Guess we'll have to have a dance there before we move the stock in, "observed Annixter. "That's the custom all around here. "

Presley took himself off, but at the gate Annixter called after him, hismouth full of prunes, "Say, take a look at that herd of sheep as you goup. They are right off here to the east of the road, about half a milefrom here. I guess that's the biggest lot of sheep YOU ever saw. Youmight write a poem about 'em. Lamb--ram; sheep graze--sunny days. Catchon?"

Beyond Broderson Creek, as Presley advanced, tramping along on foot now, the land opened out again into the same vast spaces of dull brown earth, sprinkled with stubble, such as had been characteristic of Derrick'sranch. To the east the reach seemed infinite, flat, cheerless, heat-ridden, unrolling like a gigantic scroll toward the faint shimmerof the distant horizons, with here and there an isolated live-oak tobreak the sombre monotony. But bordering the road to the westward, thesurface roughened and raised, clambering up to the higher ground, on thecrest of which the old Mission and its surrounding pear trees were nowplainly visible. 

Just beyond the Mission, the road bent abruptly eastward, striking offacross the Seed ranch. But Presley left the road at this point, goingon across the open fields. There was no longer any trail. It was towardthree o'clock. The sun still spun, a silent, blazing disc, high in theheavens, and tramping through the clods of uneven, broken plough wasfatiguing work. The slope of the lowest foothills begun, the surface ofthe country became rolling, and, suddenly, as he topped a higher ridge, Presley came upon the sheep. 

Already he had passed the larger part of the herd--an intervening riseof ground having hidden it from sight. Now, as he turned half way about, looking down into the shallow hollow between him and the curve of thecreek, he saw them very plainly. The fringe of the herd was some twohundred yards distant, but its farther side, in that illusive shimmer ofhot surface air, seemed miles away. The sheep were spread out roughlyin the shape of a figure eight, two larger herds connected by a smaller, and were headed to the southward, moving slowly, grazing on the wheatstubble as they proceeded. But the number seemed incalculable. Hundredsupon hundreds upon hundreds of grey, rounded backs, all exactly alike, huddled, close-packed, alive, hid the earth from sight. It was no longeran aggregate of individuals. It was a mass--a compact, solid, slowlymoving mass, huge, without form, like a thick-pressed growth ofmushrooms, spreading out in all directions over the earth. From it therearose a vague murmur, confused, inarticulate, like the sound of verydistant surf, while all the air in the vicinity was heavy with the warm, ammoniacal odour of the thousands of crowding bodies. 

All the colours of the scene were sombre--the brown of the earth, thefaded yellow of the dead stubble, the grey of the myriad of undulatingbacks. Only on the far side of the herd, erect, motionless--a singlenote of black, a speck, a dot--the shepherd stood, leaning upon an emptywater-trough, solitary, grave, impressive. 

For a few moments, Presley stood, watching. Then, as he started to moveon, a curious thing occurred. At first, he thought he had heard some onecall his name. He paused, listening; there was no sound but the vaguenoise of the moving sheep. Then, as this first impression passed, itseemed to him that he had been beckoned to. Yet nothing stirred; exceptfor the lonely figure beyond the herd there was no one in sight. Hestarted on again, and in half a dozen steps found himself looking overhis shoulder. Without knowing why, he looked toward the shepherd; thenhalted and looked a second time and a third. Had the shepherd calledto him? Presley knew that he had heard no voice. Brusquely, all hisattention seemed riveted upon this distant figure. He put one forearmover his eyes, to keep off the sun, gazing across the intervening herd. Surely, the shepherd had called him. But at the next instant he started, uttering an exclamation under his breath. The far-away speck of blackbecame animated. Presley remarked a sweeping gesture. Though the manhad not beckoned to him before, there was no doubt that he was beckoningnow. Without any hesitation, and singularly interested in the incident, Presley turned sharply aside and hurried on toward the shepherd, skirting the herd, wondering all the time that he should answer the callwith so little question, so little hesitation. 

But the shepherd came forward to meet Presley, followed by one of hisdogs. As the two men approached each other, Presley, closely studyingthe other, began to wonder where he had seen him before. It must havebeen a very long time ago, upon one of his previous visits to the ranch. Certainly, however, there was something familiar in the shepherd's faceand figure. When they came closer to each other, and Presley could seehim more distinctly, this sense of a previous acquaintance was increasedand sharpened. 

The shepherd was a man of about thirty-five. He was very lean and spare. His brown canvas overalls were thrust into laced boots. A cartridge beltwithout any cartridges encircled his waist. A grey flannel shirt, openat the throat, showed his breast, tanned and ruddy. He wore no hat. Hishair was very black and rather long. A pointed beard covered his chin, growing straight and fine from the hollow cheeks. The absence of anycovering for his head was, no doubt, habitual with him, for his face wasas brown as an Indian's--a ruddy brown quite different from Presley'sdark olive. To Presley's morbidly keen observation, the generalimpression of the shepherd's face was intensely interesting. It wasuncommon to an astonishing degree. Presley's vivid imagination chose tosee in it the face of an ascetic, of a recluse, almost that of a youngseer. So must have appeared the half-inspired shepherds of the Hebraiclegends, the younger prophets of Israel, dwellers in the wilderness, beholders of visions, having their existence in a continual dream, talkers with God, gifted with strange powers. 

Suddenly, at some twenty paces distant from the approaching shepherd, Presley stopped short, his eyes riveted upon the other. 

"Vanamee!" he exclaimed. 

The shepherd smiled and came forward, holding out his hands, saying, "Ithought it was you. When I saw you come over the hill, I called you. "

"But not with your voice, " returned Presley. "I knew that some onewanted me. I felt it. I should have remembered that you could do thatkind of thing. "

"I have never known it to fail. It helps with the sheep. "

"With the sheep?"

"In a way. I can't tell exactly how. We don't understand these thingsyet. There are times when, if I close my eyes and dig my fists intomy temples, I can hold the entire herd for perhaps a minute. Perhaps, though, it's imagination, who knows? But it's good to see you again. Howlong has it been since the last time? Two, three, nearly five years. "

It was more than that. It was six years since Presley and Vanamee hadmet, and then it had been for a short time only, during one of theshepherd's periodical brief returns to that part of the country. Duringa week he and Presley had been much together, for the two were devotedfriends. Then, as abruptly, as mysteriously as he had come, Vanameedisappeared. Presley awoke one morning to find him gone. Thus, it hadbeen with Vanamee for a period of sixteen years. He lived his life inthe unknown, one could not tell where--in the desert, in the mountains, throughout all the vast and vague South-west, solitary, strange. Three, four, five years passed. The shepherd would be almost forgotten. Neverthe most trivial scrap of information as to his whereabouts reached LosMuertos. He had melted off into the surface-shimmer of the desert, intothe mirage; he sank below the horizons; he was swallowed up in the wasteof sand and sage. Then, without warning, he would reappear, coming infrom the wilderness, emerging from the unknown. No one knew him well. Inall that countryside he had but three friends, Presley, Magnus Derrick, and the priest at the Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, Father Sarria. He remained always a mystery, living a life half-real, half-legendary. In all those years he did not seem to have grown older by a single day. At this time, Presley knew him to be thirty-six years of age. But sincethe first day the two had met, the shepherd's face and bearing had, tohis eyes, remained the same. At this moment, Presley was looking intothe same face he had first seen many, many years ago. It was a facestamped with an unspeakable sadness, a deathless grief, the permanentimprint of a tragedy long past, but yet a living issue. Presley toldhimself that it was impossible to look long into Vanamee's eyes withoutknowing that here was a man whose whole being had been at one timeshattered and riven to its lowest depths, whose life had suddenlystopped at a certain moment of its development. 

The two friends sat down upon the ledge of the watering-trough, theireyes wandering incessantly toward the slow moving herd, grazing on thewheat stubble, moving southward as they grazed. 

"Where have you come from this time?" Presley had asked. "Where have youkept yourself?"

The other swept the horizon to the south and east with a vague gesture. 

"Off there, down to the south, very far off. So many places that I can'tremember. I went the Long Trail this time; a long, long ways. Arizona, The Mexicos, and, then, afterwards, Utah and Nevada, following thehorizon, travelling at hazard. Into Arizona first, going in by MonumentPass, and then on to the south, through the country of the Navajos, downby the Aga Thia Needle--a great blade of red rock jutting from out thedesert, like a knife thrust. Then on and on through The Mexicos, allthrough the Southwest, then back again in a great circle by Chihuahuaand Aldama to Laredo, to Torreon, and Albuquerque. From there acrossthe Uncompahgre plateau into the Uintah country; then at last due westthrough Nevada to California and to the valley of the San Joaquin. " Hisvoice lapsed to a monotone, his eyes becoming fixed; he continued tospeak as though half awake, his thoughts elsewhere, seeing again in theeye of his mind the reach of desert and red hill, the purple mountain, the level stretch of alkali, leper white, all the savage, gorgeousdesolation of the Long Trail. 

He ignored Presley for the moment, but, on the other hand, Presleyhimself gave him but half his attention. The return of Vanamee hadstimulated the poet's memory. He recalled the incidents of Vanamee'slife, reviewing again that terrible drama which had uprooted his soul, which had driven him forth a wanderer, a shunner of men, a sojourner inwaste places. He was, strangely enough, a college graduate and a man ofwide reading and great intelligence, but he had chosen to lead his ownlife, which was that of a recluse. 

Of a temperament similar in many ways to Presley's, there werecapabilities in Vanamee that were not ordinarily to be found in therank and file of men. Living close to nature, a poet by instinct, wherePresley was but a poet by training, there developed in him a greatsensitiveness to beauty and an almost abnormal capacity for greathappiness and great sorrow; he felt things intensely, deeply. He neverforgot. It was when he was eighteen or nineteen, at the formative andmost impressionable period of his life, that he had met Angele Varian. Presley barely remembered her as a girl of sixteen, beautiful almostbeyond expression, who lived with an aged aunt on the Seed ranch back ofthe Mission. At this moment he was trying to recall how she looked, withher hair of gold hanging in two straight plaits on either side of herface, making three-cornered her round, white forehead; her wonderfuleyes, violet blue, heavy lidded, with their astonishing upward slanttoward the temples, the slant that gave a strange, oriental cast to herface, perplexing, enchanting. He remembered the Egyptian fulness of thelips, the strange balancing movement of her head upon her slender neck, the same movement that one sees in a snake at poise. Never had he seen agirl more radiantly beautiful, never a beauty so strange, so troublous, so out of all accepted standards. It was small wonder that Vanamee hadloved her, and less wonder, still, that his love had been so intense, sopassionate, so part of himself. Angele had loved him with a love noless than his own. It was one of those legendary passions that sometimesoccur, idyllic, untouched by civilisation, spontaneous as the growth oftrees, natural as dew-fall, strong as the firm-seated mountains. 

At the time of his meeting with Angele, Vanamee was living on the LosMuertos ranch. It was there he had chosen to spend one of his collegevacations. But he preferred to pass it in out-of-door work, sometimesherding cattle, sometimes pitching hay, sometimes working with pickand dynamite-stick on the ditches in the fourth division of the ranch, riding the range, mending breaks in the wire fences, making himselfgenerally useful. College bred though he was, the life pleased him. Hewas, as he desired, close to nature, living the full measure of life, aworker among workers, taking enjoyment in simple pleasures, healthy inmind and body. He believed in an existence passed in this fashion in thecountry, working hard, eating full, drinking deep, sleeping dreamlessly. 

But every night, after supper, he saddled his pony and rode over to thegarden of the old Mission. The 'dobe dividing wall on that side, whichonce had separated the Mission garden and the Seed ranch, had long sincecrumbled away, and the boundary between the two pieces of ground wasmarked only by a line of venerable pear trees. Here, under these trees, he found Angele awaiting him, and there the two would sit through thehot, still evening, their arms about each other, watching the moonrise over the foothills, listening to the trickle of the water in themoss-encrusted fountain in the garden, and the steady croak of the greatfrogs that lived in the damp north corner of the enclosure. Through allone summer the enchantment of that new-found, wonderful love, pure anduntainted, filled the lives of each of them with its sweetness. Thesummer passed, the harvest moon came and went. The nights were verydark. In the deep shade of the pear trees they could no longer see eachother. When they met at the rendezvous, Vanamee found her only with hisgroping hands. They did not speak, mere words were useless between them. Silently as his reaching hands touched her warm body, he took her in hisarms, searching for her lips with his. Then one night the tragedy hadsuddenly leaped from out the shadow with the abruptness of an explosion. 

It was impossible afterwards to reconstruct the manner of itsoccurrence. To Angele's mind--what there was left of it--the matteralways remained a hideous blur, a blot, a vague, terrible confusion. No doubt they two had been watched; the plan succeeded too well for anyother supposition. One moonless night, Angele, arriving under theblack shadow of the pear trees a little earlier than usual, found theapparently familiar figure waiting for her. All unsuspecting she gaveherself to the embrace of a strange pair of arms, and Vanamee arrivingbut a score of moments later, stumbled over her prostrate body, inertand unconscious, in the shadow of the overspiring trees. 

Who was the Other? Angele was carried to her home on the Seed ranch, delirious, all but raving, and Vanamee, with knife and revolver ready, ranged the country-side like a wolf. He was not alone. The whole countyrose, raging, horror-struck. Posse after posse was formed, sent out, andreturned, without so much as a clue. Upon no one could even the shadowof suspicion be thrown. The Other had withdrawn into an impenetrablemystery. There he remained. He never was found; he never was so muchas heard of. A legend arose about him, this prowler of the night, thisstrange, fearful figure, with an unseen face, swooping in there fromout the darkness, come and gone in an instant, but leaving behind him atrack of terror and death and rage and undying grief. Within the year, in giving birth to the child, Angele had died. 

The little babe was taken by Angele's parents, and Angele was buriedin the Mission garden near to the aged, grey sun dial. Vanamee stood byduring the ceremony, but half conscious of what was going forward. Atthe last moment he had stepped forward, looked long into the dead faceframed in its plaits of gold hair, the hair that made three-corneredthe round, white forehead; looked again at the closed eyes, with theirperplexing upward slant toward the temples, oriental, bizarre; at thelips with their Egyptian fulness; at the sweet, slender neck; the long, slim hands; then abruptly turned about. The last clods were filling thegrave at a time when he was already far away, his horse's head turnedtoward the desert. 

For two years no syllable was heard of him. It was believed that he hadkilled himself. But Vanamee had no thought of that. For two years hewandered through Arizona, living in the desert, in the wilderness, arecluse, a nomad, an ascetic. But, doubtless, all his heart was in thelittle coffin in the Mission garden. Once in so often he must comeback thither. One day he was seen again in the San Joaquin. The priest, Father Sarria, returning from a visit to the sick at Bonneville, met himon the Upper Road. Eighteen years had passed since Angele had died, butthe thread of Vanamee's life had been snapped. Nothing remained nowbut the tangled ends. He had never forgotten. The long, dull ache, thepoignant grief had now become a part of him. Presley knew this to be so. 

While Presley had been reflecting upon all this, Vanamee had continuedto speak. Presley, however, had not been wholly inattentive. Whilehis memory was busy reconstructing the details of the drama of theshepherd's life, another part of his brain had been swiftly registeringpicture after picture that Vanamee's monotonous flow of words struckoff, as it were, upon a steadily moving scroll. The music of theunfamiliar names that occurred in his recital was a stimulant to thepoet's imagination. Presley had the poet's passion for expressive, sonorous names. As these came and went in Vanamee's monotonousundertones, like little notes of harmony in a musical progression, helistened, delighted with their resonance. --Navajo, Quijotoa, Uintah, Sonora, Laredo, Uncompahgre--to him they were so many symbols. It washis West that passed, unrolling there before the eye of his mind:the open, heat-scourged round of desert; the mesa, like a vast altar, shimmering purple in the royal sunset; the still, gigantic mountains, heaving into the sky from out the canyons; the strenuous, fierce lifeof isolated towns, lost and forgotten, down there, far off, below thehorizon. Abruptly his great poem, his Song of the West, leaped up againin his imagination. For the moment, he all but held it. It was there, close at hand. In another instant he would grasp it. 

"Yes, yes, " he exclaimed, "I can see it all. The desert, the mountains, all wild, primordial, untamed. How I should have loved to have been withyou. Then, perhaps, I should have got hold of my idea. "

"Your idea?"

"The great poem of the West. It's that which I want to write. Oh, toput it all into hexameters; strike the great iron note; sing the vast, terrible song; the song of the People; the forerunners of empire!"

Vanamee understood him perfectly. He nodded gravely. 

"Yes, it is there. It is Life, the primitive, simple, direct Life, passionate, tumultuous. Yes, there is an epic there. "

Presley caught at the word. It had never before occurred to him. 

"Epic, yes, that's it. It is the epic I'm searching for. And HOW Isearch for it. You don't know. It is sometimes almost an agony. Oftenand often I can feel it right there, there, at my finger-tips, but Inever quite catch it. It always eludes me. I was born too late. Ah, toget back to that first clear-eyed view of things, to see as Homer saw, as Beowulf saw, as the Nibelungen poets saw. The life is here, the sameas then; the Poem is here; my West is here; the primeval, epic lifeis here, here under our hands, in the desert, in the mountain, on theranch, all over here, from Winnipeg to Guadalupe. It is the man who islacking, the poet; we have been educated away from it all. We are out oftouch. We are out of tune. "

Vanamee heard him to the end, his grave, sad face thoughtful andattentive. Then he rose. 

"I am going over to the Mission, " he said, "to see Father Sarria. I havenot seen him yet. "

"How about the sheep?"

"The dogs will keep them in hand, and I shall not be gone long. Besidesthat, I have a boy here to help. He is over yonder on the other side ofthe herd. We can't see him from here. "

Presley wondered at the heedlessness of leaving the sheep so slightlyguarded, but made no comment, and the two started off across the fieldin the direction of the Mission church. 

"Well, yes, it is there--your epic, " observed Vanamee, as they wentalong. "But why write? Why not LIVE in it? Steep oneself in the heat ofthe desert, the glory of the sunset, the blue haze of the mesa and thecanyon. "

"As you have done, for instance?"

Vanamee nodded. 

"No, I could not do that, " declared Presley; "I want to go back, but notso far as you. I feel that I must compromise. I must find expression. I could not lose myself like that in your desert. When its vastnessoverwhelmed me, or its beauty dazzled me, or its loneliness weighed downupon me, I should have to record my impressions. Otherwise, I shouldsuffocate. "

"Each to his own life, " observed Vanamee. 

The Mission of San Juan, built of brown 'dobe blocks, covered withyellow plaster, that at many points had dropped away from the walls, stood on the crest of a low rise of the ground, facing to the south. Acovered colonnade, paved with round, worn bricks, from whence opened thedoors of the abandoned cells, once used by the monks, adjoined it on theleft. The roof was of tiled half-cylinders, split longitudinally, andlaid in alternate rows, now concave, now convex. The main body of thechurch itself was at right angles to the colonnade, and at the point ofintersection rose the belfry tower, an ancient campanile, where swungthe three cracked bells, the gift of the King of Spain. Beyond thechurch was the Mission garden and the graveyard that overlooked the Seedranch in a little hollow beyond. 

Presley and Vanamee went down the long colonnade to the last door nextthe belfry tower, and Vanamee pulled the leather thong that hung froma hole in the door, setting a little bell jangling somewhere in theinterior. The place, but for this noise, was shrouded in a Sundaystillness, an absolute repose. Only at intervals, one heard the trickleof the unseen fountain, and the liquid cooing of doves in the garden. 

Father Sarria opened the door. He was a small man, somewhat stout, witha smooth and shiny face. He wore a frock coat that was rather dirty, slippers, and an old yachting cap of blue cloth, with a broken leathervizor. He was smoking a cheap cigar, very fat and black. 

But instantly he recognised Vanamee. His face went all alight withpleasure and astonishment. It seemed as if he would never have finishedshaking both his hands; and, as it was, he released but one of them, patting him affectionately on the shoulder with the other. He wasvoluble in his welcome, talking partly in Spanish, partly in English. Sohe had come back again, this great fellow, tanned as an Indian, lean asan Indian, with an Indian's long, black hair. But he had not changed, not in the very least. His beard had not grown an inch. Aha! The rascal, never to give warning, to drop down, as it were, from out the sky. Sucha hermit! To live in the desert! A veritable Saint Jerome. Did a lionfeed him down there in Arizona, or was it a raven, like Elijah? The goodGod had not fattened him, at any rate, and, apropos, he was just aboutto dine himself. He had made a salad from his own lettuce. The two woulddine with him, eh? For this, my son, that was lost is found again. 

But Presley excused himself. Instinctively, he felt that Sarria andVanamee wanted to talk of things concerning which he was an outsider. Itwas not at all unlikely that Vanamee would spend half the night beforethe high altar in the church. 

He took himself away, his mind still busy with Vanamee's extraordinarylife and character. But, as he descended the hill, he was startled bya prolonged and raucous cry, discordant, very harsh, thrice repeated atexact intervals, and, looking up, he saw one of Father Sarria's peacocksbalancing himself upon the topmost wire of the fence, his long tailtrailing, his neck outstretched, filling the air with his stupid outcry, for no reason than the desire to make a noise. 

About an hour later, toward four in the afternoon, Presley reached thespring at the head of the little canyon in the northeast corner of theQuien Sabe ranch, the point toward which he had been travelling sinceearly in the forenoon. The place was not without its charm. Innumerablelive-oaks overhung the canyon, and Broderson Creek--there a mererivulet, running down from the spring--gave a certain coolness to theair. It was one of the few spots thereabouts that had survived thedry season of the last year. Nearly all the other springs had driedcompletely, while Mission Creek on Derrick's ranch was nothing betterthan a dusty cutting in the ground, filled with brittle, concave flakesof dried and sun-cracked mud. 

Presley climbed to the summit of one of the hills--the highest--thatrose out of the canyon, from the crest of which he could see for thirty, fifty, sixty miles down the valley, and, filling his pipe, smoked lazilyfor upwards of an hour, his head empty of thought, allowing himself tosuccumb to a pleasant, gentle inanition, a little drowsy comfortable inhis place, prone upon the ground, warmed just enough by such sunlightas filtered through the live-oaks, soothed by the good tobacco and theprolonged murmur of the spring and creek. By degrees, the sense of hisown personality became blunted, the little wheels and cogs of thoughtmoved slower and slower; consciousness dwindled to a point, the animalin him stretched itself, purring. A delightful numbness invaded his mindand his body. He was not asleep, he was not awake, stupefied merely, lapsing back to the state of the faun, the satyr. 

After a while, rousing himself a little, he shifted his position and, drawing from the pocket of his shooting coat his little tree-calfedition of the Odyssey, read far into the twenty-first book, where, after the failure of all the suitors to bend Ulysses's bow, it isfinally put, with mockery, into his own hands. Abruptly the drama ofthe story roused him from all his languor. In an instant he was thepoet again, his nerves tingling, alive to every sensation, responsiveto every impression. The desire of creation, of composition, grew bigwithin him. Hexameters of his own clamoured, tumultuous, in his brain. Not for a long time had he "felt his poem, " as he called this sensation, so poignantly. For an instant he told himself that he actually held it. 

It was, no doubt, Vanamee's talk that had stimulated him to thispoint. The story of the Long Trail, with its desert and mountain, itscliff-dwellers, its Aztec ruins, its colour, movement, and romance, filled his mind with picture after picture. The epic defiled before hisvision like a pageant. Once more, he shot a glance about him, as if insearch of the inspiration, and this time he all but found it. He rose tohis feet, looking out and off below him. 

As from a pinnacle, Presley, from where he now stood, dominated theentire country. The sun had begun to set, everything in the range of hisvision was overlaid with a sheen of gold. 

First, close at hand, it was the Seed ranch, carpeting the little hollowbehind the Mission with a spread of greens, some dark, some vivid, some pale almost to yellowness. Beyond that was the Mission itself, its venerable campanile, in whose arches hung the Spanish King's bells, already glowing ruddy in the sunset. Farther on, he could make outAnnixter's ranch house, marked by the skeleton-like tower of theartesian well, and, a little farther to the east, the huddled, tiledroofs of Guadalajara. Far to the west and north, he saw Bonneville veryplain, and the dome of the courthouse, a purple silhouette against theglare of the sky. Other points detached themselves, swimming in a goldenmist, projecting blue shadows far before them; the mammoth live-oak byHooven's, towering superb and magnificent; the line of eucalyptus trees, behind which he knew was the Los Muertos ranch house--his home; thewatering-tank, the great iron-hooped tower of wood that stood at thejoining of the Lower Road and the County Road; the long wind-break ofpoplar trees and the white walls of Caraher's saloon on the County Road. 

But all this seemed to be only foreground, a mere array ofaccessories--a mass of irrelevant details. Beyond Annixter's, beyondGuadalajara, beyond the Lower Road, beyond Broderson Creek, on to thesouth and west, infinite, illimitable, stretching out there under thesheen of the sunset forever and forever, flat, vast, unbroken, a hugescroll, unrolling between the horizons, spread the great stretches ofthe ranch of Los Muertos, bare of crops, shaved close in the recentharvest. Near at hand were hills, but on that far southern horizon onlythe curve of the great earth itself checked the view. Adjoining LosMuertos, and widening to the west, opened the Broderson ranch. TheOsterman ranch to the northwest carried on the great sweep of landscape;ranch after ranch. Then, as the imagination itself expanded under thestimulus of that measureless range of vision, even those great ranchesresolved themselves into mere foreground, mere accessories, irrelevantdetails. Beyond the fine line of the horizons, over the curve of theglobe, the shoulder of the earth, were other ranches, equally vast, andbeyond these, others, and beyond these, still others, the immensitiesmultiplying, lengthening out vaster and vaster. The whole giganticsweep of the San Joaquin expanded, Titanic, before the eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering and shimmering under the sun's red eye. At long intervals, a faint breath of wind out of the south passed slowlyover the levels of the baked and empty earth, accentuating the silence, marking off the stillness. It seemed to exhale from the land itself, aprolonged sigh as of deep fatigue. It was the season after the harvest, and the great earth, the mother, after its period of reproduction, itspains of labour, delivered of the fruit of its loins, slept the sleepof exhaustion, the infinite repose of the colossus, benignant, eternal, strong, the nourisher of nations, the feeder of an entire world. Ha!there it was, his epic, his inspiration, his West, his thunderingprogression of hexameters. A sudden uplift, a sense of exhilaration, ofphysical exaltation appeared abruptly to sweep Presley from his feet. Asfrom a point high above the world, he seemed to dominate a universe, awhole order of things. He was dizzied, stunned, stupefied, his morbidsupersensitive mind reeling, drunk with the intoxication of mereimmensity. Stupendous ideas for which there were no names drove headlongthrough his brain. Terrible, formless shapes, vague figures, gigantic, monstrous, distorted, whirled at a gallop through his imagination. 

He started homeward, still in his dream, descending from the hill, emerging from the canyon, and took the short cut straight across theQuien Sabe ranch, leaving Guadalajara far to his left. He trampedsteadily on through the wheat stubble, walking fast, his head in awhirl. 

Never had he so nearly grasped his inspiration as at that moment on thehilltop. Even now, though the sunset was fading, though the wide reachof valley was shut from sight, it still kept him company. Now thedetails came thronging back--the component parts of his poem, the signsand symbols of the West. It was there, close at hand, he had been intouch with it all day. It was in the centenarian's vividly colouredreminiscences--De La Cuesta, holding his grant from the Spanish crown, with his power of life and death; the romance of his marriage; the whitehorse with its pillion of red leather and silver bridle mountings; thebull-fights in the Plaza; the gifts of gold dust, and horses and tallow. It was in Vanamee's strange history, the tragedy of his love; AngeleVarian, with her marvellous loveliness; the Egyptian fulness of herlips, the perplexing upward slant of her violet eyes, bizarre, oriental;her white forehead made three cornered by her plaits of gold hair; themystery of the Other; her death at the moment of her child's birth. It was in Vanamee's flight into the wilderness; the story of the LongTrail, the sunsets behind the altar-like mesas, the baking desolation ofthe deserts; the strenuous, fierce life of forgotten towns, down there, far off, lost below the horizons of the southwest; the sonorous music ofunfamiliar names--Quijotoa, Uintah, Sonora, Laredo, Uncompahgre. Itwas in the Mission, with its cracked bells, its decaying walls, itsvenerable sun dial, its fountain and old garden, and in the MissionFathers themselves, the priests, the padres, planting the first wheatand oil and wine to produce the elements of the Sacrament--a trinity ofgreat industries, taking their rise in a religious rite. 

Abruptly, as if in confirmation, Presley heard the sound of a bell fromthe direction of the Mission itself. It was the de Profundis, a noteof the Old World; of the ancient regime, an echo from the hillsidesof mediaeval Europe, sounding there in this new land, unfamiliar andstrange at this end-of-the-century time. 

By now, however, it was dark. Presley hurried forward. He came to theline fence of the Quien Sabe ranch. Everything was very still. The starswere all out. There was not a sound other than the de Profundis, stillsounding from very far away. At long intervals the great earth sigheddreamily in its sleep. All about, the feeling of absolute peaceand quiet and security and untroubled happiness and content seemeddescending from the stars like a benediction. The beauty of his poem, its idyl, came to him like a caress; that alone had been lacking. It wasthat, perhaps, which had left it hitherto incomplete. At last he wasto grasp his song in all its entity. But suddenly there was aninterruption. Presley had climbed the fence at the limit of theQuien Sabe ranch. Beyond was Los Muertos, but between the two ran therailroad. He had only time to jump back upon the embankment when, witha quivering of all the earth, a locomotive, single, unattached, shotby him with a roar, filling the air with the reek of hot oil, vomitingsmoke and sparks; its enormous eye, cyclopean, red, throwing a glare farin advance, shooting by in a sudden crash of confused thunder; fillingthe night with the terrific clamour of its iron hoofs. 

Abruptly Presley remembered. This must be the crack passenger engineof which Dyke had told him, the one delayed by the accident on theBakersfield division and for whose passage the track had been opened allthe way to Fresno. 

Before Presley could recover from the shock of the irruption, while theearth was still vibrating, the rails still humming, the engine was faraway, flinging the echo of its frantic gallop over all the valley. For abrief instant it roared with a hollow diapason on the Long Trestle overBroderson Creek, then plunged into a cutting farther on, the quiveringglare of its fires losing itself in the night, its thunder abruptlydiminishing to a subdued and distant humming. All at once this ceased. The engine was gone. 

But the moment the noise of the engine lapsed, Presley--about to startforward again--was conscious of a confusion of lamentable sounds thatrose into the night from out the engine's wake. Prolonged cries ofagony, sobbing wails of infinite pain, heart-rending, pitiful. 

The noises came from a little distance. He ran down the track, crossingthe culvert, over the irrigating ditch, and at the head of the longreach of track--between the culvert and the Long Trestle--pausedabruptly, held immovable at the sight of the ground and rails all abouthim. 

In some way, the herd of sheep--Vanamee's herd--had found a breach inthe wire fence by the right of way and had wandered out upon the tracks. A band had been crossing just at the moment of the engine's passage. Thepathos of it was beyond expression. It was a slaughter, a massacre ofinnocents. The iron monster had charged full into the midst, merciless, inexorable. To the right and left, all the width of the right of way, the little bodies had been flung; backs were snapped against the fenceposts; brains knocked out. Caught in the barbs of the wire, wedged in, the bodies hung suspended. Under foot it was terrible. The black blood, winking in the starlight, seeped down into the clinkers between the tieswith a prolonged sucking murmur. 

Presley turned away, horror-struck, sick at heart, overwhelmed with aquick burst of irresistible compassion for this brute agony he could notrelieve. The sweetness was gone from the evening, the sense of peace, of security, and placid contentment was stricken from the landscape. Thehideous ruin in the engine's path drove all thought of his poem from hismind. The inspiration vanished like a mist. The de Profundis had ceasedto ring. 

He hurried on across the Los Muertos ranch, almost running, even puttinghis hands over his ears till he was out of hearing distance of thatall but human distress. Not until he was beyond ear-shot did he pause, looking back, listening. The night had shut down again. For a moment thesilence was profound, unbroken. 

Then, faint and prolonged, across the levels of the ranch, he heard theengine whistling for Bonneville. Again and again, at rapid intervals inits flying course, it whistled for road crossings, for sharp curves, fortrestles; ominous notes, hoarse, bellowing, ringing with the accents ofmenace and defiance; and abruptly Presley saw again, in his imagination, the galloping monster, the terror of steel and steam, with its singleeye, cyclopean, red, shooting from horizon to horizon; but saw it nowas the symbol of a vast power, huge, terrible, flinging the echo ofits thunder over all the reaches of the valley, leaving blood anddestruction in its path; the leviathan, with tentacles of steelclutching into the soil, the soulless Force, the iron-hearted Power, themonster, the Colossus, the Octopus. 

CHAPTER II

On the following morning, Harran Derrick was up and about by a littleafter six o'clock, and a quarter of an hour later had breakfast in thekitchen of the ranch house, preferring not to wait until the Chinesecook laid the table in the regular dining-room. He scented a hardday's work ahead of him, and was anxious to be at it betimes. He waspractically the manager of Los Muertos, and, with the aid of his foremanand three division superintendents, carried forward nearly the entiredirection of the ranch, occupying himself with the details of hisfather's plans, executing his orders, signing contracts, paying bills, and keeping the books. 

For the last three weeks little had been done. The crop--such asit was--had been harvested and sold, and there had been a generalrelaxation of activity for upwards of a month. Now, however, the fallwas coming on, the dry season was about at its end; any time after thetwentieth of the month the first rains might be expected, softening theground, putting it into condition for the plough. Two days before this, Harran had notified his superintendents on Three and Four to send insuch grain as they had reserved for seed. On Two the wheat had not evenshown itself above the ground, while on One, the Home ranch, which wasunder his own immediate supervision, the seed had already been gradedand selected. 

It was Harran's intention to commence blue-stoning his seed that day, adelicate and important process which prevented rust and smut appearingin the crop when the wheat should come up. But, furthermore, he wantedto find time to go to Guadalajara to meet the Governor on the morningtrain. His day promised to be busy. 

But as Harran was finishing his last cup of coffee, Phelps, the foremanon the Home ranch, who also looked after the storage barns where theseed was kept, presented himself, cap in hand, on the back porch by thekitchen door. 

"I thought I'd speak to you about the seed from Four, sir, " he said. "That hasn't been brought in yet. "

Harran nodded. 

"I'll see about it. You've got all the blue-stone you want, have you, Phelps?" and without waiting for an answer he added, "Tell the stablemanI shall want the team about nine o'clock to go to Guadalajara. Put themin the buggy. The bays, you understand. " When the other had gone, Harran drank off the rest of his coffee, and, rising, passed through thedining-room and across a stone-paved hallway with a glass roof into theoffice just beyond. 

The office was the nerve-centre of the entire ten thousand acres ofLos Muertos, but its appearance and furnishings were not in the leastsuggestive of a farm. It was divided at about its middle by a wirerailing, painted green and gold, and behind this railing were thehigh desks where the books were kept, the safe, the letter-press andletter-files, and Harran's typewriting machine. A great map of LosMuertos with every water-course, depression, and elevation, togetherwith indications of the varying depths of the clays and loams in thesoil, accurately plotted, hung against the wall between the windows, while near at hand by the safe was the telephone. 

But, no doubt, the most significant object in the office was theticker. This was an innovation in the San Joaquin, an idea of shrewd, quick-witted young Annixter, which Harran and Magnus Derrick had beenquick to adopt, and after them Broderson and Osterman, and many othersof the wheat growers of the county. The offices of the ranches werethus connected by wire with San Francisco, and through that city withMinneapolis, Duluth, Chicago, New York, and at last, and most importantof all, with Liverpool. Fluctuations in the price of the world's cropduring and after the harvest thrilled straight to the office of LosMuertos, to that of the Quien Sabe, to Osterman's, and to Broderson's. During a flurry in the Chicago wheat pits in the August of that year, which had affected even the San Francisco market, Harran and Magnus hadsat up nearly half of one night watching the strip of white tape jerkingunsteadily from the reel. At such moments they no longer felt theirindividuality. The ranch became merely the part of an enormous whole, a unit in the vast agglomeration of wheat land the whole world round, feeling the effects of causes thousands of miles distant--a drought onthe prairies of Dakota, a rain on the plains of India, a frost on theRussian steppes, a hot wind on the llanos of the Argentine. 

Harran crossed over to the telephone and rang six bells, the call forthe division house on Four. It was the most distant, the most isolatedpoint on all the ranch, situated at its far southeastern extremity, where few people ever went, close to the line fence, a dot, a speck, lost in the immensity of the open country. By the road it was elevenmiles distant from the office, and by the trail to Hooven's and theLower Road all of nine. 

"How about that seed?" demanded Harran when he had got Cutter on theline. 

The other made excuses for an unavoidable delay, and was adding that hewas on the point of starting out, when Harran cut in with:

"You had better go the trail. It will save a little time and I am ina hurry. Put your sacks on the horses' backs. And, Cutter, if you seeHooven when you go by his place, tell him I want him, and, by the way, take a look at the end of the irrigating ditch when you get to it. Seehow they are getting along there and if Billy wants anything. Tell himwe are expecting those new scoops down to-morrow or next day and to getalong with what he has until then. .. . How's everything on Four? . .. All right, then. Give your seed to Phelps when you get here if I am notabout. I am going to Guadalajara to meet the Governor. He's coming downto-day. And that makes me think; we lost the case, you know. I had aletter from the Governor yesterday. .. . Yes, hard luck. S. Behrman didus up. Well, good-bye, and don't lose any time with that seed. I want toblue-stone to-day. "

After telephoning Cutter, Harran put on his hat, went over to the barns, and found Phelps. Phelps had already cleaned out the vat which was tocontain the solution of blue-stone, and was now at work regrading theseed. Against the wall behind him ranged the row of sacks. Harran cutthe fastenings of these and examined the contents carefully, takinghandfuls of wheat from each and allowing it to run through his fingers, or nipping the grains between his nails, testing their hardness. 

The seed was all of the white varieties of wheat and of a very highgrade, the berries hard and heavy, rigid and swollen with starch. 

"If it was all like that, sir, hey?" observed Phelps. 

Harran put his chin in the air. 

"Bread would be as good as cake, then, " he answered, going from sackto sack, inspecting the contents and consulting the tags affixed to themouths. 

"Hello, " he remarked, "here's a red wheat. Where did this come from?"

"That's that red Clawson we sowed to the piece on Four, north theMission Creek, just to see how it would do here. We didn't get a verygood catch. "

"We can't do better than to stay by White Sonora and Propo, " remarkedHarran. "We've got our best results with that, and European millers likeit to mix with the Eastern wheats that have more gluten than ours. Thatis, if we have any wheat at all next year. "

A feeling of discouragement for the moment bore down heavily upon him. At intervals this came to him and for the moment it was overpowering. The idea of "what's-the-use" was upon occasion a veritable oppression. Everything seemed to combine to lower the price of wheat. The extensionof wheat areas always exceeded increase of population; competition wasgrowing fiercer every year. The farmer's profits were the object ofattack from a score of different quarters. It was a flock of vulturesdescending upon a common prey--the commission merchant, the elevatorcombine, the mixing-house ring, the banks, the warehouse men, thelabouring man, and, above all, the railroad. Steadily the Liverpoolbuyers cut and cut and cut. Everything, every element of the world'smarkets, tended to force down the price to the lowest possible figure atwhich it could be profitably farmed. Now it was down to eighty-seven. It was at that figure the crop had sold that year; and to think that theGovernor had seen wheat at two dollars and five cents in the year of theTurko-Russian War!

He turned back to the house after giving Phelps final directions, gloomy, disheartened, his hands deep in his pockets, wondering what wasto be the outcome. So narrow had the margin of profit shrunk that adry season meant bankruptcy to the smaller farmers throughout all thevalley. He knew very well how widespread had been the distress the lasttwo years. With their own tenants on Los Muertos, affairs had reachedthe stage of desperation. Derrick had practically been obliged to"carry" Hooven and some of the others. The Governor himself had madealmost nothing during the last season; a third year like the last, withthe price steadily sagging, meant nothing else but ruin. 

But here he checked himself. Two consecutive dry seasons in Californiawere almost unprecedented; a third would be beyond belief, and thecomplete rest for nearly all the land was a compensation. They hadmade no money, that was true; but they had lost none. Thank God, thehomestead was free of mortgage; one good season would more than make upthe difference. 

He was in a better mood by the time he reached the driveway that led upto the ranch house, and as he raised his eyes toward the house itself, he could not but feel that the sight of his home was cheering. The ranchhouse was set in a great grove of eucalyptus, oak, and cypress, enormoustrees growing from out a lawn that was as green, as fresh, and aswell-groomed as any in a garden in the city. This lawn flanked all oneside of the house, and it was on this side that the family elected tospend most of its time. The other side, looking out upon the Home ranchtoward Bonneville and the railroad, was but little used. A deep porchran the whole length of the house here, and in the lower branches of alive-oak near the steps Harran had built a little summer house for hismother. To the left of the ranch house itself, toward the County Road, was the bunk-house and kitchen for some of the hands. From the steps ofthe porch the view to the southward expanded to infinity. There was notso much as a twig to obstruct the view. In one leap the eye reachedthe fine, delicate line where earth and sky met, miles away. The flatmonotony of the land, clean of fencing, was broken by one spot only, theroof of the Division Superintendent's house on Three--a mere speck, justdarker than the ground. Cutter's house on Four was not even in sight. That was below the horizon. 

As Harran came up he saw his mother at breakfast. The table had been seton the porch and Mrs. Derrick, stirring her coffee with one hand, heldopen with the other the pages of Walter Pater's "Marius. " At her feet, Princess Nathalie, the white Angora cat, sleek, over-fed, self-centred, sat on her haunches, industriously licking at the white fur of herbreast, while near at hand, by the railing of the porch, Presleypottered with a new bicycle lamp, filling it with oil, adjusting thewicks. 

Harran kissed his mother and sat down in a wicker chair on the porch, removing his hat, running his fingers through his yellow hair. 

Magnus Derrick's wife looked hardly old enough to be the mother of twosuch big fellows as Harran and Lyman Derrick. She was not far into thefifties, and her brown hair still retained much of its brightness. Shecould yet be called pretty. Her eyes were large and easily assumed alook of inquiry and innocence, such as one might expect to see in ayoung girl. By disposition she was retiring; she easily obliteratedherself. She was not made for the harshness of the world, and yet shehad known these harshnesses in her younger days. Magnus had married herwhen she was twenty-one years old, at a time when she was a graduateof some years' standing from the State Normal School and was teachingliterature, music, and penmanship in a seminary in the town ofMarysville. She overworked herself here continually, loathing the strainof teaching, yet clinging to it with a tenacity born of the knowledgethat it was her only means of support. Both her parents were dead; shewas dependent upon herself. Her one ambition was to see Italy andthe Bay of Naples. The "Marble Faun, " Raphael's "Madonnas" and "IlTrovatore" were her beau ideals of literature and art. She dreamed ofItaly, Rome, Naples, and the world's great "art-centres. " There was nodoubt that her affair with Magnus had been a love-match, but Annie Paynewould have loved any man who would have taken her out of the droning, heart-breaking routine of the class and music room. She had followed hisfortunes unquestioningly. First at Sacramento, during the turmoil ofhis political career, later on at Placerville in El Dorado County, afterDerrick had interested himself in the Corpus Christi group of mines, andfinally at Los Muertos, where, after selling out his fourth interestin Corpus Christi, he had turned rancher and had "come in" on the newtracts of wheat land just thrown open by the railroad. She had livedhere now for nearly ten years. But never for one moment since the timeher glance first lost itself in the unbroken immensity of the rancheshad she known a moment's content. Continually there came into herpretty, wide-open eyes--the eyes of a young doe--a look of uneasiness, of distrust, and aversion. Los Muertos frightened her. She rememberedthe days of her young girlhood passed on a farm in eastern Ohio--fivehundred acres, neatly partitioned into the water lot, the cow pasture, the corn lot, the barley field, and wheat farm; cosey, comfortable, home-like; where the farmers loved their land, caressing it, coaxing it, nourishing it as though it were a thing almost conscious; where the seedwas sown by hand, and a single two-horse plough was sufficient for theentire farm; where the scythe sufficed to cut the harvest and the grainwas thrashed with flails. 

But this new order of things--a ranch bounded only by the horizons, where, as far as one could see, to the north, to the east, to the southand to the west, was all one holding, a principality ruled with iron andsteam, bullied into a yield of three hundred and fifty thousand bushels, where even when the land was resting, unploughed, unharrowed, andunsown, the wheat came up--troubled her, and even at times filled herwith an undefinable terror. To her mind there was something inordinateabout it all; something almost unnatural. The direct brutality of tenthousand acres of wheat, nothing but wheat as far as the eye could see, stunned her a little. The one-time writing-teacher of a young ladies'seminary, with her pretty deer-like eyes and delicate fingers, shrankfrom it. She did not want to look at so much wheat. There was somethingvaguely indecent in the sight, this food of the people, this elementalforce, this basic energy, weltering here under the sun in all theunconscious nakedness of a sprawling, primordial Titan. 

The monotony of the ranch ate into her heart hour by hour, year by year. And with it all, when was she to see Rome, Italy, and the Bay of Naples?It was a different prospect truly. Magnus had given her his promisethat once the ranch was well established, they two should travel. Butcontinually he had been obliged to put her off, now for one reason, nowfor another; the machine would not as yet run of itself, he must stillfeel his hand upon the lever; next year, perhaps, when wheat should goto ninety, or the rains were good. She did not insist. She obliteratedherself, only allowing, from time to time, her pretty, questioning eyesto meet his. In the meantime she retired within herself. She surroundedherself with books. Her taste was of the delicacy of point lace. Sheknew her Austin Dobson by heart. She read poems, essays, the ideasof the seminary at Marysville persisting in her mind. "Marius theEpicurean, " "The Essays of Elia, " "Sesame and Lilies, " "The Stones ofVenice, " and the little toy magazines, full of the flaccid banalities ofthe "Minor Poets, " were continually in her hands. 

When Presley had appeared on Los Muertos, she had welcomed his arrivalwith delight. Here at last was a congenial spirit. She looked forwardto long conversations with the young man on literature, art, and ethics. But Presley had disappointed her. That he--outside of his few chosendeities--should care little for literature, shocked her beyond words. His indifference to "style, " to elegant English, was a positive affront. His savage abuse and open ridicule of the neatly phrased rondeaux andsestinas and chansonettes of the little magazines was to her minda wanton and uncalled-for cruelty. She found his Homer, with itsslaughters and hecatombs and barbaric feastings and headstrong passions, violent and coarse. She could not see with him any romance, any poetryin the life around her; she looked to Italy for that. His "Song of theWest, " which only once, incoherent and fierce, he had tried to explainto her, its swift, tumultous life, its truth, its nobility and savagery, its heroism and obscenity had revolted her. 

"But, Presley, " she had murmured, "that is not literature. "

"No, " he had cried between his teeth, "no, thank God, it is not. "

A little later, one of the stablemen brought the buggy with the team ofbays up to the steps of the porch, and Harran, putting on a differentcoat and a black hat, took himself off to Guadalajara. The morning wasfine; there was no cloud in the sky, but as Harran's buggy drew awayfrom the grove of trees about the ranch house, emerging into the opencountry on either side of the Lower Road, he caught himself lookingsharply at the sky and the faint line of hills beyond the Quien Saberanch. There was a certain indefinite cast to the landscape that toHarran's eye was not to be mistaken. Rain, the first of the season, wasnot far off. 

"That's good, " he muttered, touching the bays with the whip, "we can'tget our ploughs to hand any too soon. "

These ploughs Magnus Derrick had ordered from an Eastern manufacturersome months before, since he was dissatisfied with the results obtainedfrom the ones he had used hitherto, which were of local make. However, there had been exasperating and unexpected delays in their shipment. Magnus and Harran both had counted upon having the ploughs in theirimplement barns that very week, but a tracer sent after them had onlyresulted in locating them, still en route, somewhere between The Needlesand Bakersfield. Now there was likelihood of rain within the week. Ploughing could be undertaken immediately afterward, so soon as theground was softened, but there was a fair chance that the ranch wouldlie idle for want of proper machinery. 

It was ten minutes before train time when Harran reached the depot atGuadalajara. The San Francisco papers of the preceding day had arrivedon an earlier train. He bought a couple from the station agent andlooked them over till a distant and prolonged whistle announced theapproach of the down train. 

In one of the four passengers that alighted from the train, herecognised his father. He half rose in his seat, whistling shrillybetween his teeth, waving his hand, and Magnus Derrick, catching sightof him, came forward quickly. 

Magnus--the Governor--was all of six feet tall, and though now welltoward his sixtieth year, was as erect as an officer of cavalry. He wasbroad in proportion, a fine commanding figure, imposing an immediaterespect, impressing one with a sense of gravity, of dignity and acertain pride of race. He was smooth-shaven, thin-lipped, with abroad chin, and a prominent hawk-like nose--the characteristic ofthe family--thin, with a high bridge, such as one sees in the laterportraits of the Duke of Wellington. His hair was thick and iron-grey, and had a tendency to curl in a forward direction just in front of hisears. He wore a top-hat of grey, with a wide brim, and a frock coat, andcarried a cane with a yellowed ivory head. 

As a young man it had been his ambition to represent his nativeState--North Carolina--in the United States Senate. Calhoun was his"great man, " but in two successive campaigns he had been defeated. His career checked in this direction, he had come to California in thefifties. He had known and had been the intimate friend of such men asTerry, Broderick, General Baker, Lick, Alvarado, Emerich, Larkin, and, above all, of the unfortunate and misunderstood Ralston. Once he hadbeen put forward as the Democratic candidate for governor, but failedof election. After this Magnus had definitely abandoned politics and hadinvested all his money in the Corpus Christi mines. Then he had soldout his interest at a small profit--just in time to miss his chance ofbecoming a multi-millionaire in the Comstock boom--and was lookingfor reinvestments in other lines when the news that "wheat had beendiscovered in California" was passed from mouth to mouth. Practicallyit amounted to a discovery. Dr. Glenn's first harvest of wheat inColusa County, quietly undertaken but suddenly realised with dramaticabruptness, gave a new matter for reflection to the thinking men of theNew West. California suddenly leaped unheralded into the world's marketas a competitor in wheat production. In a few years her output of wheatexceeded the value of her out-put of gold, and when, later on, thePacific and Southwestern Railroad threw open to settlers the rich landsof Tulare County--conceded to the corporation by the government as abonus for the construction of the road--Magnus had been quick to seizethe opportunity and had taken up the ten thousand acres of Los Muertos. Wherever he had gone, Magnus had taken his family with him. Lyman hadbeen born at Sacramento during the turmoil and excitement of Derrick'scampaign for governor, and Harran at Shingle Springs, in El DoradoCounty, six years later. 

But Magnus was in every sense the "prominent man. " In whatever circle hemoved he was the chief figure. Instinctively other men looked to himas the leader. He himself was proud of this distinction; he assumed thegrand manner very easily and carried it well. As a public speaker he wasone of the last of the followers of the old school of orators. He evencarried the diction and manner of the rostrum into private life. It wassaid of him that his most colloquial conversation could be taken downin shorthand and read off as an admirable specimen of pure, well-chosenEnglish. He loved to do things upon a grand scale, to preside, todominate. In his good humour there was something Jovian. When angry, everybody around him trembled. But he had not the genius for detail, was not patient. The certain grandiose lavishness of his dispositionoccupied itself more with results than with means. He was always readyto take chances, to hazard everything on the hopes of colossal returns. In the mining days at Placerville there was no more redoubtable pokerplayer in the county. He had been as lucky in his mines as in hisgambling, sinking shafts and tunnelling in violation of expert theoryand finding "pay" in every case. Without knowing it, he allowed himselfto work his ranch much as if he was still working his mine. Theold-time spirit of '49, hap-hazard, unscientific, persisted in his mind. Everything was a gamble--who took the greatest chances was most apt tobe the greatest winner. The idea of manuring Los Muertos, of husbandinghis great resources, he would have scouted as niggardly, Hebraic, ungenerous. 

Magnus climbed into the buggy, helping himself with Harran'soutstretched hand which he still held. The two were immensely fondof each other, proud of each other. They were constantly together andMagnus kept no secrets from his favourite son. 

"Well, boy. "

"Well, Governor. "

"I am very pleased you came yourself, Harran. I feared that you might betoo busy and send Phelps. It was thoughtful. "

Harran was about to reply, but at that moment Magnus caught sight of thethree flat cars loaded with bright-painted farming machines which stillremained on the siding above the station. He laid his hands on the reinsand Harran checked the team. 

"Harran, " observed Magnus, fixing the machinery with a judicial frown, "Harran, those look singularly like our ploughs. Drive over, boy. "

The train had by this time gone on its way and Harran brought the teamup to the siding. 

"Ah, I was right, " said the Governor. "'Magnus Derrick, Los Muertos, Bonneville, from Ditson & Co. , Rochester. ' These are ours, boy. "

Harran breathed a sigh of relief. 

"At last, " he answered, "and just in time, too. We'll have rain beforethe week is out. I think, now that I am here, I will telephone Phelps tosend the wagon right down for these. I started blue-stoning to-day. "

Magnus nodded a grave approval. 

"That was shrewd, boy. As to the rain, I think you are well informed; wewill have an early season. The ploughs have arrived at a happy moment. "

"It means money to us, Governor, " remarked Harran. 

But as he turned the horses to allow his father to get into the buggyagain, the two were surprised to hear a thick, throaty voice wishingthem good-morning, and turning about were aware of S. Behrman, who hadcome up while they were examining the ploughs. Harran's eyes flashedon the instant and through his nostrils he drew a sharp, quick breath, while a certain rigour of carriage stiffened the set of Magnus Derrick'sshoulders and back. Magnus had not yet got into the buggy, but stoodwith the team between him and S. Behrman, eyeing him calmly across thehorses' backs. S. Behrman came around to the other side of the buggy andfaced Magnus. 

He was a large, fat man, with a great stomach; his cheek and the upperpart of his thick neck ran together to form a great tremulous jowl, shaven and blue-grey in colour; a roll of fat, sprinkled with sparsehair, moist with perspiration, protruded over the back of his collar. He wore a heavy black moustache. On his head was a round-topped hat ofstiff brown straw, highly varnished. A light-brown linen vest, stampedwith innumerable interlocked horseshoes, covered his protuberantstomach, upon which a heavy watch chain of hollow links rose and fellwith his difficult breathing, clinking against the vest buttons ofimitation mother-of-pearl. 

S. Behrman was the banker of Bonneville. But besides this he was manyother things. He was a real estate agent. He bought grain; he dealt inmortgages. He was one of the local political bosses, but more importantthan all this, he was the representative of the Pacific and SouthwesternRailroad in that section of Tulare County. The railroad did littlebusiness in that part of the country that S. Behrman did not supervise, from the consignment of a shipment of wheat to the management of adamage suit, or even to the repair and maintenance of the right ofway. During the time when the ranchers of the county were fighting thegrain-rate case, S. Behrman had been much in evidence in and aboutthe San Francisco court rooms and the lobby of the legislature inSacramento. He had returned to Bonneville only recently, a decisionadverse to the ranchers being foreseen. The position he occupied onthe salary list of the Pacific and Southwestern could not readily bedefined, for he was neither freight agent, passenger agent, attorney, real-estate broker, nor political servant, though his influence in allthese offices was undoubted and enormous. But for all that, the ranchersabout Bonneville knew whom to look to as a source of trouble. There wasno denying the fact that for Osterman, Broderson, Annixter and Derrick, S. Behrman was the railroad. 

"Mr. Derrick, good-morning, " he cried as he came up. "Good-morning, Harran. Glad to see you back, Mr. Derrick. " He held out a thick hand. 

Magnus, head and shoulders above the other, tall, thin, erect, lookeddown upon S. Behrman, inclining his head, failing to see his extendedhand. 

"Good-morning, sir, " he observed, and waited for S. Behrman's furtherspeech. 

"Well, Mr. Derrick, " continued S. Behrman, wiping the back of his neckwith his handkerchief, "I saw in the city papers yesterday that our casehad gone against you. "

"I guess it wasn't any great news to YOU, " commented Harran, his facescarlet. "I guess you knew which way Ulsteen was going to jump afteryour very first interview with him. You don't like to be surprised inthis sort of thing, S. Behrman. "

"Now, you know better than that, Harran, " remonstrated S. Behrmanblandly. "I know what you mean to imply, but I ain't going to let itmake me get mad. I wanted to say to your Governor--I wanted to say toyou, Mr. Derrick--as one man to another--letting alone for the minutethat we were on opposite sides of the case--that I'm sorry you didn'twin. Your side made a good fight, but it was in a mistaken cause. That'sthe whole trouble. Why, you could have figured out before you ever wentinto the case that such rates are confiscation of property. You mustallow us--must allow the railroad--a fair interest on the investment. You don't want us to go into the receiver's hands, do you now, Mr. Derrick?"

"The Board of Railroad Commissioners was bought, " remarked Magnussharply, a keen, brisk flash glinting in his eye. 

"It was part of the game, " put in Harran, "for the Railroad Commissionto cut rates to a ridiculous figure, far below a REASONABLE figure, justso that it WOULD be confiscation. Whether Ulsteen is a tool of yours ornot, he had to put the rates back to what they were originally. "

"If you enforced those rates, Mr. Harran, " returned S. Behrman calmly, "we wouldn't be able to earn sufficient money to meet operatingexpenses or fixed charges, to say nothing of a surplus left over to paydividends----"

"Tell me when the P. And S. W. Ever paid dividends. "

"The lowest rates, " continued S. Behrman, "that the legislaturecan establish must be such as will secure us a fair interest on ourinvestment. "

"Well, what's your standard? Come, let's hear it. Who is to say what's afair rate? The railroad has its own notions of fairness sometimes. "

"The laws of the State, " returned S. Behrman, "fix the rate of interestat seven per cent. That's a good enough standard for us. There is noreason, Mr. Harran, why a dollar invested in a railroad should not earnas much as a dollar represented by a promissory note--seven per cent. By applying your schedule of rates we would not earn a cent; we would bebankrupt. "

"Interest on your investment!" cried Harran, furious. "It's fine to talkabout fair interest. I know and you know that the total earnings of theP. And S. W. --their main, branch and leased lines for last year--wasbetween nineteen and twenty millions of dollars. Do you mean to say thattwenty million dollars is seven per cent. Of the original cost of theroad?"

S. Behrman spread out his hands, smiling. 

"That was the gross, not the net figure--and how can you tell what wasthe original cost of the road?" "Ah, that's just it, " shouted Harran, emphasising each word with a blow of his fist upon his knee, his eyessparkling, "you take cursed good care that we don't know anything aboutthe original cost of the road. But we know you are bonded for trebleyour value; and we know this: that the road COULD have been builtfor fifty-four thousand dollars per mile and that you SAY it cost youeighty-seven thousand. It makes a difference, S. Behrman, on which ofthese two figures you are basing your seven per cent. "

"That all may show obstinacy, Harran, " observed S. Behrman vaguely, "butit don't show common sense. "

"We are threshing out old straw, I believe, gentlemen, " remarked Magnus. "The question was thoroughly sifted in the courts. "

"Quite right, " assented S. Behrman. "The best way is that the railroadand the farmer understand each other and get along peaceably. We areboth dependent on each other. Your ploughs, I believe, Mr. Derrick. " S. Behrman nodded toward the flat cars. 

"They are consigned to me, " admitted Magnus. 

"It looks a trifle like rain, " observed S. Behrman, easing his neck andjowl in his limp collar. "I suppose you will want to begin ploughingnext week. "

"Possibly, " said Magnus. 

"I'll see that your ploughs are hurried through for you then, Mr. Derrick. We will route them by fast freight for you and it won't costyou anything extra. "

"What do you mean?" demanded Harran. "The ploughs are here. We havenothing more to do with the railroad. I am going to have my wagons downhere this afternoon. "

"I am sorry, " answered S. Behrman, "but the cars are going north, not, as you thought, coming FROM the north. They have not been to SanFrancisco yet. "

Magnus made a slight movement of the head as one who remembers a facthitherto forgotten. But Harran was as yet unenlightened. 

"To San Francisco!" he answered, "we want them here--what are youtalking about?"

"Well, you know, of course, the regulations, " answered S. Behrman. "Freight of this kind coming from the Eastern points into the State mustgo first to one of our common points and be reshipped from there. "

Harran did remember now, but never before had the matter so struckhome. He leaned back in his seat in dumb amazement for the instant. Even Magnus had turned a little pale. Then, abruptly, Harran broke outviolent and raging. 

"What next? My God, why don't you break into our houses at night? Whydon't you steal the watch out of my pocket, steal the horses out of theharness, hold us up with a shot-gun; yes, 'stand and deliver; your moneyor your life. ' Here we bring our ploughs from the East over your lines, but you're not content with your long-haul rate between Eastern pointsand Bonneville. You want to get us under your ruinous short-haul ratebetween Bonneville and San Francisco, AND RETURN. Think of it! Here's aload of stuff for Bonneville that can't stop at Bonneville, where itis consigned, but has got to go up to San Francisco first BY WAY OFBonneville, at forty cents per ton and then be reshipped from SanFrancisco back to Bonneville again at FIFTY-ONE cents per ton, theshort-haul rate. And we have to pay it all or go without. Here are theploughs right here, in sight of the land they have got to be usedon, the season just ready for them, and we can't touch them. Oh, " heexclaimed in deep disgust, "isn't it a pretty mess! Isn't it a farce!the whole dirty business!"

S. Behrman listened to him unmoved, his little eyes blinking under hisfat forehead, the gold chain of hollow links clicking against the pearlbuttons of his waistcoat as he breathed. 

"It don't do any good to let loose like that, Harran, " he said atlength. "I am willing to do what I can for you. I'll hurry the ploughsthrough, but I can't change the freight regulation of the road. "

"What's your blackmail for this?" vociferated Harran. "How much do youwant to let us go? How much have we got to pay you to be ALLOWED to useour own ploughs--what's your figure? Come, spit it out. "

"I see you are trying to make me angry, Harran, " returned S. Behrman, "but you won't succeed. Better give up trying, my boy. As I said, thebest way is to have the railroad and the farmer get along amicably. Itis the only way we can do business. Well, s'long, Governor, I must trotalong. S'long, Harran. " He took himself off. 

But before leaving Guadalajara Magnus dropped into the town's smallgrocery store to purchase a box of cigars of a certain Mexican brand, unprocurable elsewhere. Harran remained in the buggy. 

While he waited, Dyke appeared at the end of the street, and, seeingDerrick's younger son, came over to shake hands with him. He explainedhis affair with the P. And S. W. , and asked the young man what hethought of the expected rise in the price of hops. 

"Hops ought to be a good thing, " Harran told him. "The crop in Germanyand in New York has been a dead failure for the last three years, andso many people have gone out of the business that there's likely to be ashortage and a stiff advance in the price. They ought to go to a dollarnext year. Sure, hops ought to be a good thing. How's the old lady andSidney, Dyke?"

"Why, fairly well, thank you, Harran. They're up to Sacramento just nowto see my brother. I was thinking of going in with my brother into thishop business. But I had a letter from him this morning. He may not beable to meet me on this proposition. He's got other business on hand. Ifhe pulls out--and he probably will--I'll have to go it alone, but I'llhave to borrow. I had thought with his money and mine we would haveenough to pull off the affair without mortgaging anything. As it is, Iguess I'll have to see S. Behrman. "

"I'll be cursed if I would!" exclaimed Harran. 

"Well, S. Behrman is a screw, " admitted the engineer, "and he is'railroad' to his boots; but business is business, and he would have tostand by a contract in black and white, and this chance in hops is toogood to let slide. I guess we'll try it on, Harran. I can get a goodforeman that knows all about hops just now, and if the deal pays--well, I want to send Sid to a seminary up in San Francisco. "

"Well, mortgage the crops, but don't mortgage the homestead, Dyke, " saidHarran. "And, by the way, have you looked up the freight rates on hops?"

"No, I haven't yet, " answered Dyke, "and I had better be sure of that, hadn't I? I hear that the rate is reasonable, though. "

"You be sure to have a clear understanding with the railroad first aboutthe rate, " Harran warned him. 

When Magnus came out of the grocery store and once more seated himselfin the buggy, he said to Harran, "Boy, drive over here to Annixter'sbefore we start home. I want to ask him to dine with us to-night. Osterman and Broderson are to drop in, I believe, and I should like tohave Annixter as well. "

Magnus was lavishly hospitable. Los Muertos's doors invariably stoodopen to all the Derricks' neighbours, and once in so often Magnus had afew of his intimates to dinner. 

As Harran and his father drove along the road toward Annixter's ranchhouse, Magnus asked about what had happened during his absence. 

He inquired after his wife and the ranch, commenting upon the work onthe irrigating ditch. Harran gave him the news of the past week, Dyke'sdischarge, his resolve to raise a crop of hops; Vanamee's return, thekilling of the sheep, and Hooven's petition to remain upon the ranch asMagnus's tenant. It needed only Harran's recommendation that the Germanshould remain to have Magnus consent upon the instant. "You know moreabout it than I, boy, " he said, "and whatever you think is wise shall bedone. "

Harran touched the bays with the whip, urging them to their briskestpace. They were not yet at Annixter's and he was anxious to get back tothe ranch house to supervise the blue-stoning of his seed. 

"By the way, Governor, " he demanded suddenly, "how is Lyman getting on?"

Lyman, Magnus's eldest son, had never taken kindly toward ranch life. Heresembled his mother more than he did Magnus, and had inherited from hera distaste for agriculture and a tendency toward a profession. At a timewhen Harran was learning the rudiments of farming, Lyman was enteringthe State University, and, graduating thence, had spent three yearsin the study of law. But later on, traits that were particularly hisfather's developed. Politics interested him. He told himself he wasa born politician, was diplomatic, approachable, had a talent forintrigue, a gift of making friends easily and, most indispensable ofall, a veritable genius for putting influential men under obligations tohimself. Already he had succeeded in gaining for himself two importantoffices in the municipal administration of San Francisco--where hehad his home--sheriff's attorney, and, later on, assistant districtattorney. But with these small achievements he was by no meanssatisfied. The largeness of his father's character, modified in Lymanby a counter-influence of selfishness, had produced in him an inordinateambition. Where his father during his political career had consideredhimself only as an exponent of principles he strove to apply, Lyman sawbut the office, his own personal aggrandisement. He belonged to the newschool, wherein objects were attained not by orations before senatesand assemblies, but by sessions of committees, caucuses, compromisesand expedients. His goal was to be in fact what Magnus was only inname--governor. Lyman, with shut teeth, had resolved that some day hewould sit in the gubernatorial chair in Sacramento. 

"Lyman is doing well, " answered Magnus. "I could wish he was morepronounced in his convictions, less willing to compromise, but I believehim to be earnest and to have a talent for government and civics. Hisambition does him credit, and if he occupied himself a little more withmeans and a little less with ends, he would, I am sure, be the idealservant of the people. But I am not afraid. The time will come when theState will be proud of him. "

As Harran turned the team into the driveway that led up to Annixter'shouse, Magnus remarked:

"Harran, isn't that young Annixter himself on the porch?"

Harran nodded and remarked:

"By the way, Governor, I wouldn't seem too cordial in your invitation toAnnixter. He will be glad to come, I know, but if you seem to want himtoo much, it is just like his confounded obstinacy to make objections. "

"There is something in that, " observed Magnus, as Harran drew up at theporch of the house. "He is a queer, cross-grained fellow, but in manyways sterling. "

Annixter was lying in the hammock on the porch, precisely as Presleyhad found him the day before, reading "David Copperfield" and stuffinghimself with dried prunes. When he recognised Magnus, however, he gotup, though careful to give evidence of the most poignant discomfort. Heexplained his difficulty at great length, protesting that his stomachwas no better than a spongebag. Would Magnus and Harran get down andhave a drink? There was whiskey somewhere about. 

Magnus, however, declined. He stated his errand, asking Annixter to comeover to Los Muertos that evening for seven o'clock dinner. Osterman andBroderson would be there. 

At once Annixter, even to Harran's surprise, put his chin in theair, making excuses, fearing to compromise himself if he accepted tooreadily. No, he did not think he could get around--was sure of it, infact. There were certain businesses he had on hand that evening. He hadpractically made an appointment with a man at Bonneville; then, too, he was thinking of going up to San Francisco to-morrow and needed hissleep; would go to bed early; and besides all that, he was a very sickman; his stomach was out of whack; if he moved about it brought thegripes back. No, they must get along without him. 

Magnus, knowing with whom he had to deal, did not urge the point, beingconvinced that Annixter would argue over the affair the rest of themorning. He re-settled himself in the buggy and Harran gathered up thereins. 

"Well, " he observed, "you know your business best. Come if you can. Wedine at seven. "

"I hear you are going to farm the whole of Los Muertos this season, "remarked Annixter, with a certain note of challenge in his voice. 

"We are thinking of it, " replied Magnus. 

Annixter grunted scornfully. 

"Did you get the message I sent you by Presley?" he began. 

Tactless, blunt, and direct, Annixter was quite capable of calling evenMagnus a fool to his face. But before he could proceed, S. Behrman inhis single buggy turned into the gate, and driving leisurely up to theporch halted on the other side of Magnus's team. 

"Good-morning, gentlemen, " he remarked, nodding to the two Derricks asthough he had not seen them earlier in the day. "Mr. Annixter, how doyou do?"

"What in hell do YOU want?" demanded Annixter with a stare. 

S. Behrman hiccoughed slightly and passed a fat hand over his waistcoat. 

"Why, not very much, Mr. Annixter, " he replied, ignoring thebelligerency in the young ranchman's voice, "but I will have to lodgea protest against you, Mr. Annixter, in the matter of keeping your linefence in repair. The sheep were all over the track last night, thisside the Long Trestle, and I am afraid they have seriously disturbed ourballast along there. We--the railroad--can't fence along our right ofway. The farmers have the prescriptive right of that, so we have to lookto you to keep your fence in repair. I am sorry, but I shall have toprotest----" Annixter returned to the hammock and stretched himself outin it to his full length, remarking tranquilly:

"Go to the devil!"

"It is as much to your interest as to ours that the safety of thepublic----"

"You heard what I said. Go to the devil!"

"That all may show obstinacy, Mr. Annixter, but----"

Suddenly Annixter jumped up again and came to the edge of the porch; hisface flamed scarlet to the roots of his stiff yellow hair. He thrust outhis jaw aggressively, clenching his teeth. 

"You, " he vociferated, "I'll tell you what you are. You're a--a--a PIP!"

To his mind it was the last insult, the most outrageous calumny. He hadno worse epithet at his command. 

"----may show obstinacy, " pursued S. Behrman, bent upon finishing thephrase, "but it don't show common sense. "

"I'll mend my fence, and then, again, maybe I won't mend my fence, "shouted Annixter. "I know what you mean--that wild engine last night. Well, you've no right to run at that speed in the town limits. "

"How the town limits? The sheep were this side the Long Trestle. "

"Well, that's in the town limits of Guadalajara. " "Why, Mr. Annixter, the Long Trestle is a good two miles out of Guadalajara. "

Annixter squared himself, leaping to the chance of an argument. 

"Two miles! It's not a mile and a quarter. No, it's not a mile. I'llleave it to Magnus here. "

"Oh, I know nothing about it, " declared Magnus, refusing to be involved. 

"Yes, you do. Yes, you do, too. Any fool knows how far it is fromGuadalajara to the Long Trestle. It's about five-eighths of a mile. "

"From the depot of the town, " remarked S. Behrman placidly, "to the headof the Long Trestle is about two miles. "

"That's a lie and you know it's a lie, " shouted the other, furious atS. Behrman's calmness, "and I can prove it's a lie. I've walked thatdistance on the Upper Road, and I know just how fast I walk, and if Ican walk four miles in one hour. "

Magnus and Harran drove on, leaving Annixter trying to draw S. Behrmaninto a wrangle. 

When at length S. Behrman as well took himself away, Annixter returnedto his hammock, finished the rest of his prunes and read another chapterof "Copperfield. " Then he put the book, open, over his face and went tosleep. 

An hour later, toward noon, his own terrific snoring woke him upsuddenly, and he sat up, rubbing his face and blinking at the sunlight. There was a bad taste in his mouth from sleeping with it wide open, andgoing into the dining-room of the house, he mixed himself a drink ofwhiskey and soda and swallowed it in three great gulps. He told himselfthat he felt not only better but hungry, and pressed an electric buttonin the wall near the sideboard three times to let the kitchen--situatedin a separate building near the ranch house--know that he was ready forhis dinner. As he did so, an idea occurred to him. He wondered if HilmaTree would bring up his dinner and wait on the table while he ate it. 

In connection with his ranch, Annixter ran a dairy farm on a very smallscale, making just enough butter and cheese for the consumption of theranch's PERSONNEL. Old man Tree, his wife, and his daughter Hilma lookedafter the dairy. But there was not always work enough to keep the threeof them occupied and Hilma at times made herself useful in other ways. As often as not she lent a hand in the kitchen, and two or three timesa week she took her mother's place in looking after Annixter's house, making the beds, putting his room to rights, bringing his meals upfrom the kitchen. For the last summer she had been away visiting withrelatives in one of the towns on the coast. But the week previous tothis she had returned and Annixter had come upon her suddenly one dayin the dairy, making cheese, the sleeves of her crisp blue shirt waistrolled back to her very shoulders. Annixter had carried away with him aclear-cut recollection of these smooth white arms of hers, bare to theshoulder, very round and cool and fresh. He would not have believed thata girl so young should have had arms so big and perfect. To his surprisehe found himself thinking of her after he had gone to bed that night, and in the morning when he woke he was bothered to know whether he haddreamed about Hilma's fine white arms over night. Then abruptly hehad lost patience with himself for being so occupied with the subject, raging and furious with all the breed of feemales--a fine way for aman to waste his time. He had had his experience with the timid littlecreature in the glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento. That wasenough. Feemales! Rot! None of them in HIS, thank you. HE had seen HilmaTree give him a look in the dairy. Aha, he saw through her! She wastrying to get a hold on him, was she? He would show her. Wait tillhe saw her again. He would send her about her business in a hurry. Heresolved upon a terrible demeanour in the presence of the dairy girl--agreat show of indifference, a fierce masculine nonchalance; and when, the next morning, she brought him his breakfast, he had been smittendumb as soon as she entered the room, glueing his eyes upon hisplate, his elbows close to his side, awkward, clumsy, overwhelmed withconstraint. 

While true to his convictions as a woman-hater and genuinely despisingHilma both as a girl and as an inferior, the idea of her worried him. Most of all, he was angry with himself because of his inane sheepishnesswhen she was about. He at first had told himself that he was a fool notto be able to ignore her existence as hitherto, and then that he was agreater fool not to take advantage of his position. Certainly he had notthe remotest idea of any affection, but Hilma was a fine looking girl. He imagined an affair with her. 

As he reflected upon the matter now, scowling abstractedly at the buttonof the electric bell, turning the whole business over in his mind, heremembered that to-day was butter-making day and that Mrs. Tree wouldbe occupied in the dairy. That meant that Hilma would take her place. Heturned to the mirror of the sideboard, scrutinising his reflection withgrim disfavour. After a moment, rubbing the roughened surface of hischin the wrong way, he muttered to his image in the glass:

"That a mug! Good Lord! what a looking mug!" Then, after a moment'ssilence, "Wonder if that fool feemale will be up here to-day. "

He crossed over into his bedroom and peeped around the edge of thelowered curtain. The window looked out upon the skeleton-like tower ofthe artesian well and the cook-house and dairy-house close beside it. Ashe watched, he saw Hilma come out from the cook-house and hurry acrosstoward the kitchen. Evidently, she was going to see about his dinner. But as she passed by the artesian well, she met young Delaney, one ofAnnixter's hands, coming up the trail by the irrigating ditch, leadinghis horse toward the stables, a great coil of barbed wire in his glovedhands and a pair of nippers thrust into his belt. No doubt, he had beenmending the break in the line fence by the Long Trestle. Annixter sawhim take off his wide-brimmed hat as he met Hilma, and the two stoodthere for some moments talking together. Annixter even heard Hilmalaughing very gayly at something Delaney was saying. She patted hishorse's neck affectionately, and Delaney, drawing the nippers from hisbelt, made as if to pinch her arm with them. She caught at his wristand pushed him away, laughing again. To Annixter's mind the pair seemedastonishingly intimate. Brusquely his anger flamed up. 

Ah, that was it, was it? Delaney and Hilma had an understanding betweenthemselves. They carried on their affair right out there in the open, under his very eyes. It was absolutely disgusting. Had they no senseof decency, those two? Well, this ended it. He would stop that sort ofthing short off; none of that on HIS ranch if he knew it. No, sir. Hewould pack that girl off before he was a day older. He wouldn't havethat kind about the place. Not much! She'd have to get out. He wouldtalk to old man Tree about it this afternoon. Whatever happened, HEinsisted upon morality. 

"And my dinner!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I've got to wait and gohungry--and maybe get sick again--while they carry on their disgustinglove-making. "

He turned about on the instant, and striding over to the electric bell, rang it again with all his might. 

"When that feemale gets up here, " he declared, "I'll just find out whyI've got to wait like this. I'll take her down, to the Queen's taste. I'm lenient enough, Lord knows, but I don't propose to be imposed uponALL the time. "

A few moments later, while Annixter was pretending to read the countynewspaper by the window in the dining-room, Hilma came in to set thetable. At the time Annixter had his feet cocked on the window ledge andwas smoking a cigar, but as soon as she entered the room he--withoutpremeditation--brought his feet down to the floor and crushed out thelighted tip of his cigar under the window ledge. Over the top of thepaper he glanced at her covertly from time to time. 

Though Hilma was only nineteen years old, she was a large girl withall the development of a much older woman. There was a certain generousamplitude to the full, round curves of her hips and shoulders thatsuggested the precocious maturity of a healthy, vigorous animal lifepassed under the hot southern sun of a half-tropical country. Shewas, one knew at a glance, warm-blooded, full-blooded, with an even, comfortable balance of temperament. Her neck was thick, and sloped toher shoulders, with full, beautiful curves, and under her chin andunder her ears the flesh was as white and smooth as floss satin, shadingexquisitely to a faint delicate brown on her nape at the roots of herhair. Her throat rounded to meet her chin and cheek, with a soft swellof the skin, tinted pale amber in the shadows, but blending by barelyperceptible gradations to the sweet, warm flush of her cheek. Thiscolour on her temples was just touched with a certain blueness wherethe flesh was thin over the fine veining underneath. Her eyes were lightbrown, and so wide open that on the slightest provocation the full discof the pupil was disclosed; the lids--just a fraction of a shade darkerthan the hue of her face--were edged with lashes that were almost black. While these lashes were not long, they were thick and rimmed her eyeswith a fine, thin line. Her mouth was rather large, the lips shuttight, and nothing could have been more graceful, more charming than theoutline of these full lips of hers, and her round white chin, modulatingdownward with a certain delicious roundness to her neck, her throat andthe sweet feminine amplitude of her breast. The slightest movement ofher head and shoulders sent a gentle undulation through all thisbeauty of soft outlines and smooth surfaces, the delicate amber shadowsdeepening or fading or losing themselves imperceptibly in the prettyrose-colour of her cheeks, or the dark, warm-tinted shadow of her thickbrown hair. 

Her hair seemed almost to have a life of its own, almost Medusa-like, thick, glossy and moist, lying in heavy, sweet-smelling masses over herforehead, over her small ears with their pink lobes, and far down uponher nape. Deep in between the coils and braids it was of a bitumenbrownness, but in the sunlight it vibrated with a sheen like tarnishedgold. 

Like most large girls, her movements were not hurried, and thisindefinite deliberateness of gesture, this slow grace, this certain easeof attitude, was a charm that was all her own. 

But Hilma's greatest charm of all was her simplicity--a simplicity thatwas not only in the calm regularity of her face, with its statuesqueevenness of contour, its broad surface of cheek and forehead and themasses of her straight smooth hair, but was apparent as well in the longline of her carriage, from her foot to her waist and the single deepswell from her waist to her shoulder. Almost unconsciously she dressedin harmony with this note of simplicity, and on this occasion wore askirt of plain dark blue calico and a white shirt waist crisp from thelaundry. 

And yet, for all the dignity of this rigourous simplicity, there wereabout Hilma small contradictory suggestions of feminine daintiness, charming beyond words. Even Annixter could not help noticing that herfeet were narrow and slender, and that the little steel buckles of herlow shoes were polished bright, and that her fingertips and nails wereof a fine rosy pink. 

He found himself wondering how it was that a girl in Hilma's positionshould be able to keep herself so pretty, so trim, so clean andfeminine, but he reflected that her work was chiefly in the dairy, andeven there of the lightest order. She was on the ranch more for the sakeof being with her parents than from any necessity of employment. Vaguelyhe seemed to understand that, in that great new land of the West, in theopen-air, healthy life of the ranches, where the conditions of earninga livelihood were of the easiest, refinement among the younger women waseasily to be found--not the refinement of education, nor culture, butthe natural, intuitive refinement of the woman, not as yet defiled andcrushed out by the sordid, strenuous life-struggle of over-populateddistricts. It was the original, intended and natural delicacy of anelemental existence, close to nature, close to life, close to the great, kindly earth. 

As Hilma laid the table-spread, her arms opened to their widest reach, the white cloth setting a little glisten of reflected light underneaththe chin, Annixter stirred in his place uneasily. 

"Oh, it's you, is it, Miss Hilma?" he remarked, for the sake of sayingsomething. "Good-morning. How do you do?"

"Good-morning, sir, " she answered, looking up, resting for a moment onher outspread palms. "I hope you are better. "

Her voice was low in pitch and of a velvety huskiness, seeming to comemore from her chest than from her throat. 

"Well, I'm some better, " growled Annixter. Then suddenly he demanded, "Where's that dog?"

A decrepit Irish setter sometimes made his appearance in and about theranch house, sleeping under the bed and eating when anyone about theplace thought to give him a plate of bread. 

Annixter had no particular interest in the dog. For weeks at a time heignored its existence. It was not his dog. But to-day it seemed as if hecould not let the subject rest. For no reason that he could explain evento himself, he recurred to it continually. He questioned Hilma minutelyall about the dog. Who owned him? How old did she think he was? Did sheimagine the dog was sick? Where had he got to? Maybe he had crawledoff to die somewhere. He recurred to the subject all through the meal;apparently, he could talk of nothing else, and as she finally went awayafter clearing off the table, he went onto the porch and called afterher:

"Say, Miss Hilma. "

"Yes, sir. "

"If that dog turns up again you let me know. "

"Very well, sir. "

Annixter returned to the dining-room and sat down in the chair he hadjust vacated. "To hell with the dog!" he muttered, enraged, he could nottell why. 

When at length he allowed his attention to wander from Hilma Tree, hefound that he had been staring fixedly at a thermometer upon the wallopposite, and this made him think that it had long been his intentionto buy a fine barometer, an instrument that could be accurately dependedon. But the barometer suggested the present condition of the weather andthe likelihood of rain. In such case, much was to be done in the way ofgetting the seed ready and overhauling his ploughs and drills. He hadnot been away from the house in two days. It was time to be up anddoing. He determined to put in the afternoon "taking a look around, "and have a late supper. He would not go to Los Muertos; he would ignoreMagnus Derrick's invitation. Possibly, though, it might be well to runover and see what was up. 

"If I do, " he said to himself, "I'll ride the buckskin. " The buckskinwas a half-broken broncho that fought like a fiend under the saddleuntil the quirt and spur brought her to her senses. But Annixterremembered that the Trees' cottage, next the dairy-house, looked outupon the stables, and perhaps Hilma would see him while he was mountingthe horse and be impressed with his courage. 

"Huh!" grunted Annixter under his breath, "I should like to see thatfool Delaney try to bust that bronch. That's what I'D like to see. "

However, as Annixter stepped from the porch of the ranch house, he wassurprised to notice a grey haze over all the sky; the sunlight wasgone; there was a sense of coolness in the air; the weather-vane on thebarn--a fine golden trotting horse with flamboyant mane and tail--wasveering in a southwest wind. Evidently the expected rain was close athand. 

Annixter crossed over to the stables reflecting that he could ride thebuckskin to the Trees' cottage and tell Hilma that he would not be hometo supper. The conference at Los Muertos would be an admirable excusefor this, and upon the spot he resolved to go over to the Derrick ranchhouse, after all. 

As he passed the Trees' cottage, he observed with satisfaction thatHilma was going to and fro in the front room. If he busted the buckskinin the yard before the stable she could not help but see. Annixter foundthe stableman in the back of the barn greasing the axles of the buggy, and ordered him to put the saddle on the buckskin. 

"Why, I don't think she's here, sir, " answered the stableman, glancinginto the stalls. "No, I remember now. Delaney took her out just afterdinner. His other horse went lame and he wanted to go down by the LongTrestle to mend the fence. He started out, but had to come back. "

"Oh, Delaney got her, did he?"

"Yes, sir. He had a circus with her, but he busted her right enough. When it comes to horse, Delaney can wipe the eye of any cow-puncher inthe county, I guess. "

"He can, can he?" observed Annixter. Then after a silence, "Well, allright, Billy; put my saddle on whatever you've got here. I'm going overto Los Muertos this afternoon. "

"Want to look out for the rain, Mr. Annixter, " remarked Billy. "Guesswe'll have rain before night. "

"I'll take a rubber coat, " answered Annixter. "Bring the horse up to theranch house when you're ready. "

Annixter returned to the house to look for his rubber coat in deepdisgust, not permitting himself to glance toward the dairy-house andthe Trees' cottage. But as he reached the porch he heard the telephoneringing his call. It was Presley, who rang up from Los Muertos. He hadheard from Harran that Annixter was, perhaps, coming over that evening. If he came, would he mind bringing over his--Presley's--bicycle. He hadleft it at the Quien Sabe ranch the day before and had forgotten to comeback that way for it. 

"Well, " objected Annixter, a surly note in his voice, "I WAS going toRIDE over. " "Oh, never mind, then, " returned Presley easily. "I was toblame for forgetting it. Don't bother about it. I'll come over some ofthese days and get it myself. "

Annixter hung up the transmitter with a vehement wrench and stamped outof the room, banging the door. He found his rubber coat hanging in thehallway and swung into it with a fierce movement of the shoulders thatall but started the seams. Everything seemed to conspire to thwart him. It was just like that absent-minded, crazy poet, Presley, to forget hiswheel. Well, he could come after it himself. He, Annixter, would rideSOME horse, anyhow. When he came out upon the porch he saw the wheelleaning against the fence where Presley had left it. If it stayed theremuch longer the rain would catch it. Annixter ripped out an oath. Atevery moment his ill-humour was increasing. Yet, for all that, he wentback to the stable, pushing the bicycle before him, and countermandedhis order, directing the stableman to get the buggy ready. He himselfcarefully stowed Presley's bicycle under the seat, covering it with acouple of empty sacks and a tarpaulin carriage cover. 

While he was doing this, the stableman uttered an exclamation and pausedin the act of backing the horse into the shafts, holding up a hand, listening. 

From the hollow roof of the barn and from the thick velvet-like paddingof dust over the ground outside, and from among the leaves of the fewnearby trees and plants there came a vast, monotonous murmur that seemedto issue from all quarters of the horizon at once, a prolonged andsubdued rustling sound, steady, even, persistent. 

"There's your rain, " announced the stableman. "The first of the season. "

"And I got to be out in it, " fumed Annixter, "and I suppose those swinewill quit work on the big barn now. "

When the buggy was finally ready, he put on his rubber coat, climbed in, and without waiting for the stableman to raise the top, drove out intothe rain, a new-lit cigar in his teeth. As he passed the dairy-house, hesaw Hilma standing in the doorway, holding out her hand to the rain, herface turned upward toward the grey sky, amused and interested at thisfirst shower of the wet season. She was so absorbed that she did not seeAnnixter, and his clumsy nod in her direction passed unnoticed. 

"She did it on purpose, " Annixter told himself, chewing fiercely on hiscigar. "Cuts me now, hey? Well, this DOES settle it. She leaves thisranch before I'm a day older. "

He decided that he would put off his tour of inspection till the nextday. Travelling in the buggy as he did, he must keep to the road whichled to Derrick's, in very roundabout fashion, by way of Guadalajara. This rain would reduce the thick dust of the road to two feet of viscidmud. It would take him quite three hours to reach the ranch house on LosMuertos. He thought of Delaney and the buckskin and ground his teeth. And all this trouble, if you please, because of a fool feemale girl. Afine way for him to waste his time. Well, now he was done with it. Hisdecision was taken now. She should pack. 

Steadily the rain increased. There was no wind. The thick veil ofwet descended straight from sky to earth, blurring distant outlines, spreading a vast sheen of grey over all the landscape. Its volume becamegreater, the prolonged murmuring note took on a deeper tone. At thegate to the road which led across Dyke's hop-fields toward Guadalajara, Annixter was obliged to descend and raise the top of the buggy. In doingso he caught the flesh of his hand in the joint of the iron elbow thatsupported the top and pinched it cruelly. It was the last misery, theculmination of a long train of wretchedness. On the instant he hatedHilma Tree so fiercely that his sharply set teeth all but bit his cigarin two. 

While he was grabbing and wrenching at the buggy-top, the water fromhis hat brim dripping down upon his nose, the horse, restive under thedrench of the rain, moved uneasily. 

"Yah-h-h you!" he shouted, inarticulate with exasperation. "You--you--Gor-r-r, wait till I get hold of you. WHOA, you!"

But there was an interruption. Delaney, riding the buckskin, came arounda bend in the road at a slow trot and Annixter, getting into the buggyagain, found himself face to face with him. 

"Why, hello, Mr. Annixter, " said he, pulling up. "Kind of sort of wet, isn't it?"

Annixter, his face suddenly scarlet, sat back in his place abruptly, exclaiming:

"Oh--oh, there you are, are you?"

"I've been down there, " explained Delaney, with a motion of his headtoward the railroad, "to mend that break in the fence by the LongTrestle and I thought while I was about it I'd follow down along thefence toward Guadalajara to see if there were any more breaks. But Iguess it's all right. "

"Oh, you guess it's all right, do you?" observed Annixter through histeeth. 

"Why--why--yes, " returned the other, bewildered at the truculent ringin Annixter's voice. "I mended that break by the Long Trestle just nowand----

"Well, why didn't you mend it a week ago?" shouted Annixter wrathfully. "I've been looking for you all the morning, I have, and who told you youcould take that buckskin? And the sheep were all over the right of waylast night because of that break, and here that filthy pip, S. Behrman, comes down here this morning and wants to make trouble for me. " Suddenlyhe cried out, "What do I FEED you for? What do I keep you around herefor? Think it's just to fatten up your carcass, hey?"

"Why, Mr. Annixter----" began Delaney. 

"And don't TALK to me, " vociferated the other, exciting himself with hisown noise. "Don't you say a word to me even to apologise. If I've spokento you once about that break, I've spoken fifty times. "

"Why, sir, " declared Delaney, beginning to get indignant, "the sheep didit themselves last night. "

"I told you not to TALK to me, " clamoured Annixter. 

"But, say, look here----"

"Get off the ranch. You get off the ranch. And taking that buckskinagainst my express orders. I won't have your kind about the place, not much. I'm easy-going enough, Lord knows, but I don't propose to beimposed on ALL the time. Pack off, you understand and do it lively. Goto the foreman and tell him I told him to pay you off and then clearout. And, you hear me, " he concluded, with a menacing outthrust of hislower jaw, "you hear me, if I catch you hanging around the ranch houseafter this, or if I so much as see you on Quien Sabe, I'll show you theway off of it, my friend, at the toe of my boot. Now, then, get out ofthe way and let me pass. "

Angry beyond the power of retort, Delaney drove the spurs into thebuckskin and passed the buggy in a single bound. Annixter gathered upthe reins and drove on muttering to himself, and occasionally lookingback to observe the buckskin flying toward the ranch house in aspattering shower of mud, Delaney urging her on, his head bent downagainst the falling rain. 

"Huh, " grunted Annixter with grim satisfaction, a certain sense of goodhumour at length returning to him, "that just about takes the saleratusout of YOUR dough, my friend. "

A little farther on, Annixter got out of the buggy a second time to openanother gate that let him out upon the Upper Road, not far distant fromGuadalajara. It was the road that connected that town with Bonnevilleand that ran parallel with the railroad tracks. On the other side of thetrack he could see the infinite extension of the brown, bare land ofLos Muertos, turning now to a soft, moist welter of fertility underthe insistent caressing of the rain. The hard, sun-baked clods weredecomposing, the crevices between drinking the wet with an eager, sucking noise. But the prospect was dreary; the distant horizons wereblotted under drifting mists of rain; the eternal monotony of the earthlay open to the sombre low sky without a single adornment, without asingle variation from its melancholy flatness. Near at hand the wiresbetween the telegraph poles vibrated with a faint humming under themultitudinous fingering of the myriad of falling drops, striking amongthem and dripping off steadily from one to another. The poles themselveswere dark and swollen and glistening with wet, while the little cones ofglass on the transverse bars reflected the dull grey light of the end ofthe afternoon. 

As Annixter was about to drive on, a freight train passed, comingfrom Guadalajara, going northward toward Bonneville, Fresno and SanFrancisco. It was a long train, moving slowly, methodically, with ameasured coughing of its locomotive and a rhythmic cadence of its trucksover the interstices of the rails. On two or three of the flat cars nearits end, Annixter plainly saw Magnus Derrick's ploughs, their brightcoating of red and green paint setting a single brilliant note in allthis array of grey and brown. 

Annixter halted, watching the train file past, carrying Derrick'sploughs away from his ranch, at this very time of the first rain, when they would be most needed. He watched it, silent, thoughtful, andwithout articulate comment. Even after it passed he sat in his place along time, watching it lose itself slowly in the distance, its prolongedrumble diminishing to a faint murmur. Soon he heard the engine soundingits whistle for the Long Trestle. 

But the moving train no longer carried with it that impression of terrorand destruction that had so thrilled Presley's imagination the nightbefore. It passed slowly on its way with a mournful roll of wheels, likethe passing of a cortege, like a file of artillery-caissons chariotingdead bodies; the engine's smoke enveloping it in a mournful veil, leaving a sense of melancholy in its wake, moving past there, lugubrious, lamentable, infinitely sad under the grey sky and underthe grey mist of rain which continued to fall with a subdued, rustlingsound, steady, persistent, a vast monotonous murmur that seemed to comefrom all quarters of the horizon at once. 

CHAPTER III

When Annixter arrived at the Los Muertos ranch house that same evening, he found a little group already assembled in the dining-room. MagnusDerrick, wearing the frock coat of broadcloth that he had put on forthe occasion, stood with his back to the fireplace. Harran sat close athand, one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. Presley lounged on thesofa, in corduroys and high laced boots, smoking cigarettes. Brodersonleaned on his folded arms at one corner of the dining table, andGenslinger, editor and proprietor of the principal newspaper of thecounty, the "Bonneville Mercury, " stood with his hat and driving glovesunder his arm, opposite Derrick, a half-emptied glass of whiskey andwater in his hand. 

As Annixter entered he heard Genslinger observe: "I'll have a leader inthe 'Mercury' to-morrow that will interest you people. There's some talkof your ranch lands being graded in value this winter. I suppose youwill all buy?"

In an instant the editor's words had riveted upon him the attention ofevery man in the room. Annixter broke the moment's silence that followedwith the remark:

"Well, it's about time they graded these lands of theirs. "

The question in issue in Genslinger's remark was of the most vitalinterest to the ranchers around Bonneville and Guadalajara. NeitherMagnus Derrick, Broderson, Annixter, nor Osterman actually owned allthe ranches which they worked. As yet, the vast majority of these wheatlands were the property of the P. And S. W. The explanation of thiscondition of affairs went back to the early history of the Pacific andSouthwestern, when, as a bonus for the construction of the road, thenational government had granted to the company the odd numbered sectionsof land on either side of the proposed line of route for a distance oftwenty miles. Indisputably, these sections belonged to the P. And S. W. The even-numbered sections being government property could be and hadbeen taken up by the ranchers, but the railroad sections, or, as theywere called, the "alternate sections, " would have to be purchased directfrom the railroad itself. 

But this had not prevented the farmers from "coming in" upon that partof the San Joaquin. Long before this the railroad had thrown open theselands, and, by means of circulars, distributed broadcast throughout theState, had expressly invited settlement thereon. At that time patentshad not been issued to the railroad for their odd-numbered sections, butas soon as the land was patented the railroad would grade it in valueand offer it for sale, the first occupants having the first chance ofpurchase. The price of these lands was to be fixed by the price thegovernment put upon its own adjoining lands--about two dollars and ahalf per acre. 

With cultivation and improvement the ranches must inevitably appreciatein value. There was every chance to make fortunes. When the railroadlands about Bonneville had been thrown open, there had been almost arush in the matter of settlement, and Broderson, Annixter, Derrick, andOsterman, being foremost with their claims, had secured the pick of thecountry. But the land once settled upon, the P. And S. W. Seemed to bein no hurry as to fixing exactly the value of its sections included inthe various ranches and offering them for sale. The matter dragged alongfrom year to year, was forgotten for months together, being only broughtto mind on such occasions as this, when the rumour spread that theGeneral Office was about to take definite action in the affair. 

"As soon as the railroad wants to talk business with me, " observedAnnixter, "about selling me their interest in Quien Sabe, I'm ready. The land has more than quadrupled in value. I'll bet I could sell itto-morrow for fifteen dollars an acre, and if I buy of the railroad fortwo and a half an acre, there's boodle in the game. "

"For two and a half!" exclaimed Genslinger. "You don't suppose therailroad will let their land go for any such figure as that, do you?Wherever did you get that idea?"

"From the circulars and pamphlets, " answered Harran, "that the railroadissued to us when they opened these lands. They are pledged to that. Even the P. And S. W. Couldn't break such a pledge as that. You are newin the country, Mr. Genslinger. You don't remember the conditions uponwhich we took up this land. "

"And our improvements, " exclaimed Annixter. "Why, Magnus and I haveput about five thousand dollars between us into that irrigating ditchalready. I guess we are not improving the land just to make it valuablefor the railroad people. No matter how much we improve the land, or howmuch it increases in value, they have got to stick by their agreement onthe basis of two-fifty per acre. Here's one case where the P. And S. W. DON'T get everything in sight. "

Genslinger frowned, perplexed. 

"I AM new in the country, as Harran says, " he answered, "but it seemsto me that there's no fairness in that proposition. The presence of therailroad has helped increase the value of your ranches quite as muchas your improvements. Why should you get all the benefit of the risein value and the railroad nothing? The fair way would be to share itbetween you. "

"I don't care anything about that, " declared Annixter. "They agreed tocharge but two-fifty, and they've got to stick to it. "

"Well, " murmured Genslinger, "from what I know of the affair, I don'tbelieve the P. And S. W. Intends to sell for two-fifty an acre, at all. The managers of the road want the best price they can get for everythingin these hard times. "

"Times aren't ever very hard for the railroad, " hazards old Broderson. 

Broderson was the oldest man in the room. He was about sixty-five yearsof age, venerable, with a white beard, his figure bent earthwards withhard work. 

He was a narrow-minded man, painfully conscientious in his statementslest he should be unjust to somebody; a slow thinker, unable to let asubject drop when once he had started upon it. He had no sooner utteredhis remark about hard times than he was moved to qualify it. 

"Hard times, " he repeated, a troubled, perplexed note in his voice;"well, yes--yes. I suppose the road DOES have hard times, maybe. Everybody does--of course. I didn't mean that exactly. I believe inbeing just and fair to everybody. I mean that we've got to use theirlines and pay their charges good years AND bad years, the P. And S. W. Being the only road in the State. That is--well, when I say the onlyroad--no, I won't say the ONLY road. Of course there are other roads. There's the D. P. And M. And the San Francisco and North Pacific, thatruns up to Ukiah. I got a brother-in-law in Ukiah. That's not much of awheat country round Ukiah though they DO grow SOME wheat there, come tothink. But I guess it's too far north. Well, of course there isn't MUCH. Perhaps sixty thousand acres in the whole county--if you include barleyand oats. I don't know; maybe it's nearer forty thousand. I don'tremember very well. That's a good many years ago. I----"

But Annixter, at the end of all patience, turned to Genslinger, cuttingshort the old man:

"Oh, rot! Of course the railroad will sell at two-fifty, " he cried. "We've got the contracts. "

"Look to them, then, Mr. Annixter, " retorted Genslinger significantly, "look to them. Be sure that you are protected. "

Soon after this Genslinger took himself away, and Derrick's Chinamancame in to set the table. 

"What do you suppose he meant?" asked Broderson, when Genslinger wasgone. 

"About this land business?" said Annixter. "Oh, I don't know. Some tomfool idea. Haven't we got their terms printed in black and white intheir circulars? There's their pledge. "

"Oh, as to pledges, " murmured Broderson, "the railroad is not always TOOmuch hindered by those. "

"Where's Osterman?" demanded Annixter, abruptly changing the subject asif it were not worth discussion. "Isn't that goat Osterman coming downhere to-night?"

"You telephoned him, didn't you, Presley?" inquired Magnus. 

Presley had taken Princess Nathalie upon his knee stroking her long, sleek hair, and the cat, stupefied with beatitude, had closed her eyesto two fine lines, clawing softly at the corduroy of Presley's trouserswith alternate paws. 

"Yes, sir, " returned Presley. "He said he would be here. "

And as he spoke, young Osterman arrived. 

He was a young fellow, but singularly inclined to baldness. His ears, very red and large, stuck out at right angles from either side of hishead, and his mouth, too, was large--a great horizontal slit beneathhis nose. His cheeks were of a brownish red, the cheek bones a littlesalient. His face was that of a comic actor, a singer of songs, a mannever at a loss for an answer, continually striving to make a laugh. But he took no great interest in ranching and left the management ofhis land to his superintendents and foremen, he, himself, living inBonneville. He was a poser, a wearer of clothes, forever acting a part, striving to create an impression, to draw attention to himself. Hewas not without a certain energy, but he devoted it to small ends, toperfecting himself in little accomplishments, continually running aftersome new thing, incapable of persisting long in any one course. At onemoment his mania would be fencing; the next, sleight-of-hand tricks;the next, archery. For upwards of one month he had devoted himself tolearning how to play two banjos simultaneously, then abandoning thishad developed a sudden passion for stamped leather work and had made aquantity of purses, tennis belts, and hat bands, which he presented toyoung ladies of his acquaintance. It was his policy never to make anenemy. He was liked far better than he was respected. People spoke ofhim as "that goat Osterman, " or "that fool Osterman kid, " and invitedhim to dinner. He was of the sort who somehow cannot be ignored. If onlybecause of his clamour he made himself important. If he had one abidingtrait, it was his desire of astonishing people, and in some way, best known to himself, managed to cause the circulation of the mostextraordinary stories wherein he, himself, was the chief actor. Hewas glib, voluble, dexterous, ubiquitous, a teller of funny stories, acracker of jokes. 

Naturally enough, he was heavily in debt, but carried the burden of itwith perfect nonchalance. The year before S. Behrman had held mortgagesfor fully a third of his crop and had squeezed him viciously forinterest. But for all that, Osterman and S. Behrman were continuallyseen arm-in-arm on the main street of Bonneville. Osterman wasaccustomed to slap S. Behrman on his fat back, declaring:

"You're a good fellow, old jelly-belly, after all, hey?"

As Osterman entered from the porch, after hanging his cavalry poncho anddripping hat on the rack outside, Mrs. Derrick appeared in the door thatopened from the dining-room into the glass-roofed hallway just beyond. Osterman saluted her with effusive cordiality and with ingratiatingblandness. 

"I am not going to stay, " she explained, smiling pleasantly at the groupof men, her pretty, wide-open brown eyes, with their look of inquiry andinnocence, glancing from face to face, "I only came to see if you wantedanything and to say how do you do. "

She began talking to old Broderson, making inquiries as to his wife, whohad been sick the last week, and Osterman turned to the company, shakinghands all around, keeping up an incessant stream of conversation. 

"Hello, boys and girls. Hello, Governor. Sort of a gathering of theclans to-night. Well, if here isn't that man Annixter. Hello, Buck. Whatdo you know? Kind of dusty out to-night. "

At once Annixter began to get red in the face, retiring towards a cornerof the room, standing in an awkward position by the case of stuffedbirds, shambling and confused, while Mrs. Derrick was present, standingrigidly on both feet, his elbows close to his sides. But he was angrywith Osterman, muttering imprecations to himself, horribly vexed thatthe young fellow should call him "Buck" before Magnus's wife. This goatOsterman! Hadn't he any sense, that fool? Couldn't he ever learn how tobehave before a feemale? Calling him "Buck" like that while Mrs. Derrickwas there. Why a stable-boy would know better; a hired man would havebetter manners. All through the dinner that followed Annixter was out ofsorts, sulking in his place, refusing to eat by way of vindicating hisself-respect, resolving to bring Osterman up with a sharp turn if hecalled him "Buck" again. 

The Chinaman had made a certain kind of plum pudding for dessert, andAnnixter, who remembered other dinners at the Derrick's, had been savinghimself for this, and had meditated upon it all through the meal. Nodoubt, it would restore all his good humour, and he believed his stomachwas so far recovered as to be able to stand it. 

But, unfortunately, the pudding was served with a sauce that heabhorred--a thick, gruel-like, colourless mixture, made from plain waterand sugar. Before he could interfere, the Chinaman had poured a quantityof it upon his plate. 

"Faugh!" exclaimed Annixter. "It makes me sick. Such--such SLOOP. Takeit away. I'll have mine straight, if you don't mind. "

"That's good for your stomach, Buck, " observed young Osterman; "makes itgo down kind of sort of slick; don't you see? Sloop, hey? That's a goodname. "

"Look here, don't you call me Buck. You don't seem to have any sense, and, besides, it ISN'T good for my stomach. I know better. What do YOUknow about my stomach, anyhow? Just looking at sloop like that makes mesick. "

A little while after this the Chinaman cleared away the dessert andbrought in coffee and cigars. The whiskey bottle and the syphon ofsoda-water reappeared. The men eased themselves in their places, pushingback from the table, lighting their cigars, talking of the beginningof the rains and the prospects of a rise in wheat. Broderson began anelaborate mental calculation, trying to settle in his mind the exactdate of his visit to Ukiah, and Osterman did sleight-of-hand tricks withbread pills. But Princess Nathalie, the cat, was uneasy. Annixter wasoccupying her own particular chair in which she slept every night. Shecould not go to sleep, but spied upon him continually, watching hisevery movement with her lambent, yellow eyes, clear as amber. 

Then, at length, Magnus, who was at the head of the table, moved in hisplace, assuming a certain magisterial attitude. "Well, gentlemen, " heobserved, "I have lost my case against the railroad, the grain-ratecase. Ulsteen decided against me, and now I hear rumours to the effectthat rates for the hauling of grain are to be advanced. "

When Magnus had finished, there was a moment's silence, each member ofthe group maintaining his attitude of attention and interest. It wasHarran who first spoke. 

"S. Behrman manipulated the whole affair. There's a big deal of somekind in the air, and if there is, we all know who is back of it; S. Behrman, of course, but who's back of him? It's Shelgrim. "

Shelgrim! The name fell squarely in the midst of the conversation, abrupt, grave, sombre, big with suggestion, pregnant with hugeassociations. No one in the group who was not familiar with it; no one, for that matter, in the county, the State, the whole reach of the West, the entire Union, that did not entertain convictions as to the man whocarried it; a giant figure in the end-of-the-century finance, a productof circumstance, an inevitable result of conditions, characteristic, typical, symbolic of ungovernable forces. In the New Movement, the NewFinance, the reorganisation of capital, the amalgamation of powers, the consolidation of enormous enterprises--no one individual was moreconstantly in the eye of the world; no one was more hated, more dreaded, no one more compelling of unwilling tribute to his commanding genius, tothe colossal intellect operating the width of an entire continent thanthe president and owner of the Pacific and Southwestern. 

"I don't think, however, he has moved yet, " said Magnus. 

"The thing for us, then, " exclaimed Osterman, "is to stand from underbefore he does. "

"Moved yet!" snorted Annixter. "He's probably moved so long ago thatwe've never noticed it. "

"In any case, " hazarded Magnus, "it is scarcely probable that thedeal--whatever it is to be--has been consummated. If we act quickly, there may be a chance. "

"Act quickly! How?" demanded Annixter. "Good Lord! what can you do?We're cinched already. It all amounts to just this: YOU CAN'T BUCKAGAINST THE RAILROAD. We've tried it and tried it, and we are stuckevery time. You, yourself, Derrick, have just lost your grain-ratecase. S. Behrman did you up. Shelgrim owns the courts. He's got men likeUlsteen in his pocket. He's got the Railroad Commission in hispocket. He's got the Governor of the State in his pocket. He keepsa million-dollar lobby at Sacramento every minute of the time thelegislature is in session; he's got his own men on the floor of theUnited States Senate. He has the whole thing organised like an armycorps. What ARE you going to do? He sits in his office in San Franciscoand pulls the strings and we've got to dance. "

"But--well--but, " hazarded Broderson, "but there's the InterstateCommerce Commission. At least on long-haul rates they----"

"Hoh, yes, the Interstate Commerce Commission, " shouted Annixter, scornfully, "that's great, ain't it? The greatest Punch and Judy; showon earth. It's almost as good as the Railroad Commission. There neverwas and there never will be a California Railroad Commission not in thepay of the P. And S. W. "

"It is to the Railroad Commission, nevertheless, " remarked Magnus, "thatthe people of the State must look for relief. That is our only hope. Once elect Commissioners who would be loyal to the people, and the wholesystem of excessive rates falls to the ground. "

"Well, why not HAVE a Railroad Commission of our own, then?" suddenlydeclared young Osterman. 

"Because it can't be done, " retorted Annixter. "YOU CAN'T BUCK AGAINSTTHE RAILROAD and if you could you can't organise the farmers in the SanJoaquin. We tried it once, and it was enough to turn your stomach. Therailroad quietly bought delegates through S. Behrman and did us up. "

"Well, that's the game to play, " said Osterman decisively, "buydelegates. "

"It's the only game that seems to win, " admitted Harran gloomily. "Orever will win, " exclaimed Osterman, a sudden excitement seeming to takepossession of him. His face--the face of a comic actor, with its greatslit of mouth and stiff, red ears--went abruptly pink. 

"Look here, " he cried, "this thing is getting desperate. We've foughtand fought in the courts and out and we've tried agitation and--and allthe rest of it and S. Behrman sacks us every time. Now comes the timewhen there's a prospect of a big crop; we've had no rain for two yearsand the land has had a long rest. If there is any rain at all thiswinter, we'll have a bonanza year, and just at this very moment whenwe've got our chance--a chance to pay off our mortgages and get clear ofdebt and make a strike--here is Shelgrim making a deal to cinch us andput up rates. And now here's the primaries coming off and a new RailroadCommission going in. That's why Shelgrim chose this time to make hisdeal. If we wait till Shelgrim pulls it off, we're done for, that'sflat. I tell you we're in a fix if we don't keep an eye open. Things aregetting desperate. Magnus has just said that the key to the whole thingis the Railroad Commission. Well, why not have a Commission of our own?Never mind how we get it, let's get it. If it's got to be bought, let'sbuy it and put our own men on it and dictate what the rates will be. Suppose it costs a hundred thousand dollars. Well, we'll get back morethan that in cheap rates. "

"Mr. Osterman, " said Magnus, fixing the young man with a swift glance, "Mr. Osterman, you are proposing a scheme of bribery, sir. "

"I am proposing, " repeated Osterman, "a scheme of bribery. Exactly so. "

"And a crazy, wild-eyed scheme at that, " said Annixter gruffly. "Evensupposing you bought a Railroad Commission and got your schedule of lowrates, what happens? The P. And S. W. Crowd get out an injunction andtie you up. "

"They would tie themselves up, too. Hauling at low rates is better thanno hauling at all. The wheat has got to be moved. " "Oh, rot!" criedAnnixter. "Aren't you ever going to learn any sense? Don't you knowthat cheap transportation would benefit the Liverpool buyers and not us?Can't it be FED into you that you can't buck against the railroad? Whenyou try to buy a Board of Commissioners don't you see that you'll haveto bid against the railroad, bid against a corporation that can chuckout millions to our thousands? Do you think you can bid against the P. And S. W. ?"

"The railroad don't need to know we are in the game against them tillwe've got our men seated. "

"And when you've got them seated, what's to prevent the corporationbuying them right over your head?"

"If we've got the right kind of men in they could not be bought thatway, " interposed Harran. "I don't know but what there's something inwhat Osterman says. We'd have the naming of the Commission and we'd namehonest men. "

Annixter struck the table with his fist in exasperation. 

"Honest men!" he shouted; "the kind of men you could get to go into sucha scheme would have to be DIS-honest to begin with. "

Broderson, shifting uneasily in his place, fingering his beard with avague, uncertain gesture, spoke again:

"It would be the CHANCE of them--our Commissioners--selling out againstthe certainty of Shelgrim doing us up. That is, " he hastened to add, "ALMOST a certainty; pretty near a certainty. "

"Of course, it would be a chance, " exclaimed Osterman. "But it's cometo the point where we've got to take chances, risk a big stake to make abig strike, and risk is better than sure failure. "

"I can be no party to a scheme of avowed bribery and corruption, Mr. Osterman, " declared Magnus, a ring of severity in his voice. "I amsurprised, sir, that you should even broach the subject in my hearing. "

"And, " cried Annixter, "it can't be done. "

"I don't know, " muttered Harran, "maybe it just wants a little sparklike this to fire the whole train. "

Magnus glanced at his son in considerable surprise. He had notexpected this of Harran. But so great was his affection for his son, soaccustomed had he become to listening to his advice, to respecting hisopinions, that, for the moment, after the first shock of surprise anddisappointment, he was influenced to give a certain degree of attentionto this new proposition. He in no way countenanced it. At any moment hewas prepared to rise in his place and denounce it and Osterman both. Itwas trickery of the most contemptible order, a thing he believed to beunknown to the old school of politics and statesmanship to which he wasproud to belong; but since Harran, even for one moment, considered it, he, Magnus, who trusted Harran implicitly, would do likewise--if it wasonly to oppose and defeat it in its very beginnings. 

And abruptly the discussion began. Gradually Osterman, by dint of hisclamour, his strident reiteration, the plausibility of his glib, readyassertions, the ease with which he extricated himself when apparentlydriven to a corner, completely won over old Broderson to his way ofthinking. Osterman bewildered him with his volubility, the lightningrapidity with which he leaped from one subject to another, garrulous, witty, flamboyant, terrifying the old man with pictures of the swiftapproach of ruin, the imminence of danger. 

Annixter, who led the argument against him--loving argument though hedid--appeared to poor advantage, unable to present his side effectively. He called Osterman a fool, a goat, a senseless, crazy-headed jackass, but was unable to refute his assertions. His debate was the clumsyheaving of brickbats, brutal, direct. He contradicted everythingOsterman said as a matter of principle, made conflicting assertions, declarations that were absolutely inconsistent, and when Osterman orHarran used these against him, could only exclaim:

"Well, in a way it's so, and then again in a way it isn't. "

But suddenly Osterman discovered a new argument. "If we swing thisdeal, " he cried, "we've got old jelly-belly Behrman right where we wanthim. "

"He's the man that does us every time, " cried Harran. "If there is dirtywork to be done in which the railroad doesn't wish to appear, it isS. Behrman who does it. If the freight rates are to be 'adjusted' tosqueeze us a little harder, it is S. Behrman who regulates what we canstand. If there's a judge to be bought, it is S. Behrman who doesthe bargaining. If there is a jury to be bribed, it is S. Behrmanwho handles the money. If there is an election to be jobbed, it is S. Behrman who manipulates it. It's Behrman here and Behrman there. It isBehrman we come against every time we make a move. It is Behrman who hasthe grip of us and will never let go till he has squeezed us bone dry. Why, when I think of it all sometimes I wonder I keep my hands off theman. "

Osterman got on his feet; leaning across the table, gesturing wildlywith his right hand, his serio-comic face, with its bald foreheadand stiff, red ears, was inflamed with excitement. He took the floor, creating an impression, attracting all attention to himself, playing tothe gallery, gesticulating, clamourous, full of noise. 

"Well, now is your chance to get even, " he vociferated. "It is now ornever. You can take it and save the situation for yourselves and allCalifornia or you can leave it and rot on your own ranches. Buck, I knowyou. I know you're not afraid of anything that wears skin. I know you'vegot sand all through you, and I know if I showed you how we could putour deal through and seat a Commission of our own, you wouldn't hangback. Governor, you're a brave man. You know the advantage of prompt andfearless action. You are not the sort to shrink from taking chances. Toplay for big stakes is just your game--to stake a fortune on the turnof a card. You didn't get the reputation of being the strongest pokerplayer in El Dorado County for nothing. Now, here's the biggest gamblethat ever came your way. If we stand up to it like men with guts in us, we'll win out. If we hesitate, we're lost. "

"I don't suppose you can help playing the goat, Osterman, " remarkedAnnixter, "but what's your idea? What do you think we can do? I'm notsaying, " he hastened to interpose, "that you've anyways convinced me byall this cackling. I know as well as you that we are in a hole. But Iknew that before I came here to-night. YOU'VE not done anything to makeme change my mind. But just what do you propose? Let's hear it. "

"Well, I say the first thing to do is to see Disbrow. He's the politicalboss of the Denver, Pueblo, and Mojave road. We will have to get in withthe machine some way and that's particularly why I want Magnus with us. He knows politics better than any of us and if we don't want to get soldagain we will have to have some one that's in the know to steer us. "

"The only politics I understand, Mr. Osterman, " answered Magnus sternly, "are honest politics. You must look elsewhere for your politicalmanager. I refuse to have any part in this matter. If the RailroadCommission can be nominated legitimately, if your arrangements can bemade without bribery, I am with you to the last iota of my ability. "

"Well, you can't get what you want without paying for it, " contradictedAnnixter. 

Broderson was about to speak when Osterman kicked his foot under thetable. He, himself, held his peace. He was quick to see that if he couldinvolve Magnus and Annixter in an argument, Annixter, for the mere loveof contention, would oppose the Governor and, without knowing it, wouldcommit himself to his--Osterman's--scheme. 

This was precisely what happened. In a few moments Annixter wasdeclaring at top voice his readiness to mortgage the crop of Quien Sabe, if necessary, for the sake of "busting S. Behrman. " He could see nogreat obstacle in the way of controlling the nominating convention sofar as securing the naming of two Railroad Commissioners was concerned. Two was all they needed. Probably it WOULD cost money. You didn't getsomething for nothing. It would cost them all a good deal more if theysat like lumps on a log and played tiddledy-winks while Shelgrim soldout from under them. Then there was this, too: the P. And S. W. Werehard up just then. The shortage on the State's wheat crop for the lasttwo years had affected them, too. They were retrenching in expendituresall along the line. Hadn't they just cut wages in all departments? Therewas this affair of Dyke's to prove it. The railroad didn't always act asa unit, either. There was always a party in it that opposed spending toomuch money. He would bet that party was strong just now. He was kind ofsick himself of being kicked by S. Behrman. Hadn't that pip turned up onhis ranch that very day to bully him about his own line fence? Next hewould be telling him what kind of clothes he ought to wear. Harran hadthe right idea. Somebody had got to be busted mighty soon now and hedidn't propose that it should be he. 

"Now you are talking something like sense, " observed Osterman. "Ithought you would see it like that when you got my idea. "

"Your idea, YOUR idea!" cried Annixter. "Why, I've had this idea myselffor over three years. "

"What about Disbrow?" asked Harran, hastening to interrupt. "Why do wewant to see Disbrow?"

"Disbrow is the political man for the Denver, Pueblo, and Mojave, "answered Osterman, "and you see it's like this: the Mojave road don'trun up into the valley at all. Their terminus is way to the south of us, and they don't care anything about grain rates through the San Joaquin. They don't care how anti-railroad the Commission is, because theCommission's rulings can't affect them. But they divide traffic with theP. And S. W. In the southern part of the State and they have a gooddeal of influence with that road. I want to get the Mojave road, throughDisbrow, to recommend a Commissioner of our choosing to the P. And S. W. And have the P. And S. W. Adopt him as their own. "

"Who, for instance?"

"Darrell, that Los Angeles man--remember?"

"Well, Darrell is no particular friend of Disbrow, " said Annixter. "Whyshould Disbrow take him up?"

"PREE-cisely, " cried Osterman. "We make it worth Disbrow's while to doit. We go to him and say, 'Mr. Disbrow, you manage the politics for theMojave railroad, and what you say goes with your Board of Directors. Wewant you to adopt our candidate for Railroad Commissioner for the thirddistrict. How much do you want for doing it?' I KNOW we can buy Disbrow. That gives us one Commissioner. We need not bother about that anymore. In the first district we don't make any move at all. We let thepolitical managers of the P. And S. W. Nominate whoever they like. Then we concentrate all our efforts to putting in our man in the seconddistrict. There is where the big fight will come. "

"I see perfectly well what you mean, Mr. Osterman, " observed Magnus, "but make no mistake, sir, as to my attitude in this business. You maycount me as out of it entirely. "

"Well, suppose we win, " put in Annixter truculently, alreadyacknowledging himself as involved in the proposed undertaking; "supposewe win and get low rates for hauling grain. How about you, then? Youcount yourself IN then, don't you? You get all the benefit of lowerrates without sharing any of the risks we take to secure them. No, nor any of the expense, either. No, you won't dirty your fingers withhelping us put this deal through, but you won't be so cursed particularwhen it comes to sharing the profits, will you?"

Magnus rose abruptly to his full height, the nostrils of his thin, hawk-like nose vibrating, his smooth-shaven face paler than ever. 

"Stop right where you are, sir, " he exclaimed. "You forget yourself, Mr. Annixter. Please understand that I tolerate such words as you havepermitted yourself to make use of from no man, not even from my guest. Ishall ask you to apologise. "

In an instant he dominated the entire group, imposing a respect that wasas much fear as admiration. No one made response. For the moment he wasthe Master again, the Leader. Like so many delinquent school-boys, theothers cowered before him, ashamed, put to confusion, unable to findtheir tongues. In that brief instant of silence following upon Magnus'soutburst, and while he held them subdued and over-mastered, the fabricof their scheme of corruption and dishonesty trembled to its base. Itwas the last protest of the Old School, rising up there in denunciationof the new order of things, the statesman opposed to the politician;honesty, rectitude, uncompromising integrity, prevailing for the lasttime against the devious manoeuvring, the evil communications, therotten expediency of a corrupted institution. 

For a few seconds no one answered. Then, Annixter, moving abruptly anduneasily in his place, muttered:

"I spoke upon provocation. If you like, we'll consider it unsaid. Idon't know what's going to become of us--go out of business, I presume. "

"I understand Magnus all right, " put in Osterman. "He don't have togo into this thing, if it's against his conscience. That's all right. Magnus can stay out if he wants to, but that won't prevent us goingahead and seeing what we can do. Only there's this about it. " He turnedagain to Magnus, speaking with every degree of earnestness, everyappearance of conviction. "I did not deny, Governor, from the very startthat this would mean bribery. But you don't suppose that I like the ideaeither. If there was one legitimate hope that was yet left untried, no matter how forlorn it was, I would try it. But there's not. Itis literally and soberly true that every means of help--every honestmeans--has been attempted. Shelgrim is going to cinch us. Grain ratesare increasing, while, on the other hand, the price of wheat is sagginglower and lower all the time. If we don't do something we are ruined. "

Osterman paused for a moment, allowing precisely the right number ofseconds to elapse, then altering and lowering his voice, added:

"I respect the Governor's principles. I admire them. They do him everydegree of credit. " Then, turning directly to Magnus, he concluded with, "But I only want you to ask yourself, sir, if, at such a crisis, oneought to think of oneself, to consider purely personal motives in such adesperate situation as this? Now, we want you with us, Governor; perhapsnot openly, if you don't wish it, but tacitly, at least. I won't askyou for an answer to-night, but what I do ask of you is to consider thismatter seriously and think over the whole business. Will you do it?"

Osterman ceased definitely to speak, leaning forward across the table, his eyes fixed on Magnus's face. There was a silence. Outside, the rainfell continually with an even, monotonous murmur. In the group of menaround the table no one stirred nor spoke. They looked steadily atMagnus, who, for the moment, kept his glance fixed thoughtfully upon thetable before him. In another moment he raised his head and looked fromface to face around the group. After all, these were his neighbours, his friends, men with whom he had been upon the closest terms ofassociation. In a way they represented what now had come to be hisworld. His single swift glance took in the men, one after another. Annixter, rugged, crude, sitting awkwardly and uncomfortably in hischair, his unhandsome face, with its outthrust lower lip and deeplycleft masculine chin, flushed and eager, his yellow hair disordered, the one tuft on the crown standing stiffly forth like the feather in anIndian's scalp lock; Broderson, vaguely combing at his long beard with apersistent maniacal gesture, distressed, troubled and uneasy; Osterman, with his comedy face, the face of a music-hall singer, his head baldand set off by his great red ears, leaning back in his place, softlycracking the knuckle of a forefinger, and, last of all and close to hiselbow, his son, his support, his confidant and companion, Harran, solike himself, with his own erect, fine carriage, his thin, beak-likenose and his blond hair, with its tendency to curl in a forwarddirection in front of the ears, young, strong, courageous, full of thepromise of the future years. His blue eyes looked straight into hisfather's with what Magnus could fancy a glance of appeal. Magnus couldsee that expression in the faces of the others very plainly. They lookedto him as their natural leader, their chief who was to bring them outfrom this abominable trouble which was closing in upon them, and in themall he saw many types. They--these men around his table on that nightof the first rain of a coming season--seemed to stand in his imaginationfor many others--all the farmers, ranchers, and wheat growers of thegreat San Joaquin. Their words were the words of a whole community;their distress, the distress of an entire State, harried beyond thebounds of endurance, driven to the wall, coerced, exploited, harassed tothe limits of exasperation. "I will think of it, " he said, then hastenedto add, "but I can tell you beforehand that you may expect only arefusal. "

After Magnus had spoken, there was a prolonged silence. The conferenceseemed of itself to have come to an end for that evening. Presleylighted another cigarette from the butt of the one he had been smoking, and the cat, Princess Nathalie, disturbed by his movement and by a whiffof drifting smoke, jumped from his knee to the floor and picking her wayacross the room to Annixter, rubbed gently against his legs, her tailin the air, her back delicately arched. No doubt she thought it timeto settle herself for the night, and as Annixter gave no indication ofvacating his chair, she chose this way of cajoling him into ceding hisplace to her. But Annixter was irritated at the Princess's attentions, misunderstanding their motive. 

"Get out!" he exclaimed, lifting his feet to the rung of the chair. "Lord love me, but I sure do hate a cat. "

"By the way, " observed Osterman, "I passed Genslinger by the gate as Icame in to-night. Had he been here?"

"Yes, he was here, " said Harran, "and--" but Annixter took the words outof his mouth. 

"He says there's some talk of the railroad selling us their sectionsthis winter. "

"Oh, he did, did he?" exclaimed Osterman, interested at once. "Where didhe hear that?"

"Where does a railroad paper get its news? From the General Office, Isuppose. "

"I hope he didn't get it straight from headquarters that the land was tobe graded at twenty dollars an acre, " murmured Broderson. 

"What's that?" demanded Osterman. "Twenty dollars! Here, put me on, somebody. What's all up? What did Genslinger say?"

"Oh, you needn't get scared, " said Annixter. "Genslinger don't know, that's all. He thinks there was no understanding that the price of theland should not be advanced when the P. And S. W. Came to sell to us. "

"Oh, " muttered Osterman relieved. Magnus, who had gone out into theoffice on the other side of the glass-roofed hallway, returned with along, yellow envelope in his hand, stuffed with newspaper clippings andthin, closely printed pamphlets. 

"Here is the circular, " he remarked, drawing out one of the pamphlets. "The conditions of settlement to which the railroad obligated itself arevery explicit. "

He ran over the pages of the circular, then read aloud:

"'The Company invites settlers to go upon its lands before patents areissued or the road is completed, and intends in such cases to sell tothem in preference to any other applicants and at a price based upon thevalue of the land without improvements, ' and on the other page here, " heremarked, "they refer to this again. 'In ascertaining the value of thelands, any improvements that a settler or any other person may have onthe lands will not be taken into consideration, neither will the pricebe increased in consequence thereof. .. . Settlers are thus insured thatin addition to being accorded the first privilege of purchase, at thegraded price, they will also be protected in their improvements. 'And here, " he commented, "in Section IX. It reads, 'The lands are notuniform in price, but are offered at various figures from $2. 50 upwardper acre. Usually land covered with tall timber is held at $5. 00 peracre, and that with pine at $10. 00. Most is for sale at $2. 50 and$5. 00. "

"When you come to read that carefully, " hazarded old Broderson, "it--it's not so VERY REASSURING. 'MOST is for sale at two-fifty anacre, ' it says. That don't mean 'ALL, ' that only means SOME. I wish nowthat I had secured a more iron-clad agreement from the P. And S. W. WhenI took up its sections on my ranch, and--and Genslinger is in a positionto know the intentions of the railroad. At least, he--he--he is in TOUCHwith them. All newspaper men are. Those, I mean, who are subsidised bythe General Office. But, perhaps, Genslinger isn't subsidised, I don'tknow. I--I am not sure. Maybe--perhaps"

"Oh, you don't know and you do know, and maybe and perhaps, and you'renot so sure, " vociferated Annixter. "How about ignoring the value of ourimprovements? Nothing hazy about THAT statement, I guess. It says in somany words that any improvements we make will not be considered when theland is appraised and that's the same thing, isn't it? The unimprovedland is worth two-fifty an acre; only timber land is worth more andthere's none too much timber about here. "

"Well, one thing at a time, " said Harran. "The thing for us now is toget into this primary election and the convention and see if we can pushour men for Railroad Commissioners. "

"Right, " declared Annixter. He rose, stretching his arms above his head. "I've about talked all the wind out of me, " he said. "Think I'll bemoving along. It's pretty near midnight. "

But when Magnus's guests turned their attention to the matter ofreturning to their different ranches, they abruptly realised that thedownpour had doubled and trebled in its volume since earlier in theevening. The fields and roads were veritable seas of viscid mud, thenight absolutely black-dark; assuredly not a night in which to ventureout. Magnus insisted that the three ranchers should put up at LosMuertos. Osterman accepted at once, Annixter, after an interminablediscussion, allowed himself to be persuaded, in the end accepting asthough granting a favour. Broderson protested that his wife, who was notwell, would expect him to return that night and would, no doubt, fretif he did not appear. Furthermore, he lived close by, at the junctionof the County and Lower Road. He put a sack over his head and shoulders, persistently declining Magnus's offered umbrella and rubber coat, andhurried away, remarking that he had no foreman on his ranch and had tobe up and about at five the next morning to put his men to work. 

"Fool!" muttered Annixter when the old man had gone. "Imagine farming aranch the size of his without a foreman. "

Harran showed Osterman and Annixter where they were to sleep, inadjoining rooms. Magnus soon afterward retired. 

Osterman found an excuse for going to bed, but Annixter and Harranremained in the latter's room, in a haze of blue tobacco smoke, talking, talking. But at length, at the end of all argument, Annixter got up, remarking:

"Well, I'm going to turn in. It's nearly two o'clock. "

He went to his room, closing the door, and Harran, opening his window toclear out the tobacco smoke, looked out for a moment across the countrytoward the south. 

The darkness was profound, impenetrable; the rain fell with anuninterrupted roar. Near at hand one could hear the sound of drippingeaves and foliage and the eager, sucking sound of the drinking earth, and abruptly while Harran stood looking out, one hand upon the upraisedsash, a great puff of the outside air invaded the room, odourous withthe reek of the soaking earth, redolent with fertility, pungent, heavy, tepid. He closed the window again and sat for a few moments on the edgeof the bed, one shoe in his hand, thoughtful and absorbed, wondering ifhis father would involve himself in this new scheme, wondering if, afterall, he wanted him to. 

But suddenly he was aware of a commotion, issuing from the directionof Annixter's room, and the voice of Annixter himself upraised inexpostulation and exasperation. The door of the room to which Annixterhad been assigned opened with a violent wrench and an angry voiceexclaimed to anybody who would listen:

"Oh, yes, funny, isn't it? In a way, it's funny, and then, again, in away it isn't. "

The door banged to so that all the windows of the house rattled in theirframes. 

Harran hurried out into the dining-room and there met Presley and hisfather, who had been aroused as well by Annixter's clamour. Osterman wasthere, too, his bald head gleaming like a bulb of ivory in the light ofthe lamp that Magnus carried. 

"What's all up?" demanded Osterman. "Whatever in the world is the matterwith Buck?"

Confused and terrible sounds came from behind the door of Annixter'sroom. A prolonged monologue of grievance, broken by explosions of wrathand the vague noise of some one in a furious hurry. All at once andbefore Harran had a chance to knock on the door, Annixter flung it open. His face was blazing with anger, his outthrust lip more prominent thanever, his wiry, yellow hair in disarray, the tuft on the crown stickingstraight into the air like the upraised hackles of an angry hound. Evidently he had been dressing himself with the most headlong rapidity;he had not yet put on his coat and vest, but carried them over his arm, while with his disengaged hand he kept hitching his suspenders over hisshoulders with a persistent and hypnotic gesture. Without a moment'spause he gave vent to his indignation in a torrent of words. 

"Ah, yes, in my bed, sloop, aha! I know the man who put it there, " hewent on, glaring at Osterman, "and that man is a PIP. Sloop! Slimy, disgusting stuff; you heard me say I didn't like it when the Chinkpassed it to me at dinner--and just for that reason you put it in mybed, and I stick my feet into it when I turn in. Funny, isn't it? Oh, yes, too funny for any use. I'd laugh a little louder if I was you. "

"Well, Buck, " protested Harran, as he noticed the hat in Annixter'shand, "you're not going home just for----"

Annixter turned on him with a shout. 

"I'll get plumb out of here, " he trumpeted. "I won't stay here anotherminute. "

He swung into his waistcoat and coat, scrabbling at the buttons in theviolence of his emotions. "And I don't know but what it will make mesick again to go out in a night like this. NO, I won't stay. Some thingsare funny, and then, again, there are some things that are not. Ah, yes, sloop! Well, that's all right. I can be funny, too, when you come tothat. You don't get a cent of money out of me. You can do your dirtybribery in your own dirty way. I won't come into this scheme at all. I wash my hands of the whole business. It's rotten and it's wild-eyed;it's dirt from start to finish; and you'll all land in State's prison. You can count me out. "

"But, Buck, look here, you crazy fool, " cried Harran, "I don't know whoput that stuff in your bed, but I'm not going; to let you go back toQuien Sabe in a rain like this. "

"I know who put it in, " clamoured the other, shaking his fists, "anddon't call me Buck and I'll do as I please. I WILL go back home. I'llget plumb out of here. Sorry I came. Sorry I ever lent myself to such adisgusting, dishonest, dirty bribery game as this all to-night. I won'tput a dime into it, no, not a penny. "

He stormed to the door leading out upon the porch, deaf to all reason. Harran and Presley followed him, trying to dissuade him from going homeat that time of night and in such a storm, but Annixter was not to beplacated. He stamped across to the barn where his horse and buggy hadbeen stabled, splashing through the puddles under foot, going out of hisway to drench himself, refusing even to allow Presley and Harran to helphim harness the horse. 

"What's the use of making a fool of yourself, Annixter?" remonstratedPresley, as Annixter backed the horse from the stall. "You act just likea ten-year-old boy. If Osterman wants to play the goat, why should youhelp him out?"

"He's a PIP, " vociferated Annixter. "You don't understand, Presley. Itruns in my family to hate anything sticky. It's--it's--it's heredity. How would you like to get into bed at two in the morning and jam yourfeet down into a slimy mess like that? Oh, no. It's not so funny then. And you mark my words, Mr. Harran Derrick, " he continued, as he climbedinto the buggy, shaking the whip toward Harran, "this business we talkedover to-night--I'm OUT of it. It's yellow. It's too CURSED dishonest. "

He cut the horse across the back with the whip and drove out into thepelting rain. In a few seconds the sound of his buggy wheels was lost inthe muffled roar of the downpour. 

Harran and Presley closed the barn and returned to the house, shelteringthemselves under a tarpaulin carriage cover. Once inside, Harran went toremonstrate with Osterman, who was still up. Magnus had again retired. The house had fallen quiet again. 

As Presley crossed the dining-room on the way to his own apartment inthe second story of the house, he paused for a moment, looking abouthim. In the dull light of the lowered lamps, the redwood panelling ofthe room showed a dark crimson as though stained with blood. On themassive slab of the dining table the half-emptied glasses and bottlesstood about in the confusion in which they had been left, reflectingthemselves deep into the polished wood; the glass doors of the case ofstuffed birds was a subdued shimmer; the many-coloured Navajo blanketover the couch seemed a mere patch of brown. 

Around the table the chairs in which the men had sat throughout theevening still ranged themselves in a semi-circle, vaguely suggestive ofthe conference of the past few hours, with all its possibilities of goodand evil, its significance of a future big with portent. The room wasstill. Only on the cushions of the chair that Annixter had occupied, thecat, Princess Nathalie, at last comfortably settled in her accustomedplace, dozed complacently, her paws tucked under her breast, filling thedeserted room with the subdued murmur of her contented purr. 

CHAPTER IV

On the Quien Sabe ranch, in one of its western divisions, near the linefence that divided it from the Osterman holding, Vanamee was harnessingthe horses to the plough to which he had been assigned two days before, a stable-boy from the division barn helping him. 

Promptly discharged from the employ of the sheep-raisers after thelamentable accident near the Long Trestle, Vanamee had presented himselfto Harran, asking for employment. The season was beginning; on allthe ranches work was being resumed. The rain had put the ground intoadmirable condition for ploughing, and Annixter, Broderson, and Ostermanall had their gangs at work. Thus, Vanamee was vastly surprised to findLos Muertos idle, the horses still in the barns, the men gathering inthe shade of the bunk-house and eating-house, smoking, dozing, or goingaimlessly about, their arms dangling. The ploughs for which Magnus andHarran were waiting in a fury of impatience had not yet arrived, andsince the management of Los Muertos had counted upon having these inhand long before this time, no provision had been made for keeping theold stock in repair; many of these old ploughs were useless, broken, andout of order; some had been sold. It could not be said definitelywhen the new ploughs would arrive. Harran had decided to wait one weeklonger, and then, in case of their non-appearance, to buy a consignmentof the old style of plough from the dealers in Bonneville. He couldafford to lose the money better than he could afford to lose the season. 

Failing of work on Los Muertos, Vanamee had gone to Quien Sabe. Annixter, whom he had spoken to first, had sent him across the ranchto one of his division superintendents, and this latter, afterassuring himself of Vanamee's familiarity with horses and his previousexperience--even though somewhat remote--on Los Muertos, had taken himon as a driver of one of the gang ploughs, then at work on his division. 

The evening before, when the foreman had blown his whistle at sixo'clock, the long line of ploughs had halted upon the instant, and thedrivers, unharnessing their teams, had taken them back to the divisionbarns--leaving the ploughs as they were in the furrows. But an hourafter daylight the next morning the work was resumed. After breakfast, Vanamee, riding one horse and leading the others, had returned tothe line of ploughs together with the other drivers. Now he was busyharnessing the team. At the division blacksmith shop--temporarily putup--he had been obliged to wait while one of his lead horses was shod, and he had thus been delayed quite five minutes. Nearly all the otherteams were harnessed, the drivers on their seats, waiting for theforeman's signal. 

"All ready here?" inquired the foreman, driving up to Vanamee's team inhis buggy. 

"All ready, sir, " answered Vanamee, buckling the last strap. 

He climbed to his seat, shaking out the reins, and turning about, lookedback along the line, then all around him at the landscape inundated withthe brilliant glow of the early morning. 

The day was fine. Since the first rain of the season, there had been noother. Now the sky was without a cloud, pale blue, delicate, luminous, scintillating with morning. The great brown earth turned a huge flank toit, exhaling the moisture of the early dew. The atmosphere, washed cleanof dust and mist, was translucent as crystal. Far off to the east, thehills on the other side of Broderson Creek stood out against the pallidsaffron of the horizon as flat and as sharply outlined as if pasted onthe sky. The campanile of the ancient Mission of San Juan seemed as fineas frost work. All about between the horizons, the carpet of the landunrolled itself to infinity. But now it was no longer parched with heat, cracked and warped by a merciless sun, powdered with dust. The rain haddone its work; not a clod that was not swollen with fertility, not afissure that did not exhale the sense of fecundity. One could not takea dozen steps upon the ranches without the brusque sensation thatunderfoot the land was alive; roused at last from its sleep, palpitatingwith the desire of reproduction. Deep down there in the recesses ofthe soil, the great heart throbbed once more, thrilling with passion, vibrating with desire, offering itself to the caress of the plough, insistent, eager, imperious. Dimly one felt the deep-seated trouble ofthe earth, the uneasy agitation of its members, the hidden tumult ofits womb, demanding to be made fruitful, to reproduce, to disengage theeternal renascent germ of Life that stirred and struggled in its loins. 

The ploughs, thirty-five in number, each drawn by its team of ten, stretched in an interminable line, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, behind and ahead of Vanamee. They were arranged, as it were, en echelon, not in file--not one directly behind the other, but each succeedingplough its own width farther in the field than the one in front of it. Each of these ploughs held five shears, so that when the entire companywas in motion, one hundred and seventy-five furrows were made at thesame instant. At a distance, the ploughs resembled a great column offield artillery. Each driver was in his place, his glance alternatingbetween his horses and the foreman nearest at hand. Other foremen, intheir buggies or buckboards, were at intervals along the line, likebattery lieutenants. Annixter himself, on horseback, in boots andcampaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, overlooked the scene. 

The division superintendent, on the opposite side of the line, gallopedpast to a position at the head. For a long moment there was a silence. Asense of preparedness ran from end to end of the column. All things wereready, each man in his place. The day's work was about to begin. 

Suddenly, from a distance at the head of the line came the shrilltrilling of a whistle. At once the foreman nearest Vanamee repeated it, at the same time turning down the line, and waving one arm. The signalwas repeated, whistle answering whistle, till the sounds lost themselvesin the distance. At once the line of ploughs lost its immobility, movingforward, getting slowly under way, the horses straining in the traces. Aprolonged movement rippled from team to team, disengaging in its passagea multitude of sounds---the click of buckles, the creak of strainingleather, the subdued clash of machinery, the cracking of whips, the deepbreathing of nearly four hundred horses, the abrupt commands and criesof the drivers, and, last of all, the prolonged, soothing murmur ofthe thick brown earth turning steadily from the multitude of advancingshears. 

The ploughing thus commenced, continued. The sun rose higher. Steadilythe hundred iron hands kneaded and furrowed and stroked the brown, humidearth, the hundred iron teeth bit deep into the Titan's flesh. Perchedon his seat, the moist living reins slipping and tugging in his hands, Vanamee, in the midst of this steady confusion of constantly varyingsensation, sight interrupted by sound, sound mingling with sight, onthis swaying, vibrating seat, quivering with the prolonged thrill of theearth, lapsed to a sort of pleasing numbness, in a sense, hypnotised bythe weaving maze of things in which he found himself involved. To keephis team at an even, regular gait, maintaining the precise interval, to run his furrows as closely as possible to those already made by theplough in front--this for the moment was the entire sum of his duties. But while one part of his brain, alert and watchful, took cognisance ofthese matters, all the greater part was lulled and stupefied with thelong monotony of the affair. 

The ploughing, now in full swing, enveloped him in a vague, slow-movingwhirl of things. Underneath him was the jarring, jolting, tremblingmachine; not a clod was turned, not an obstacle encountered, that he didnot receive the swift impression of it through all his body, the veryfriction of the damp soil, sliding incessantly from the shiny surface ofthe shears, seemed to reproduce itself in his finger-tips and along theback of his head. He heard the horse-hoofs by the myriads crushing downeasily, deeply, into the loam, the prolonged clinking of trace-chains, the working of the smooth brown flanks in the harness, the clatter ofwooden hames, the champing of bits, the click of iron shoes againstpebbles, the brittle stubble of the surface ground crackling andsnapping as the furrows turned, the sonorous, steady breaths wrenchedfrom the deep, labouring chests, strap-bound, shining with sweat, and all along the line the voices of the men talking to the horses. Everywhere there were visions of glossy brown backs, straining, heaving, swollen with muscle; harness streaked with specks of froth, broad, cup-shaped hoofs, heavy with brown loam, men's faces red with tan, blueoveralls spotted with axle-grease; muscled hands, the knuckles whitenedin their grip on the reins, and through it all the ammoniacal smell ofthe horses, the bitter reek of perspiration of beasts and men, thearoma of warm leather, the scent of dead stubble--and stronger and morepenetrating than everything else, the heavy, enervating odour of theupturned, living earth. 

At intervals, from the tops of one of the rare, low swells of the land, Vanamee overlooked a wider horizon. On the other divisions of Quien Sabethe same work was in progress. Occasionally he could see another columnof ploughs in the adjoining division--sometimes so close at hand thatthe subdued murmur of its movements reached his ear; sometimes sodistant that it resolved itself into a long, brown streak upon thegrey of the ground. Farther off to the west on the Osterman ranch othercolumns came and went, and, once, from the crest of the highest swell onhis division, Vanamee caught a distant glimpse of the Broderson ranch. There, too, moving specks indicated that the ploughing was under way. And farther away still, far off there beyond the fine line of thehorizons, over the curve of the globe, the shoulder of the earth, heknew were other ranches, and beyond these others, and beyond these stillothers, the immensities multiplying to infinity. 

Everywhere throughout the great San Joaquin, unseen and unheard, athousand ploughs up-stirred the land, tens of thousands of shearsclutched deep into the warm, moist soil. 

It was the long stroking caress, vigorous, male, powerful, for which theEarth seemed panting. The heroic embrace of a multitude of iron hands, gripping deep into the brown, warm flesh of the land that quiveredresponsive and passionate under this rude advance, so robust as to bealmost an assault, so violent as to be veritably brutal. There, underthe sun and under the speckless sheen of the sky, the wooing ofthe Titan began, the vast primal passion, the two world-forces, theelemental Male and Female, locked in a colossal embrace, at grapples inthe throes of an infinite desire, at once terrible and divine, knowingno law, untamed, savage, natural, sublime. 

From time to time the gang in which Vanamee worked halted on the signalfrom foreman or overseer. The horses came to a standstill, the vagueclamour of the work lapsed away. Then the minutes passed. The whole workhung suspended. All up and down the line one demanded what had happened. The division superintendent galloped past, perplexed and anxious. Forthe moment, one of the ploughs was out of order, a bolt had slipped, a lever refused to work, or a machine had become immobilised in heavyground, or a horse had lamed himself. Once, even, toward noon, an entireplough was taken out of the line, so out of gear that a messenger had tobe sent to the division forge to summon the machinist. 

Annixter had disappeared. He had ridden farther on to the otherdivisions of his ranch, to watch the work in progress there. At twelveo'clock, according to his orders, all the division superintendents putthemselves in communication with him by means of the telephone wiresthat connected each of the division houses, reporting the conditionof the work, the number of acres covered, the prospects of each ploughtraversing its daily average of twenty miles. 

At half-past twelve, Vanamee and the rest of the drivers ate theirlunch in the field, the tin buckets having been distributed to them thatmorning after breakfast. But in the evening, the routine of the previousday was repeated, and Vanamee, unharnessing his team, riding one horseand leading the others, returned to the division barns and bunk-house. 

It was between six and seven o'clock. The half hundred men of the gangthrew themselves upon the supper the Chinese cooks had set out in theshed of the eating-house, long as a bowling alley, unpainted, crude, theseats benches, the table covered with oil cloth. Overhead a half-dozenkerosene lamps flared and smoked. 

The table was taken as if by assault; the clatter of iron knives uponthe tin plates was as the reverberation of hail upon a metal roof. Theploughmen rinsed their throats with great draughts of wine, and, theirelbows wide, their foreheads flushed, resumed the attack upon the beefand bread, eating as though they would never have enough. All up anddown the long table, where the kerosene lamps reflected themselves deepin the oil-cloth cover, one heard the incessant sounds of mastication, and saw the uninterrupted movement of great jaws. At every moment oneor another of the men demanded a fresh portion of beef, another pint ofwine, another half-loaf of bread. For upwards of an hour the gang ate. It was no longer a supper. It was a veritable barbecue, a crude andprimitive feasting, barbaric, homeric. 

But in all this scene Vanamee saw nothing repulsive. Presley wouldhave abhorred it--this feeding of the People, this gorging of the humananimal, eager for its meat. Vanamee, simple, uncomplicated, living soclose to nature and the rudimentary life, understood its significance. He knew very well that within a short half-hour after this meal themen would throw themselves down in their bunks to sleep without moving, inert and stupefied with fatigue, till the morning. Work, food, andsleep, all life reduced to its bare essentials, uncomplex, honest, healthy. They were strong, these men, with the strength of the soil theyworked, in touch with the essential things, back again to the startingpoint of civilisation, coarse, vital, real, and sane. 

For a brief moment immediately after the meal, pipes were lit, andthe air grew thick with fragrant tobacco smoke. On a corner of thedining-room table, a game of poker was begun. One of the drivers, aSwede, produced an accordion; a group on the steps of the bunk-houselistened, with alternate gravity and shouts of laughter, to theacknowledged story-teller of the gang. But soon the men began to turnin, stretching themselves at full length on the horse blankets in theracklike bunks. The sounds of heavy breathing increased steadily, lightswere put out, and before the afterglow had faded from the sky, the gangwas asleep. 

Vanamee, however, remained awake. The night was fine, warm; the skysilver-grey with starlight. By and by there would be a moon. In thefirst watch after the twilight, a faint puff of breeze came up outof the south. From all around, the heavy penetrating smell of thenew-turned earth exhaled steadily into the darkness. After a while, whenthe moon came up, he could see the vast brown breast of the earth turntoward it. Far off, distant objects came into view: The giant oak treeat Hooven's ranch house near the irrigating ditch on Los Muertos, theskeleton-like tower of the windmill on Annixter's Home ranch, the clumpof willows along Broderson Creek close to the Long Trestle, and, last ofall, the venerable tower of the Mission of San Juan on the high groundbeyond the creek. 

Thitherward, like homing pigeons, Vanamee's thoughts turnedirresistibly. Near to that tower, just beyond, in the little hollow, hidden now from his sight, was the Seed ranch where Angele Varianhad lived. Straining his eyes, peering across the intervening levels, Vanamee fancied he could almost see the line of venerable pear treesin whose shadow she had been accustomed to wait for him. On many sucha night as this he had crossed the ranches to find her there. His mindwent back to that wonderful time of his life sixteen years beforethis, when Angele was alive, when they two were involved in the sweetintricacies of a love so fine, so pure, so marvellous that it seemed tothem a miracle, a manifestation, a thing veritably divine, put into thelife of them and the hearts of them by God Himself. To that they hadbeen born. For this love's sake they had come into the world, andthe mingling of their lives was to be the Perfect Life, the intended, ordained union of the soul of man with the soul of woman, indissoluble, harmonious as music, beautiful beyond all thought, a foretaste ofHeaven, a hostage of immortality. 

No, he, Vanamee, could never, never forget, never was the edge of hisgrief to lose its sharpness, never would the lapse of time blunt thetooth of his pain. Once more, as he sat there, looking off across theranches, his eyes fixed on the ancient campanile of the Mission church, the anguish that would not die leaped at his throat, tearing at hisheart, shaking him and rending him with a violence as fierce and asprofound as if it all had been but yesterday. The ache returned to hisheart a physical keen pain; his hands gripped tight together, twisting, interlocked, his eyes filled with tears, his whole body shaken and rivenfrom head to heel. 

He had lost her. God had not meant it, after all. The whole matter hadbeen a mistake. That vast, wonderful love that had come upon them hadbeen only the flimsiest mockery. Abruptly Vanamee rose. He knew thenight that was before him. At intervals throughout the course of hisprolonged wanderings, in the desert, on the mesa, deep in the canon, lost and forgotten on the flanks of unnamed mountains, alone under thestars and under the moon's white eye, these hours came to him, his griefrecoiling upon him like the recoil of a vast and terrible engine. Then he must fight out the night, wrestling with his sorrow, prayingsometimes, incoherent, hardly conscious, asking "Why" of the night andof the stars. 

Such another night had come to him now. Until dawn he knew he muststruggle with his grief, torn with memories, his imagination assaultedwith visions of a vanished happiness. If this paroxysm of sorrow was toassail him again that night, there was but one place for him to be. Hewould go to the Mission--he would see Father Sarria; he would pass thenight in the deep shadow of the aged pear trees in the Mission garden. 

He struck out across Quien Sabe, his face, the face of an ascetic, lean, brown, infinitely sad, set toward the Mission church. In about an hourhe reached and crossed the road that led northward from Guadalajaratoward the Seed ranch, and, a little farther on, forded Broderson Creekwhere it ran through one corner of the Mission land. He climbed thehill and halted, out of breath from his brisk wall, at the end of thecolonnade of the Mission itself. 

Until this moment Vanamee had not trusted himself to see the Mission atnight. On the occasion of his first daytime visit with Presley, he hadhurried away even before the twilight had set in, not daring for themoment to face the crowding phantoms that in his imagination filled theMission garden after dark. In the daylight, the place had seemedstrange to him. None of his associations with the old building and itssurroundings were those of sunlight and brightness. Whenever, during hislong sojourns in the wilderness of the Southwest, he had called up thepicture in the eye of his mind, it had always appeared to him in the dimmystery of moonless nights, the venerable pear trees black with shadow, the fountain a thing to be heard rather than seen. 

But as yet he had not entered the garden. That lay on the other side ofthe Mission. Vanamee passed down the colonnade, with its uneven pavementof worn red bricks, to the last door by the belfry tower, and rang thelittle bell by pulling the leather thong that hung from a hole in thedoor above the knob. 

But the maid-servant, who, after a long interval opened the door, blinking and confused at being roused from her sleep, told Vanamee thatSarria was not in his room. Vanamee, however, was known to her as thepriest's protege and great friend, and she allowed him to enter, tellinghim that, no doubt, he would find Sarria in the church itself. Theservant led the way down the cool adobe passage to a larger room thatoccupied the entire width of the bottom of the belfry tower, and whencea flight of aged steps led upward into the dark. At the foot of thestairs was a door opening into the church. The servant admitted Vanamee, closing the door behind her. 

The interior of the Mission, a great oblong of white-washed adobe witha flat ceiling, was lighted dimly by the sanctuary lamp that hung fromthree long chains just over the chancel rail at the far end of thechurch, and by two or three cheap kerosene lamps in brackets ofimitation bronze. All around the walls was the inevitable series ofpictures representing the Stations of the Cross. They were of ahideous crudity of design and composition, yet were wrought out with aninnocent, unquestioning sincerity that was not without its charm. Eachpicture framed alike in gilt, bore its suitable inscription in staringblack letters. "Simon, The Cyrenean, Helps Jesus to Carry His Cross. ""Saint Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus. " "Jesus Falls for the FourthTime, " and so on. Half-way up the length of the church the pews began, coffin-like boxes of blackened oak, shining from years of friction, eachwith its door; while over them, and built out from the wall, was thepulpit, with its tarnished gilt sounding-board above it, like the raisedcover of a great hat-box. Between the pews, in the aisle, the violentvermilion of a strip of ingrain carpet assaulted the eye. Farther onwere the steps to the altar, the chancel rail of worm-riddled oak, thehigh altar, with its napery from the bargain counters of a San Franciscostore, the massive silver candlesticks, each as much as one man couldlift, the gift of a dead Spanish queen, and, last, the pictures of thechancel, the Virgin in a glory, a Christ in agony on the cross, andSt. John the Baptist, the patron saint of the Mission, the San JuanBautista, of the early days, a gaunt grey figure, in skins, two fingersupraised in the gesture of benediction. 

The air of the place was cool and damp, and heavy with the flat, sweetscent of stale incense smoke. It was of a vault-like stillness, and theclosing of the door behind Vanamee reechoed from corner to corner with aprolonged reverberation of thunder. 

However, Father Sarria was not in the church. Vanamee took a couple ofturns the length of the aisle, looking about into the chapels on eitherside of the chancel. But the building was deserted. The priest had beenthere recently, nevertheless, for the altar furniture was in disarray, as though he had been rearranging it but a moment before. On both sidesof the church and half-way up their length, the walls were pierced bylow archways, in which were massive wooden doors, clamped with ironbolts. One of these doors, on the pulpit side of the church, stood ajar, and stepping to it and pushing it wide open, Vanamee looked diagonallyacross a little patch of vegetables--beets, radishes, and lettuce--tothe rear of the building that had once contained the cloisters, andthrough an open window saw Father Sarria diligently polishing the silvercrucifix that usually stood on the high altar. Vanamee did not callto the priest. Putting a finger to either temple, he fixed his eyessteadily upon him for a moment as he moved about at his work. In a fewseconds he closed his eyes, but only part way. The pupils contracted;his forehead lowered to an expression of poignant intensity. Soonafterward he saw the priest pause abruptly in the act of drawing thecover over the crucifix, looking about him from side to side. He turnedagain to his work, and again came to a stop, perplexed, curious. Withuncertain steps, and evidently wondering why he did so, he came to thedoor of the room and opened it, looking out into the night. Vanamee, hidden in the deep shadow of the archway, did not move, but his eyesclosed, and the intense expression deepened on his face. The priesthesitated, moved forward a step, turned back, paused again, then camestraight across the garden patch, brusquely colliding with Vanamee, still motionless in the recess of the archway. 

Sarria gave a great start, catching his breath. 

"Oh--oh, it's you. Was it you I heard calling? No, I could not haveheard--I remember now. What a strange power! I am not sure that it isright to do this thing, Vanamee. I--I HAD to come. I do not know why. It is a great force--a power--I don't like it. Vanamee, sometimes itfrightens me. "

Vanamee put his chin in the air. 

"If I had wanted to, sir, I could have made you come to me from backthere in the Quien Sabe ranch. "

The priest shook his head. 

"It troubles me, " he said, "to think that my own will can count for solittle. Just now I could not resist. If a deep river had been betweenus, I must have crossed it. Suppose I had been asleep now?" "It wouldhave been all the easier, " answered Vanamee. "I understand as little ofthese things as you. But I think if you had been asleep, your power ofresistance would have been so much the more weakened. "

"Perhaps I should not have waked. Perhaps I should have come to you inmy sleep. "

"Perhaps. "

Sarria crossed himself. "It is occult, " he hazarded. "No; I do not likeit. Dear fellow, " he put his hand on Vanamee's shoulder, "don't--callme that way again; promise. See, " he held out his hand, "I am all of atremble. There, we won't speak of it further. Wait for me a moment. Ihave only to put the cross in its place, and a fresh altar cloth, andthen I am done. To-morrow is the feast of The Holy Cross, and I ampreparing against it. The night is fine. We will smoke a cigar in thecloister garden. "

A few moments later the two passed out of the door on the other side ofthe church, opposite the pulpit, Sarria adjusting a silk skull capon his tonsured head. He wore his cassock now, and was far more thechurchman in appearance than when Vanamee and Presley had seen him on aformer occasion. 

They were now in the cloister garden. The place was charming. Everywheregrew clumps of palms and magnolia trees. A grapevine, over a centuryold, occupied a trellis in one angle of the walls which surrounded thegarden on two sides. Along the third side was the church itself, whilethe fourth was open, the wall having crumbled away, its site markedonly by a line of eight great pear trees, older even than the grapevine, gnarled, twisted, bearing no fruit. Directly opposite the pear trees, in the south wall of the garden, was a round, arched portal, whose gategiving upon the esplanade in front of the Mission was always closed. Small gravelled walks, well kept, bordered with mignonette, twistedabout among the flower beds, and underneath the magnolia trees. In thecentre was a little fountain in a stone basin green with moss, whilejust beyond, between the fountain and the pear trees, stood what wasleft of a sun dial, the bronze gnomon, green with the beatings ofthe weather, the figures on the half-circle of the dial worn away, illegible. 

But on the other side of the fountain, and directly opposite the doorof the Mission, ranged against the wall, were nine graves--three withheadstones, the rest with slabs. Two of Sarria's predecessors wereburied here; three of the graves were those of Mission Indians. One wasthought to contain a former alcalde of Guadalajara; two more held thebodies of De La Cuesta and his young wife (taking with her to the gravethe illusion of her husband's love), and the last one, the ninth, atthe end of the line, nearest the pear trees, was marked by a littleheadstone, the smallest of any, on which, together with the properdates--only sixteen years apart--was cut the name "Angele Varian. "

But the quiet, the repose, the isolation of the little cloister gardenwas infinitely delicious. It was a tiny corner of the great valley thatstretched in all directions around it--shut off, discreet, romantic, agarden of dreams, of enchantments, of illusions. Outside there, faroff, the great grim world went clashing through its grooves, but inhere never an echo of the grinding of its wheels entered to jar upon thesubdued modulation of the fountain's uninterrupted murmur. 

Sarria and Vanamee found their way to a stone bench against the sidewall of the Mission, near the door from which they had just issued, and sat down, Sarria lighting a cigar, Vanamee rolling and smokingcigarettes in Mexican fashion. 

All about them widened the vast calm night. All the stars were out. Themoon was coming up. There was no wind, no sound. The insistent flowingof the fountain seemed only as the symbol of the passing of time, athing that was understood rather than heard, inevitable, prolonged. Atlong intervals, a faint breeze, hardly more than a breath, found its wayinto the garden over the enclosing walls, and passed overhead, spreadingeverywhere the delicious, mingled perfume of magnolia blossoms, ofmignonette, of moss, of grass, and all the calm green life silentlyteeming within the enclosure of the walls. 

From where he sat, Vanamee, turning his head, could look out underneaththe pear trees to the north. Close at hand, a little valley lay betweenthe high ground on which the Mission was built, and the line of lowhills just beyond Broderson Creek on the Quien Sabe. In here was theSeed ranch, which Angele's people had cultivated, a unique and beautifulstretch of five hundred acres, planted thick with roses, violets, lilies, tulips, iris, carnations, tube-roses, poppies, heliotrope--allmanner and description of flowers, five hundred acres of them, solid, thick, exuberant; blooming and fading, and leaving their seed or slipsto be marketed broadcast all over the United States. This had been thevocation of Angele's parents--raising flowers for their seeds. All overthe country the Seed ranch was known. Now it was arid, almost dry, butwhen in full flower, toward the middle of summer, the sight of thesehalf-thousand acres royal with colour--vermilion, azure, flamingyellow--was a marvel. When an east wind blew, men on the streets ofBonneville, nearly twelve miles away, could catch the scent of thisvalley of flowers, this chaos of perfume. 

And into this life of flowers, this world of colour, this atmosphereoppressive and clogged and cloyed and thickened with sweet odour, Angelehad been born. There she had lived her sixteen years. There she haddied. It was not surprising that Vanamee, with his intense, delicatesensitiveness to beauty, his almost abnormal capacity for greathappiness, had been drawn to her, had loved her so deeply. 

She came to him from out of the flowers, the smell of the roses in herhair of gold, that hung in two straight plaits on either side of herface; the reflection of the violets in the profound dark blue of hereyes, perplexing, heavy-lidded, almond-shaped, oriental; the aromaand the imperial red of the carnations in her lips, with their almostEgyptian fulness; the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume of thelilies, and the lilies' slender balancing grace in her neck. Her handsdisengaged the odour of the heliotropes. The folds of her dress gave offthe enervating scent of poppies. Her feet were redolent of hyacinths. 

For a long time after sitting down upon the bench, neither the priestnor Vanamee spoke. But after a while Sarria took his cigar from hislips, saying:

"How still it is! This is a beautiful old garden, peaceful, very quiet. Some day I shall be buried here. I like to remember that; and you, too, Vanamee. "

"Quien sabe?"

"Yes, you, too. Where else? No, it is better here, yonder, by the sideof the little girl. "

"I am not able to look forward yet, sir. The things that are to be aresomehow nothing to me at all. For me they amount to nothing. "

"They amount to everything, my boy. "

"Yes, to one part of me, but not to the part of me that belonged toAngele--the best part. Oh, you don't know, " he exclaimed with a suddenmovement, "no one can understand. What is it to me when you tell me thatsometime after I shall die too, somewhere, in a vague place you callHeaven, I shall see her again? Do you think that the idea of that evermade any one's sorrow easier to bear? Ever took the edge from any one'sgrief?"

"But you believe that----"

"Oh, believe, believe!" echoed the other. "What do I believe? I don'tknow. I believe, or I don't believe. I can remember what she WAS, butI cannot hope what she will be. Hope, after all, is only memory seenreversed. When I try to see her in another life--whatever you callit--in Heaven--beyond the grave--this vague place of yours; when I tryto see her there, she comes to my imagination only as what she was, material, earthly, as I loved her. Imperfect, you say; but that is asI saw her, and as I saw her, I loved her; and as she WAS, material, earthly, imperfect, she loved me. It's that, that I want, " he exclaimed. "I don't want her changed. I don't want her spiritualised, exalted, glorified, celestial. I want HER. I think it is only this feeling thathas kept me from killing myself. I would rather be unhappy in thememory of what she actually was, than be happy in the realisation of hertransformed, changed, made celestial. I am only human. Her soul! Thatwas beautiful, no doubt. But, again, it was something very vague, intangible, hardly more than a phrase. But the touch of her hand wasreal, the sound of her voice was real, the clasp of her arms about myneck was real. Oh, " he cried, shaken with a sudden wrench of passion, "give those back to me. Tell your God to give those back to me--thesound of her voice, the touch of her hand, the clasp of her dear arms, REAL, REAL, and then you may talk to me of Heaven. "

Sarria shook his head. "But when you meet her again, " he observed, "inHeaven, you, too, will be changed. You will see her spiritualised, withspiritual eyes. As she is now, she does not appeal to you. I understandthat. It is because, as you say, you are only human, while she isdivine. But when you come to be like her, as she is now, you will knowher as she really is, not as she seemed to be, because her voice wassweet, because her hair was pretty, because her hand was warm in yours. Vanamee, your talk is that of a foolish child. You are like one ofthe Corinthians to whom Paul wrote. Do you remember? Listen now. I canrecall the words, and such words, beautiful and terrible at the sametime, such a majesty. They march like soldiers with trumpets. 'But someman will say'--as you have said just now--'How are the dead raised up?And with what body do they come? Thou fool! That which thou sowest isnot quickened except it die, and that which thou sowest, thou sowest notthat body that shall be, but bare grain. It may chance of wheat, or ofsome other grain. But God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, andto every seed his own body. .. . It is sown a natural body; it is raiseda spiritual body. ' It is because you are a natural body that you cannotunderstand her, nor wish for her as a spiritual body, but when you areboth spiritual, then you shall know each other as you are--know as younever knew before. Your grain of wheat is your symbol of immortality. You bury it in the earth. It dies, and rises again a thousand times morebeautiful. Vanamee, your dear girl was only a grain of humanity thatwe have buried here, and the end is not yet. But all this is so old, soold. The world learned it a thousand years ago, and yet each man thathas ever stood by the open grave of any one he loved must learn it allover again from the beginning. "

Vanamee was silent for a moment, looking off with unseeing eyes betweenthe trunks of the pear trees, over the little valley. 

"That may all be as you say, " he answered after a while. "I have notlearned it yet, in any case. Now, I only know that I love her--oh, as ifit all were yesterday--and that I am suffering, suffering, always. "

He leaned forward, his head supported on his clenched fists, theinfinite sadness of his face deepening like a shadow, the tears brimmingin his deep-set eyes. A question that he must ask, which involvedthe thing that was scarcely to be thought of, occurred to him at thismoment. After hesitating for a long moment, he said:

"I have been away a long time, and I have had no news of this placesince I left. Is there anything to tell, Father? Has any discovery beenmade, any suspicion developed, as to--the Other?"

The priest shook his head. 

"Not a word, not a whisper. It is a mystery. It always will be. "

Vanamee clasped his head between his clenched fists, rocking himself toand fro. 

"Oh, the terror of it, " he murmured. "The horror of it. And she--thinkof it, Sarria, only sixteen, a little girl; so innocent, that she neverknew what wrong meant, pure as a little child is pure, who believed thatall things were good; mature only in her love. And to be struck downlike that, while your God looked down from Heaven and would not take herpart. " All at once he seemed to lose control of himself. One of thosefuries of impotent grief and wrath that assailed him from time to time, blind, insensate, incoherent, suddenly took possession of him. Atorrent of words issued from his lips, and he flung out an arm, thefist clenched, in a fierce, quick gesture, partly of despair, partly ofdefiance, partly of supplication. "No, your God would not take her part. Where was God's mercy in that? Where was Heaven's protection in that?Where was the loving kindness you preach about? Why did God give herlife if it was to be stamped out? Why did God give her the power of loveif it was to come to nothing? Sarria, listen to me. Why did God makeher so divinely pure if He permitted that abomination? Ha!" he exclaimedbitterly, "your God! Why, an Apache buck would have been more merciful. Your God! There is no God. There is only the Devil. The Heaven you prayto is only a joke, a wretched trick, a delusion. It is only Hell that isreal. "

Sarria caught him by the arm. 

"You are a fool and a child, " he exclaimed, "and it is blasphemy thatyou are saying. I forbid it. You understand? I forbid it. "

Vanamee turned on him with a sudden cry. "Then, tell your God to giveher back to me!"

Sarria started away from him, his eyes widening in astonishment, surprised out of all composure by the other's outburst. Vanamee'sswarthy face was pale, the sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes were markedwith great black shadows. The priest no longer recognised him. Theface, that face of the ascetic, lean, framed in its long black hair andpointed beard, was quivering with the excitement of hallucination. Itwas the face of the inspired shepherds of the Hebraic legends, livingclose to nature, the younger prophets of Israel, dwellers in thewilderness, solitary, imaginative, believing in the Vision, havingstrange delusions, gifted with strange powers. In a brief second ofthought, Sarria understood. Out into the wilderness, the vast ariddesert of the Southwest, Vanamee had carried his grief. For days, forweeks, months even, he had been alone, a solitary speck lost in theimmensity of the horizons; continually he was brooding, haunted with hissorrow, thinking, thinking, often hard put to it for food. The body wasill-nourished, and the mind, concentrated forever upon one subject, hadrecoiled upon itself, had preyed upon the naturally nervous temperament, till the imagination had become exalted, morbidly active, diseased, beset with hallucinations, forever in search of the manifestation, ofthe miracle. It was small wonder that, bringing a fancy so distortedback to the scene of a vanished happiness, Vanamee should be racked withthe most violent illusions, beset in the throes of a veritable hysteria. 

"Tell your God to give her back to me, " he repeated with fierceinsistence. 

It was the pitch of mysticism, the imagination harassed and goadedbeyond the normal round, suddenly flipping from the circumference, spinning off at a tangent, out into the void, where all things seemedpossible, hurtling through the dark there, groping for the supernatural, clamouring for the miracle. And it was also the human, natural protestagainst the inevitable, the irrevocable; the spasm of revolt under thesting of death, the rebellion of the soul at the victory of the grave. 

"He can give her back to me if He only will, " Vanamee cried. "Sarria, you must help me. I tell you--I warn you, sir, I can't last much longerunder it. My head is all wrong with it--I've no more hold on my mind. Something must happen or I shall lose my senses. I am breaking downunder it all, my body and my mind alike. Bring her to me; make God showher to me. If all tales are true, it would not be the first time. If Icannot have her, at least let me see her as she was, real, earthly, nother spirit, her ghost. I want her real self, undefiled again. If this isdementia, then let me be demented. But help me, you and your God; createthe delusion, do the miracle. "

"Stop!" cried the priest again, shaking him roughly by the shoulder. "Stop. Be yourself. This is dementia; but I shall NOT let you bedemented. Think of what you are saying. Bring her back to you! Isthat the way of God? I thought you were a man; this is the talk of aweak-minded girl. "

Vanamee stirred abruptly in his place, drawing a long breath and lookingabout him vaguely, as if he came to himself. 

"You are right, " he muttered. "I hardly know what I am saying at times. But there are moments when my whole mind and soul seem to rise up inrebellion against what has happened; when it seems to me that I amstronger than death, and that if I only knew how to use the strengthof my will, concentrate my power of thought--volition--that I could--Idon't know--not call her back--but--something----"

"A diseased and distorted mind is capable of hallucinations, if that iswhat you mean, " observed Sarria. 

"Perhaps that is what I mean. Perhaps I want only the delusion, afterall. "

Sarria did not reply, and there was a long silence. In the damp southcorners of the walls a frog began to croak at exact intervals. Thelittle fountain rippled monotonously, and a magnolia flower dropped fromone of the trees, falling straight as a plummet through the motionlessair, and settling upon the gravelled walk with a faint rustling sound. Otherwise the stillness was profound. 

A little later, the priest's cigar, long since out, slipped from hisfingers to the ground. He began to nod gently. Vanamee touched his arm. 

"Asleep, sir?"

The other started, rubbing his eyes. 

"Upon my word, I believe I was. "

"Better go to bed, sir. I am not tired. I think I shall sit out here alittle longer. "

"Well, perhaps I would be better off in bed. YOUR bed is always readyfor you here whenever you want to use it. "

"No--I shall go back to Quien Sabe--later. Good-night, sir. "

"Good-night, my boy. "

Vanamee was left alone. For a long time he sat motionless in his place, his elbows on his knees, his chin propped in his hands. The minutespassed--then the hours. The moon climbed steadily higher among thestars. Vanamee rolled and smoked cigarette after cigarette, the bluehaze of smoke hanging motionless above his head, or drifting in slowlyweaving filaments across the open spaces of the garden. 

But the influence of the old enclosure, this corner of romance andmystery, this isolated garden of dreams, savouring of the past, with itslegends, its graves, its crumbling sun dial, its fountain with its rimeof moss, was not to be resisted. Now that the priest had left him, thesame exaltation of spirit that had seized upon Vanamee earlier in theevening, by degrees grew big again in his mind and imagination. Hissorrow assaulted him like the flagellations of a fine whiplash, and hislove for Angele rose again in his heart, it seemed to him never so deep, so tender, so infinitely strong. No doubt, it was his familiarity withthe Mission garden, his clear-cut remembrance of it, as it was in thedays when he had met Angele there, tallying now so exactly with thereality there under his eyes, that brought her to his imagination sovividly. As yet he dared not trust himself near her grave, but, for themoment, he rose and, his hands clasped behind him, walked slowly frompoint to point amid the tiny gravelled walks, recalling the incidents ofeighteen years ago. On the bench he had quitted he and Angele had oftensat. Here by the crumbling sun dial, he recalled the night when he hadkissed her for the first time. Here, again, by the rim of the fountain, with its fringe of green, she once had paused, and, baring her arm tothe shoulder, had thrust it deep into the water, and then withdrawingit, had given it to him to kiss, all wet and cool; and here, at last, under the shadow of the pear trees they had sat, evening after evening, looking off over the little valley below them, watching the night builditself, dome-like, from horizon to zenith. 

Brusquely Vanamee turned away from the prospect. The Seed ranch was darkat this time of the year, and flowerless. Far off toward its centre, hehad caught a brief glimpse of the house where Angele had lived, and afaint light burning in its window. But he turned from it sharply. Thedeep-seated travail of his grief abruptly reached the paroxysm. Withlong strides he crossed the garden and reentered the Mission churchitself, plunging into the coolness of its atmosphere as into a bath. What he searched for he did not know, or, rather, did not define. Heknew only that he was suffering, that a longing for Angele, for someobject around which his great love could enfold itself, was tearingat his heart with iron teeth. He was ready to be deluded; craved thehallucination; begged pitifully for the illusion; anything rather thanthe empty, tenantless night, the voiceless silence, the vast lonelinessof the overspanning arc of the heavens. 

Before the chancel rail of the altar, under the sanctuary lamp, Vanameesank upon his knees, his arms folded upon the rail, his head bowed downupon them. He prayed, with what words he could not say for what he didnot understand--for help, merely, for relief, for an Answer to his cry. 

It was upon that, at length, that his disordered mind concentrateditself, an Answer--he demanded, he implored an Answer. Not a vaguevisitation of Grace, not a formless sense of Peace; but an Answer, something real, even if the reality were fancied, a voice out of thenight, responding to his, a hand in the dark clasping his gropingfingers, a breath, human, warm, fragrant, familiar, like a soft, sweetcaress on his shrunken cheeks. Alone there in the dim half-light ofthe decaying Mission, with its crumbling plaster, its naive crudityof ornament and picture, he wrestled fiercely with his desires--words, fragments of sentences, inarticulate, incoherent, wrenched from histight-shut teeth. 

But the Answer was not in the church. Above him, over the high altar, the Virgin in a glory, with downcast eyes and folded hands, grew vagueand indistinct in the shadow, the colours fading, tarnished by centuriesof incense smoke. The Christ in agony on the Cross was but a lamentablevision of tormented anatomy, grey flesh, spotted with crimson. The St. John, the San Juan Bautista, patron saint of the Mission, the gauntfigure in skins, two fingers upraised in the gesture of benediction, gazed stolidly out into the half-gloom under the ceiling, ignoring thehuman distress that beat itself in vain against the altar rail below, and Angele remained as before--only a memory, far distant, intangible, lost. 

Vanamee rose, turning his back upon the altar with a vague gesture ofdespair. He crossed the church, and issuing from the low-arched dooropposite the pulpit, once more stepped out into the garden. Here, atleast, was reality. The warm, still air descended upon him like a cloak, grateful, comforting, dispelling the chill that lurked in the damp mouldof plaster and crumbling adobe. 

But now he found his way across the garden on the other side of thefountain, where, ranged against the eastern wall, were nine graves. Here Angele was buried, in the smallest grave of them all, marked by thelittle headstone, with its two dates, only sixteen years apart. To thisspot, at last, he had returned, after the years spent in the desert, thewilderness--after all the wanderings of the Long Trail. Here, if ever, he must have a sense of her nearness. Close at hand, a short four feetunder that mound of grass, was the form he had so often held in theembrace of his arms; the face, the very face he had kissed, that facewith the hair of gold making three-cornered the round white forehead, the violet-blue eyes, heavy-lidded, with their strange oriental slantupward toward the temples; the sweet full lips, almost Egyptian in theirfulness--all that strange, perplexing, wonderful beauty, so troublous, so enchanting, so out of all accepted standards. 

He bent down, dropping upon one knee, a hand upon the headstone, andread again the inscription. Then instinctively his hand left the stoneand rested upon the low mound of turf, touching it with the softness ofa caress; and then, before he was aware of it, he was stretched at fulllength upon the earth, beside the grave, his arms about the low mound, his lips pressed against the grass with which it was covered. Thepent-up grief of nearly twenty years rose again within his heart, andoverflowed, irresistible, violent, passionate. There was no one tosee, no one to hear. Vanamee had no thought of restraint. He no longerwrestled with his pain--strove against it. There was even a sense ofrelief in permitting himself to be overcome. But the reaction from thisoutburst was equally violent. His revolt against the inevitable, hisprotest against the grave, shook him from head to foot, goaded himbeyond all bounds of reason, hounded him on and into the domain ofhysteria, dementia. Vanamee was no longer master of himself--no longerknew what he was doing. 

At first, he had been content with merely a wild, unreasoned cry toHeaven that Angele should be restored to him, but the vast egotism thatseems to run through all forms of disordered intelligence gave hisfancy another turn. He forgot God. He no longer reckoned with Heaven. Hearrogated their powers to himself--struggled to be, of his own unaidedmight, stronger than death, more powerful than the grave. He haddemanded of Sarria that God should restore Angele to him, but now heappealed directly to Angele herself. As he lay there, his arms claspedabout her grave, she seemed so near to him that he fancied she MUSThear. And suddenly, at this moment, his recollection of his strangecompelling power--the same power by which he had called Presley to himhalf-way across the Quien Sabe ranch, the same power which had broughtSarria to his side that very evening--recurred to him. Concentrating hismind upon the one object with which it had so long been filled, Vanamee, his eyes closed, his face buried in his arms, exclaimed:

"Come to me--Angele--don't you hear? Come to me. "

But the Answer was not in the Grave. Below him the voiceless Earth laysilent, moveless, withholding the secret, jealous of that which it heldso close in its grip, refusing to give up that which had been confidedto its keeping, untouched by the human anguish that above there, on itssurface, clutched with despairing hands at a grave long made. The Earththat only that morning had been so eager, so responsive to the lightestsummons, so vibrant with Life, now at night, holding death within itsembrace, guarding inviolate the secret of the Grave, was deaf to allentreaty, refused the Answer, and Angele remained as before, only amemory, far distant, intangible, lost. 

Vanamee lifted his head, looking about him with unseeing eyes, tremblingwith the exertion of his vain effort. But he could not as yet allowhimself to despair. Never before had that curious power of attractionfailed him. He felt himself to be so strong in this respect that hewas persuaded if he exerted himself to the limit of his capacity, something--he could not say what--must come of it. If it was onlya self-delusion, an hallucination, he told himself that he would becontent. 

Almost of its own accord, his distorted mind concentrated itself again, every thought, all the power of his will riveting themselves uponAngele. As if she were alive, he summoned her to him. His eyes, fixedupon the name cut into the headstone, contracted, the pupils growingsmall, his fists shut tight, his nerves braced rigid. 

For a few seconds he stood thus, breathless, expectant, awaiting themanifestation, the Miracle. Then, without knowing why, hardly consciousof what was transpiring, he found that his glance was leaving theheadstone, was turning from the grave. Not only this, but his wholebody was following the direction of his eyes. Before he knew it, he wasstanding with his back to Angele's grave, was facing the north, facingthe line of pear trees and the little valley where the Seed ranch lay. At first, he thought this was because he had allowed his will to weaken, the concentrated power of his mind to grow slack. And once more turningtoward the grave, he banded all his thoughts together in a consummateeffort, his teeth grinding together, his hands pressed to his forehead. He forced himself to the notion that Angele was alive, and to thiscreature of his imagination he addressed himself:

"Angele!" he cried in a low voice; "Angele, I am calling you--do youhear? Come to me--come to me now, now. "

Instead of the Answer he demanded, that inexplicable counter-influencecut across the current of his thought. Strive as he would against it, he must veer to the north, toward the pear trees. Obeying it, he turned, and, still wondering, took a step in that direction, then another andanother. The next moment he came abruptly to himself, in the blackshadow of the pear trees themselves, and, opening his eyes, foundhimself looking off over the Seed ranch, toward the little house in thecentre where Angele had once lived. 

Perplexed, he returned to the grave, once more calling upon theresources of his will, and abruptly, so soon as these reached a certainpoint, the same cross-current set in. He could no longer keep his eyesupon the headstone, could no longer think of the grave and what it held. He must face the north; he must be drawn toward the pear trees, andthere left standing in their shadow, looking out aimlessly over the Seedranch, wondering, bewildered. Farther than this the influence neverdrew him, but up to this point--the line of pear trees--it was not to beresisted. 

For a time the peculiarity of the affair was of more interest to Vanameethan even his own distress of spirit, and once or twice he repeated theattempt, almost experimentally, and invariably with the same result: sosoon as he seemed to hold Angele in the grip of his mind, he was movedto turn about toward the north, and hurry toward the pear trees on thecrest of the hill that over-looked the little valley. 

But Vanamee's unhappiness was too keen this night for him to dwell longupon the vagaries of his mind. Submitting at length, and abandoning thegrave, he flung himself down in the black shade of the pear trees, hischin in his hands, and resigned himself finally and definitely to theinrush of recollection and the exquisite grief of an infinite regret. 

To his fancy, she came to him again. He put himself back many years. Heremembered the warm nights of July and August, profoundly still, thesky encrusted with stars, the little Mission garden exhaling the mingledperfumes that all through the scorching day had been distilled underthe steady blaze of a summer's sun. He saw himself as another person, arriving at this, their rendezvous. All day long she had been inhis mind. All day long he had looked forward to this quiet hour thatbelonged to her. It was dark. He could see nothing, but, by and by, he heard a step, a gentle rustle of the grass on the slope of the hillpressed under an advancing foot. Then he saw the faint gleam of pallidgold of her hair, a barely visible glow in the starlight, and heard themurmur of her breath in the lapse of the over-passing breeze. And then, in the midst of the gentle perfumes of the garden, the perfumes of themagnolia flowers, of the mignonette borders, of the crumbling walls, there expanded a new odour, or the faint mingling of many odours, thesmell of the roses that lingered in her hair, of the lilies that exhaledfrom her neck, of the heliotrope that disengaged itself from her handsand arms, and of the hyacinths with which her little feet were redolent, And then, suddenly, it was herself--her eyes, heavy-lidded, violet blue, full of the love of him; her sweet full lips speaking his name; herhands clasping his hands, his shoulders, his neck--her whole dear bodygiving itself into his embrace; her lips against his; her hands holdinghis head, drawing his face down to hers. 

Vanamee, as he remembered all this, flung out an arm with a cry of pain, his eyes searching the gloom, all his mind in strenuous mutiny againstthe triumph of Death. His glance shot swiftly out across the night, unconsciously following the direction from which Angele used to come tohim. 

"Come to me now, " he exclaimed under his breath, tense and rigid withthe vast futile effort of his will. "Come to me now, now. Don't you hearme, Angele? You must, you must come. "

Suddenly Vanamee returned to himself with the abruptness of a blow. His eyes opened. He half raised himself from the ground. Swiftly hisscattered wits readjusted themselves. Never more sane, never morehimself, he rose to his feet and stood looking off into the night acrossthe Seed ranch. 

"What was it?" he murmured, bewildered. 

He looked around him from side to side, as if to get in touch withreality once more. He looked at his hands, at the rough bark of the peartree next which he stood, at the streaked and rain-eroded walls ofthe Mission and garden. The exaltation of his mind calmed itself; theunnatural strain under which he laboured slackened. He became thoroughlymaster of himself again, matter-of-fact, practical, keen. 

But just so sure as his hands were his own, just so sure as the barkof the pear tree was rough, the mouldering adobe of the Mission wallsdamp--just so sure had Something occurred. It was vague, intangible, appealing only to some strange, nameless sixth sense, but none the lessperceptible. His mind, his imagination, sent out from him across thenight, across the little valley below him, speeding hither and thitherthrough the dark, lost, confused, had suddenly paused, hovering, hadfound Something. It had not returned to him empty-handed. It had comeback, but now there was a change--mysterious, illusive. There were nowords for this that had transpired. But for the moment, one thing onlywas certain. The night was no longer voiceless, the dark was no longerempty. Far off there, beyond the reach of vision, unlocalised, strange, a ripple had formed on the still black pool of the night, had formed, flashed one instant to the stars, then swiftly faded again. The nightshut down once more. There was no sound--nothing stirred. 

For the moment, Vanamee stood transfixed, struck rigid in his place, stupefied, his eyes staring, breathless with utter amazement. Then, step by step, he shrank back into the deeper shadow, treading with theinfinite precaution of a prowling leopard. A qualm of something verymuch like fear seized upon him. But immediately on the heels of thisfirst impression came the doubt of his own senses. Whatever had happenedhad been so ephemeral, so faint, so intangible, that now he wonderedif he had not deceived himself, after all. But the reaction followed. Surely, there had been Something. And from that moment began for himthe most poignant uncertainty of mind. Gradually he drew back into thegarden, holding his breath, listening to every faintest sound, walkingupon tiptoe. He reached the fountain, and wetting his hands, passed themacross his forehead and eyes. Once more he stood listening. The silencewas profound. 

Troubled, disturbed, Vanamee went away, passing out of the garden, descending the hill. He forded Broderson Creek where it intersected theroad to Guadalajara, and went on across Quien Sabe, walking slowly, his head bent down, his hands clasped behind his back, thoughtful, perplexed. 

CHAPTER V

At seven o'clock, in the bedroom of his ranch house, in thewhite-painted iron bedstead with its blue-grey army blankets and redcounterpane, Annixter was still asleep, his face red, his mouth open, his stiff yellow hair in wild disorder. On the wooden chair at thebed-head, stood the kerosene lamp, by the light of which he had beenreading the previous evening. Beside it was a paper bag of dried prunes, and the limp volume of "Copperfield, " the place marked by a slip ofpaper torn from the edge of the bag. 

Annixter slept soundly, making great work of the business, unable totake even his rest gracefully. His eyes were shut so tight that the skinat their angles was drawn into puckers. Under his pillow, his twohands were doubled up into fists. At intervals, he gritted his teethferociously, while, from time to time, the abrupt sound of his snoringdominated the brisk ticking of the alarm clock that hung from the brassknob of the bed-post, within six inches of his ear. 

But immediately after seven, this clock sprung its alarm with theabruptness of an explosion, and within the second, Annixter had hurledthe bed-clothes from him and flung himself up to a sitting posture onthe edge of the bed, panting and gasping, blinking at the light, rubbinghis head, dazed and bewildered, stupefied at the hideous suddenness withwhich he had been wrenched from his sleep. 

His first act was to take down the alarm clock and stifle its prolongedwhirring under the pillows and blankets. But when this had been done, hecontinued to sit stupidly on the edge of the bed, curling his toes awayfrom the cold of the floor; his half-shut eyes, heavy with sleep, fixedand vacant, closing and opening by turns. For upwards of three minuteshe alternately dozed and woke, his head and the whole upper half of hisbody sagging abruptly sideways from moment to moment. But at length, coming more to himself, he straightened up, ran his fingers through hishair, and with a prodigious yawn, murmured vaguely:

"Oh, Lord! Oh-h, LORD!"

He stretched three or four times, twisting about in his place, curlingand uncurling his toes, muttering from time to time between two yawns:

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!"

He stared about the room, collecting his thoughts, readjusting himselffor the day's work. 

The room was barren, the walls of tongue-and-groove sheathing--alternatebrown and yellow boards--like the walls of a stable, were adorned withtwo or three unframed lithographs, the Christmas "souvenirs" of weeklyperiodicals, fastened with great wire nails; a bunch of herbs orflowers, lamentably withered and grey with dust, was affixed to themirror over the black walnut washstand by the window, and a yellowedphotograph of Annixter's combined harvester--himself and his men in agroup before it--hung close at hand. On the floor, at the bedside andbefore the bureau, were two oval rag-carpet rugs. In the corners ofthe room were muddy boots, a McClellan saddle, a surveyor's transit, anempty coal-hod and a box of iron bolts and nuts. On the wall over thebed, in a gilt frame, was Annixter's college diploma, while on thebureau, amid a litter of hair-brushes, dirty collars, driving gloves, cigars and the like, stood a broken machine for loading shells. 

It was essentially a man's room, rugged, uncouth, virile, full of theodours of tobacco, of leather, of rusty iron; the bare floor hollowed bythe grind of hob-nailed boots, the walls marred by the friction of heavythings of metal. Strangely enough, Annixter's clothes were disposedof on the single chair with the precision of an old maid. Thus he hadplaced them the night before; the boots set carefully side by side, thetrousers, with the overalls still upon them, neatly folded upon the seatof the chair, the coat hanging from its back. 

The Quien Sabe ranch house was a six-room affair, all on one floor. Byno excess of charity could it have been called a home. Annixter was awealthy man; he could have furnished his dwelling with quite as muchelegance as that of Magnus Derrick. As it was, however, he consideredhis house merely as a place to eat, to sleep, to change his clothesin; as a shelter from the rain, an office where business wastransacted--nothing more. 

When he was sufficiently awake, Annixter thrust his feet into a pair ofwicker slippers, and shuffled across the office adjoining his bedroom, to the bathroom just beyond, and stood under the icy shower a fewminutes, his teeth chattering, fulminating oaths at the coldness of thewater. Still shivering, he hurried into his clothes, and, having pushedthe button of the electric bell to announce that he was ready forbreakfast, immediately plunged into the business of the day. While hewas thus occupied, the butcher's cart from Bonneville drove intothe yard with the day's supply of meat. This cart also brought theBonneville paper and the mail of the previous night. In the bundle ofcorrespondence that the butcher handed to Annixter that morning, was atelegram from Osterman, at that time on his second trip to Los Angeles. It read:

"Flotation of company in this district assured. Have secured services ofdesirable party. Am now in position to sell you your share stock, as peroriginal plan. "

Annixter grunted as he tore the despatch into strips. "Well, " hemuttered, "that part is settled, then. "

He made a little pile of the torn strips on the top of the unlightedstove, and burned them carefully, scowling down into the flicker offire, thoughtful and preoccupied. 

He knew very well what Osterman referred to by "Flotation of company, "and also who was the "desirable party" he spoke of. 

Under protest, as he was particular to declare, and after interminableargument, Annixter had allowed himself to be reconciled with Osterman, and to be persuaded to reenter the proposed political "deal. " Acommittee had been formed to finance the affair--Osterman, oldBroderson, Annixter himself, and, with reservations, hardly more thana looker-on, Harran Derrick. Of this committee, Osterman was consideredchairman. Magnus Derrick had formally and definitely refused hisadherence to the scheme. He was trying to steer a middle course. Hisposition was difficult, anomalous. If freight rates were cut through theefforts of the members of the committee, he could not very well avoidtaking advantage of the new schedule. He would be the gainer, thoughsharing neither the risk nor the expense. But, meanwhile, the days werepassing; the primary elections were drawing nearer. The committee couldnot afford to wait, and by way of a beginning, Osterman had gone to LosAngeles, fortified by a large sum of money--a purse to which Annixter, Broderson and himself had contributed. He had put himself in touch withDisbrow, the political man of the Denver, Pueblo and Mojave road, andhad had two interviews with him. The telegram that Annixter receivedthat morning was to say that Disbrow had been bought over, and wouldadopt Parrell as the D. , P. And M. Candidate for Railroad Commissionerfrom the third district. 

One of the cooks brought up Annixter's breakfast that morning, and hewent through it hastily, reading his mail at the same time and glancingover the pages of the "Mercury, " Genslinger's paper. The "Mercury, "Annixter was persuaded, received a subsidy from the Pacific andSouthwestern Railroad, and was hardly better than the mouthpieceby which Shelgrim and the General Office spoke to ranchers aboutBonneville. 

An editorial in that morning's issue said:

"It would not be surprising to the well-informed, if the long-deferredre-grade of the value of the railroad sections included in the LosMuertos, Quien Sabe, Osterman and Broderson properties was made beforethe first of the year. Naturally, the tenants of these lands feel aninterest in the price which the railroad will put upon its holdings, and it is rumoured they expect the land will be offered to them fortwo dollars and fifty cents per acre. It needs no seventh daughter of aseventh daughter to foresee that these gentlemen will be disappointed. "

"Rot!" vociferated Annixter to himself as he finished. He rolled thepaper into a wad and hurled it from him. 

"Rot! rot! What does Genslinger know about it? I stand on my agreementwith the P. And S. W. --from two fifty to five dollars an acre--thereit is in black and white. The road IS obligated. And my improvements! Imade the land valuable by improving it, irrigating it, draining it, andcultivating it. Talk to ME. I know better. "

The most abiding impression that Genslinger's editorial made upon himwas, that possibly the "Mercury" was not subsidised by the corporationafter all. If it was; Genslinger would not have been led into makinghis mistake as to the value of the land. He would have known that therailroad was under contract to sell at two dollars and a half an acre, and not only this, but that when the land was put upon the market, itwas to be offered to the present holders first of all. Annixter calledto mind the explicit terms of the agreement between himself and therailroad, and dismissed the matter from his mind. He lit a cigar, put onhis hat and went out. 

The morning was fine, the air nimble, brisk. On the summit of theskeleton-like tower of the artesian well, the windmill was turningsteadily in a breeze from the southwest. The water in the irrigatingditch was well up. There was no cloud in the sky. Far off to the eastand west, the bulwarks of the valley, the Coast Range and the foothillsof the Sierras stood out, pale amethyst against the delicate pink andwhite sheen of the horizon. The sunlight was a veritable flood, crystal, limpid, sparkling, setting a feeling of gayety in the air, stirring upan effervescence in the blood, a tumult of exuberance in the veins. 

But on his way to the barns, Annixter was obliged to pass by the opendoor of the dairy-house. Hilma Tree was inside, singing at her work;her voice of a velvety huskiness, more of the chest than of the throat, mingling with the liquid dashing of the milk in the vats and churns, andthe clear, sonorous clinking of the cans and pans. Annixter turned intothe dairy-house, pausing on the threshold, looking about him. Hilmastood bathed from head to foot in the torrent of sunlight that poured inupon her from the three wide-open windows. She was charming, delicious, radiant of youth, of health, of well-being. Into her eyes, wide open, brown, rimmed with their fine, thin line of intense black lashes, thesun set a diamond flash; the same golden light glowed all around herthick, moist hair, lambent, beautiful, a sheen of almost metalliclustre, and reflected itself upon her wet lips, moving with the wordsof her singing. The whiteness of her skin under the caress of this hale, vigorous morning light was dazzling, pure, of a fineness beyond words. Beneath the sweet modulation of her chin, the reflected light from theburnished copper vessel she was carrying set a vibration of pale gold. Overlaying the flush of rose in her cheeks, seen only when she stoodagainst the sunlight, was a faint sheen of down, a lustrous floss, delicate as the pollen of a flower, or the impalpable powder of a moth'swing. She was moving to and fro about her work, alert, joyous, robust;and from all the fine, full amplitude of her figure, from her thickwhite neck, sloping downward to her shoulders, from the deep, feminineswell of her breast, the vigorous maturity of her hips, there wasdisengaged a vibrant note of gayety, of exuberant animal life, sane, honest, strong. She wore a skirt of plain blue calico and a shirtwaistof pink linen, clean, trim; while her sleeves turned back to hershoulders, showed her large, white arms, wet with milk, redolent andfragrant with milk, glowing and resplendent in the early morning light. 

On the threshold, Annixter took off his hat. 

"Good morning, Miss Hilma. "

Hilma, who had set down the copper can on top of the vat, turned aboutquickly. 

"Oh, GOOD morning, sir;" and, unconsciously, she made a little gestureof salutation with her hand, raising it part way toward her head, as aman would have done. 

"Well, " began Annixter vaguely, "how are you getting along down here?"

"Oh, very fine. To-day, there is not so much to do. We drew the wheyhours ago, and now we are just done putting the curd to press. I havebeen cleaning. See my pans. Wouldn't they do for mirrors, sir? And thecopper things. I have scrubbed and scrubbed. Oh, you can look into thetiniest corners, everywhere, you won't find so much as the littlestspeck of dirt or grease. I love CLEAN things, and this room is my ownparticular place. Here I can do just as I please, and that is, to keepthe cement floor, and the vats, and the churns and the separators, andespecially the cans and coppers, clean; clean, and to see that the milkis pure, oh, so that a little baby could drink it; and to have the airalways sweet, and the sun--oh, lots and lots of sun, morning, noon andafternoon, so that everything shines. You know, I never see the sun setthat it don't make me a little sad; yes, always, just a little. Isn'tit funny? I should want it to be day all the time. And when the day isgloomy and dark, I am just as sad as if a very good friend of mine hadleft me. Would you believe it? Just until within a few years, when Iwas a big girl, sixteen and over, mamma had to sit by my bed every nightbefore I could go to sleep. I was afraid in the dark. Sometimes I amnow. Just imagine, and now I am nineteen--a young lady. "

"You were, hey?" observed Annixter, for the sake of saying something. "Afraid in the dark? What of--ghosts?"

"N-no; I don't know what. I wanted the light, I wanted----" She drewa deep breath, turning towards the window and spreading her pinkfinger-tips to the light. "Oh, the SUN. I love the sun. See, put yourhand there--here on the top of the vat--like that. Isn't it warm? Isn'tit fine? And don't you love to see it coming in like that through thewindows, floods of it; and all the little dust in it shining? Wherethere is lots of sunlight, I think the people must be very good. It'sonly wicked people that love the dark. And the wicked things are alwaysdone and planned in the dark, I think. Perhaps, too, that's why I hatethings that are mysterious--things that I can't see, that happen in thedark. " She wrinkled her nose with a little expression of aversion. "Ihate a mystery. Maybe that's why I am afraid in the dark--or was. Ishouldn't like to think that anything could happen around me that Icouldn't see or understand or explain. "

She ran on from subject to subject, positively garrulous, talking in herlow-pitched voice of velvety huskiness for the mere enjoyment of puttingher ideas into speech, innocently assuming that they were quite asinteresting to others as to herself. She was yet a great child, ignoringthe fact that she had ever grown up, taking a child's interest in herimmediate surroundings, direct, straightforward, plain. While speaking, she continued about her work, rinsing out the cans with a mixture of hotwater and soda, scouring them bright, and piling them in the sunlight ontop of the vat. 

Obliquely, and from between his narrowed lids, Annixter scrutinised herfrom time to time, more and more won over by her adorable freshness, her clean, fine youth. The clumsiness that he usually experienced in thepresence of women was wearing off. Hilma Tree's direct simplicity puthim at his ease. He began to wonder if he dared to kiss Hilma, and ifhe did dare, how she would take it. A spark of suspicion flickered upin his mind. Did not her manner imply, vaguely, an invitation? Onenever could tell with feemales. That was why she was talking so much, nodoubt, holding him there, affording the opportunity. Aha! She had bestlook out, or he would take her at her word. 

"Oh, I had forgotten, " suddenly exclaimed Hilma, "the very thing Iwanted to show you--the new press. You remember I asked for one lastmonth? This is it. See, this is how it works. Here is where the curdsgo; look. And this cover is screwed down like this, and then you workthe lever this way. " She grasped the lever in both hands, throwing herweight upon it, her smooth, bare arm swelling round and firm with theeffort, one slim foot, in its low shoe set off with the bright, steelbuckle, braced against the wall. 

"My, but that takes strength, " she panted, looking up at him andsmiling. "But isn't it a fine press? Just what we needed. "

"And, " Annixter cleared his throat, "and where do you keep the cheesesand the butter?" He thought it very likely that these were in the cellarof the dairy. 

"In the cellar, " answered Hilma. "Down here, see?" She raised the flapof the cellar door at the end of the room. "Would you like to see? Comedown; I'll show you. "

She went before him down into the cool obscurity underneath, redolentof new cheese and fresh butter. Annixter followed, a certain excitementbeginning to gain upon him. He was almost sure now that Hilma wanted himto kiss her. At all events, one could but try. But, as yet, he was notabsolutely sure. Suppose he had been mistaken in her; suppose she shouldconsider herself insulted and freeze him with an icy stare. Annixterwinced at the very thought of it. Better let the whole business go, andget to work. He was wasting half the morning. Yet, if she DID want togive him the opportunity of kissing her, and he failed to take advantageof it, what a ninny she would think him; she would despise him for beingafraid. He afraid! He, Annixter, afraid of a fool, feemale girl. Why, he owed it to himself as a man to go as far as he could. He told himselfthat that goat Osterman would have kissed Hilma Tree weeks ago. To testhis state of mind, he imagined himself as having decided to kiss her, after all, and at once was surprised to experience a poignant qualm ofexcitement, his heart beating heavily, his breath coming short. At thesame time, his courage remained with him. He was not afraid to try. Hefelt a greater respect for himself because of this. His self-assurancehardened within him, and as Hilma turned to him, asking him to tastea cut from one of the ripe cheeses, he suddenly stepped close to her, throwing an arm about her shoulders, advancing his head. 

But at the last second, he bungled, hesitated; Hilma shrank from him, supple as a young reed; Annixter clutched harshly at her arm, and trodhis full weight upon one of her slender feet, his cheek and chin barelytouching the delicate pink lobe of one of her ears, his lips brushingmerely a fold of her shirt waist between neck and shoulder. The thingwas a failure, and at once he realised that nothing had been furtherfrom Hilma's mind than the idea of his kissing her. 

She started back from him abruptly, her hands nervously clasped againsther breast, drawing in her breath sharply and holding it with a little, tremulous catch of the throat that sent a quivering vibration the lengthof her smooth, white neck. Her eyes opened wide with a childlike look, more of astonishment than anger. She was surprised, out of all measure, discountenanced, taken all aback, and when she found her breath, gavevoice to a great "Oh" of dismay and distress. 

For an instant, Annixter stood awkwardly in his place, ridiculous, clumsy, murmuring over and over again:

"Well--well--that's all right--who's going to hurt you? You needn't beafraid--who's going to hurt you--that's all right. "

Then, suddenly, with a quick, indefinite gesture of one arm, heexclaimed:

"Good-bye, I--I'm sorry. "

He turned away, striding up the stairs, crossing the dairy-room, andregained the open air, raging and furious. He turned toward the barns, clapping his hat upon his head, muttering the while under his breath:

"Oh, you goat! You beastly fool PIP. Good LORD, what an ass you've madeof yourself now!"

Suddenly he resolved to put Hilma Tree out of his thoughts. The matterwas interfering with his work. This kind of thing was sure not earningany money. He shook himself as though freeing his shoulders of anirksome burden, and turned his entire attention to the work nearest athand. 

The prolonged rattle of the shinglers' hammers upon the roof of the bigbarn attracted him, and, crossing over between the ranch house and theartesian well, he stood for some time absorbed in the contemplationof the vast building, amused and interested with the confusion ofsounds--the clatter of hammers, the cadenced scrape of saws, and therhythmic shuffle of planes--that issued from the gang of carpenters whowere at that moment putting the finishing touches upon the roof and rowsof stalls. A boy and two men were busy hanging the great sliding door atthe south end, while the painters--come down from Bonneville early thatmorning--were engaged in adjusting the spray and force engine, by meansof which Annixter had insisted upon painting the vast surfaces ofthe barn, condemning the use of brushes and pots for such work asold-fashioned and out-of-date. 

He called to one of the foremen, to ask when the barn would be entirelyfinished, and was told that at the end of the week the hay and stockcould be installed. 

"And a precious long time you've been at it, too, " Annixter declared. 

"Well, you know the rain----"

"Oh, rot the rain! I work in the rain. You and your unions make mesick. "

"But, Mr. Annixter, we couldn't have begun painting in the rain. The jobwould have been spoiled. "

"Hoh, yes, spoiled. That's all very well. Maybe it would, and then, again, maybe it wouldn't. "

But when the foreman had left him, Annixter could not forbear a growlof satisfaction. It could not be denied that the barn was superb, monumental even. Almost any one of the other barns in the county couldbe swung, bird-cage fashion, inside of it, with room to spare. In everysense, the barn was precisely what Annixter had hoped of it. In hispleasure over the success of his idea, even Hilma for the moment wasforgotten. 

"And, now, " murmured Annixter, "I'll give that dance in it. I'll make'em sit up. "

It occurred to him that he had better set about sending out theinvitations for the affair. He was puzzled to decide just how the thingshould be managed, and resolved that it might be as well to consultMagnus and Mrs. Derrick. 

"I want to talk of this telegram of the goat's with Magnus, anyhow, "he said to himself reflectively, "and there's things I got to do inBonneville before the first of the month. "

He turned about on his heel with a last look at the barn, and set offtoward the stable. He had decided to have his horse saddled and rideover to Bonneville by way of Los Muertos. He would make a day of it, would see Magnus, Harran, old Broderson and some of the business men ofBonneville. 

A few moments later, he rode out of the barn and the stable-yard, afresh cigar between his teeth, his hat slanted over his face against therays of the sun, as yet low in the east. He crossed the irrigating ditchand gained the trail--the short cut over into Los Muertos, by wayof Hooven's. It led south and west into the low ground overgrown bygrey-green willows by Broderson Creek, at this time of the rainy seasona stream of considerable volume, farther on dipping sharply to passunderneath the Long Trestle of the railroad. On the other side of theright of way, Annixter was obliged to open the gate in Derrick's linefence. He managed this without dismounting, swearing at the horsethe while, and spurring him continually. But once inside the gate hecantered forward briskly. 

This part of Los Muertos was Hooven's holding, some five hundred acresenclosed between the irrigating ditch and Broderson Creek, and halfthe way across, Annixter came up with Hooven himself, busily at workreplacing a broken washer in his seeder. Upon one of the horses hitchedto the machine, her hands gripped tightly upon the harness of thecollar, Hilda, his little daughter, with her small, hob-nailed bootsand boy's canvas overalls, sat, exalted and petrified with ecstasy andexcitement, her eyes wide opened, her hair in a tangle. 

"Hello, Bismarck, " said Annixter, drawing up beside him. "What areYOU doing here? I thought the Governor was going to manage without histenants this year. "

"Ach, Meest'r Ennixter, " cried the other, straightening up. "Ach, dat'syou, eh? Ach, you bedt he doand menege mitout me. Me, I gotta stay. I talk der straighd talk mit der Governor. I fix 'em. Ach, you bedt. Sieben yahr I hef bei der rench ge-stopped; yais, sir. Efery odersohn-of-a-guhn bei der plaice ged der sach bud me. Eh? Wat you tink vondose ting?"

"I think that's a crazy-looking monkey-wrench you've got there, "observed Annixter, glancing at the instrument in Hooven's hand. 

"Ach, dot wrainch, " returned Hooven. "Soh! Wail, I tell you dose tingnow whair I got 'em. Say, you see dot wrainch. Dat's not Emericenwrainch at alle. I got 'em at Gravelotte der day we licked der stuffunoudt der Frainch, ach, you bedt. Me, I pelong to der Wurtembergredgimend, dot dey use to suppord der batterie von der Brince vonHohenlohe. Alle der day we lay down bei der stomach in der feildtbehindt der batterie, und der schells von der Frainch cennon hefeggsblode--ach, donnerwetter!--I tink efery schell eggsblode bei derbeckside my neck. Und dat go on der whole day, noddun else, noddun aberder Frainch schell, b-r-r, b-r-r b-r-r, b-r-AM, und der smoag, und unzerbatterie, dat go off slow, steady, yoost like der glock, eins, zwei, boom! eins, zwei, boom! yoost like der glock, ofer und ofer again, alleder day. Den vhen der night come dey say we hev der great victorie made. I doand know. Vhat do I see von der bettle? Noddun. Den we gedt oopund maerch und maerch alle night, und in der morgen we hear dose cennonegain, hell oaf der way, far-off, I doand know vhair. Budt, nef'r mindt. Bretty qnick, ach, Gott--" his face flamed scarlet, "Ach, du lieberGott! Bretty zoon, dere wass der Kaiser, glose bei, und Fritz, UnzerFritz. Bei Gott, den I go grazy, und yell, ach, you bedt, der wholeredgimend: 'Hoch der Kaiser! Hoch der Vaterland!' Und der dears cometo der eyes, I doand know because vhy, und der mens gry und shaike derhend, und der whole redgimend maerch off like dat, fairy broudt, bei Gott, der head oop high, und sing 'Die Wacht am Rhein. ' Dot wassGravelotte. "

"And the monkey-wrench?"

"Ach, I pick 'um oop vhen der batterie go. Der cennoniers hef forgedtund leaf 'um. I carry 'um in der sack. I tink I use 'um vhen I gedt homein der business. I was maker von vagons in Carlsruhe, und I nef'rgedt home again. Vhen der war hef godt over, I go beck to Ulm undgedt marriet, und den I gedt demn sick von der armie. Vhen I gedt derrelease, I clair oudt, you bedt. I come to Emerica. First, New Yor-ruk;den Milwaukee; den Sbringfieldt-Illinoy; den Galifornie, und heir Istay. "

"And the Fatherland? Ever want to go back?"

"Wail, I tell you dose ting, Meest'r Ennixter. Alle-ways, I tink a lotoaf Shairmany, und der Kaiser, und nef'r I forgedt Gravelotte. Budt, say, I tell you dose ting. Vhair der wife is, und der kinder--der leedlegirl Hilda--DERE IS DER VATERLAND. Eh? Emerica, dat's my gountry now, und dere, " he pointed behind him to the house under the mammoth oak treeon the Lower Road, "dat's my home. Dat's goot enough Vaterland for me. "

Annixter gathered up the reins, about to go on. 

"So you like America, do you, Bismarck?" he said. "Who do you vote for?"

"Emerica? I doand know, " returned the other, insistently. "Dat's myhome yonder. Dat's my Vaterland. Alle von we Shairmens yoost like dot. Shairmany, dot's hell oaf some fine plaice, sure. Budt der Vaterland issvhair der home und der wife und kinder iss. Eh? Yes? Voad? Ach, no. Me, I nef'r voad. I doand bodder der haid mit dose ting. I maig der wheatgrow, und ged der braid fur der wife und Hilda, dot's all. Dot's me;dot's Bismarck. "

"Good-bye, " commented Annixter, moving off. 

Hooven, the washer replaced, turned to his work again, starting up thehorses. The seeder advanced, whirring. 

"Ach, Hilda, leedle girl, " he cried, "hold tight bei der shdrap on. HeyMULE! Hoop! Gedt oop, you. "

Annixter cantered on. In a few moments, he had crossed Broderson Creekand had entered upon the Home ranch of Los Muertos. Ahead of him, but sofar off that the greater portion of its bulk was below the horizon, hecould see the Derricks' home, a roof or two between the dull green ofcypress and eucalyptus. Nothing else was in sight. The brown earth, smooth, unbroken, was as a limitless, mud-coloured ocean. The silencewas profound. 

Then, at length, Annixter's searching eye made out a blur on the horizonto the northward; the blur concentrated itself to a speck; the speckgrew by steady degrees to a spot, slowly moving, a note of dull colour, barely darker than the land, but an inky black silhouette as it topped alow rise of ground and stood for a moment outlined against the pale blueof the sky. Annixter turned his horse from the road and rode across theranch land to meet this new object of interest. As the spot grew larger, it resolved itself into constituents, a collection of units; itsshape grew irregular, fragmentary. A disintegrated, nebulous confusionadvanced toward Annixter, preceded, as he discovered on nearer approach, by a medley of faint sounds. Now it was no longer a spot, but a column, a column that moved, accompanied by spots. As Annixter lessened thedistance, these spots resolved themselves into buggies or men onhorseback that kept pace with the advancing column. There were horses inthe column itself. At first glance, it appeared as if there were nothingelse, a riderless squadron tramping steadily over the upturned ploughland of the ranch. But it drew nearer. The horses were in lines, sixabreast, harnessed to machines. The noise increased, defined itself. There was a shout or two; occasionally a horse blew through his nostrilswith a prolonged, vibrating snort. The click and clink of metal work wasincessant, the machines throwing off a continual rattle of wheels andcogs and clashing springs. The column approached nearer; was close athand. The noises mingled to a subdued uproar, a bewildering confusion;the impact of innumerable hoofs was a veritable rumble. Machine aftermachine appeared; and Annixter, drawing to one side, remained fornearly ten minutes watching and interested, while, like an array ofchariots--clattering, jostling, creaking, clashing, an interminableprocession, machine succeeding machine, six-horse team succeedingsix-horse team--bustling, hurried--Magnus Derrick's thirty-three graindrills, each with its eight hoes, went clamouring past, like anadvance of military, seeding the ten thousand acres of the great ranch;fecundating the living soil; implanting deep in the dark womb of theEarth the germ of life, the sustenance of a whole world, the food of anentire People. 

When the drills had passed, Annixter turned and rode back to the LowerRoad, over the land now thick with seed. He did not wonder that theseeding on Los Muertos seemed to be hastily conducted. Magnus and HarranDerrick had not yet been able to make up the time lost at the beginningof the season, when they had waited so long for the ploughs to arrive. They had been behindhand all the time. On Annixter's ranch, the landhad not only been harrowed, as well as seeded, but in some cases, cross-harrowed as well. The labour of putting in the vast crop wasover. Now there was nothing to do but wait, while the seed silentlygerminated; nothing to do but watch for the wheat to come up. 

When Annixter reached the ranch house of Los Muertos, under the shadeof the cypress and eucalyptus trees, he found Mrs. Derrick on the porch, seated in a long wicker chair. She had been washing her hair, and thelight brown locks that yet retained so much of their brightness, werecarefully spread in the sun over the back of her chair. Annixter couldnot but remark that, spite of her more than fifty years, Annie Derrickwas yet rather pretty. Her eyes were still those of a young girl, justtouched with an uncertain expression of innocence and inquiry, but asher glance fell upon him, he found that that expression changed to oneof uneasiness, of distrust, almost of aversion. 

The night before this, after Magnus and his wife had gone to bed, theyhad lain awake for hours, staring up into the dark, talking, talking. Magnus had not long been able to keep from his wife the news of thecoalition that was forming against the railroad, nor the fact that thiscoalition was determined to gain its ends by any means at its command. He had told her of Osterman's scheme of a fraudulent election to seat aBoard of Railroad Commissioners, who should be nominees of the farminginterests. Magnus and his wife had talked this matter over and overagain; and the same discussion, begun immediately after supper theevening before, had lasted till far into the night. 

At once, Annie Derrick had been seized with a sudden terror lest Magnus, after all, should allow himself to be persuaded; should yield to thepressure that was every day growing stronger. None better than she knewthe iron integrity of her husband's character. None better than sheremembered how his dearest ambition, that of political preferment, hadbeen thwarted by his refusal to truckle, to connive, to compromise withhis ideas of right. Now, at last, there seemed to be a change. Longcontinued oppression, petty tyranny, injustice and extortion had drivenhim to exasperation. S. Behrman's insults still rankled. He seemednearly ready to countenance Osterman's scheme. The very fact that hewas willing to talk of it to her so often and at such great length, wasproof positive that it occupied his mind. The pity of it, the tragedyof it! He, Magnus, the "Governor, " who had been so staunch, so rigidlyupright, so loyal to his convictions, so bitter in his denunciation ofthe New Politics, so scathing in his attacks on bribery and corruptionin high places; was it possible that now, at last, he could bebrought to withhold his condemnation of the devious intrigues of theunscrupulous, going on there under his very eyes? That Magnus should notcommand Harran to refrain from all intercourse with the conspirators, had been a matter of vast surprise to Mrs. Derrick. Time was when Magnuswould have forbidden his son to so much as recognise a dishonourableman. 

But besides all this, Derrick's wife trembled at the thought ofher husband and son engaging in so desperate a grapple with therailroad--that great monster, iron-hearted, relentless, infinitelypowerful. Always it had issued triumphant from the fight; always S. Behrman, the Corporation's champion, remained upon the field as victor, placid, unperturbed, unassailable. But now a more terrible struggle thanany hitherto loomed menacing over the rim of the future; money was to bespent like water; personal reputations were to be hazarded in the issue;failure meant ruin in all directions, financial ruin, moral ruin, ruin of prestige, ruin of character. Success, to her mind, was almostimpossible. Annie Derrick feared the railroad. At night, when everythingelse was still, the distant roar of passing trains echoed across LosMuertos, from Guadalajara, from Bonneville, or from the Long Trestle, straight into her heart. At such moments she saw very plainly thegalloping terror of steam and steel, with its single eye, cyclopean, red, shooting from horizon to horizon, symbol of a vast power, huge andterrible; the leviathan with tentacles of steel, to oppose which meantto be ground to instant destruction beneath the clashing wheels. No, it was better to submit, to resign oneself to the inevitable. Sheobliterated herself, shrinking from the harshness of the world, striving, with vain hands, to draw her husband back with her. 

Just before Annixter's arrival, she had been sitting, thoughtful, in herlong chair, an open volume of poems turned down upon her lap, her glancelosing itself in the immensity of Los Muertos that, from the edge ofthe lawn close by, unrolled itself, gigantic, toward the far, southernhorizon, wrinkled and serrated after the season's ploughing. The earth, hitherto grey with dust, was now upturned and brown. As far as the eyecould reach, it was empty of all life, bare, mournful, absolutely still;and, as she looked, there seemed to her morbid imagination--diseasedand disturbed with long brooding, sick with the monotony of repeatedsensation--to be disengaged from all this immensity, a sense of a vastoppression, formless, disquieting. The terror of sheer bigness grewslowly in her mind; loneliness beyond words gradually enveloped her. Shewas lost in all these limitless reaches of space. Had she been abandonedin mid-ocean, in an open boat, her terror could hardly have beengreater. She felt vividly that certain uncongeniality which, when all issaid, forever remains between humanity and the earth which supports it. She recognised the colossal indifference of nature, not hostile, evenkindly and friendly, so long as the human ant-swarm was submissive, working with it, hurrying along at its side in the mysterious marchof the centuries. Let, however, the insect rebel, strive to make headagainst the power of this nature, and at once it became relentless, agigantic engine, a vast power, huge, terrible; a leviathan with a heartof steel, knowing no compunction, no forgiveness, no tolerance; crushingout the human atom with sound less calm, the agony of destructionsending never a jar, never the faintest tremour through all thatprodigious mechanism of wheels and cogs. 

Such thoughts as these did not take shape distinctly in her mind. Shecould not have told herself exactly what it was that disquieted her. Sheonly received the vague sensation of these things, as it were a breathof wind upon her face, confused, troublous, an indefinite sense ofhostility in the air. 

The sound of hoofs grinding upon the gravel of the driveway brought herto herself again, and, withdrawing her gaze from the empty plain ofLos Muertos, she saw young Annixter stopping his horse by the carriagesteps. But the sight of him only diverted her mind to the othertrouble. She could not but regard him with aversion. He was one of theconspirators, was one of the leaders in the battle that impended; nodoubt, he had come to make a fresh attempt to win over Magnus to theunholy alliance. 

However, there was little trace of enmity in her greeting. Her hair wasstill spread, like a broad patch of back, and she made that her excusefor not getting up. In answer to Annixter's embarrassed inquiry afterMagnus, she sent the Chinese cook to call him from the office; andAnnixter, after tying his horse to the ring driven into the trunk of oneof the eucalyptus trees, came up to the porch, and, taking off his hat, sat down upon the steps. 

"Is Harran anywhere about?" he asked. "I'd like to see Harran, too. "

"No, " said Mrs. Derrick, "Harran went to Bonneville early this morning. "

She glanced toward Annixter nervously, without turning her head, lestshe should disturb her outspread hair. 

"What is it you want to see Mr. Derrick about?" she inquired hastily. "Is it about this plan to elect a Railroad Commission? Magnus does notapprove of it, " she declared with energy. "He told me so last night. "

Annixter moved about awkwardly where he sat, smoothing down with hishand the one stiff lock of yellow hair that persistently stood up fromhis crown like an Indian's scalp-lock. At once his suspicions were allaroused. Ah! this feemale woman was trying to get a hold on him, tryingto involve him in a petticoat mess, trying to cajole him. Upon theinstant, he became very crafty; an excess of prudence promptly congealedhis natural impulses. In an actual spasm of caution, he scarcely trustedhimself to speak, terrified lest he should commit himself to something. He glanced about apprehensively, praying that Magnus might join themspeedily, relieving the tension. 

"I came to see about giving a dance in my new barn, " he answered, scowling into the depths of his hat, as though reading from notes he hadconcealed there. "I wanted to ask how I should send out the invites. Ithought of just putting an ad. In the 'Mercury. '"

But as he spoke, Presley had come up behind Annixter in time to get thedrift of the conversation, and now observed:

"That's nonsense, Buck. You're not giving a public ball. You MUST sendout invitations. "

"Hello, Presley, you there?" exclaimed Annixter, turning round. The twoshook hands. 

"Send out invitations?" repeated Annixter uneasily. "Why must I?"

"Because that's the only way to do. "

"It is, is it?" answered Annixter, perplexed and troubled. No otherman of his acquaintance could have so contradicted Annixter withoutprovoking a quarrel upon the instant. Why the young rancher, irascible, obstinate, belligerent, should invariably defer to the poet, was aninconsistency never to be explained. It was with great surprise thatMrs. Derrick heard him continue:

"Well, I suppose you know what you're talking about, Pres. Must havewritten invites, hey?"

"Of course. "

"Typewritten?"

"Why, what an ass you are, Buck, " observed Presley calmly. "Beforeyou get through with it, you will probably insult three-fourths of thepeople you intend to invite, and have about a hundred quarrels on yourhands, and a lawsuit or two. "

However, before Annixter could reply, Magnus came out on the porch, erect, grave, freshly shaven. Without realising what he was doing, Annixter instinctively rose to his feet. It was as though Magnus was acommander-in-chief of an unseen army, and he a subaltern. There was somelittle conversation as to the proposed dance, and then Annixter found anexcuse for drawing the Governor aside. Mrs. Derrick watched the two witheyes full of poignant anxiety, as they slowly paced the length of thegravel driveway to the road gate, and stood there, leaning upon it, talking earnestly; Magnus tall, thin-lipped, impassive, one hand in thebreast of his frock coat, his head bare, his keen, blue eyes fixed uponAnnixter's face. Annixter came at once to the main point. 

"I got a wire from Osterman this morning, Governor, and, well--we've gotDisbrow. That means that the Denver, Pueblo and Mojave is back of us. There's half the fight won, first off. "

"Osterman bribed him, I suppose, " observed Magnus. 

Annixter raised a shoulder vexatiously. 

"You've got to pay for what you get, " he returned. "You don't getsomething for nothing, I guess. Governor, " he went on, "I don't see howyou can stay out of this business much longer. You see how it will be. We're going to win, and I don't see how you can feel that it's right ofyou to let us do all the work and stand all the expense. There's neverbeen a movement of any importance that went on around you that youweren't the leader in it. All Tulare County, all the San Joaquin, forthat matter, knows you. They want a leader, and they are looking to you. I know how you feel about politics nowadays. But, Governor, standardshave changed since your time; everybody plays the game now as we areplaying it--the most honourable men. You can't play it any other way, and, pshaw! if the right wins out in the end, that's the main thing. Wewant you in this thing, and we want you bad. You've been chewing on thisaffair now a long time. Have you made up your mind? Do you come in? Itell you what, you've got to look at these things in a large way. You'vegot to judge by results. Well, now, what do you think? Do you come in?"

Magnus's glance left Annixter's face, and for an instant sought theground. His frown lowered, but now it was in perplexity, rather than inanger. His mind was troubled, harassed with a thousand dissensions. 

But one of Magnus's strongest instincts, one of his keenest desires, was to be, if only for a short time, the master. To control men hadever been his ambition; submission of any kind, his greatest horror. Hisenergy stirred within him, goaded by the lash of his anger, his senseof indignity, of insult. Oh for one moment to be able to strike back, to crush his enemy, to defeat the railroad, hold the Corporation in thegrip of his fist, put down S. Behrman, rehabilitate himself, regain hisself-respect. To be once more powerful, to command, to dominate. Histhin lips pressed themselves together; the nostrils of his prominenthawk-like nose dilated, his erect, commanding figure stiffenedunconsciously. For a moment, he saw himself controlling the situation, the foremost figure in his State, feared, respected, thousands ofmen beneath him, his ambition at length gratified; his career, onceapparently brought to naught, completed; success a palpable achievement. What if this were his chance, after all, come at last after all theseyears. His chance! The instincts of the old-time gambler, the mostredoubtable poker player of El Dorado County, stirred at the word. Chance! To know it when it came, to recognise it as it passed fleet as awind-flurry, grip at it, catch at it, blind, reckless, staking all uponthe hazard of the issue, that was genius. Was this his Chance? All ofa sudden, it seemed to him that it was. But his honour! His cherished, lifelong integrity, the unstained purity of his principles? At this latedate, were they to be sacrificed? Could he now go counter to all thefirm built fabric of his character? How, afterward, could he bear tolook Harran and Lyman in the face? And, yet--and, yet--back swung thependulum--to neglect his Chance meant failure; a life begun in promise, and ended in obscurity, perhaps in financial ruin, poverty even. Toseize it meant achievement, fame, influence, prestige, possibly greatwealth. 

"I am so sorry to interrupt, " said Mrs. Derrick, as she came up. "I hopeMr. Annixter will excuse me, but I want Magnus to open the safe for me. I have lost the combination, and I must have some money. Phelps is goinginto town, and I want him to pay some bills for me. Can't you come rightaway, Magnus? Phelps is ready and waiting. "

Annixter struck his heel into the ground with a suppressed oath. Always these fool feemale women came between him and his plans, mixingthemselves up in his affairs. Magnus had been on the very point ofsaying something, perhaps committing himself to some course of action, and, at precisely the wrong moment, his wife had cut in. The opportunitywas lost. The three returned toward the ranch house; but before sayinggood-bye, Annixter had secured from Magnus a promise to the effect that, before coming to a definite decision in the matter under discussion, hewould talk further with him. 

Presley met him at the porch. He was going into town with Phelps, andproposed to Annixter that he should accompany them. 

"I want to go over and see old Broderson, " Annixter objected. 

But Presley informed him that Broderson had gone to Bonneville earlierin the morning. He had seen him go past in his buckboard. The three menset off, Phelps and Annixter on horseback, Presley on his bicycle. 

When they had gone, Mrs. Derrick sought out her husband in the officeof the ranch house. She was at her prettiest that morning, her cheeksflushed with excitement, her innocent, wide-open eyes almost girlish. She had fastened her hair, still moist, with a black ribbon tied at theback of her head, and the soft mass of light brown reached to below herwaist, making her look very young. 

"What was it he was saying to you just now, " she exclaimed, as she camethrough the gate in the green-painted wire railing of the office. "Whatwas Mr. Annixter saying? I know. He was trying to get you to join him, trying to persuade you to be dishonest, wasn't that it? Tell me, Magnus, wasn't that it?"

Magnus nodded. 

His wife drew close to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

"But you won't, will you? You won't listen to him again; you won't somuch as allow him--anybody--to even suppose you would lend yourself tobribery? Oh, Magnus, I don't know what has come over you these last fewweeks. Why, before this, you would have been insulted if any one thoughtyou would even consider anything like dishonesty. Magnus, it would breakmy heart if you joined Mr. Annixter and Mr. Osterman. Why, you couldn'tbe the same man to me afterward; you, who have kept yourself so cleantill now. And the boys; what would Lyman say, and Harran, and every onewho knows you and respects you, if you lowered yourself to be just apolitical adventurer!"

For a moment, Derrick leaned his head upon his hand, avoiding her gaze. At length, he said, drawing a deep breath: "I am troubled, Annie. Theseare the evil days. I have much upon my mind. "

"Evil days or not, " she insisted, "promise me this one thing, that youwill not join Mr. Annixter's scheme. " She had taken his hand in both ofhers and was looking into his face, her pretty eyes full of pleading. 

"Promise me, " she repeated; "give me your word. Whatever happens, let mealways be able to be proud of you, as I always have been. Give me yourword. I know you never seriously thought of joining Mr. Annixter, but Iam so nervous and frightened sometimes. Just to relieve my mind, Magnus, give me your word. "

"Why--you are right, " he answered. "No, I never thought seriously of it. Only for a moment, I was ambitious to be--I don't know what--what Ihad hoped to be once--well, that is over now. Annie, your husband is adisappointed man. "

"Give me your word, " she insisted. "We can talk about other thingsafterward. "

Again Magnus wavered, about to yield to his better instincts and to theentreaties of his wife. He began to see how perilously far he had gonein this business. He was drifting closer to it every hour. Already hewas entangled, already his foot was caught in the mesh that was beingspun. Sharply he recoiled. Again all his instincts of honesty revolted. No, whatever happened, he would preserve his integrity. His wife wasright. Always she had influenced his better side. At that moment, Magnus's repugnance of the proposed political campaign was at its pitchof intensity. He wondered how he had ever allowed himself to so muchas entertain the idea of joining with the others. Now, he wouldwrench free, would, in a single instant of power, clear himself of allcompromising relations. He turned to his wife. Upon his lips trembledthe promise she implored. But suddenly there came to his mind therecollection of his new-made pledge to Annixter. He had given his wordthat before arriving at a decision he would have a last interview withhim. To Magnus, his given word was sacred. Though now he wanted to, hecould not as yet draw back, could not promise his wife that he woulddecide to do right. The matter must be delayed a few days longer. 

Lamely, he explained this to her. Annie Derrick made but little responsewhen he had done. She kissed his forehead and went out of the room, uneasy, depressed, her mind thronging with vague fears, leaving Magnusbefore his office desk, his head in his hands, thoughtful, gloomy, assaulted by forebodings. 

Meanwhile, Annixter, Phelps, and Presley continued on their way towardBonneville. In a short time they had turned into the County Road bythe great watering-tank, and proceeded onward in the shade of theinterminable line of poplar trees, the wind-break that stretched alongthe roadside bordering the Broderson ranch. But as they drew near toCaraher's saloon and grocery, about half a mile outside of Bonneville, they recognised Harran's horse tied to the railing in front of it. Annixter left the others and went in to see Harran. 

"Harran, " he said, when the two had sat down on either side of one ofthe small tables, "you've got to make up your mind one way or anotherpretty soon. What are you going to do? Are you going to stand by and seethe rest of the Committee spending money by the bucketful in this thingand keep your hands in your pockets? If we win, you'll benefit just asmuch as the rest of us. I suppose you've got some money of your own--youhave, haven't you? You are your father's manager, aren't you?"

Disconcerted at Annixter's directness, Harran stammered an affirmative, adding:

"It's hard to know just what to do. It's a mean position for me, Buck. Iwant to help you others, but I do want to play fair. I don't know how toplay any other way. I should like to have a line from the Governor asto how to act, but there's no getting a word out of him these days. Heseems to want to let me decide for myself. "

"Well, look here, " put in Annixter. "Suppose you keep out of the thingtill it's all over, and then share and share alike with the Committee oncampaign expenses. "

Harran fell thoughtful, his hands in his pockets, frowning moodily atthe toe of his boot. There was a silence. Then:

"I don't like to go it blind, " he hazarded. "I'm sort of sharing theresponsibility of what you do, then. I'm a silent partner. And, then--Idon't want to have any difficulties with the Governor. We've always gotalong well together. He wouldn't like it, you know, if I did anythinglike that. " "Say, " exclaimed Annixter abruptly, "if the Governor sayshe will keep his hands off, and that you can do as you please, will youcome in? For God's sake, let us ranchers act together for once. Let'sstand in with each other in ONE fight. "

Without knowing it, Annixter had touched the right spring. 

"I don't know but what you're right, " Harran murmured vaguely. Hissense of discouragement, that feeling of what's-the-use, was never moreoppressive. All fair means had been tried. The wheat grower was at lastwith his back to the wall. If he chose his own means of fighting, theresponsibility must rest upon his enemies, not on himself. 

"It's the only way to accomplish anything, " he continued, "standing inwith each other. .. Well, . .. Go ahead and see what you can do. If theGovernor is willing, I'll come in for my share of the campaign fund. "

"That's some sense, " exclaimed Annixter, shaking him by the hand. "Halfthe fight is over already. We've got Disbrow you know; and the nextthing is to get hold of some of those rotten San Francisco bosses. Osterman will----" But Harran interrupted him, making a quick gesturewith his hand. 

"Don't tell me about it, " he said. "I don't want to know what you andOsterman are going to do. If I did, I shouldn't come in. "

Yet, for all this, before they said good-bye Annixter had obtainedHarran's promise that he would attend the next meeting of the Committee, when Osterman should return from Los Angeles and make his report. Harranwent on toward Los Muertos. Annixter mounted and rode into Bonneville. 

Bonneville was very lively at all times. It was a little city of sometwenty or thirty thousand inhabitants, where, as yet, the city hall, thehigh school building, and the opera house were objects of civicpride. It was well governed, beautifully clean, full of the energy andstrenuous young life of a new city. An air of the briskest activitypervaded its streets and sidewalks. The business portion of the town, centring about Main Street, was always crowded. Annixter, arriving atthe Post Office, found himself involved in a scene of swiftlyshifting sights and sounds. Saddle horses, farm wagons--the inevitableStudebakers--buggies grey with the dust of country roads, buckboardswith squashes and grocery packages stowed under the seat, two-wheeledsulkies and training carts, were hitched to the gnawed railings andzinc-sheathed telegraph poles along the curb. Here and there, on theedge of the sidewalk, were bicycles, wedged into bicycle racks paintedwith cigar advertisements. Upon the asphalt sidewalk itself, soft andsticky with the morning's heat, was a continuous movement. Men withlarge stomachs, wearing linen coats but no vests, laboured ponderouslyup and down. Girls in lawn skirts, shirt waists, and garden hats, wentto and fro, invariably in couples, coming in and out of the drug store, the grocery store, and haberdasher's, or lingering in front of the PostOffice, which was on a corner under the I. O. O. F. Hall. Young men, inshirt sleeves, with brown, wicker cuff-protectors over their forearms, and pencils behind their ears, bustled in front of the grocery store, anxious and preoccupied. A very old man, a Mexican, in ragged whitetrousers and bare feet, sat on a horse-block in front of the barbershop, holding a horse by a rope around its neck. A Chinaman went by, teetering under the weight of his market baskets slung on a pole acrosshis shoulders. In the neighbourhood of the hotel, the Yosemite House, travelling salesmen, drummers for jewelry firms of San Francisco, commercial agents, insurance men, well-dressed, metropolitan, debonair, stood about cracking jokes, or hurried in and out of the flapping whitedoors of the Yosemite barroom. The Yosemite 'bus and City 'bus passedup the street, on the way from the morning train, each with its two orthree passengers. A very narrow wagon, belonging to the Cole & ColemoreHarvester Works, went by, loaded with long strips of iron that made ahorrible din as they jarred over the unevenness of the pavement. Theelectric car line, the city's boast, did a brisk business, its carswhirring from end to end of the street, with a jangling of bells anda moaning plaint of gearing. On the stone bulkheads of the grass plataround the new City Hall, the usual loafers sat, chewing tobacco, swapping stories. In the park were the inevitable array of nursemaids, skylarking couples, and ragged little boys. A single policeman, in greycoat and helmet, friend and acquaintance of every man and woman in thetown, stood by the park entrance, leaning an elbow on the fence post, twirling his club. 

But in the centre of the best business block of the street was athree-story building of rough brown stone, set off with plate glasswindows and gold-lettered signs. One of these latter read, "Pacific andSouthwestern Railroad, Freight and Passenger Office, " while another muchsmaller, beneath the windows of the second story bore the inscription, "P. And S. W. Land Office. "

Annixter hitched his horse to the iron post in front of this building, and tramped up to the second floor, letting himself into an officewhere a couple of clerks and bookkeepers sat at work behind a high wirescreen. One of these latter recognised him and came forward. 

"Hello, " said Annixter abruptly, scowling the while. "Is your boss in?Is Ruggles in?"

The bookkeeper led Annixter to the private office in an adjoining room, ushering him through a door, on the frosted glass of which was paintedthe name, "Cyrus Blakelee Ruggles. " Inside, a man in a frock coat, shoestring necktie, and Stetson hat, sat writing at a roller-top desk. Over this desk was a vast map of the railroad holdings in the countryabout Bonneville and Guadalajara, the alternate sections belonging tothe Corporation accurately plotted. Ruggles was cordial in his welcomeof Annixter. He had a way of fiddling with his pencil continually whilehe talked, scribbling vague lines and fragments of words and names onstray bits of paper, and no sooner had Annixter sat down than he hadbegun to write, in full-bellied script, ANN ANN all over his blottingpad. 

"I want to see about those lands of mine--I mean of yours--of therailroad's, " Annixter commenced at once. "I want to know when I can buy. I'm sick of fooling along like this. "

"Well, Mr. Annixter, " observed Ruggles, writing a great L before theANN, and finishing it off with a flourishing D. "The lands"--he crossedout one of the N's and noted the effect with a hasty glance--"the landsare practically yours. You have an option on them indefinitely, and, asit is, you don't have to pay the taxes. "

"Rot your option! I want to own them, " Annixter declared. "What have youpeople got to gain by putting off selling them to us. Here this thinghas dragged along for over eight years. When I came in on Quien Sabe, the understanding was that the lands--your alternate sections--were tobe conveyed to me within a few months. "

"The land had not been patented to us then, " answered Ruggles. 

"Well, it has been now, I guess, " retorted Annixter. 

"I'm sure I couldn't tell you, Mr. Annixter. "

Annixter crossed his legs weariedly. 

"Oh, what's the good of lying, Ruggles? You know better than to talkthat way to me. "

Ruggles's face flushed on the instant, but he checked his answer andlaughed instead. 

"Oh, if you know so much about it--" he observed. 

"Well, when are you going to sell to me?"

"I'm only acting for the General Office, Mr. Annixter, " returnedRuggles. "Whenever the Directors are ready to take that matter up, I'llbe only too glad to put it through for you. "

"As if you didn't know. Look here, you're not talking to old Broderson. Wake up, Ruggles. What's all this talk in Genslinger's rag about thegrading of the value of our lands this winter and an advance in theprice?"

Ruggles spread out his hands with a deprecatory gesture. 

"I don't own the 'Mercury, '" he said. 

"Well, your company does. "

"If it does, I don't know anything about it. "

"Oh, rot! As if you and Genslinger and S. Behrman didn't run the wholeshow down here. Come on, let's have it, Ruggles. What does S. Behrmanpay Genslinger for inserting that three-inch ad. Of the P. And S. W. Inhis paper? Ten thousand a year, hey?"

"Oh, why not a hundred thousand and be done with it?" returned theother, willing to take it as a joke. 

Instead of replying, Annixter drew his check-book from his insidepocket. 

"Let me take that fountain pen of yours, " he said. Holding the book onhis knee he wrote out a check, tore it carefully from the stub, and laidit on the desk in front of Ruggles. 

"What's this?" asked Ruggles. 

"Three-fourths payment for the sections of railroad land included in myranch, based on a valuation of two dollars and a half per acre. You canhave the balance in sixty-day notes. "

Ruggles shook his head, drawing hastily back from the check as though itcarried contamination. 

"I can't touch it, " he declared. "I've no authority to sell to you yet. "

"I don't understand you people, " exclaimed Annixter. "I offered to buyof you the same way four years ago and you sang the same song. Why, itisn't business. You lose the interest on your money. Seven per cent. Ofthat capital for four years--you can figure it out. It's big money. "

"Well, then, I don't see why you're so keen on parting with it. You canget seven per cent. The same as us. "

"I want to own my own land, " returned Annixter. "I want to feel thatevery lump of dirt inside my fence is my personal property. Why, thevery house I live in now--the ranch house--stands on railroad ground. "

"But, you've an option"

"I tell you I don't want your cursed option. I want ownership; and it'sthe same with Magnus Derrick and old Broderson and Osterman and all theranchers of the county. We want to own our land, want to feel we can doas we blame please with it. Suppose I should want to sell Quien Sabe. Ican't sell it as a whole till I've bought of you. I can't give anybody aclear title. The land has doubled in value ten times over again since Icame in on it and improved it. It's worth easily twenty an acre now. ButI can't take advantage of that rise in value so long as you won't sell, so long as I don't own it. You're blocking me. "

"But, according to you, the railroad can't take advantage of the rise inany case. According to you, you can sell for twenty dollars, but we canonly get two and a half. "

"Who made it worth twenty?" cried Annixter. "I've improved it up tothat figure. Genslinger seems to have that idea in his nut, too. Do youpeople think you can hold that land, untaxed, for speculative purposesuntil it goes up to thirty dollars and then sell out to some oneelse--sell it over our heads? You and Genslinger weren't in office whenthose contracts were drawn. You ask your boss, you ask S. Behrman, heknows. The General Office is pledged to sell to us in preference to anyone else, for two and a half. "

"Well, " observed Ruggles decidedly, tapping the end of his pencil on hisdesk and leaning forward to emphasise his words, "we're not selling NOW. That's said and signed, Mr. Annixter. "

"Why not? Come, spit it out. What's the bunco game this time?"

"Because we're not ready. Here's your check. "

"You won't take it?"

"No. "

"I'll make it a cash payment, money down--the whole of it--payable toCyrus Blakelee Ruggles, for the P. And S. W. "

"No. "

"Third and last time. "

"No. "

"Oh, go to the devil!"

"I don't like your tone, Mr. Annixter, " returned Ruggles, flushingangrily. "I don't give a curse whether you like it or not, " retortedAnnixter, rising and thrusting the check into his pocket, "but never youmind, Mr. Ruggles, you and S. Behrman and Genslinger and Shelgrim andthe whole gang of thieves of you--you'll wake this State of Californiaup some of these days by going just one little bit too far, and there'llbe an election of Railroad Commissioners of, by, and for the people, that'll get a twist of you, my bunco-steering friend--you and yourbackers and cappers and swindlers and thimble-riggers, and smash you, lock, stock, and barrel. That's my tip to you and be damned to you, Mr. Cyrus Blackleg Ruggles. "

Annixter stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, andRuggles, trembling with anger, turned to his desk and to the blottingpad written all over with the words LANDS, TWENTY DOLLARS, TWO AND AHALF, OPTION, and, over and over again, with great swelling curves andflourishes, RAILROAD, RAILROAD, RAILROAD. 

But as Annixter passed into the outside office, on the other side ofthe wire partition he noted the figure of a man at the counter inconversation with one of the clerks. There was something familiar toAnnixter's eye about the man's heavy built frame, his great shouldersand massive back, and as he spoke to the clerk in a tremendous, rumblingvoice, Annixter promptly recognised Dyke. 

There was a meeting. Annixter liked Dyke, as did every one else inand about Bonneville. He paused now to shake hands with the dischargedengineer and to ask about his little daughter, Sidney, to whom he knewDyke was devotedly attached. 

"Smartest little tad in Tulare County, " asserted Dyke. "She's gettingprettier every day, Mr. Annixter. THERE'S a little tad that was justborn to be a lady. Can recite the whole of 'Snow Bound' without everstopping. You don't believe that, maybe, hey? Well, it's true. She'll bejust old enough to enter the Seminary up at Marysville next winter, andif my hop business pays two per cent. On the investment, there's whereshe's going to go. "

"How's it coming on?" inquired Annixter. 

"The hop ranch? Prime. I've about got the land in shape, and I'veengaged a foreman who knows all about hops. I've been in luck. Everybodywill go into the business next year when they see hops go to a dollar, and they'll overstock the market and bust the price. But I'm going toget the cream of it now. I say two per cent. Why, Lord love you, itwill pay a good deal more than that. It's got to. It's cost more thanI figured to start the thing, so, perhaps, I may have to borrowsomewheres; but then on such a sure game as this--and I do want to makesomething out of that little tad of mine. "

"Through here?" inquired Annixter, making ready to move off. 

"In just a minute, " answered Dyke. "Wait for me and I'll walk down thestreet with you. "

Annixter grumbled that he was in a hurry, but waited, nevertheless, while Dyke again approached the clerk. 

"I shall want some empty cars of you people this fall, " he explained. "I'm a hop-raiser now, and I just want to make sure what your rates onhops are. I've been told, but I want to make sure. Savvy?" There was along delay while the clerk consulted the tariff schedules, and Annixterfretted impatiently. Dyke, growing uneasy, leaned heavily on his elbows, watching the clerk anxiously. If the tariff was exorbitant, he saw hisplans brought to naught, his money jeopardised, the little tad, Sidney, deprived of her education. He began to blame himself that he had notlong before determined definitely what the railroad would charge formoving his hops. He told himself he was not much of a business man; thathe managed carelessly. 

"Two cents, " suddenly announced the clerk with a certain surlyindifference. 

"Two cents a pound?"

"Yes, two cents a pound--that's in car-load lots, of course. I won'tgive you that rate on smaller consignments. "

"Yes, car-load lots, of course. .. Two cents. Well, all right. "

He turned away with a great sigh of relief. 

"He sure did have me scared for a minute, " he said to Annixter, as thetwo went down to the street, "fiddling and fussing so long. Two centsis all right, though. Seems fair to me. That fiddling of his was allput on. I know 'em, these railroad heelers. He knew I was a dischargedemployee first off, and he played the game just to make me seem smallbecause I had to ask favours of him. I don't suppose the General Officetips its slavees off to act like swine, but there's the feeling throughthe whole herd of them. 'Ye got to come to us. We let ye live only solong as we choose, and what are ye going to do about it? If ye don'tlike it, git out. '"

Annixter and the engineer descended to the street and had a drink at theYosemite bar, and Annixter went into the General Store while Dykebought a little pair of red slippers for Sidney. Before the salesman hadwrapped them up, Dyke slipped a dime into the toe of each with a wink atAnnixter. 

"Let the little tad find 'em there, " he said behind his hand in a hoarsewhisper. "That'll be one on Sid. "

"Where to now?" demanded Annixter as they regained the street. "I'mgoing down to the Post Office and then pull out for the ranch. Going myway?"

Dyke hesitated in some confusion, tugging at the ends of his fine blondebeard. 

"No, no. I guess I'll leave you here. I've got--got other things to doup the street. So long. "

The two separated, and Annixter hurried through the crowd to the PostOffice, but the mail that had come in on that morning's train wasunusually heavy. It was nearly half an hour before it was distributed. Naturally enough, Annixter placed all the blame of the delay upon therailroad, and delivered himself of some pointed remarks in the midst ofthe waiting crowd. He was irritated to the last degree when he finallyemerged upon the sidewalk again, cramming his mail into his pockets. Onecause of his bad temper was the fact that in the bundle of Quien Sabeletters was one to Hilma Tree in a man's handwriting. 

"Huh!" Annixter had growled to himself, "that pip Delaney. Seems nowthat I'm to act as go-between for 'em. Well, maybe that feemale girlgets this letter, and then, again, maybe she don't. "

But suddenly his attention was diverted. Directly opposite the PostOffice, upon the corner of the street, stood quite the best businessbuilding of which Bonneville could boast. It was built of Colusagranite, very solid, ornate, imposing. Upon the heavy plate of thewindow of its main floor, in gold and red letters, one read the words:"Loan and Savings Bank of Tulare County. " It was of this bank that S. Behrman was president. At the street entrance of the building was acurved sign of polished brass, fixed upon the angle of the masonry; thissign bore the name, "S. Behrman, " and under it in smaller letters werethe words, "Real Estate, Mortgages. "

As Annixter's glance fell upon this building, he was surprised to seeDyke standing upon the curb in front of it, apparently reading from anewspaper that he held in his hand. But Annixter promptly discoveredthat he was not reading at all. From time to time the former engineershot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye up and down the street. Annixter jumped at a conclusion. An idea suddenly occurred to him. Dykewas watching to see if he was observed--was waiting an opportunity whenno one who knew him should be in sight. Annixter stepped back a little, getting a telegraph pole somewhat between him and the other. Veryinterested, he watched what was going on. Pretty soon Dyke thrustthe paper into his pocket and sauntered slowly to the windows of astationery store, next the street entrance of S. Behrman's offices. Fora few seconds he stood there, his back turned, seemingly absorbed inthe display, but eyeing the street narrowly nevertheless; then he turnedaround, gave a last look about and stepped swiftly into the doorwayby the great brass sign. He disappeared. Annixter came from behind thetelegraph pole with a flush of actual shame upon his face. There hadbeen something so slinking, so mean, in the movements and manner of thisgreat, burly honest fellow of an engineer, that he could not help butfeel ashamed for him. Circumstances were such that a simple businesstransaction was to Dyke almost culpable, a degradation, a thing to beconcealed. 

"Borrowing money of S. Behrman, " commented Annixter, "mortgaging yourlittle homestead to the railroad, putting your neck in the halter. Poorfool! The pity of it. Good Lord, your hops must pay you big, now, oldman. "

Annixter lunched at the Yosemite Hotel, and then later on, toward themiddle of the afternoon, rode out of the town at a canter by the wayof the Upper Road that paralleled the railroad tracks and that randiametrically straight between Bonneville and Guadalajara. Abouthalf-way between the two places he overtook Father Sarria trudging backto San Juan, his long cassock powdered with dust. He had a wicker cratein one hand, and in the other, in a small square valise, the materialsfor the Holy Sacrament. Since early morning the priest had coverednearly fifteen miles on foot, in order to administer Extreme Unction toa moribund good-for-nothing, a greaser, half Indian, half Portuguese, who lived in a remote corner of Osterman's stock range, at the head ofa canon there. But he had returned by way of Bonneville to get a cratethat had come for him from San Diego. He had been notified of itsarrival the day before. 

Annixter pulled up and passed the time of day with the priest. 

"I don't often get up your way, " he said, slowing down his horse toaccommodate Sarria's deliberate plodding. Sarria wiped the perspirationfrom his smooth, shiny face. 

"You? Well, with you it is different, " he answered. "But there are agreat many Catholics in the county--some on your ranch. And so few cometo the Mission. At High Mass on Sundays, there are a few--Mexicans andSpaniards from Guadalajara mostly; but weekdays, for matins, vespers, and the like, I often say the offices to an empty church--'the voiceof one crying in the wilderness. ' You Americans are not good churchmen. Sundays you sleep--you read the newspapers. "

"Well, there's Vanamee, " observed Annixter. "I suppose he's there earlyand late. "

Sarria made a sharp movement of interest. 

"Ah, Vanamee--a strange lad; a wonderful character, for all that. Ifthere were only more like him. I am troubled about him. You know I am avery owl at night. I come and go about the Mission at all hours. Withinthe week, three times I have seen Vanamee in the little garden by theMission, and at the dead of night. He had come without asking for me. Hedid not see me. It was strange. Once, when I had got up at dawn to ringfor early matins, I saw him stealing away out of the garden. He musthave been there all the night. He is acting queerly. He is pale; hischeeks are more sunken than ever. There is something wrong with him. Ican't make it out. It is a mystery. Suppose you ask him?"

"Not I. I've enough to bother myself about. Vanamee is crazy in thehead. Some morning he will turn up missing again, and drop out of sightfor another three years. Best let him alone, Sarria. He's a crank. Howis that greaser of yours up on Osterman's stock range?"

"Ah, the poor fellow--the poor fellow, " returned the other, the tearscoming to his eyes. "He died this morning--as you might say, in my arms, painfully, but in the faith, in the faith. A good fellow. "

"A lazy, cattle-stealing, knife-in-his-boot Dago. "

"You misjudge him. A really good fellow on better acquaintance. "

Annixter grunted scornfully. Sarria's kindness and good-will toward themost outrageous reprobates of the ranches was proverbial. He practicallysupported some half-dozen families that lived in forgotten cabins, lostand all but inaccessible, in the far corners of stock range andcanyon. This particular greaser was the laziest, the dirtiest, the mostworthless of the lot. But in Sarria's mind, the lout was an object ofaffection, sincere, unquestioning. Thrice a week the priest, with abasket of provisions--cold ham, a bottle of wine, olives, loaves ofbread, even a chicken or two--toiled over the interminable stretch ofcountry between the Mission and his cabin. Of late, during the rascal'ssickness, these visits had been almost daily. Hardly once did the priestleave the bedside that he did not slip a half-dollar into the palm ofhis wife or oldest daughter. And this was but one case out of many. 

His kindliness toward animals was the same. A horde of mange-corrodedcurs lived off his bounty, wolfish, ungrateful, often marking him withtheir teeth, yet never knowing the meaning of a harsh word. A burro, over-fed, lazy, incorrigible, browsed on the hill back of the Mission, obstinately refusing to be harnessed to Sarria's little cart, squealingand biting whenever the attempt was made; and the priest suffered him, submitting to his humour, inventing excuses for him, alleging that theburro was foundered, or was in need of shoes, or was feeble from extremeage. The two peacocks, magnificent, proud, cold-hearted, resenting allfamiliarity, he served with the timorous, apologetic affection of aqueen's lady-in-waiting, resigned to their disdain, happy if only theycondescended to enjoy the grain he spread for them. 

At the Long Trestle, Annixter and the priest left the road and took thetrail that crossed Broderson Creek by the clumps of grey-green willowsand led across Quien Sabe to the ranch house, and to the Mission fartheron. They were obliged to proceed in single file here, and Annixter, who had allowed the priest to go in front, promptly took notice of thewicker basket he carried. Upon his inquiry, Sarria became confused. "Itwas a basket that he had had sent down to him from the city. "

"Well, I know--but what's in it?"

"Why--I'm sure--ah, poultry--a chicken or two. "

"Fancy breed?"

"Yes, yes, that's it, a fancy breed. " At the ranch house, where theyarrived toward five o'clock, Annixter insisted that the priest shouldstop long enough for a glass of sherry. Sarria left the basket and hissmall black valise at the foot of the porch steps, and sat down in arocker on the porch itself, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, and shaking the dust from his cassock. Annixter brought out the decanterof sherry and glasses, and the two drank to each other's health. 

But as the priest set down his glass, wiping his lips with a murmur ofsatisfaction, the decrepit Irish setter that had attached himselfto Annixter's house came out from underneath the porch, and nosedvigorously about the wicker basket. He upset it. The little peg holdingdown the cover slipped, the basket fell sideways, opening as it fell, and a cock, his head enclosed in a little chamois bag such as are usedfor gold watches, struggled blindly out into the open air. A second, similarly hooded, followed. The pair, stupefied in their headgear, stoodrigid and bewildered in their tracks, clucking uneasily. Their tailswere closely sheared. Their legs, thickly muscled, and extraordinarilylong, were furnished with enormous cruel-looking spurs. The breedwas unmistakable. Annixter looked once at the pair, then shouted withlaughter. 

"'Poultry'--'a chicken or two'--'fancy breed'--ho! yes, I should thinkso. Game cocks! Fighting cocks! Oh, you old rat! You'll be a dry nurseto a burro, and keep a hospital for infirm puppies, but you will fightgame cocks. Oh, Lord! Why, Sarria, this is as good a grind as I everheard. There's the Spanish cropping out, after all. "

Speechless with chagrin, the priest bundled the cocks into the basketand catching up the valise, took himself abruptly away, almost runningtill he had put himself out of hearing of Annixter's raillery. And eventen minutes later, when Annixter, still chuckling, stood upon the porchsteps, he saw the priest, far in the distance, climbing the slope ofthe high ground, in the direction of the Mission, still hurrying on ata great pace, his cassock flapping behind him, his head bent; toAnnixter's notion the very picture of discomfiture and confusion. 

As Annixter turned about to reenter the house, he found himself almostface to face with Hilma Tree. She was just going in at the doorway, anda great flame of the sunset, shooting in under the eaves of the porch, enveloped her from her head, with its thick, moist hair that hung lowover her neck, to her slim feet, setting a golden flash in the littlesteel buckles of her low shoes. She had come to set the table forAnnixter's supper. Taken all aback by the suddenness of the encounter, Annixter ejaculated an abrupt and senseless, "Excuse me. " But Hilma, without raising her eyes, passed on unmoved into the dining-room, leaving Annixter trying to find his breath, and fumbling with the brimof his hat, that he was surprised to find he had taken from his head. Resolutely, and taking a quick advantage of his opportunity, he followedher into the dining-room. 

"I see that dog has turned up, " he announced with brisk cheerfulness. "That Irish setter I was asking about. "

Hilma, a swift, pink flush deepening the delicate rose of her cheeks, did not reply, except by nodding her head. She flung the table-cloth outfrom under her arms across the table, spreading it smooth, with quicklittle caresses of her hands. There was a moment's silence. ThenAnnixter said:

"Here's a letter for you. " He laid it down on the table near her, andHilma picked it up. "And see here, Miss Hilma, " Annixter continued, "about that--this morning--I suppose you think I am a first-classmucker. If it will do any good to apologise, why, I will. I want to befriends with you. I made a bad mistake, and started in the wrong way. I don't know much about women people. I want you to forget aboutthat--this morning, and not think I am a galoot and a mucker. Will youdo it? Will you be friends with me?"

Hilma set the plate and coffee cup by Annixter's place before answering, and Annixter repeated his question. Then she drew a deep, quick breath, the flush in her cheeks returning. 

"I think it was--it was so wrong of you, " she murmured. "Oh! you don'tknow how it hurt me. I cried--oh, for an hour. "

"Well, that's just it, " returned Annixter vaguely, moving his headuneasily. "I didn't know what kind of a girl you were--I mean, I madea mistake. I thought it didn't make much difference. I thought allfeemales were about alike. "

"I hope you know now, " murmured Hilma ruefully. "I've paid enough tohave you find out. I cried--you don't know. Why, it hurt me worse thananything I can remember. I hope you know now. " "Well, I do know now, " heexclaimed. 

"It wasn't so much that you tried to do--what you did, " answered Hilma, the single deep swell from her waist to her throat rising and falling inher emotion. "It was that you thought that you could--that anybody couldthat wanted to--that I held myself so cheap. Oh!" she cried, with asudden sobbing catch in her throat, "I never can forget it, and youdon't know what it means to a girl. "

"Well, that's just what I do want, " he repeated. "I want you to forgetit and have us be good friends. "

In his embarrassment, Annixter could think of no other words. He keptreiterating again and again during the pauses of the conversation:

"I want you to forget it. Will you? Will you forget it--that--thismorning, and have us be good friends?"

He could see that her trouble was keen. He was astonished that thematter should be so grave in her estimation. After all, what was it thata girl should be kissed? But he wanted to regain his lost ground. 

"Will you forget it, Miss Hilma? I want you to like me. "

She took a clean napkin from the sideboard drawer and laid it down bythe plate. 

"I--I do want you to like me, " persisted Annixter. "I want you to forgetall about this business and like me. "

Hilma was silent. Annixter saw the tears in her eyes. 

"How about that? Will you forget it? Will you--will--will you LIKE me?"

She shook her head. 

"No, " she said. 

"No what? You won't like me? Is that it?"

Hilma, blinking at the napkin through her tears, nodded to say, Yes, that was it. Annixter hesitated a moment, frowning, harassed andperplexed. 

"You don't like me at all, hey?"

At length Hilma found her speech. In her low voice, lower and morevelvety than ever, she said:

"No--I don't like you at all. "

Then, as the tears suddenly overpowered her, she dashed a hand acrossher eyes, and ran from the room and out of doors. 

Annixter stood for a moment thoughtful, his protruding lower lip thrustout, his hands in his pocket. 

"I suppose she'll quit now, " he muttered. "Suppose she'll leave theranch--if she hates me like that. Well, she can go--that's all--she cango. Fool feemale girl, " he muttered between his teeth, "petticoat mess. "He was about to sit down to his supper when his eye fell upon theIrish setter, on his haunches in the doorway. There was an expectant, ingratiating look on the dog's face. No doubt, he suspected it was timefor eating. 

"Get out--YOU!" roared Annixter in a tempest of wrath. 

The dog slunk back, his tail shut down close, his ears drooping, butinstead of running away, he lay down and rolled supinely upon his back, the very image of submission, tame, abject, disgusting. It was the onething to drive Annixter to a fury. He kicked the dog off the porch ina rolling explosion of oaths, and flung himself down to his seat beforethe table, fuming and panting. 

"Damn the dog and the girl and the whole rotten business--and now, " heexclaimed, as a sudden fancied qualm arose in his stomach, "now, it'sall made me sick. Might have known it. Oh, it only lacked that to windup the whole day. Let her go, I don't care, and the sooner the better. "

He countermanded the supper and went to bed before it was dark, lightinghis lamp, on the chair near the head of the bed, and opening his"Copperfield" at the place marked by the strip of paper torn from thebag of prunes. For upward of an hour he read the novel, methodicallyswallowing one prune every time he reached the bottom of a page. Aboutnine o'clock he blew out the lamp and, punching up his pillow, settledhimself for the night. 

Then, as his mind relaxed in that strange, hypnotic condition thatcomes just before sleep, a series of pictures of the day's doings passedbefore his imagination like the roll of a kinetoscope. 

First, it was Hilma Tree, as he had seen her in thedairy-house--charming, delicious, radiant of youth, her thick, whiteneck with its pale amber shadows under the chin; her wide, open eyesrimmed with fine, black lashes; the deep swell of her breast and hips, the delicate, lustrous floss on her cheek, impalpable as the pollen ofa flower. He saw her standing there in the scintillating light of themorning, her smooth arms wet with milk, redolent and fragrant of milk, her whole, desirable figure moving in the golden glory of the sun, steeped in a lambent flame, saturated with it, glowing with it, joyousas the dawn itself. 

Then it was Los Muertos and Hooven, the sordid little Dutchman, grimedwith the soil he worked in, yet vividly remembering a period of militaryglory, exciting himself with recollections of Gravelotte and theKaiser, but contented now in the country of his adoption, defining theFatherland as the place where wife and children lived. Then came theranch house of Los Muertos, under the grove of cypress and eucalyptus, with its smooth, gravelled driveway and well-groomed lawns; Mrs. Derrickwith her wide-opened eyes, that so easily took on a look of uneasiness, of innocence, of anxious inquiry, her face still pretty, her brown hairthat still retained so much of its brightness spread over her chairback, drying in the sun; Magnus, erect as an officer of cavalry, smooth-shaven, grey, thin-lipped, imposing, with his hawk-like nose andforward-curling grey hair; Presley with his dark face, delicate mouthand sensitive, loose lips, in corduroys and laced boots, smokingcigarettes--an interesting figure, suggestive of a mixed origin, morbid, excitable, melancholy, brooding upon things that had no names. Thenit was Bonneville, with the gayety and confusion of Main Street, the whirring electric cars, the zinc-sheathed telegraph poles, thebuckboards with squashes stowed under the seats; Ruggles in frock coat, Stetson hat and shoe-string necktie, writing abstractedly upon hisblotting pad; Dyke, the engineer, big-boned. Powerful, deep-voiced, good-natured, with his fine blonde beard and massive arms, rehearsingthe praises of his little daughter Sidney, guided only by the oneambition that she should be educated at a seminary, slipping a dime intothe toe of her diminutive slipper, then, later, overwhelmed with shame, slinking into S. Behrman's office to mortgage his homestead to theheeler of the corporation that had discharged him. By suggestion, Annixter saw S. Behrman, too, fat, with a vast stomach, the check andneck meeting to form a great, tremulous jowl, the roll of fat over hiscollar, sprinkled with sparse, stiff hairs; saw his brown, round-toppedhat of varnished straw, the linen vest stamped with innumerableinterlocked horseshoes, the heavy watch chain, clinking against thepearl vest buttons; invariably placid, unruffled, never losing histemper, serene, unassailable, enthroned. 

Then, at the end of all, it was the ranch again, seen in a last briefglance before he had gone to bed; the fecundated earth, calm at last, nursing the emplanted germ of life, ruddy with the sunset, the horizonspurple, the small clamour of the day lapsing into quiet, the great, still twilight, building itself, dome-like, toward the zenith. The barnfowls were roosting in the trees near the stable, the horses crunchingtheir fodder in the stalls, the day's work ceasing by slow degrees; andthe priest, the Spanish churchman, Father Sarria, relic of a departedregime, kindly, benign, believing in all goodness, a lover of hisfellows and of dumb animals, yet, for all that, hurrying away inconfusion and discomfiture, carrying in one hand the vessels of the HolyCommunion and in the other a basket of game cocks. 

CHAPTER VI

It was high noon, and the rays of the sun, that hung poised directlyoverhead in an intolerable white glory, fell straight as plummets uponthe roofs and streets of Guadalajara. The adobe walls and sparse bricksidewalks of the drowsing town radiated the heat in an oily, quiveringshimmer. The leaves of the eucalyptus trees around the Plaza droopedmotionless, limp and relaxed under the scorching, searching blaze. The shadows of these trees had shrunk to their smallest circumference, contracting close about the trunks. The shade had dwindled to thebreadth of a mere line. The sun was everywhere. The heat exhalingfrom brick and plaster and metal met the heat that steadily descendedblanketwise and smothering, from the pale, scorched sky. Only thelizards--they lived in chinks of the crumbling adobe and in intersticesof the sidewalk--remained without, motionless, as if stuffed, their eyesclosed to mere slits, basking, stupefied with heat. At long intervalsthe prolonged drone of an insect developed out of the silence, vibrateda moment in a soothing, somnolent, long note, then trailed slowly intothe quiet again. Somewhere in the interior of one of the 'dobe houses aguitar snored and hummed sleepily. On the roof of the hotel a group ofpigeons cooed incessantly with subdued, liquid murmurs, very plaintive;a cat, perfectly white, with a pink nose and thin, pink lips, dozedcomplacently on a fence rail, full in the sun. In a corner of the Plazathree hens wallowed in the baking hot dust their wings fluttering, clucking comfortably. 

And this was all. A Sunday repose prevailed the whole moribund town, peaceful, profound. A certain pleasing numbness, a sense of gratefulenervation exhaled from the scorching plaster. There was no movement, nosound of human business. The faint hum of the insect, the intermittentmurmur of the guitar, the mellow complainings of the pigeons, theprolonged purr of the white cat, the contented clucking of thehens--all these noises mingled together to form a faint, drowsy bourdon, prolonged, stupefying, suggestive of an infinite quiet, of a calm, complacent life, centuries old, lapsing gradually to its end under thegorgeous loneliness of a cloudless, pale blue sky and the steady fire ofan interminable sun. 

In Solotari's Spanish-Mexican restaurant, Vanamee and Presley satopposite each other at one of the tables near the door, a bottle ofwhite wine, tortillas, and an earthen pot of frijoles between them. Theywere the sole occupants of the place. It was the day that Annixter hadchosen for his barn-dance and, in consequence, Quien Sabe was in feteand work suspended. Presley and Vanamee had arranged to spend the day ineach other's company, lunching at Solotari's and taking a long tramp inthe afternoon. For the moment they sat back in their chairs, their mealall but finished. Solotari brought black coffee and a small carafe ofmescal, and retiring to a corner of the room, went to sleep. 

All through the meal Presley had been wondering over a certain change heobserved in his friend. He looked at him again. 

Vanamee's lean, spare face was of an olive pallor. His long, black hair, such as one sees in the saints and evangelists of the pre-Raphaeliteartists, hung over his ears. Presley again remarked his pointed beard, black and fine, growing from the hollow cheeks. He looked at his face, a face like that of a young seer, like a half-inspired shepherd ofthe Hebraic legends, a dweller in the wilderness, gifted with strangepowers. He was dressed as when Presley had first met him, herding hissheep, in brown canvas overalls, thrust into top boots; grey flannelshirt, open at the throat, showing the breast ruddy with tan; the waistencircled with a cartridge belt, empty of cartridges. 

But now, as Presley took more careful note of him, he was surprised toobserve a certain new look in Vanamee's deep-set eyes. He remembered nowthat all through the morning Vanamee had been singularly reserved. He was continually drifting into reveries, abstracted, distrait. Indubitably, something of moment had happened. 

At length Vanamee spoke. Leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in hisbelt, his bearded chin upon his breast, his voice was the even monotoneof one speaking in his sleep. 

He told Presley in a few words what had happened during the firstnight he had spent in the garden of the old Mission, of the Answer, half-fancied, half-real, that had come to him. 

"To no other person but you would I speak of this, " he said, "but you, I think, will understand--will be sympathetic, at least, and I feel theneed of unburdening myself of it to some one. At first I would not trustmy own senses. I was sure I had deceived myself, but on a secondnight it happened again. Then I was afraid--or no, not afraid, butdisturbed--oh, shaken to my very heart's core. I resolved to go nofurther in the matter, never again to put it to test. For a long time Istayed away from the Mission, occupying myself with my work, keepingit out of my mind. But the temptation was too strong. One night I foundmyself there again, under the black shadow of the pear trees calling forAngele, summoning her from out the dark, from out the night. This timethe Answer was prompt, unmistakable. I cannot explain to you what itwas, nor how it came to me, for there was no sound. I saw absolutelynothing but the empty night. There was no moon. But somewhere off thereover the little valley, far off, the darkness was troubled; that MEthat went out upon my thought--out from the Mission garden, out over thevalley, calling for her, searching for her, found, I don't know what, but found a resting place--a companion. Three times since then I havegone to the Mission garden at night. Last night was the third time. "

He paused, his eyes shining with excitement. Presley leaned forwardtoward him, motionless with intense absorption. 

"Well--and last night, " he prompted. 

Vanamee stirred in his seat, his glance fell, he drummed an instant uponthe table. 

"Last night, " he answered, "there was--there was a change. The Answerwas--" he drew a deep breath--"nearer. "

"You are sure?"

The other smiled with absolute certainty. 

"It was not that I found the Answer sooner, easier. I could not bemistaken. No, that which has troubled the darkness, that which hasentered into the empty night--is coming nearer to me--physically nearer, actually nearer. "

His voice sank again. His face like the face of younger prophets, theseers, took on a half-inspired expression. He looked vaguely before himwith unseeing eyes. 

"Suppose, " he murmured, "suppose I stand there under the pear treesat night and call her again and again, and each time the Answer comesnearer and nearer and I wait until at last one night, the supreme nightof all, she--she----"

Suddenly the tension broke. With a sharp cry and a violent uncertaingesture of the hand Vanamee came to himself. 

"Oh, " he exclaimed, "what is it? Do I dare? What does it mean? There aretimes when it appals me and there are times when it thrills me witha sweetness and a happiness that I have not known since she died. Thevagueness of it! How can I explain it to you, this that happens when Icall to her across the night--that faint, far-off, unseen tremble in thedarkness, that intangible, scarcely perceptible stir. Something neitherheard nor seen, appealing to a sixth sense only. Listen, it is somethinglike this: On Quien Sabe, all last week, we have been seeding the earth. The grain is there now under the earth buried in the dark, in the blackstillness, under the clods. Can you imagine the first--the very firstlittle quiver of life that the grain of wheat must feel after it issown, when it answers to the call of the sun, down there in the dark ofthe earth, blind, deaf; the very first stir from the inert, long, longbefore any physical change has occurred, --long before the microscopecould discover the slightest change, --when the shell first tightens withthe first faint premonition of life? Well, it is something as illusiveas that. " He paused again, dreaming, lost in a reverie, then, just abovea whisper, murmured:

"'That which thou sowest is not quickened except it die, '. .. And she, Angele. .. Died. "

"You could not have been mistaken?" said Presley. "You were sure thatthere was something? Imagination can do so much and the influence of thesurroundings was strong. How impossible it would be that anything SHOULDhappen. And you say you heard nothing, saw nothing. "

"I believe, " answered Vanamee, "in a sixth sense, or, rather, a wholesystem of other unnamed senses beyond the reach of our understanding. People who live much alone and close to nature experience the sensationof it. Perhaps it is something fundamental that we share with plants andanimals. The same thing that sends the birds south long before the firstcolds, the same thing that makes the grain of wheat struggle up to meetthe sun. And this sense never deceives. You may see wrong, hear wrong, but once touch this sixth sense and it acts with absolute fidelity, youare certain. No, I hear nothing in the Mission garden. I see nothing, nothing touches me, but I am CERTAIN for all that. "

Presley hesitated for a moment, then he asked:

"Shall you go back to the garden again? Make the test again?" "I don'tknow. "

"Strange enough, " commented Presley, wondering. 

Vanamee sank back in his chair, his eyes growing vacant again:

"Strange enough, " he murmured. 

There was a long silence. Neither spoke nor moved. There, in thatmoribund, ancient town, wrapped in its siesta, flagellated with heat, deserted, ignored, baking in a noon-day silence, these two strange men, the one a poet by nature, the other by training, both out of tune withtheir world, dreamers, introspective, morbid, lost and unfamiliar atthat end-of-the-century time, searching for a sign, groping and baffledamidst the perplexing obscurity of the Delusion, sat over empty wineglasses, silent with the pervading silence that surrounded them, hearingonly the cooing of doves and the drone of bees, the quiet so profound, that at length they could plainly distinguish at intervals the puffingand coughing of a locomotive switching cars in the station yard ofBonneville. 

It was, no doubt, this jarring sound that at length roused Presley fromhis lethargy. The two friends rose; Solotari very sleepily came forward;they paid for the luncheon, and stepping out into the heat and glare ofthe streets of the town, passed on through it and took the road that lednorthward across a corner of Dyke's hop fields. They were bound for thehills in the northeastern corner of Quien Sabe. It was the same walkwhich Presley had taken on the previous occasion when he had first metVanamee herding the sheep. This encompassing detour around the wholecountry-side was a favorite pastime of his and he was anxious thatVanamee should share his pleasure in it. 

But soon after leaving Guadalajara, they found themselves upon the landthat Dyke had bought and upon which he was to raise his famous crop ofhops. Dyke's house was close at hand, a very pleasant little cottage, painted white, with green blinds and deep porches, while near it and yetin process of construction, were two great storehouses and a drying andcuring house, where the hops were to be stored and treated. All aboutwere evidences that the former engineer had already been hard atwork. The ground had been put in readiness to receive the crop and abewildering, innumerable multitude of poles, connected with a maze ofwire and twine, had been set out. Farther on at a turn of the road, theycame upon Dyke himself, driving a farm wagon loaded with more poles. He was in his shirt sleeves, his massive, hairy arms bare to the elbow, glistening with sweat, red with heat. In his bell-like, rumbling voice, he was calling to his foreman and a boy at work in stringing the polestogether. At sight of Presley and Vanamee he hailed them jovially, addressing them as "boys, " and insisting that they should get into thewagon with him and drive to the house for a glass of beer. His motherhad only the day before returned from Marysville, where she had beenlooking up a seminary for the little tad. She would be delighted to seethe two boys; besides, Vanamee must see how the little tad had grownsince he last set eyes on her; wouldn't know her for the same littlegirl; and the beer had been on ice since morning. Presley and Vanameecould not well refuse. 

They climbed into the wagon and jolted over the uneven ground throughthe bare forest of hop-poles to the house. Inside they found Mrs. Dyke, an old lady with a very gentle face, who wore a cap and a veryold-fashioned gown with hoop skirts, dusting the what-not in a corner ofthe parlor. The two men were presented and the beer was had from off theice. 

"Mother, " said Dyke, as he wiped the froth from his great blond beard, "ain't Sid anywheres about? I want Mr. Vanamee to see how she has grown. Smartest little tad in Tulare County, boys. Can recite the whole of'Snow Bound, ' end to end, without skipping or looking at the book. Maybeyou don't believe that. Mother, ain't I right--without skipping a line, hey?"

Mrs. Dyke nodded to say that it was so, but explained that Sidney wasin Guadalajara. In putting on her new slippers for the first time themorning before, she had found a dime in the toe of one of them and hadhad the whole house by the ears ever since till she could spend it. 

"Was it for licorice to make her licorice water?" inquired Dyke gravely. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Dyke. "I made her tell me what she was going to getbefore she went, and it was licorice. "

Dyke, though his mother protested that he was foolish and that Presleyand Vanamee had no great interest in "young ones, " insisted upon showingthe visitors Sidney's copy-books. They were monuments of laborious, elaborate neatness, the trite moralities and ready-made aphorisms of thephilanthropists and publicists, repeated from page to page with wearyinginsistence. "I, too, am an American Citizen. S. D. , " "As the Twig isBent the Tree is Inclined, " "Truth Crushed to Earth Will Rise Again, ""As for Me, Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death, " and last of all, astrange intrusion amongst the mild, well-worn phrases, two legends. "Mymotto--Public Control of Public Franchises, " and "The P. And S. W. Isan Enemy of the State. "

"I see, " commented Presley, "you mean the little tad to understand 'thesituation' early. "

"I told him he was foolish to give that to Sid to copy, " said Mrs. Dyke, with indulgent remonstrance. "What can she understand of publicfranchises?"

"Never mind, " observed Dyke, "she'll remember it when she grows up andwhen the seminary people have rubbed her up a bit, and then she'llbegin to ask questions and understand. And don't you make any mistake, mother, " he went on, "about the little tad not knowing who her dad'senemies are. What do you think, boys? Listen, here. Precious little I'veever told her of the railroad or how I was turned off, but the otherday I was working down by the fence next the railroad tracks and Sid wasthere. She'd brought her doll rags down and she was playing house behinda pile of hop poles. Well, along comes a through freight--mixed trainfrom Missouri points and a string of empties from New Orleans, --and whenit had passed, what do you suppose the tad did? SHE didn't know I waswatching her. She goes to the fence and spits a little spit after thecaboose and puts out her little head and, if you'll believe me, HISSESat the train; and mother says she does that same every time she sees atrain go by, and never crosses the tracks that she don't spit her littlespit on 'em. What do you THINK of THAT?"

"But I correct her every time, " protested Mrs. Dyke seriously. "Whereshe picked up the trick of hissing I don't know. No, it's not funny. Itseems dreadful to see a little girl who's as sweet and gentle as canbe in every other way, so venomous. She says the other little girls atschool and the boys, too, are all the same way. Oh, dear, " she sighed, "why will the General Office be so unkind and unjust? Why, I couldn'tbe happy, with all the money in the world, if I thought that even onelittle child hated me--hated me so that it would spit and hiss at me. And it's not one child, it's all of them, so Sidney says; and think ofall the grown people who hate the road, women and men, the whole county, the whole State, thousands and thousands of people. Don't the managersand the directors of the road ever think of that? Don't they ever thinkof all the hate that surrounds them, everywhere, everywhere, and thegood people that just grit their teeth when the name of the road ismentioned? Why do they want to make the people hate them? No, " shemurmured, the tears starting to her eyes, "No, I tell you, Mr. Presley, the men who own the railroad are wicked, bad-hearted men who don't carehow much the poor people suffer, so long as the road makes its eighteenmillion a year. They don't care whether the people hate them or lovethem, just so long as they are afraid of them. It's not right and Godwill punish them sooner or later. "

A little after this the two young men took themselves away, Dykeobligingly carrying them in the wagon as far as the gate that openedinto the Quien Sabe ranch. On the way, Presley referred to what Mrs. Dyke had said and led Dyke, himself, to speak of the P. And S. W. 

"Well, " Dyke said, "it's like this, Mr. Presley. I, personally, haven'tgot the right to kick. With you wheat-growing people I guess it'sdifferent, but hops, you see, don't count for much in the State. It'ssuch a little business that the road don't want to bother themselves totax it. It's the wheat growers that the road cinches. The rates on hopsARE FAIR. I've got to admit that; I was in to Bonneville a while ago tofind out. It's two cents a pound, and Lord love you, that's reasonableenough to suit any man. No, " he concluded, "I'm on the way to make moneynow. The road sacking me as they did was, maybe, a good thing for me, after all. It came just at the right time. I had a bit of money put byand here was the chance to go into hops with the certainty that hopswould quadruple and quintuple in price inside the year. No, it was mychance, and though they didn't mean it by a long chalk, the railroadpeople did me a good turn when they gave me my time--and the tad'llenter the seminary next fall. "

About a quarter of an hour after they had said goodbye to the one-timeengineer, Presley and Vanamee, tramping briskly along the road that lednorthward through Quien Sabe, arrived at Annixter's ranch house. At oncethey were aware of a vast and unwonted bustle that revolved about theplace. They stopped a few moments looking on, amused and interested inwhat was going forward. 

The colossal barn was finished. Its freshly white-washed sides glaredintolerably in the sun, but its interior was as yet innocent of paintand through the yawning vent of the sliding doors came a deliciousodour of new, fresh wood and shavings. A crowd of men--Annixter's farmhands--were swarming all about it. Some were balanced on the topmostrounds of ladders, hanging festoons of Japanese lanterns from treeto tree, and all across the front of the barn itself. Mrs. Tree, herdaughter Hilma and another woman were inside the barn cutting into longstrips bolt after bolt of red, white and blue cambric and directinghow these strips should be draped from the ceiling and on the walls;everywhere resounded the tapping of tack hammers. A farm wagon droveup loaded to overflowing with evergreens and with great bundles ofpalm leaves, and these were immediately seized upon and affixed assupplementary decorations to the tri-coloured cambric upon the insidewalls of the barn. Two of the larger evergreen trees were placed oneither side the barn door and their tops bent over to form an arch. Inthe middle of this arch it was proposed to hang a mammoth pasteboardescutcheon with gold letters, spelling the word WELCOME. Piles ofchairs, rented from I. O. O. F. Hall in Bonneville, heaped themselves inan apparently hopeless entanglement on the ground; while at the farextremity of the barn a couple of carpenters clattered about theimpromptu staging which was to accommodate the band. 

There was a strenuous gayety in the air; everybody was in the best ofspirits. Notes of laughter continually interrupted the conversationon every hand. At every moment a group of men involved themselves inuproarious horse-play. They passed oblique jokes behind their handsto each other--grossly veiled double-meanings meant for the women--andbellowed with laughter thereat, stamping on the ground. The relationsbetween the sexes grew more intimate, the women and girls pushing theyoung fellows away from their sides with vigorous thrusts of theirelbows. It was passed from group to group that Adela Vacca, a divisionsuperintendent's wife, had lost her garter; the daughter of the foremanof the Home ranch was kissed behind the door of the dairy-house. 

Annixter, in execrable temper, appeared from time to time, hatless, hisstiff yellow hair in wild disorder. He hurried between the barn and theranch house, carrying now a wickered demijohn, now a case of wine, nowa basket of lemons and pineapples. Besides general supervision, he hadelected to assume the responsibility of composing the punch--somethingstiff, by jingo, a punch that would raise you right out of your boots; aregular hairlifter. 

The harness room of the barn he had set apart for: himself andintimates. He had brought a long table down from the house and uponit had set out boxes of cigars, bottles of whiskey and of beer andthe great china bowls for the punch. It would be no fault of his, hedeclared, if half the number of his men friends were not uproariousbefore they left. His barn dance would be the talk of all Tulare Countyfor years to come. For this one day he had resolved to put all thoughtsof business out of his head. For the matter of that, things were goingwell enough. Osterman was back from Los Angeles with a favourablereport as to his affair with Disbrow and Darrell. There had been anothermeeting of the committee. Harran Derrick had attended. Though he hadtaken no part in the discussion, Annixter was satisfied. The Governorhad consented to allow Harran to "come in, " if he so desired, andHarran had pledged himself to share one-sixth of the campaign expenses, providing these did not exceed a certain figure. 

As Annixter came to the door of the barn to shout abuse at thedistraught Chinese cook who was cutting up lemons in the kitchen, hecaught sight of Presley and Vanamee and hailed them. 

"Hello, Pres, " he called. "Come over here and see how she looks;" heindicated the barn with a movement of his head. "Well, we're gettingready for you tonight, " he went on as the two friends came up. "Buthow we are going to get straightened out by eight o'clock I don't know. Would you believe that pip Caraher is short of lemons--at this lastminute and I told him I'd want three cases of 'em as much as a monthago, and here, just when I want a good lively saddle horse to get aroundon, somebody hikes the buckskin out the corral. STOLE her, by jingo. I'll have the law on that thief if it breaks me--and a sixty-dollarsaddle 'n' head-stall gone with her; and only about half the number ofJap lanterns that I ordered have shown up and not candles enough forthose. It's enough to make a dog sick. There's nothing done that youdon't do yourself, unless you stand over these loafers with a club. I'msick of the whole business--and I've lost my hat; wish to God I'd neverdreamed of givin' this rotten fool dance. Clutter the whole place upwith a lot of feemales. I sure did lose my presence of mind when I gotTHAT idea. "

Then, ignoring the fact that it was he, himself, who had called theyoung men to him, he added:

"Well, this is my busy day. Sorry I can't stop and talk to you longer. "

He shouted a last imprecation at the Chinaman and turned back into thebarn. Presley and Vanamee went on, but Annixter, as he crossed the floorof the barn, all but collided with Hilma Tree, who came out from one ofthe stalls, a box of candles in her arms. 

Gasping out an apology, Annixter reentered the harness room, closing thedoor behind him, and forgetting all the responsibility of the moment, lit a cigar and sat down in one of the hired chairs, his hands in hispockets, his feet on the table, frowning thoughtfully through the bluesmoke. 

Annixter was at last driven to confess to himself that he could not getthe thought of Hilma Tree out of his mind. Finally she had "got a holdon him. " The thing that of all others he most dreaded had happened. Afeemale girl had got a hold on him, and now there was no longer for himany such thing as peace of mind. The idea of the young woman was withhim continually. He went to bed with it; he got up with it. At everymoment of the day he was pestered with it. It interfered with his work, got mixed up in his business. What a miserable confession for a man tomake; a fine way to waste his time. Was it possible that only the otherday he had stood in front of the music store in Bonneville and seriouslyconsidered making Hilma a present of a music-box? Even now, the verythought of it made him flush with shame, and this after she had toldhim plainly that she did not like him. He was running after her--he, Annixter! He ripped out a furious oath, striking the table with his bootheel. Again and again he had resolved to put the whole affair from outhis mind. Once he had been able to do so, but of late it was becomingharder and harder with every successive day. He had only to close hiseyes to see her as plain as if she stood before him; he saw her in aglory of sunlight that set a fine tinted lustre of pale carnation andgold on the silken sheen of her white skin, her hair sparkled with it, her thick, strong neck, sloping to her shoulders with beautiful, fullcurves, seemed to radiate the light; her eyes, brown, wide, innocentin expression, disclosing the full disc of the pupil upon the slightestprovocation, flashed in this sunlight like diamonds. 

Annixter was all bewildered. With the exception of the timid littlecreature in the glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento, he had hadno acquaintance with any woman. His world was harsh, crude, a world ofmen only--men who were to be combatted, opposed--his hand was againstnearly every one of them. Women he distrusted with the instinctivedistrust of the overgrown schoolboy. Now, at length, a young woman hadcome into his life. Promptly he was struck with discomfiture, annoyedalmost beyond endurance, harassed, bedevilled, excited, made angry andexasperated. He was suspicious of the woman, yet desired her, totallyignorant of how to approach her, hating the sex, yet drawn to theindividual, confusing the two emotions, sometimes even hating Hilma asa result of this confusion, but at all times disturbed, vexed, irritatedbeyond power of expression. 

At length, Annixter cast his cigar from him and plunged again into thework of the day. The afternoon wore to evening, to the accompanimentof wearying and clamorous endeavour. In some unexplained fashion, the labour of putting the great barn in readiness for the dance wasaccomplished; the last bolt of cambric was hung in place from therafters. The last evergreen tree was nailed to the joists of thewalls; the last lantern hung, the last nail driven into the musicians'platform. The sun set. There was a great scurry to have supper anddress. Annixter, last of all the other workers, left the barn in thedusk of twilight. He was alone; he had a saw under one arm, a bag oftools was in his hand. He was in his shirt sleeves and carried his coatover his shoulder; a hammer was thrust into one of his hip pockets. Hewas in execrable temper. The day's work had fagged him out. He had notbeen able to find his hat. 

"And the buckskin with sixty dollars' worth of saddle gone, too, " hegroaned. "Oh, ain't it sweet?"

At his house, Mrs. Tree had set out a cold supper for him, theinevitable dish of prunes serving as dessert. After supper Annixterbathed and dressed. He decided at the last moment to wear his usualtown-going suit, a sack suit of black, made by a Bonneville tailor. Buthis hat was gone. There were other hats he might have worn, but becausethis particular one was lost he fretted about it all through hisdressing and then decided to have one more look around the barn for it. 

For over a quarter of an hour he pottered about the barn, going fromstall to stall, rummaging the harness room and feed room, all to nopurpose. At last he came out again upon the main floor, definitelygiving up the search, looking about him to see if everything was inorder. 

The festoons of Japanese lanterns in and around the barn were not yetlighted, but some half-dozen lamps, with great, tin reflectors, thathung against the walls, were burning low. A dull half light pervaded thevast interior, hollow, echoing, leaving the corners and roof thick withimpenetrable black shadows. The barn faced the west and through the opensliding doors was streaming a single bright bar from the after-glow, incongruous and out of all harmony with the dull flare of the kerosenelamps. 

As Annixter glanced about him, he saw a figure step briskly out of theshadows of one corner of the building, pause for the fraction of oneinstant in the bar of light, then, at sight of him, dart back again. There was a sound of hurried footsteps. 

Annixter, with recollections of the stolen buckskin in his mind, criedout sharply:

"Who's there?"

There was no answer. In a second his pistol was in his hand. 

"Who's there? Quick, speak up or I'll shoot. "

"No, no, no, don't shoot, " cried an answering voice. "Oh, be careful. It's I--Hilma Tree. "

Annixter slid the pistol into his pocket with a great qualm ofapprehension. He came forward and met Hilma in the doorway. 

"Good Lord, " he murmured, "that sure did give me a start. If I HADshot----"

Hilma stood abashed and confused before him. She was dressed in a whiteorgandie frock of the most rigorous simplicity and wore neither flowernor ornament. The severity of her dress made her look even larger thanusual, and even as it was her eyes were on a level with Annixter's. There was a certain fascination in the contradiction of stature andcharacter of Hilma--a great girl, half-child as yet, but tall as a manfor all that. 

There was a moment's awkward silence, then Hilma explained:

"I--I came back to look for my hat. I thought I left it here thisafternoon. "

"And I was looking for my hat, " cried Annixter. "Funny enough, hey?"

They laughed at this as heartily as children might have done. Theconstraint of the situation was a little relaxed and Annixter, withsudden directness, glanced sharply at the young woman and demanded:

"Well, Miss Hilma, hate me as much as ever?"

"Oh, no, sir, " she answered, "I never said I hated you. "

"Well, --dislike me, then; I know you said that. "

"I--I disliked what you did--TRIED to do. It made me angry and it hurtme. I shouldn't have said what I did that time, but it was your fault. "

"You mean you shouldn't have said you didn't like me?" asked Annixter. "Why?"

"Well, well, --I don't--I don't DISlike anybody, " admitted Hilma. 

"Then I can take it that you don't dislike ME? Is that it?"

"I don't dislike anybody, " persisted Hilma. 

"Well, I asked you more than that, didn't I?" queried Annixter uneasily. "I asked you to like me, remember, the other day. I'm asking you thatagain, now. I want you to like me. "

Hilma lifted her eyes inquiringly to his. In her words was anunmistakable ring of absolute sincerity. Innocently she inquired:

"Why?"

Annixter was struck speechless. In the face of such candour, suchperfect ingenuousness, he was at a loss for any words. 

"Well--well, " he stammered, "well--I don't know, " he suddenly burst out. "That is, " he went on, groping for his wits, "I can't quite say why. "The idea of a colossal lie occurred to him, a thing actually royal. 

"I like to have the people who are around me like me, " he declared. "I--I like to be popular, understand? Yes, that's it, " he continued, more reassured. "I don't like the idea of any one disliking me. That'sthe way I am. It's my nature. "

"Oh, then, " returned Hilma, "you needn't bother. No, I don't dislikeyou. "

"Well, that's good, " declared Annixter judicially. "That's good. Buthold on, " he interrupted, "I'm forgetting. It's not enough to notdislike me. I want you to like me. How about THAT?"

Hilma paused for a moment, glancing vaguely out of the doorway towardthe lighted window of the dairy-house, her head tilted. 

"I don't know that I ever thought about that, " she said. 

"Well, think about it now, " insisted Annixter. 

"But I never thought about liking anybody particularly, " she observed. "It's because I like everybody, don't you see?"

"Well, you've got to like some people more than other people, " hazardedAnnixter, "and I want to be one of those 'some people, ' savvy? GoodLord, I don't know how to say these fool things. I talk like a galootwhen I get talking to feemale girls and I can't lay my tongue toanything that sounds right. It isn't my nature. And look here, I liedwhen I said I liked to have people like me--to be popular. Rot! I don'tcare a curse about people's opinions of me. But there's a fewpeople that are more to me than most others--that chap Presley, forinstance--and those people I DO want to have like me. What they thinkcounts. Pshaw! I know I've got enemies; piles of them. I could name youhalf a dozen men right now that are naturally itching to take a shot atme. How about this ranch? Don't I know, can't I hear the men growlingoaths under their breath after I've gone by? And in business ways, too, "he went on, speaking half to himself, "in Bonneville and all over thecounty there's not a man of them wouldn't howl for joy if they got achance to down Buck Annixter. Think I care? Why, I LIKE it. I run myranch to suit myself and I play my game my own way. I'm a 'driver, 'I know it, and a 'bully, ' too. Oh, I know what they call me--'a brutebeast, with a twist in my temper that would rile up a new-born lamb, 'and I'm 'crusty' and 'pig-headed' and 'obstinate. ' They say all that, but they've got to say, too, that I'm cleverer than any man-jack in therunning. There's nobody can get ahead of me. " His eyes snapped. "Let 'emgrind their teeth. They can't 'down' me. When I shut my fist there'snot one of them can open it. No, not with a CHISEL. " He turned to Hilmaagain. "Well, when a man's hated as much as that, it stands to reason, don't it, Miss Hilma, that the few friends he has got he wants to keep?I'm not such an entire swine to the people that know me best--thatjackass, Presley, for instance. I'd put my hand in the fire to do hima real service. Sometimes I get kind of lonesome; wonder if you wouldunderstand? It's my fault, but there's not a horse about the place thatdon't lay his ears back when I get on him; there's not a dog don't puthis tail between his legs as soon as I come near him. The cayuse isn'tfoaled yet here on Quien Sabe that can throw me, nor the dog whelpedthat would dare show his teeth at me. I kick that Irish setter everytime I see him--but wonder what I'd do, though, if he didn't slink somuch, if he wagged his tail and was glad to see me? So it all comes tothis: I'd like to have you--well, sort of feel that I was a good friendof yours and like me because of it. "

The flame in the lamp on the wall in front of Hilma stretched upwardtall and thin and began to smoke. She went over to where the lamp hungand, standing on tip-toe, lowered the wick. As she reached her handup, Annixter noted how the sombre, lurid red of the lamp made a warmreflection on her smooth, round arm. 

"Do you understand?" he queried. 

"Yes, why, yes, " she answered, turning around. "It's very good of you towant to be a friend of mine. I didn't think so, though, when you triedto kiss me. But maybe it's all right since you've explained things. Yousee I'm different from you. I like everybody to like me and I like tolike everybody. It makes one so much happier. You wouldn't believe it, but you ought to try it, sir, just to see. It's so good to be good topeople and to have people good to you. And everybody has always beenso good to me. Mamma and papa, of course, and Billy, the stableman, andMontalegre, the Portugee foreman, and the Chinese cook, even, and Mr. Delaney--only he went away--and Mrs. Vacca and her little----"

"Delaney, hey?" demanded Annixter abruptly. "You and he were pretty goodfriends, were you?"

"Oh, yes, " she answered. "He was just as GOOD to me. Every day in thesummer time he used to ride over to the Seed ranch back of the Missionand bring me a great armful of flowers, the prettiest things, and I usedto pretend to pay him for them with dollars made of cheese that I cutout of the cheese with a biscuit cutter. It was such fun. We were thebest of friends. "

"There's another lamp smoking, " growled Annixter. "Turn it down, willyou?--and see that somebody sweeps this floor here. It's all littered upwith pine needles. I've got a lot to do. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, sir. "

Annixter returned to the ranch house, his teeth clenched, enraged, hisface flushed. 

"Ah, " he muttered, "Delaney, hey? Throwing it up to me that I firedhim. " His teeth gripped together more fiercely than ever. "The bestof friends, hey? By God, I'll have that girl yet. I'll show thatcow-puncher. Ain't I her employer, her boss? I'll show her--and Delaney, too. It would be easy enough--and then Delaney can have her--if he wantsher--after me. "

An evil light flashing from under his scowl, spread over his face. Themale instincts of possession, unreasoned, treacherous, oblique, cametwisting to the surface. All the lower nature of the man, ignorant ofwomen, racked at one and the same time with enmity and desire, rouseditself like a hideous and abominable beast. And at the same moment, Hilma returned to her house, humming to herself as she walked, her whitedress glowing with a shimmer of faint saffron light in the last ray ofthe after-glow. 

A little after half-past seven, the first carry-all, bearing thedruggist of Bonneville and his women-folk, arrived in front of the newbarn. Immediately afterward an express wagon loaded down with aswarming family of Spanish-Mexicans, gorgeous in red and yellow colours, followed. Billy, the stableman, and his assistant took charge of theteams, unchecking the horses and hitching them to a fence back of thebarn. Then Caraher, the saloon-keeper, in "derby" hat, "Prince Albert"coat, pointed yellow shoes and inevitable red necktie, drove into theyard on his buckboard, the delayed box of lemons under the seat. Itlooked as if the whole array of invited guests was to arrive in oneunbroken procession, but for a long half-hour nobody else appeared. Annixter and Caraher withdrew to the harness room and promptly involvedthemselves in a wrangle as to the make-up of the famous punch. From timeto time their voices could be heard uplifted in clamorous argument. 

"Two quarts and a half and a cupful of chartreuse. "

"Rot, rot, I know better. Champagne straight and a dash of brandy. "

The druggist's wife and sister retired to the feed room, where a bureauwith a swinging mirror had been placed for the convenience of the women. The druggist stood awkwardly outside the door of the feed room, his coatcollar turned up against the draughts that drifted through the barn, hisface troubled, debating anxiously as to the propriety of putting on hisgloves. The Spanish-Mexican family, a father, mother and five childrenand sister-in-law, sat rigid on the edges of the hired chairs, silent, constrained, their eyes lowered, their elbows in at their sides, glancing furtively from under their eyebrows at the decorations orwatching with intense absorption young Vacca, son of one of the divisionsuperintendents, who wore a checked coat and white thread gloves andwho paced up and down the length of the barn, frowning, very important, whittling a wax candle over the floor to make it slippery for dancing. 

The musicians arrived, the City Band of Bonneville--Annixter havingmanaged to offend the leader of the "Dirigo" Club orchestra, at the verylast moment, to such a point that he had refused his services. Thesemembers of the City Band repaired at once to their platform in thecorner. At every instant they laughed uproariously among themselves, joshing one of their number, a Frenchman, whom they called "Skeezicks. "Their hilarity reverberated in a hollow, metallic roll among the raftersoverhead. The druggist observed to young Vacca as he passed by that hethought them pretty fresh, just the same. 

"I'm busy, I'm very busy, " returned the young man, continuing on hisway, still frowning and paring the stump of candle. 

"Two quarts 'n' a half. Two quarts 'n' a half. "

"Ah, yes, in a way, that's so; and then, again, in a way, it ISN'T. Iknow better. "

All along one side of the barn were a row of stalls, fourteen of them, clean as yet, redolent of new cut wood, the sawdust still in the cracksof the flooring. Deliberately the druggist went from one to the other, pausing contemplatively before each. He returned down the line and againtook up his position by the door of the feed room, nodding his headjudicially, as if satisfied. He decided to put on his gloves. 

By now it was quite dark. Outside, between the barn and the ranch housesone could see a group of men on step-ladders lighting the festoons ofJapanese lanterns. In the darkness, only their faces appeared here andthere, high above the ground, seen in a haze of red, strange, grotesque. Gradually as the multitude of lanterns were lit, the light spread. The grass underfoot looked like green excelsior. Another group of meninvaded the barn itself, lighting the lamps and lanterns there. Soonthe whole place was gleaming with points of light. Young Vacca, who haddisappeared, returned with his pockets full of wax candles. He resumedhis whittling, refusing to answer any questions, vociferating that hewas busy. 

Outside there was a sound of hoofs and voices. More guests had arrived. The druggist, seized with confusion, terrified lest he had put on hisgloves too soon, thrust his hands into his pockets. It was Cutter, Magnus Derrick's division superintendent, who came, bringing his wifeand her two girl cousins. They had come fifteen miles by the trail fromthe far distant division house on "Four" of Los Muertos and had riddenon horseback instead of driving. Mrs. Cutter could be heard declaringthat she was nearly dead and felt more like going to bed than dancing. The two girl cousins, in dresses of dotted Swiss over blue sateen, weredoing their utmost to pacify her. She could be heard protesting frommoment to moment. One distinguished the phrases "straight to my bed, ""back nearly broken in two, " "never wanted to come in the first place. "The druggist, observing Cutter take a pair of gloves from Mrs. Cutter'sreticule, drew his hands from his pockets. 

But abruptly there was an interruption. In the musicians' cornera scuffle broke out. A chair was overturned. There was a noise ofimprecations mingled with shouts of derision. Skeezicks, the Frenchman, had turned upon the joshers. 

"Ah, no, " he was heard to exclaim, "at the end of the end it is toomuch. Kind of a bad canary--we will go to see about that. Aha, let himclose up his face before I demolish it with a good stroke of the fist. "

The men who were lighting the lanterns were obliged to intervene beforehe could be placated. 

Hooven and his wife and daughters arrived. Minna was carrying littleHilda, already asleep, in her arms. Minna looked very pretty, strikingeven, with her black hair, pale face, very red lips and greenish-blueeyes. She was dressed in what had been Mrs. Hooven's wedding gown, acheap affair of "farmer's satin. " Mrs. Hooven had pendent earringsof imitation jet in her ears. Hooven was wearing an old frock coat ofMagnus Derrick's, the sleeves too long, the shoulders absurdly too wide. He and Cutter at once entered into an excited conversation as to theownership of a certain steer. 

"Why, the brand----"

"Ach, Gott, der brendt, " Hooven clasped his head, "ach, der brendt, dotmaks me laugh some laughs. Dot's goot--der brendt--doand I see um--shoorder boole mit der bleck star bei der vore-head in der middle oaf. Anysomeones you esk tell you dot is mein boole. You esk any someones. Derbrendt? To hell mit der brendt. You aindt got some memorie aboudt doesting I guess nodt. "

"Please step aside, gentlemen, " said young Vacca, who was still makingthe rounds of the floor. 

Hooven whirled about. "Eh? What den, " he exclaimed, still excited, willing to be angry at any one for the moment. "Doand you push soh, you. I tink berhapz you doand OWN dose barn, hey?"

"I'm busy, I'm very busy. " The young man pushed by with gravepreoccupation. 

"Two quarts 'n' a half. Two quarts 'n' a half. "

"I know better. That's all rot. "

But the barn was filling up rapidly. At every moment there was a rattleof a newly arrived vehicle from outside. Guest after guest appearedin the doorway, singly or in couples, or in families, or in garrulousparties of five and six. Now it was Phelps and his mother from LosMuertos, now a foreman from Broderson's with his family, now a gaylyapparelled clerk from a Bonneville store, solitary and bewildered, looking for a place to put his hat, now a couple of Spanish-Mexicangirls from Guadalajara with coquettish effects of black and yellow abouttheir dress, now a group of Osterman's tenants, Portuguese, swarthy, with plastered hair and curled mustaches, redolent of cheap perfumes. Sarria arrived, his smooth, shiny face glistening with perspiration. Hewore a new cassock and carried his broad-brimmed hat under his arm. Hisappearance made quite a stir. He passed from group to group, urbane, affable, shaking hands right and left; he assumed a set smile ofamiability which never left his face the whole evening. 

But abruptly there was a veritable sensation. From out the little crowdthat persistently huddled about the doorway came Osterman. He worea dress-suit with a white waistcoat and patent leather pumps--whata wonder! A little qualm of excitement spread around the barn. Oneexchanged nudges of the elbow with one's neighbour, whispering earnestlybehind the hand. What astonishing clothes! Catch on to the coat-tails!It was a masquerade costume, maybe; that goat Osterman was such ajosher, one never could tell what he would do next. 

The musicians began to tune up. From their corner came a medley ofmellow sounds, the subdued chirps of the violins, the dull bourdon ofthe bass viol, the liquid gurgling of the flageolet and the deep-tonedsnarl of the big horn, with now and then a rasping stridulating of thesnare drum. A sense of gayety began to spread throughout the assembly. At every moment the crowd increased. The aroma of new-sawn timberand sawdust began to be mingled with the feminine odour of sachet andflowers. There was a babel of talk in the air--male baritone and sopranochatter--varied by an occasional note of laughter and the swish ofstiffly starched petticoats. On the row of chairs that went around threesides of the wall groups began to settle themselves. For a long timethe guests huddled close to the doorway; the lower end of the floorwas crowded! the upper end deserted; but by degrees the lines of whitemuslin and pink and blue sateen extended, dotted with the darker figuresof men in black suits. The conversation grew louder as the timidity ofthe early moments wore off. Groups at a distance called back and forth;conversations were carried on at top voice. Once, even a whole partyhurried across the floor from one side of the barn to the other. 

Annixter emerged from the harness room, his face red with wrangling. Hetook a position to the right of the door, shaking hands with newcomers, inviting them over and over again to cut loose and whoop it along. Intothe ears of his more intimate male acquaintances he dropped a word asto punch and cigars in the harness room later on, winking with vastintelligence. Ranchers from remoter parts of the country appeared:Garnett, from the Ruby rancho, Keast, from the ranch of the same name, Gethings, of the San Pablo, Chattern, of the Bonanza, and others andstill others, a score of them--elderly men, for the most part, bearded, slow of speech, deliberate, dressed in broadcloth. Old Broderson, whoentered with his wife on his arm, fell in with this type, and with themcame a certain Dabney, of whom nothing but his name was known, a silentold man, who made no friends, whom nobody knew or spoke to, who was seenonly upon such occasions as this, coming from no one knew where, going, no one cared to inquire whither. 

Between eight and half-past, Magnus Derrick and his family were seen. Magnus's entry caused no little impression. Some said: "There's theGovernor, " and called their companions' attention to the thin, erect figure, commanding, imposing, dominating all in his immediateneighbourhood. Harran came with him, wearing a cut-away suit of black. He was undeniably handsome, young and fresh looking, his cheeks highlycoloured, quite the finest looking of all the younger men; blond, strong, with that certain courtliness of manner that had always made himliked. He took his mother upon his arm and conducted her to a seat bythe side of Mrs. Broderson. 

Annie Derrick was very pretty that evening. She was dressed in a greysilk gown with a collar of pink velvet. Her light brown hair that yetretained so much of its brightness was transfixed by a high, shell comb, very Spanish. But the look of uneasiness in her large eyes--the eyes ofa young girl--was deepening every day. The expression of innocenceand inquiry which they so easily assumed, was disturbed by a faintsuggestion of aversion, almost of terror. She settled herself in herplace, in the corner of the hall, in the rear rank of chairs, a littlefrightened by the glare of lights, the hum of talk and the shiftingcrowd, glad to be out of the way, to attract no attention, willing toobliterate herself. 

All at once Annixter, who had just shaken hands with Dyke, his motherand the little tad, moved abruptly in his place, drawing in his breathsharply. The crowd around the great, wide-open main door of the barn hadsomewhat thinned out and in the few groups that still remained there hehad suddenly recognised Mr. And Mrs. Tree and Hilma, making their waytowards some empty seats near the entrance of the feed room. 

In the dusky light of the barn earlier in the evening, Annixter had notbeen able to see Hilma plainly. Now, however, as she passed before hiseyes in the glittering radiance of the lamps and lanterns, he caughthis breath in astonishment. Never had she appeared more beautiful in hiseyes. It did not seem possible that this was the same girl whom he sawevery day in and around the ranch house and dairy, the girl of simplecalico frocks and plain shirt waists, who brought him his dinner, whomade up his bed. Now he could not take his eyes from her. Hilma, forthe first time, was wearing her hair done high upon her head. The thick, sweet-smelling masses, bitumen brown in the shadows, corruscated likegolden filaments in the light. Her organdie frock was long, longer thanany she had yet worn. It left a little of her neck and breast bare andall of her arm. 

Annixter muttered an exclamation. Such arms! How did she manage tokeep them hid on ordinary occasions. Big at the shoulder, tapering withdelicious modulations to the elbow and wrist, overlaid with a delicate, gleaming lustre. As often as she turned her head the movement senta slow undulation over her neck and shoulders, the pale amber-tintedshadows under her chin, coming and going over the creamy whiteness ofthe skin like the changing moire of silk. The pretty rose colour ofher cheek had deepened to a pale carnation. Annixter, his hands claspedbehind him, stood watching. 

In a few moments Hilma was surrounded by a group of young men, clamouring for dances. They came from all corners of the barn, leavingthe other girls precipitately, almost rudely. There could be littledoubt as to who was to be the belle of the occasion. Hilma's littletriumph was immediate, complete. Annixter could hear her voice from timeto time, its usual velvety huskiness vibrating to a note of exuberantgayety. 

All at once the orchestra swung off into a march--the Grand March. Therewas a great rush to secure "partners. " Young Vacca, still going therounds, was pushed to one side. The gayly apparelled clerk from theBonneville store lost his head in the confusion. He could not findhis "partner. " He roamed wildly about the barn, bewildered, his eyesrolling. He resolved to prepare an elaborate programme card on theback of an old envelope. Rapidly the line was formed, Hilma and HarranDerrick in the lead, Annixter having obstinately refused to engagein either march, set or dance the whole evening. Soon the confusedshuffling of feet settled to a measured cadence; the orchestra blaredand wailed, the snare drum, rolling at exact intervals, the cornetmarking the time. It was half-past eight o'clock. 

Annixter drew a long breath:

"Good, " he muttered, "the thing is under way at last. "

Singularly enough, Osterman also refused to dance. The week beforehe had returned from Los Angeles, bursting with the importance of hismission. He had been successful. He had Disbrow "in his pocket. " Hewas impatient to pose before the others of the committee as a skilfulpolitical agent, a manipulator. He forgot his attitude of the early partof the evening when he had drawn attention to himself with his wonderfulclothes. Now his comic actor's face, with its brownish-red cheeks, protuberant ears and horizontal slit of a mouth, was overcastwith gravity. His bald forehead was seamed with the wrinkles ofresponsibility. He drew Annixter into one of the empty stalls and beganan elaborate explanation, glib, voluble, interminable, going over againin detail what he had reported to the committee in outline. 

"I managed--I schemed--I kept dark--I lay low----"

But Annixter refused to listen. 

"Oh, rot your schemes. There's a punch in the harness room that willmake the hair grow on the top of your head in the place where the hairought to grow. Come on, we'll round up some of the boys and walk intoit. "

They edged their way around the hall outside "The Grand March, " towardthe harness room, picking up on their way Caraher, Dyke, Hooven and oldBroderson. Once in the harness room, Annixter shot the bolt. 

"That affair outside, " he observed, "will take care of itself, buthere's a little orphan child that gets lonesome without company. "

Annixter began ladling the punch, filling the glasses. 

Osterman proposed a toast to Quien Sabe and the Biggest Barn. Theirelbows crooked in silence. Old Broderson set down his glass, wiping hislong beard and remarking:

"That--that certainly is very--very agreeable. I remember a punch Idrank on Christmas day in '83, or no, it was '84--anyhow, that punch--itwas in Ukiah--'TWAS '83--" He wandered on aimlessly, unable to stophis flow of speech, losing himself in details, involving his talk in ahopeless maze of trivialities to which nobody paid any attention. 

"I don't drink myself, " observed Dyke, "but just a taste of that witha lot of water wouldn't be bad for the little tad. She'd think it waslemonade. " He was about to mix a glass for Sidney, but thought better ofit at the last moment. 

"It's the chartreuse that's lacking, " commented Caraher, lowering atAnnixter. The other flared up on the instant. 

"Rot, rot. I know better. In some punches it goes; and then, again, inothers it don't. "

But it was left to Hooven to launch the successful phrase:

"Gesundheit, " he exclaimed, holding out his second glass. Afterdrinking, he replaced it on the table with a long breath. "Ach Gott!"he cried, "dat poonsch, say I tink dot poonsch mek some demn gootvertilizer, hey?"

Fertiliser! The others roared with laughter. 

"Good eye, Bismarck, " commented Annixter. The name had a great success. Thereafter throughout the evening the punch was invariably spoken of asthe "Fertiliser. " Osterman, having spilt the bottom of a glassful onthe floor, pretended that he saw shoots of grain coming up on the spot. Suddenly he turned upon old Broderson. "I'm bald, ain't I? Want to knowhow I lost my hair? Promise you won't ask a single other question andI'll tell you. Promise your word of honour. "

"Eh? What--wh--I--I don't understand. Your hair? Yes, I'll promise. Howdid you lose it?"

"It was bit off. "

The other gazed at him stupefied; his jaw dropped. The company shouted, and old Broderson, believing he had somehow accomplished a witticism, chuckled in his beard, wagging his head. But suddenly he fell grave, struck with an idea. He demanded:

"Yes--I know--but--but what bit it off?"

"Ah, " vociferated Osterman, "that's JUST what you promised not to ask. "

The company doubled up with hilarity. Caraher leaned against the door, holding his sides, but Hooven, all abroad, unable to follow, gazed fromface to face with a vacant grin, thinking it was still a question of hisfamous phrase. 

"Vertilizer, hey? Dots some fine joke, hey? You bedt. "

What with the noise of their talk and laughter, it was some time beforeDyke, first of all, heard a persistent knocking on the bolted door. Hecalled Annixter's attention to the sound. Cursing the intruder, Annixterunbolted and opened the door. But at once his manner changed. 

"Hello. It's Presley. Come in, come in, Pres. "

There was a shout of welcome from the others. A spirit of effusivecordiality had begun to dominate the gathering. Annixter caught sight ofVanamee back of Presley, and waiving for the moment the distinction ofemployer and employee, insisted that both the friends should come in. 

"Any friend of Pres is my friend, " he declared. 

But when the two had entered and had exchanged greetings, Presley drewAnnixter aside. 

"Vanamee and I have just come from Bonneville, " he explained. "We sawDelaney there. He's got the buckskin, and he's full of bad whiskey anddago-red. You should see him; he's wearing all his cow-punching outfit, hair trousers, sombrero, spurs and all the rest of it, and he hasstrapped himself to a big revolver. He says he wasn't invited to yourbarn dance but that he's coming over to shoot up the place. He says youpromised to show him off Quien Sabe at the toe of your boot and thathe's going to give you the chance to-night!" "Ah, " commented Annixter, nodding his head, "he is, is he?"

Presley was disappointed. Knowing Annixter's irascibility, he hadexpected to produce a more dramatic effect. He began to explain thedanger of the business. Delaney had once knifed a greaser in thePanamint country. He was known as a "bad" man. But Annixter refused tobe drawn. 

"All right, " he said, "that's all right. Don't tell anybody else. Youmight scare the girls off. Get in and drink. "

Outside the dancing was by this time in full swing. The orchestrawas playing a polka. Young Vacca, now at his fiftieth wax candle, hadbrought the floor to the slippery surface of glass. The druggist wasdancing with one of the Spanish-Mexican girls with the solemnity of anautomaton, turning about and about, always in the same direction, hiseyes glassy, his teeth set. Hilma Tree was dancing for the second timewith Harran Derrick. She danced with infinite grace. Her cheeks werebright red, her eyes half-closed, and through her parted lips she drewfrom time to time a long, tremulous breath of pure delight. The music, the weaving colours, the heat of the air, by now a little oppressive, the monotony of repeated sensation, even the pain of physical fatiguehad exalted all her senses. She was in a dreamy lethargy of happiness. It was her "first ball. " She could have danced without stopping untilmorning. Minna Hooven and Cutter were "promenading. " Mrs. Hooven, withlittle Hilda already asleep on her knees, never took her eyes fromher daughter's gown. As often as Minna passed near her she vented anenergetic "pst! pst!" The metal tip of a white draw string was showingfrom underneath the waist of Minna's dress. Mrs. Hooven was on the pointof tears. 

The solitary gayly apparelled clerk from Bonneville was in a fever ofagitation. He had lost his elaborate programme card. Bewildered, besidehimself with trepidation, he hurried about the room, jostled by thedancing couples, tripping over the feet of those who were seated;he peered distressfully under the chairs and about the floor, askinganxious questions. 

Magnus Derrick, the centre of a listening circle of ranchers--Garnettfrom the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same name, Gethingsand Chattern of the San Pablo and Bonanza--stood near the great opendoorway of the barn, discussing the possibility of a shortage in theworld's wheat crop for the next year. 

Abruptly the orchestra ceased playing with a roll of the snare drum, aflourish of the cornet and a prolonged growl of the bass viol. Thedance broke up, the couples hurrying to their seats, leaving the gaylyapparelled clerk suddenly isolated in the middle of the floor, rollinghis eyes. The druggist released the Spanish-Mexican girl with mechanicalprecision out amidst the crowd of dancers. He bowed, dropping his chinupon his cravat; throughout the dance neither had hazarded a word. The girl found her way alone to a chair, but the druggist, sick fromcontinually revolving in the same direction, walked unsteadily towardthe wall. All at once the barn reeled around him; he fell down. Therewas a great laugh, but he scrambled to his feet and disappeared abruptlyout into the night through the doorway of the barn, deathly pale, hishand upon his stomach. 

Dabney, the old man whom nobody knew, approached the group of ranchersaround Magnus Derrick and stood, a little removed, listening gravelyto what the governor was saying, his chin sunk in his collar, silent, offering no opinions. 

But the leader of the orchestra, with a great gesture of his violin bow, cried out:

"All take partners for the lancers and promenade around the hall!"

However, there was a delay. A little crowd formed around the musicians'platform; voices were raised; there was a commotion. Skeezicks, whoplayed the big horn, accused the cornet and the snare-drum of stealinghis cold lunch. At intervals he could be heard expostulating:

"Ah, no! at the end of the end! Render me the sausages, you, or less Ibreak your throat! Aha! I know you. You are going to play me there abad farce. My sausages and the pork sandwich, else I go away from thisplace!"

He made an exaggerated show of replacing his big horn in its case, butthe by-standers raised a great protest. The sandwiches and one sausagewere produced; the other had disappeared. In the end Skeezichs allowedhimself to be appeased. The dance was resumed. 

Half an hour later the gathering in the harness room was considerablyreinforced. It was the corner of the barn toward which the male guestsnaturally gravitated. Harran Derrick, who only cared to dance with HilmaTree, was admitted. Garnett from the Ruby rancho and Gethings fromthe San Pablo, came in a little afterwards. A fourth bowl of punch wasmixed, Annixter and Caraher clamouring into each other's face as to itsingredients. Cigars were lighted. Soon the air of the room became bluewith an acrid haze of smoke. It was very warm. Ranged in their chairsaround the side of the room, the guests emptied glass after glass. 

Vanamee alone refused to drink. He sat a little to one side, disassociating himself from what was going forward, watching the otherscalmly, a little contemptuously, a cigarette in his fingers. 

Hooven, after drinking his third glass, however, was afflicted with agreat sadness; his breast heaved with immense sighs. He asserted that hewas "obbressed;" Cutter had taken his steer. He retired to a corner andseated himself in a heap on his chair, his heels on the rungs, wipingthe tears from his eyes, refusing to be comforted. Old Brodersonstartled Annixter, who sat next to him, out of all measure by suddenlywinking at him with infinite craftiness. 

"When I was a lad in Ukiah, " he whispered hoarsely, "I was a devil of afellow with the girls; but Lordy!" he nudged him slyly, "I wouldn't haveit known!"

Of those who were drinking, Annixter alone retained all his wits. Thoughkeeping pace with the others, glass for glass, the punch left him solidupon his feet, clear-headed. The tough, cross-grained fibre of himseemed proof against alcohol. Never in his life had he been drunk. Heprided himself upon his power of resistance. It was his nature. 

"Say!" exclaimed old Broderson, gravely addressing the company, pullingat his beard uneasily--"say! I--I--listen! I'm a devil of a fellow withthe girls. " He wagged his head doggedly, shutting his eyes in a knowingfashion. "Yes, sir, I am. There was a young lady in Ukiah--that waswhen I was a lad of seventeen. We used to meet in the cemetery in theafternoons. I was to go away to school at Sacramento, and the afternoonI left we met in the cemetery and we stayed so long I almost missed thetrain. Her name was Celestine. "

There was a pause. The others waited for the rest of the story. 

"And afterwards?" prompted Annixter. 

"Afterwards? Nothing afterwards. I never saw her again. Her name wasCelestine. "

The company raised a chorus of derision, and Osterman cried ironically:

"Say! THAT'S a pretty good one! Tell us another. "

The old man laughed with the rest, believing he had made another hit. Hecalled Osterman to him, whispering in his ear:

"Sh! Look here! Some night you and I will go up to San Francisco--hey?We'll go skylarking. We'll be gay. Oh, I'm a--a--a rare old BUCK, I am!I ain't too old. You'll see. "

Annixter gave over the making of the fifth bowl of punch to Osterman, who affirmed that he had a recipe for a "fertiliser" from Solotarithat would take the plating off the ladle. He left him wrangling withCaraher, who still persisted in adding chartreuse, and stepped out intothe dance to see how things were getting on. 

It was the interval between two dances. In and around a stall at thefarther end of the floor, where lemonade was being served, was a greatthrong of young men. Others hurried across the floor singly or by twosand threes, gingerly carrying overflowing glasses to their "partners, "sitting in long rows of white and blue and pink against the oppositewall, their mothers and older sisters in a second dark-clothed rankbehind them. A babel of talk was in the air, mingled with gusts oflaughter. Everybody seemed having a good time. In the increasing heatthe decorations of evergreen trees and festoons threw off a pungentaroma that suggested a Sunday-school Christmas festival. In the otherstalls, lower down the barn, the young men had brought chairs, and inthese deep recesses the most desperate love-making was in progress, theyoung man, his hair neatly parted, leaning with great solicitation overthe girl, his "partner" for the moment, fanning her conscientiously, hisarm carefully laid along the back of her chair. 

By the doorway, Annixter met Sarria, who had stepped out to smoke a fat, black cigar. The set smile of amiability was still fixed on the priest'ssmooth, shiny face; the cigar ashes had left grey streaks on the frontof his cassock. He avoided Annixter, fearing, no doubt, an allusionto his game cocks, and took up his position back of the second rank ofchairs by the musicians' stand, beaming encouragingly upon every one whocaught his eye. 

Annixter was saluted right and left as he slowly went the round of thefloor. At every moment he had to pause to shake hands and to listen tocongratulations upon the size of his barn and the success of his dance. But he was distrait, his thoughts elsewhere; he did not attempt tohide his impatience when some of the young men tried to engage him inconversation, asking him to be introduced to their sisters, or theirfriends' sisters. He sent them about their business harshly, abominablyrude, leaving a wake of angry disturbance behind him, sowing the seedsof future quarrels and renewed unpopularity. He was looking for HilmaTree. 

When at last he came unexpectedly upon her, standing near where Mrs. Tree was seated, some half-dozen young men hovering uneasily in herneighbourhood, all his audacity was suddenly stricken from him; hisgruffness, his overbearing insolence vanished with an abruptness thatleft him cold. His old-time confusion and embarrassment returned to him. Instead of speaking to her as he intended, he affected not to see her, but passed by, his head in the air, pretending a sudden interest in aJapanese lantern that was about to catch fire. 

But he had had a single distinct glimpse of her, definite, precise, and this glimpse was enough. Hilma had changed. The change wassubtle, evanescent, hard to define, but not the less unmistakable. Theexcitement, the enchanting delight, the delicious disturbance of "thefirst ball, " had produced its result. Perhaps there had only been thislacking. It was hard to say, but for that brief instant of time Annixterwas looking at Hilma, the woman. She was no longer the young girl uponwhom he might look down, to whom he might condescend, whose little, infantile graces were to be considered with amused toleration. 

When Annixter returned to the harness room, he let himself into aclamour of masculine hilarity. Osterman had, indeed, made a marvellous"fertiliser, " whiskey for the most part, diluted with champagne andlemon juice. The first round of this drink had been welcomed witha salvo of cheers. Hooven, recovering his spirits under its violentstimulation, spoke of "heving ut oudt mit Cudder, bei Gott, " whileOsterman, standing on a chair at the end of the room, shouted for a"few moments quiet, gentlemen, " so that he might tell a certain storyhe knew. But, abruptly, Annixter discovered that the liquors--thechampagne, whiskey, brandy, and the like--were running low. This wouldnever do. He felt that he would stand disgraced if it could besaid afterward that he had not provided sufficient drink at hisentertainment. He slipped out, unobserved, and, finding two of his ranchhands near the doorway, sent them down to the ranch house to bring upall the cases of "stuff" they found there. 

However, when this matter had been attended to, Annixter did notimmediately return to the harness room. On the floor of the barn asquare dance was under way, the leader of the City Band calling thefigures. Young Vacca indefatigably continued the rounds of the barn, paring candle after candle, possessed with this single idea of duty, pushing the dancers out of his way, refusing to admit that the floor wasyet sufficiently slippery. The druggist had returned indoors, and leaneddejected and melancholy against the wall near the doorway, unable todance, his evening's enjoyment spoiled. The gayly apparelled clerk fromBonneville had just involved himself in a deplorable incident. In asearch for his handkerchief, which he had lost while trying to find hisprogramme card, he had inadvertently wandered into the feed room, setapart as the ladies' dressing room, at the moment when Mrs. Hooven, having removed the waist of Minna's dress, was relacing her corsets. There was a tremendous scene. The clerk was ejected forcibly, Mrs. Hooven filling all the neighbourhood with shrill expostulation. A youngman, Minna's "partner, " who stood near the feed room door, waiting forher to come out, had invited the clerk, with elaborate sarcasm, to stepoutside for a moment; and the clerk, breathless, stupefied, hustled fromhand to hand, remained petrified, with staring eyes, turning about andabout, looking wildly from face to face, speechless, witless, wonderingwhat had happened. 

But the square dance was over. The City Band was just beginning to playa waltz. Annixter assuring himself that everything was going all right, was picking his way across the floor, when he came upon Hilma Tree quitealone, and looking anxiously among the crowd of dancers. 

"Having a good time, Miss Hilma?" he demanded, pausing for a moment. 

"Oh, am I, JUST!" she exclaimed. "The best time--but I don't know whathas become of my partner. See! I'm left all alone--the only time thiswhole evening, " she added proudly. "Have you seen him--my partner, sir?I forget his name. I only met him this evening, and I've met SO manyI can't begin to remember half of them. He was a young man fromBonneville--a clerk, I think, because I remember seeing him in a storethere, and he wore the prettiest clothes!"

"I guess he got lost in the shuffle, " observed Annixter. Suddenly anidea occurred to him. He took his resolution in both hands. He clenchedhis teeth. 

"Say! look here, Miss Hilma. What's the matter with you and I stealingthis one for ourselves? I don't mean to dance. I don't propose to makea jumping-jack of myself for some galoot to give me the laugh, but we'llwalk around. Will you? What do you say?"

Hilma consented. 

"I'm not so VERY sorry I missed my dance with that--that--little clerk, "she said guiltily. "I suppose that's very bad of me, isn't it?"

Annixter fulminated a vigorous protest. 

"I AM so warm!" murmured Hilma, fanning herself with her handkerchief;"and, oh! SUCH a good time as I have had! I was so afraid that I wouldbe a wall-flower and sit up by mamma and papa the whole evening; andas it is, I have had every single dance, and even some dances I had tosplit. Oh-h!" she breathed, glancing lovingly around the barn, notingagain the festoons of tri-coloured cambric, the Japanese lanterns, flaring lamps, and "decorations" of evergreen; "oh-h! it's all solovely, just like a fairy story; and to think that it can't last but forone little evening, and that to-morrow morning one must wake up to theevery-day things again!"

"Well, " observed Annixter doggedly, unwilling that she should forgetwhom she ought to thank, "I did my best, and my best is as good asanother man's, I guess. "

Hilma overwhelmed him with a burst of gratitude which he grufflypretended to deprecate. Oh, that was all right. It hadn't cost him much. He liked to see people having a good time himself, and the crowd didseem to be enjoying themselves. What did SHE think? Did things looklively enough? And how about herself--was she enjoying it?

Stupidly Annixter drove the question home again, at his wits' end as tohow to make conversation. Hilma protested volubly she would never forgetthis night, adding:

"Dance! Oh, you don't know how I love it! I didn't know myself. I coulddance all night and never stop once!"

Annixter was smitten with uneasiness. No doubt this "promenading" wasnot at all to her taste. Wondering what kind of a spectacle he was aboutto make of himself, he exclaimed:

"Want to dance now?"

"Oh, yes!" she returned. 

They paused in their walk, and Hilma, facing him, gave herself intohis arms. Annixter shut his teeth, the perspiration starting from hisforehead. For five years he had abandoned dancing. Never in his bestdays had it been one of his accomplishments. 

They hesitated a moment, waiting to catch the time from the musicians. Another couple bore down upon them at precisely the wrong moment, jostling them out of step. Annixter swore under his breath. His armstill about the young woman, he pulled her over to one corner. 

"Now, " he muttered, "we'll try again. "

A second time, listening to the one-two-three, one-two-three cadence ofthe musicians, they endeavoured to get under way. Annixter waited thefraction of a second too long and stepped on Hilma's foot. On the thirdattempt, having worked out of the corner, a pair of dancers bumped intothem once more, and as they were recovering themselves another couplecaromed violently against Annixter so that he all but lost his footing. He was in a rage. Hilma, very embarrassed, was trying not to laugh, andthus they found themselves, out in the middle of the floor, continuallyjostled from their position, holding clumsily to each other, stammeringexcuses into one another's faces, when Delaney arrived. 

He came with the suddenness of an explosion. There was a commotion bythe doorway, a rolling burst of oaths, a furious stamping of hoofs, awild scramble of the dancers to either side of the room, and there hewas. He had ridden the buckskin at a gallop straight through the doorwayand out into the middle of the floor of the barn. 

Once well inside, Delaney hauled up on the cruel spade-bit, at the sametime driving home the spurs, and the buckskin, without halting in hergait, rose into the air upon her hind feet, and coming down again with athunder of iron hoofs upon the hollow floor, lashed out with both heelssimultaneously, her back arched, her head between her knees. It was therunning buck, and had not Delaney been the hardest buster in the county, would have flung him headlong like a sack of sand. But he eased off thebit, gripping the mare's flanks with his knees, and the buckskin, havinglong since known her master, came to hand quivering, the bloody spumedripping from the bit upon the slippery floor. 

Delaney had arrayed himself with painful elaboration, determined tolook the part, bent upon creating the impression, resolved that hisappearance at least should justify his reputation of being "bad. "Nothing was lacking--neither the campaign hat with upturned brim, northe dotted blue handkerchief knotted behind the neck, nor the heavygauntlets stitched with red, nor--this above all--the bear-skin"chaparejos, " the hair trousers of the mountain cowboy, the pistolholster low on the thigh. But for the moment this holster was empty, and in his right hand, the hammer at full cock, the chamber loaded, the puncher flourished his teaser, an army Colt's, the lamplight dullyreflected in the dark blue steel. 

In a second of time the dance was a bedlam. The musicians stopped with adiscord, and the middle of the crowded floor bared itself instantly. Itwas like sand blown from off a rock; the throng of guests, carried by animpulse that was not to be resisted, bore back against the sides ofthe barn, overturning chairs, tripping upon each other, falling down, scrambling to their feet again, stepping over one another, gettingbehind each other, diving under chairs, flattening themselves againstthe wall--a wild, clamouring pell-mell, blind, deaf, panic-stricken;a confused tangle of waving arms, torn muslin, crushed flowers, palefaces, tangled legs, that swept in all directions back from the centreof the floor, leaving Annixter and Hilma, alone, deserted, their armsabout each other, face to face with Delaney, mad with alcohol, burstingwith remembered insult, bent on evil, reckless of results. 

After the first scramble for safety, the crowd fell quiet for thefraction of an instant, glued to the walls, afraid to stir, struck dumband motionless with surprise and terror, and in the instant's silencethat followed Annixter, his eyes on Delaney, muttered rapidly to Hilma:

"Get back, get away to one side. The fool MIGHT shoot. "

There was a second's respite afforded while Delaney occupied himselfin quieting the buckskin, and in that second of time, at this moment ofcrisis, the wonderful thing occurred. Hilma, turning from Delaney, herhands clasped on Annixter's arm, her eyes meeting his, exclaimed:

"You, too!"

And that was all; but to Annixter it was a revelation. Never more aliveto his surroundings, never more observant, he suddenly understood. Forthe briefest lapse of time he and Hilma looked deep into each other'seyes, and from that moment on, Annixter knew that Hilma cared. 

The whole matter was brief as the snapping of a finger. Two words anda glance and all was done. But as though nothing had occurred, Annixterpushed Hilma from him, repeating harshly:

"Get back, I tell you. Don't you see he's got a gun? Haven't I enough onmy hands without you?"

He loosed her clasp and his eyes once more on Delaney, moved diagonallybackwards toward the side of the barn, pushing Hilma from him. Inthe end he thrust her away so sharply that she gave back with a longstagger; somebody caught her arm and drew her in, leaving Annixter aloneonce more in the middle of the floor, his hands in his coat pockets, watchful, alert, facing his enemy. 

But the cow-puncher was not ready to come to grapples yet. Fearless, his wits gambolling under the lash of the alcohol, he wished to make themost of the occasion, maintaining the suspense, playing for the gallery. By touches of the hand and knee he kept the buckskin in continual, nervous movement, her hoofs clattering, snorting, tossing her head, while he, himself, addressing himself to Annixter, poured out a torrentof invective. 

"Well, strike me blind if it ain't old Buck Annixter! He was going toshow me off Quien Sabe at the toe of his boot, was he? Well, here'syour chance, --with the ladies to see you do it. Gives a dance, doeshe, high-falutin' hoe-down in his barn and forgets to invite his oldbroncho-bustin' friend. But his friend don't forget him; no, he don't. He remembers little things, does his broncho-bustin' friend. Likes tosee a dance hisself on occasion, his friend does. Comes anyhow, trustin'his welcome will be hearty; just to see old Buck Annixter dance, just toshow Buck Annixter's friends how Buck can dance--dance all by hisself, alittle hen-on-a-hot-plate dance when his broncho-bustin' friend askshim so polite. A little dance for the ladies, Buck. This feature ofthe entertainment is alone worth the price of admission. Tune up, Buck. Attention now! I'll give you the key. "

He "fanned" his revolver, spinning it about his index finger by thetrigger-guard with incredible swiftness, the twirling weapon a mere blurof blue steel in his hand. Suddenly and without any apparent cessationof the movement, he fired, and a little splinter of wood flipped intothe air at Annixter's feet. 

"Time!" he shouted, while the buckskin reared to the report. "Holdon--wait a minute. This place is too light to suit. That big lightyonder is in my eyes. Look out, I'm going to throw lead. "

A second shot put out the lamp over the musicians' stand. The assembledguests shrieked, a frantic, shrinking quiver ran through the crowd likethe huddling of frightened rabbits in their pen. 

Annixter hardly moved. He stood some thirty paces from the buster, his hands still in his coat pockets, his eyes glistening, watchful. Excitable and turbulent in trifling matters, when actual bodily dangerthreatened he was of an abnormal quiet. 

"I'm watching you, " cried the other. "Don't make any mistake about that. Keep your hands in your COAT pockets, if you'd like to live a littlelonger, understand? And don't let me see you make a move toward your hipor your friends will be asked to identify you at the morgue to-morrowmorning. When I'm bad, I'm called the Undertaker's Friend, so I am, andI'm that bad to-night that I'm scared of myself. They'll have to revisethe census returns before I'm done with this place. Come on, now, I'mgetting tired waiting. I come to see a dance. "

"Hand over that horse, Delaney, " said Annixter, without raising hisvoice, "and clear out. "

The other affected to be overwhelmed with infinite astonishment, hiseyes staring. He peered down from the saddle. 

"Wh-a-a-t!" he exclaimed; "wh-a-a-t did you say? Why, I guess you mustbe looking for trouble; that's what I guess. "

"There's where you're wrong, m'son, " muttered Annixter, partly toDelaney, partly to himself. "If I was looking for trouble there wouldn'tbe any guess-work about it. "

With the words he began firing. Delaney had hardly entered the barnbefore Annixter's plan had been formed. Long since his revolver wasin the pocket of his coat, and he fired now through the coat itself, without withdrawing his hands. 

Until that moment Annixter had not been sure of himself. There wasno doubt that for the first few moments of the affair he wouldhave welcomed with joy any reasonable excuse for getting out of thesituation. But the sound of his own revolver gave him confidence. Hewhipped it from his pocket and fired again. 

Abruptly the duel began, report following report, spurts of pale bluesmoke jetting like the darts of short spears between the two men, expanding to a haze and drifting overhead in wavering strata. It wasquite probable that no thought of killing each other suggested itself toeither Annixter or Delaney. Both fired without aiming very deliberately. To empty their revolvers and avoid being hit was the desire common toboth. They no longer vituperated each other. The revolvers spoke forthem. 

Long after, Annixter could recall this moment. For years he couldwith but little effort reconstruct the scene--the densely packed crowdflattened against the sides of the barn, the festoons of lanterns, themingled smell of evergreens, new wood, sachets, and powder smoke;the vague clamour of distress and terror that rose from the throng ofguests, the squealing of the buckskin, the uneven explosions of therevolvers, the reverberation of trampling hoofs, a brief glimpse ofHarran Derrick's excited face at the door of the harness room, andin the open space in the centre of the floor, himself and Delaney, manoeuvring swiftly in a cloud of smoke. 

Annixter's revolver contained but six cartridges. Already it seemed tohim as if he had fired twenty times. Without doubt the next shot washis last. Then what? He peered through the blue haze that with everydischarge thickened between him and the buster. For his own safetyhe must "place" at least one shot. Delaney's chest and shoulders rosesuddenly above the smoke close upon him as the distraught buckskinreared again. Annixter, for the first time during the fight, tookdefinite aim, but before he could draw the trigger there was a greatshout and he was aware of the buckskin, the bridle trailing, the saddleempty, plunging headlong across the floor, crashing into the line ofchairs. Delaney was scrambling off the floor. There was blood on thebuster's wrist and he no longer carried his revolver. Suddenly he turnedand ran. The crowd parted right and left before him as he made towardthe doorway. He disappeared. 

Twenty men promptly sprang to the buckskin's head, but she broke away, and wild with terror, bewildered, blind, insensate, charged into thecorner of the barn by the musicians' stand. She brought up against thewall with cruel force and with impact of a sack of stones; her head wascut. She turned and charged again, bull-like, the blood streaming fromher forehead. The crowd, shrieking, melted before her rush. An oldman was thrown down and trampled. The buckskin trod upon the draggingbridle, somersaulted into a confusion of chairs in one corner, and camedown with a terrific clatter in a wild disorder of kicking hoofs andsplintered wood. But a crowd of men fell upon her, tugging at the bit, sitting on her head, shouting, gesticulating. For five minutes shestruggled and fought; then, by degrees, she recovered herself, drawinggreat sobbing breaths at long intervals that all but burst the girths, rolling her eyes in bewildered, supplicating fashion, trembling in everymuscle, and starting and shrinking now and then like a young girl inhysterics. At last she lay quiet. The men allowed her to struggle to herfeet. The saddle was removed and she was led to one of the empty stalls, where she remained the rest of the evening, her head low, her pasternsquivering, turning her head apprehensively from time to time, showingthe white of one eye and at long intervals heaving a single prolongedsigh. 

And an hour later the dance was progressing as evenly as though nothingin the least extraordinary had occurred. The incident was closed--thatabrupt swoop of terror and impending death dropping down there from outthe darkness, cutting abruptly athwart the gayety of the moment, comeand gone with the swiftness of a thunderclap. Many of the women had gonehome, taking their men with them; but the great bulk of the crowd stillremained, seeing no reason why the episode should interfere with theevening's enjoyment, resolved to hold the ground for mere bravado, iffor nothing else. Delaney would not come back, of that everybody waspersuaded, and in case he should, there was not found wanting fully halfa hundred young men who would give him a dressing down, by jingo! Theyhad been too surprised to act when Delaney had first appeared, andbefore they knew where they were at, the buster had cleared out. Inanother minute, just another second, they would have shown him--yes, sir, by jingo!--ah, you bet!

On all sides the reminiscences began to circulate. At least one man inevery three had been involved in a gun fight at some time of his life. "Ah, you ought to have seen in Yuba County one time--" "Why, in ButteCounty in the early days--" "Pshaw! this to-night wasn't anything! Why, once in a saloon in Arizona when I was there--" and so on, over and overagain. Osterman solemnly asserted that he had seen a greaser sawn in twoin a Nevada sawmill. Old Broderson had witnessed a Vigilante lynching in'55 on California Street in San Francisco. Dyke recalled how once in hisengineering days he had run over a drunk at a street crossing. Gethingsof the San Pablo had taken a shot at a highwayman. Hooven had bayonetteda French Chasseur at Sedan. An old Spanish-Mexican, a centenarian fromGuadalajara, remembered Fremont's stand on a mountain top in San BenitoCounty. The druggist had fired at a burglar trying to break intohis store one New Year's eve. Young Vacca had seen a dog shot inGuadalajara. Father Sarria had more than once administered thesacraments to Portuguese desperadoes dying of gunshot wounds. Even thewomen recalled terrible scenes. Mrs. Cutter recounted to an interestedgroup how she had seen a claim jumped in Placer County in 1851, whenthree men were shot, falling in a fusillade of rifle shots, and expiringlater upon the floor of her kitchen while she looked on. Mrs. Dykehad been in a stage hold-up, when the shotgun messenger was murdered. Stories by the hundreds went the round of the company. The air wassurcharged with blood, dying groans, the reek of powder smoke, the crackof rifles. All the legends of '49, the violent, wild life of the earlydays, were recalled to view, defiling before them there in an endlessprocession under the glare of paper lanterns and kerosene lamps. 

But the affair had aroused a combative spirit amongst the men of theassembly. Instantly a spirit of aggression, of truculence, swelled upunderneath waistcoats and starched shirt bosoms. More than one offenderwas promptly asked to "step outside. " It was like young bucks excitedby an encounter of stags, lowering their horns upon the slightestprovocation, showing off before the does and fawns. Old quarrels wereremembered. One sought laboriously for slights and insults, veiled inordinary conversation. The sense of personal honour became refined toa delicate, fine point. Upon the slightest pretext there was a haughtydrawing up of the figure, a twisting of the lips into a smile of scorn. Caraher spoke of shooting S. Behrman on sight before the end of theweek. Twice it became necessary to separate Hooven and Cutter, renewingtheir quarrel as to the ownership of the steer. All at once MinnaHooven's "partner" fell upon the gayly apparelled clerk fromBonneville, pummelling him with his fists, hustling him out of the hall, vociferating that Miss Hooven had been grossly insulted. It took threemen to extricate the clerk from his clutches, dazed, gasping, his collarunfastened and sticking up into his face, his eyes staring wildly intothe faces of the crowd. 

But Annixter, bursting with pride, his chest thrown out, his chin inthe air, reigned enthroned in a circle of adulation. He was the Hero. Toshake him by the hand was an honour to be struggled for. One clappedhim on the back with solemn nods of approval. "There's the BOY for you;""There was nerve for you;" "What's the matter with Annixter?" "How aboutTHAT for sand, and how was THAT for a SHOT?" "Why, Apache Kid couldn'thave bettered that. " "Cool enough. " "Took a steady eye and a sure handto make a shot like that. " "There was a shot that would be told about inTulare County fifty years to come. "

Annixter had refrained from replying, all ears to this conversation, wondering just what had happened. He knew only that Delaney had run, leaving his revolver and a spatter of blood behind him. By degrees, however, he ascertained that his last shot but one had struck Delaney'spistol hand, shattering it and knocking the revolver from his grip. Hewas overwhelmed with astonishment. Why, after the shooting began hehad not so much as seen Delaney with any degree of plainness. The wholeaffair was a whirl. 

"Well, where did YOU learn to shoot THAT way?" some one in the crowddemanded. Annixter moved his shoulders with a gesture of vast unconcern. 

"Oh, " he observed carelessly, "it's not my SHOOTING that ever worriedME, m'son. "

The crowd gaped with delight. There was a great wagging of heads. 

"Well, I guess not. "

"No, sir, not much. "

"Ah, no, you bet not. "

When the women pressed around him, shaking his hands, declaring thathe had saved their daughters' lives, Annixter assumed a pose of superbdeprecation, the modest self-obliteration of the chevalier. He deliveredhimself of a remembered phrase, very elegant, refined. It was Lancelotafter the tournament, Bayard receiving felicitations after the battle. 

"Oh, don't say anything about it, " he murmured. "I only did what any manwould have done in my place. "

To restore completely the equanimity of the company, he announcedsupper. This he had calculated as a tremendous surprise. It was to havebeen served at mid-night, but the irruption of Delaney had dislocatedthe order of events, and the tables were brought in an hour ahead oftime. They were arranged around three sides of the barn and were loadeddown with cold roasts of beef, cold chickens and cold ducks, mountainsof sandwiches, pitchers of milk and lemonade, entire cheeses, bowlsof olives, plates of oranges and nuts. The advent of this supper wasreceived with a volley of applause. The musicians played a quick step. The company threw themselves upon the food with a great scraping ofchairs and a vast rustle of muslins, tarletans, and organdies; soonthe clatter of dishes was a veritable uproar. The tables were taken byassault. One ate whatever was nearest at hand, some even beginning withoranges and nuts and ending with beef and chicken. At the end the papercaps were brought on, together with the ice cream. All up and down thetables the pulled "crackers" snapped continually like the discharge ofinnumerable tiny rifles. 

The caps of tissue paper were put on--"Phrygian Bonnets, " "Magicians'Caps, " "Liberty Caps;" the young girls looked across the table at theirvis-a-vis with bursts of laughter and vigorous clapping of the hands. 

The harness room crowd had a table to themselves, at the head of whichsat Annixter and at the foot Harran. The gun fight had soberedPresley thoroughly. He sat by the side of Vanamee, who ate but little, preferring rather to watch the scene with calm observation, a littlecontemptuous when the uproar around the table was too boisterous, savouring of intoxication. Osterman rolled bullets of bread and shotthem with astonishing force up and down the table, but the others--Dyke, old Broderson, Caraher, Harran Derrick, Hooven, Cutter, Garnett of theRuby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same name, Gethings of the SanPablo, and Chattern of the Bonanza--occupied themselves with eating asmuch as they could before the supper gave out. At a corner of the table, speechless, unobserved, ignored, sat Dabney, of whom nothing was knownbut his name, the silent old man who made no friends. He ate and drankquietly, dipping his sandwich in his lemonade. 

Osterman ate all the olives he could lay his hands on, a score of them, fifty of them, a hundred of them. He touched no crumb of anything else. Old Broderson stared at him, his jaw fallen. Osterman declared he hadonce eaten a thousand on a bet. The men called each others' attention tohim. Delighted to create a sensation, Osterman persevered. The contentsof an entire bowl disappeared in his huge, reptilian slit of a mouth. His cheeks of brownish red were extended, his bald forehead glistened. Colics seized upon him. His stomach revolted. It was all one with him. He was satisfied, contented. He was astonishing the people. 

"Once I swallowed a tree toad. " he told old Broderson, "by mistake. I was eating grapes, and the beggar lived in me three weeks. In rainyweather he would sing. You don't believe that, " he vociferated. "Haven'tI got the toad at home now in a bottle of alcohol. "

And the old man, never doubting, his eyes starting, wagged his head inamazement. 

"Oh, yes, " cried Caraher, the length of the table, "that's a pretty goodone. Tell us another. "

"That reminds me of a story, " hazarded old Broderson uncertainly; "oncewhen I was a lad in Ukiah, fifty years. "

"Oh, yes, " cried half a dozen voices, "THAT'S a pretty good one. Tell usanother. "

"Eh--wh--what?" murmured Broderson, looking about him. "I--I don't know. It was Ukiah. You--you--you mix me all up. "

As soon as supper was over, the floor was cleared again. The guestsclamoured for a Virginia reel. The last quarter of the evening, the timeof the most riotous fun, was beginning. The young men caught thegirls who sat next to them. The orchestra dashed off into a rollickingmovement. The two lines were formed. In a second of time the dancewas under way again; the guests still wearing the Phrygian bonnets andliberty caps of pink and blue tissue paper. 

But the group of men once more adjourned to the harness room. Freshboxes of cigars were opened; the seventh bowl of fertiliser was mixed. Osterman poured the dregs of a glass of it upon his bald head, declaringthat he could feel the hair beginning to grow. 

But suddenly old Broderson rose to his feet. 

"Aha, " he cackled, "I'M going to have a dance, I am. Think I'm tooold? I'll show you young fellows. I'm a regular old ROOSTER when I getstarted. "

He marched out into the barn, the others following, holding their sides. He found an aged Mexican woman by the door and hustled her, all confusedand giggling, into the Virginia reel, then at its height. Every onecrowded around to see. Old Broderson stepped off with the alacrity of acolt, snapping his fingers, slapping his thigh, his mouth widening inan excited grin. The entire company of the guests shouted. The City Bandredoubled their efforts; and the old man, losing his head, breathless, gasping, dislocated his stiff joints in his efforts. He becamepossessed, bowing, scraping, advancing, retreating, wagging his beard, cutting pigeons' wings, distraught with the music, the clamour, theapplause, the effects of the fertiliser. 

Annixter shouted:

"Nice eye, Santa Claus. "

But Annixter's attention wandered. He searched for Hilma Tree, havingstill in mind the look in her eyes at that swift moment of danger. Hehad not seen her since then. At last he caught sight of her. She was notdancing, but, instead, was sitting with her "partner" at the end of thebarn near her father and mother, her eyes wide, a serious expression onher face, her thoughts, no doubt, elsewhere. Annixter was about to go toher when he was interrupted by a cry. 

Old Broderson, in the midst of a double shuffle, had clapped his handto his side with a gasp, which he followed by a whoop of anguish. Hehad got a stitch or had started a twinge somewhere. With a gestureof resignation, he drew himself laboriously out of the dance, limpingabominably, one leg dragging. He was heard asking for his wife. Old Mrs. Broderson took him in charge. She jawed him for making an exhibition ofhimself, scolding as though he were a ten-year-old. 

"Well, I want to know!" she exclaimed, as he hobbled off, dejected andmelancholy, leaning upon her arm, "thought he had to dance, indeed! Whatnext? A gay old grandpa, this. He'd better be thinking of his coffin. "

It was almost midnight. The dance drew towards its close in a stormof jubilation. The perspiring musicians toiled like galley slaves; theguests singing as they danced. 

The group of men reassembled in the harness room. Even Magnus Derrickcondescended to enter and drink a toast. Presley and Vanamee, stillholding themselves aloof, looked on, Vanamee more and more disgusted. Dabney, standing to one side, overlooked and forgotten, continued tosip steadily at his glass, solemn, reserved. Garnett of the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same name, Gethings of the San Pablo, andChattern of the Bonanza, leaned back in their chairs, their waist-coatsunbuttoned, their legs spread wide, laughing--they could not tell why. Other ranchers, men whom Annixter had never seen, appeared in the room, wheat growers from places as far distant as Goshen and Pixley; young menand old, proprietors of veritable principalities, hundreds of thousandsof acres of wheat lands, a dozen of them, a score of them; men who werestrangers to each other, but who made it a point to shake hands withMagnus Derrick, the "prominent man" of the valley. Old Broderson, whomevery one had believed had gone home, returned, though much sobered, andtook his place, refusing, however, to drink another spoonful. 

Soon the entire number of Annixter's guests found themselves in twocompanies, the dancers on the floor of the barn, frolicking through thelast figures of the Virginia reel and the boisterous gathering of men inthe harness room, downing the last quarts of fertiliser. Both assemblieshad been increased. Even the older people had joined in the dance, whilenearly every one of the men who did not dance had found their way intothe harness room. The two groups rivalled each other in their noise. Outon the floor of the barn was a very whirlwind of gayety, a tempest oflaughter, hand-clapping and cries of amusement. In the harness roomthe confused shouting and singing, the stamping of heavy feet, set aquivering reverberation in the oil of the kerosene lamps, the flame ofthe candles in the Japanese lanterns flaring and swaying in the gustsof hilarity. At intervals, between the two, one heard the music, thewailing of the violins, the vigorous snarling of the cornet, and theharsh, incessant rasping of the snare drum. 

And at times all these various sounds mingled in a single vaguenote, huge, clamorous, that rose up into the night from the colossal, reverberating compass of the barn and sent its echoes far off across theunbroken levels of the surrounding ranches, stretching out to infinityunder the clouded sky, calm, mysterious, still. 

Annixter, the punch bowl clasped in his arms, was pouring out the lastspoonful of liquor into Caraher's glass when he was aware that some onewas pulling at the sleeve of his coat. He set down the punch bowl. 

"Well, where did YOU come from?" he demanded. 

It was a messenger from Bonneville, the uniformed boy that the telephonecompany employed to carry messages. He had just arrived from town on hisbicycle, out of breath and panting. 

"Message for you, sir. Will you sign?"

He held the book to Annixter, who signed the receipt, wondering. 

The boy departed, leaving a thick envelope of yellow paper in Annixter'shands, the address typewritten, the word "Urgent" written in blue pencilin one corner. 

Annixter tore it open. The envelope contained other sealed envelopes, some eight or ten of them, addressed to Magnus Derrick, Osterman, Broderson, Garnett, Keast, Gethings, Chattern, Dabney, and to Annixterhimself. 

Still puzzled, Annixter distributed the envelopes, muttering to himself:

"What's up now?"

The incident had attracted attention. A comparative quiet followed, theguests following the letters with their eyes as they were passed aroundthe table. They fancied that Annixter had arranged a surprise. 

Magnus Derrick, who sat next to Annixter, was the first to receive hisletter. With a word of excuse he opened it. 

"Read it, read it, Governor, " shouted a half-dozen voices. "No secrets, you know. Everything above board here to-night. "

Magnus cast a glance at the contents of the letter, then rose to hisfeet and read:

 Magnus Derrick, Bonneville, Tulare Co. , Cal. 

 Dear Sir:

 By regrade of October 1st, the value of the railroad land you occupy, included in your ranch of Los Muertos, has been fixed at $27. 00 per acre. The land is now for sale at that price to any one. 

 Yours, etc. , CYRUS BLAKELEE RUGGLES, Land Agent, P. And S. W. R. R. 

 S. BEHRMAN, Local Agent, P. And S. W. R. R. 

In the midst of the profound silence that followed, Osterman was heardto exclaim grimly:

"THAT'S a pretty good one. Tell us another. "

But for a long moment this was the only remark. 

The silence widened, broken only by the sound of torn paper as Annixter, Osterman, old Broderson, Garnett, Keast, Gethings, Chattern, and Dabneyopened and read their letters. They were all to the same effect, almostword for word like the Governor's. Only the figures and the proper namesvaried. In some cases the price per acre was twenty-two dollars. InAnnixter's case it was thirty. 

"And--and the company promised to sell to me, to--to all of us, " gaspedold Broderson, "at TWO DOLLARS AND A HALF an acre. "

It was not alone the ranchers immediately around Bonneville who wouldbe plundered by this move on the part of the Railroad. The "alternatesection" system applied throughout all the San Joaquin. By striking atthe Bonneville ranchers a terrible precedent was established. Ofthe crowd of guests in the harness room alone, nearly every man wasaffected, every man menaced with ruin. All of a million acres wassuddenly involved. 

Then suddenly the tempest burst. A dozen men were on their feet in aninstant, their teeth set, their fists clenched, their faces purple withrage. Oaths, curses, maledictions exploded like the firing of successivemines. Voices quivered with wrath, hands flung upward, the fingershooked, prehensile, trembled with anger. The sense of wrongs, theinjustices, the oppression, extortion, and pillage of twenty yearssuddenly culminated and found voice in a raucous howl of execration. For a second there was nothing articulate in that cry of savageexasperation, nothing even intelligent. It was the human animal houndedto its corner, exploited, harried to its last stand, at bay, ferocious, terrible, turning at last with bared teeth and upraised claws to meetthe death grapple. It was the hideous squealing of the tormented brute, its back to the wall, defending its lair, its mate and its whelps, readyto bite, to rend, to trample, to batter out the life of The Enemy in aprimeval, bestial welter of blood and fury. 

The roar subsided to intermittent clamour, in the pauses of which thesounds of music and dancing made themselves audible once more. 

"S. Behrman again, " vociferated Harran Derrick. 

"Chose his moment well, " muttered Annixter. "Hits his hardest when we'reall rounded up having a good time. "

"Gentlemen, this is ruin. "

"What's to be done now?"

"FIGHT! My God! do you think we are going to stand this? Do you think weCAN?"

The uproar swelled again. The clearer the assembly of ranchersunderstood the significance of this move on the part of the Railroad, the more terrible it appeared, the more flagrant, the more intolerable. Was it possible, was it within the bounds of imagination that thistyranny should be contemplated? But they knew--past years had drivenhome the lesson--the implacable, iron monster with whom they had todeal, and again and again the sense of outrage and oppression lashedthem to their feet, their mouths wide with curses, their fists clenchedtight, their throats hoarse with shouting. 

"Fight! How fight? What ARE you going to do?"

"If there's a law in this land"

"If there is, it is in Shelgrim's pocket. Who owns the courts inCalifornia? Ain't it Shelgrim?"

"God damn him. "

"Well, how long are you going to stand it? How long before you'll settleup accounts with six inches of plugged gas-pipe?"

"And our contracts, the solemn pledges of the corporation to sell to usfirst of all----"

"And now the land is for sale to anybody. "

"Why, it is a question of my home. Am I to be turned out? Why, I haveput eight thousand dollars into improving this land. "

"And I six thousand, and now that I have, the Railroad grabs it. "

"And the system of irrigating ditches that Derrick and I have beenlaying out. There's thousands of dollars in that!"

"I'll fight this out till I've spent every cent of my money. "

"Where? In the courts that the company owns?"

"Think I am going to give in to this? Think I am to get off my land? ByGod, gentlemen, law or no law, railroad or no railroad, I--WILL--NOT. "

"Nor I. "

"Nor I. "

"Nor I. "

"This is the last. Legal means first; if those fail--the shotgun. "

"They can kill me. They can shoot me down, but I'll die--die fightingfor my home--before I'll give in to this. "

At length Annixter made himself heard:

"All out of the room but the ranch owners, " he shouted. "Hooven, Caraher, Dyke, you'll have to clear out. This is a family affair. Presley, you and your friend can remain. "

Reluctantly the others filed through the door. There remained in theharness room--besides Vanamee and Presley--Magnus Derrick, Annixter, oldBroderson Harran, Garnett from the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch ofthe same name, Gethings of the San Pablo, Chattern of the Bonanza, abouta score of others, ranchers from various parts of the county, and, lastof all, Dabney, ignored, silent, to whom nobody spoke and who, as yet, had not uttered a word. But the men who had been asked to leave theharness room spread the news throughout the barn. It was repeated fromlip to lip. One by one the guests dropped out of the dance. Groups wereformed. By swift degrees the gayety lapsed away. The Virginia reelbroke up. The musicians ceased playing, and in the place of the noisy, effervescent revelry of the previous half hour, a subdued murmur filledall the barn, a mingling of whispers, lowered voices, the coming andgoing of light footsteps, the uneasy shifting of positions, while frombehind the closed doors of the harness room came a prolonged, sullenhum of anger and strenuous debate. The dance came to an abrupt end. The guests, unwilling to go as yet, stunned, distressed, stood clumsilyabout, their eyes vague, their hands swinging at their sides, lookingstupidly into each others' faces. A sense of impending calamity, oppressive, foreboding, gloomy, passed through the air overhead in thenight, a long shiver of anguish and of terror, mysterious, despairing. 

In the harness room, however, the excitement continued unchecked. Onerancher after another delivered himself of a torrent of furious words. There was no order, merely the frenzied outcry of blind fury. One spiritalone was common to all--resistance at whatever cost and to whateverlengths. 

Suddenly Osterman leaped to his feet, his bald head gleaming in thelamp-light, his red ears distended, a flood of words filling his great, horizontal slit of a mouth, his comic actor's face flaming. Like thehero of a melodrama, he took stage with a great sweeping gesture. 

"ORGANISATION, " he shouted, "that must be our watch-word. The curseof the ranchers is that they fritter away their strength. Now, we muststand together, now, NOW. Here's the crisis, here's the moment. Shall wemeet it? I CALL FOR THE LEAGUE. Not next week, not to-morrow, not in themorning, but now, now, now, this very moment, before we go out of thatdoor. Every one of us here to join it, to form the beginnings of a vastorganisation, banded together to death, if needs be, for the protectionof our rights and homes. Are you ready? Is it now or never? I call forthe League. "

Instantly there was a shout. With an actor's instinct, Osterman hadspoken at the precise psychological moment. He carried the others offtheir feet, glib, dexterous, voluble. Just what was meant by the Leaguethe others did not know, but it was something, a vague engine, a machinewith which to fight. Osterman had not done speaking before the room rangwith outcries, the crowd of men shouting, for what they did not know. 

"The League! The League!"

"Now, to-night, this moment; sign our names before we leave. "

"He's right. Organisation! The League!"

"We have a committee at work already, " Osterman vociferated. "I am amember, and also Mr. Broderson, Mr. Annixter, and Mr. Harran Derrick. What our aims are we will explain to you later. Let this committeebe the nucleus of the League--temporarily, at least. Trust us. We areworking for you and with you. Let this committee be merged into thelarger committee of the League, and for President of the League"--hepaused the fraction of a second--"for President there can be but onename mentioned, one man to whom we all must look as leader--MagnusDerrick. "

The Governor's name was received with a storm of cheers. The harnessroom reechoed with shouts of:

"Derrick! Derrick!"

"Magnus for President!"

"Derrick, our natural leader. "

"Derrick, Derrick, Derrick for President. "

Magnus rose to his feet. He made no gesture. Erect as a cavalry officer, tall, thin, commanding, he dominated the crowd in an instant. There wasa moment's hush. "Gentlemen, " he said, "if organisation is a good word, moderation is a better one. The matter is too grave for haste. I wouldsuggest that we each and severally return to our respective homes forthe night, sleep over what has happened, and convene again to-morrow, when we are calmer and can approach this affair in a more judiciousmood. As for the honour with which you would inform me, I must affirmthat that, too, is a matter for grave deliberation. This League is buta name as yet. To accept control of an organisation whose principles arenot yet fixed is a heavy responsibility. I shrink from it--"

But he was allowed to proceed no farther. A storm of protest developed. There were shouts of:

"No, no. The League to-night and Derrick for President. "

"We have been moderate too long. "

"The League first, principles afterward. "

"We can't wait, " declared Osterman. "Many of us cannot attend a meetingto-morrow. Our business affairs would prevent it. Now we are alltogether. I propose a temporary chairman and secretary be named anda ballot be taken. But first the League. Let us draw up a set ofresolutions to stand together, for the defence of our homes, to death, if needs be, and each man present affix his signature thereto. "

He subsided amidst vigorous applause. The next quarter of an hour wasa vague confusion, every one talking at once, conversations going onin low tones in various corners of the room. Ink, pens, and a sheaf offoolscap were brought from the ranch house. A set of resolutions wasdraughted, having the force of a pledge, organising the League ofDefence. Annixter was the first to sign. Others followed, only a fewholding back, refusing to join till they had thought the matter over. The roll grew; the paper circulated about the table; each signature waswelcomed by a salvo of cheers. At length, it reached Harran Derrick, whosigned amid tremendous uproar. He released the pen only to shake a scoreof hands. 

"Now, Magnus Derrick. "

"Gentlemen, " began the Governor, once more rising, "I beg of you toallow me further consideration. Gentlemen--"

He was interrupted by renewed shouting. 

"No, no, now or never. Sign, join the League. "

"Don't leave us. We look to you to help. "

But presently the excited throng that turned their faces towards theGovernor were aware of a new face at his elbow. The door of the harnessroom had been left unbolted and Mrs. Derrick, unable to endure theheart-breaking suspense of waiting outside, had gathered up all hercourage and had come into the room. Trembling, she clung to Magnus'sarm, her pretty light-brown hair in disarray, her large young girl'seyes wide with terror and distrust. What was about to happen she did notunderstand, but these men were clamouring for Magnus to pledge himselfto something, to some terrible course of action, some ruthless, unscrupulous battle to the death with the iron-hearted monster ofsteel and steam. Nerved with a coward's intrepidity, she, who so easilyobliterated herself, had found her way into the midst of this franticcrowd, into this hot, close room, reeking of alcohol and tobacco smoke, into this atmosphere surcharged with hatred and curses. She seized herhusband's arm imploring, distraught with terror. 

"No, no, " she murmured; "no, don't sign. "

She was the feather caught in the whirlwind. En masse, the crowd surgedtoward the erect figure of the Governor, the pen in one hand, his wife'sfingers in the other, the roll of signatures before him. The clamourwas deafening; the excitement culminated brusquely. Half a hundredhands stretched toward him; thirty voices, at top pitch, implored, expostulated, urged, almost commanded. The reverberation of the shoutingwas as the plunge of a cataract. 

It was the uprising of The People; the thunder of the outbreak ofrevolt; the mob demanding to be led, aroused at last, imperious, resistless, overwhelming. It was the blind fury of insurrection, thebrute, many-tongued, red-eyed, bellowing for guidance, baring its teeth, unsheathing its claws, imposing its will with the abrupt, resistlesspressure of the relaxed piston, inexorable, knowing no pity. 

"No, no, " implored Annie Derrick. "No, Magnus, don't sign. "

"He must, " declared Harran, shouting in her ear to make himself heard, "he must. Don't you understand?"

Again the crowd surged forward, roaring. Mrs. Derrick was swept back, pushed to one side. Her husband no longer belonged to her. She paid thepenalty for being the wife of a great man. The world, like a colossaliron wedge, crushed itself between. She was thrust to the wall. Thethrong of men, stamping, surrounded Magnus; she could no longer see him, but, terror-struck, she listened. There was a moment's lull, then a vastthunder of savage jubilation. Magnus had signed. 

Harran found his mother leaning against the wall, her hands shut overher ears; her eyes, dilated with fear, brimming with tears. He led herfrom the harness room to the outer room, where Mrs. Tree and Hilma tookcharge of her, and then, impatient, refusing to answer the hundreds ofanxious questions that assailed him, hurried back to the harness room. Already the balloting was in progress, Osterman acting as temporarychairman on the very first ballot he was made secretary of the Leaguepro tem. , and Magnus unanimously chosen for its President. An executivecommittee was formed, which was to meet the next day at the Los Muertosranch house. 

It was half-past one o'clock. In the barn outside the greater number ofthe guests had departed. Long since the musicians had disappeared. Thereonly remained the families of the ranch owners involved in the meetingin the harness room. These huddled in isolated groups in corners of thegarish, echoing barn, the women in their wraps, the young men withtheir coat collars turned up against the draughts that once more madethemselves felt. 

For a long half hour the loud hum of eager conversation continued toissue from behind the door of the harness room. Then, at length, therewas a prolonged scraping of chairs. The session was over. The men cameout in groups, searching for their families. 

At once the homeward movement began. Every one was worn out. Some of theranchers' daughters had gone to sleep against their mothers' shoulders. 

Billy, the stableman, and his assistant were awakened, and the teamswere hitched up. The stable yard was full of a maze of swinging lanternsand buggy lamps. The horses fretted, champing the bits; the carry-allscreaked with the straining of leather and springs as they received theirloads. At every instant one heard the rattle of wheels as vehicle aftervehicle disappeared in the night. 

A fine, drizzling rain was falling, and the lamps began to show dim in avague haze of orange light. 

Magnus Derrick was the last to go. At the doorway of the barn he foundAnnixter, the roll of names--which it had been decided he was to keepin his safe for the moment--under his arm. Silently the two shook hands. Magnus departed. The grind of the wheels of his carry-all grated sharplyon the gravel of the driveway in front of the ranch house, then, witha hollow roll across a little plank bridge, gained the roadway. For amoment the beat of the horses' hoofs made itself heard on the roadway. It ceased. Suddenly there was a great silence. 

Annixter, in the doorway of the great barn, stood looking about himfor a moment, alone, thoughtful. The barn was empty. That astonishingevening had come to an end. The whirl of things and people, the crowdof dancers, Delaney, the gun fight, Hilma Tree, her eyes fixed on himin mute confession, the rabble in the harness room, the news of theregrade, the fierce outburst of wrath, the hasty organising of theLeague, all went spinning confusedly through his recollection. But hewas exhausted. Time enough in the morning to think it all over. By nowit was raining sharply. He put the roll of names into his inside pocket, threw a sack over his head and shoulders, and went down to the ranchhouse. 

But in the harness room, lighted by the glittering lanterns and flaringlamps, in the midst of overturned chairs, spilled liquor, cigar stumps, and broken glasses, Vanamee and Presley still remained talking, talking. At length, they rose, and came out upon the floor of the barn and stoodfor a moment looking about them. 

Billy, the stableman, was going the rounds of the walls, putting outlight after light. By degrees, the vast interior was growing dim. Uponthe roof overhead the rain drummed incessantly, the eaves dripping. The floor was littered with pine needles, bits of orange peel, ends andfragments of torn organdies and muslins and bits of tissue paper fromthe "Phrygian Bonnets" and "Liberty Caps. " The buckskin mare in thestall, dozing on three legs, changed position with a long sigh. Thesweat stiffening the hair upon her back and loins, as it dried, gave offa penetrating, ammoniacal odour that mingled with the stale perfume ofsachet and wilted flowers. 

Presley and Vanamee stood looking at the deserted barn. There was a longsilence. Then Presley said:

"Well. .. What do you think of it all?"

"I think, " answered Vanamee slowly, "I think that there was a dance inBrussels the night before Waterloo. "

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

In his office at San Francisco, seated before a massive desk of polishedredwood, very ornate, Lyman Derrick sat dictating letters to histypewriter, on a certain morning early in the spring of the year. The subdued monotone of his voice proceeded evenly from sentence tosentence, regular, precise, businesslike. 

"I have the honour to acknowledge herewith your favour of the 14thinstant, and in reply would state----"

"Please find enclosed draft upon New Orleans to be applied as per ourunderstanding----"

"In answer to your favour No. 1107, referring to the case of the Cityand County of San Francisco against Excelsior Warehouse & Storage Co. , Iwould say----"

His voice continued, expressionless, measured, distinct. While he spoke, he swung slowly back and forth in his leather swivel chair, his elbowsresting on the arms, his pop eyes fixed vaguely upon the calendar onthe opposite wall, winking at intervals when he paused, searching for aword. 

"That's all for the present, " he said at length. 

Without reply, the typewriter rose and withdrew, thrusting her pencilinto the coil of her hair, closing the door behind her, softly, discreetly. 

When she had gone, Lyman rose, stretching himself putting up threefingers to hide his yawn. To further loosen his muscles, he took acouple of turns the length of he room, noting with satisfaction its fineappointments, the padded red carpet, the dull olive green tint of thewalls, the few choice engravings--portraits of Marshall, Taney, Field, and a coloured lithograph--excellently done--of the Grand Canyon of theColorado--the deep-seated leather chairs, the large and crowded bookcase(topped with a bust of James Lick, and a huge greenish globe), the wastebasket of woven coloured grass, made by Navajo Indians, the massivesilver inkstand on the desk, the elaborate filing cabinet, complete inevery particular, and the shelves of tin boxes, padlocked, impressive, grave, bearing the names of clients, cases and estates. 

He was between thirty-one and thirty-five years of age. Unlike Harran, he resembled his mother, but he was much darker than Annie Derrickand his eyes were much fuller, the eyeball protruding, giving him apop-eyed, foreign expression, quite unusual and unexpected. His hair wasblack, and he wore a small, tight, pointed mustache, which he was in thehabit of pushing delicately upward from the corners of his lips with theball of his thumb, the little finger extended. As often as he made thisgesture, he prefaced it with a little twisting gesture of the forearm inorder to bring his cuff into view, and, in fact, this movement by itselfwas habitual. 

He was dressed carefully, his trousers creased, a pink rose in hislapel. His shoes were of patent leather, his cutaway coat was of veryrough black cheviot, his double-breasted waistcoat of tan covered clothwith buttons of smoked pearl. An Ascot scarf--a great puff of heavyblack silk--was at his neck, the knot transfixed by a tiny golden pinset off with an opal and four small diamonds. 

At one end of the room were two great windows of plate glass, andpausing at length before one of these, Lyman selected a cigarette fromhis curved box of oxydized silver, lit it and stood looking down andout, willing to be idle for a moment, amused and interested in the view. 

His office was on the tenth floor of the EXCHANGE BUILDING, a beautiful, tower-like affair of white stone, that stood on the corner of MarketStreet near its intersection with Kearney, the most imposing officebuilding of the city. 

Below him the city swarmed tumultuous through its grooves, thecable-cars starting and stopping with a gay jangling of bells and astrident whirring of jostled glass windows. Drays and carts clatteredover the cobbles, and an incessant shuffling of thousands of feet rosefrom the pavement. Around Lotta's fountain the baskets of the flowersellers, crammed with chrysanthemums, violets, pinks, roses, lilies, hyacinths, set a brisk note of colour in the grey of the street. 

But to Lyman's notion the general impression of this centre of thecity's life was not one of strenuous business activity. It was acontinuous interest in small things, a people ever willing to be amusedat trifles, refusing to consider serious matters--good-natured, allowing themselves to be imposed upon, taking life easily--generous, companionable, enthusiastic; living, as it were, from day to day, in aplace where the luxuries of life were had without effort; in a city thatoffered to consideration the restlessness of a New York, without itsearnestness; the serenity of a Naples, without its languor; the romanceof a Seville, without its picturesqueness. 

As Lyman turned from the window, about to resume his work, the officeboy appeared at the door. 

"The man from the lithograph company, sir, " announced the boy. 

"Well, what does he want?" demanded Lyman, adding, however, upon theinstant: "Show him in. "

A young man entered, carrying a great bundle, which he deposited on achair, with a gasp of relief, exclaiming, all out of breath:

"From the Standard Lithograph Company. "

"What is?"

"Don't know, " replied the other. "Maps, I guess. "

"I don't want any maps. Who sent them? I guess you're mistaken. " Lymantore the cover from the top of the package, drawing out one of a greatmany huge sheets of white paper, folded eight times. Suddenly, heuttered an exclamation:

"Ah, I see. They ARE maps. But these should not have come here. They areto go to the regular office for distribution. " He wrote a new directionon the label of the package: "Take them to that address, " he went on. "I'll keep this one here. The others go to that address. If you see Mr. Darrell, tell him that Mr. Derrick--you get the name--Mr. Derrick maynot be able to get around this afternoon, but to go ahead with anybusiness just the same. "

The young man departed with the package and Lyman, spreading out the mapupon the table, remained for some time studying it thoughtfully. 

It was a commissioner's official railway map of the State of California, completed to March 30th of that year. Upon it the different railwaysof the State were accurately plotted in various colours, blue, green, yellow. However, the blue, the yellow, and the green were but brieftraceries, very short, isolated, unimportant. At a little distancethese could hardly be seen. The whole map was gridironed by a vast, complicated network of red lines marked P. And S. W. R. R. Thesecentralised at San Francisco and thence ramified and spread north, east, and south, to every quarter of the State. From Coles, in the topmostcorner of the map, to Yuma in the lowest, from Reno on one side to SanFrancisco on the other, ran the plexus of red, a veritable system ofblood circulation, complicated, dividing, and reuniting, branching, splitting, extending, throwing out feelers, off-shoots, tap roots, feeders--diminutive little blood suckers that shot out from the mainjugular and went twisting up into some remote county, laying holdupon some forgotten village or town, involving it in one of a myriadbranching coils, one of a hundred tentacles, drawing it, as it were, toward that centre from which all this system sprang. 

The map was white, and it seemed as if all the colour which should havegone to vivify the various counties, towns, and cities marked uponit had been absorbed by that huge, sprawling organism, with its ruddyarteries converging to a central point. It was as though the State hadbeen sucked white and colourless, and against this pallid background thered arteries of the monster stood out, swollen with life-blood, reachingout to infinity, gorged to bursting; an excrescence, a gigantic parasitefattening upon the life-blood of an entire commonwealth. 

However, in an upper corner of the map appeared the names of the threenew commissioners: Jones McNish for the first district, Lyman Derrickfor the second, and James Darrell for the third. 

Nominated in the Democratic State convention in the fall of thepreceding year, Lyman, backed by the coteries of San Francisco bossesin the pay of his father's political committee of ranchers, had beenelected together with Darrell, the candidate of the Pueblo and Mojaveroad, and McNish, the avowed candidate of the Pacific and Southwestern. Darrell was rabidly against the P. And S. W. , McNish rabidly for it. Lyman was supposed to be the conservative member of the board, theranchers' candidate, it was true, and faithful to their interests, buta calm man, deliberative, swayed by no such violent emotions as hiscolleagues. 

Osterman's dexterity had at last succeeded in entangling Magnusinextricably in the new politics. The famous League, organised inthe heat of passion the night of Annixter's barn dance, had beenconsolidated all through the winter months. Its executive committee, ofwhich Magnus was chairman, had been, through Osterman's manipulation, merged into the old committee composed of Broderson, Annixter, andhimself. Promptly thereat he had resigned the chairmanship of thiscommittee, thus leaving Magnus at its head. Precisely as Osterman hadplanned, Magnus was now one of them. The new committee accordingly hadtwo objects in view: to resist the attempted grabbing of their lands bythe Railroad, and to push forward their own secret scheme of electing aboard of railroad commissioners who should regulate wheat rates so asto favour the ranchers of the San Joaquin. The land cases were promptlytaken to the courts and the new grading--fixing the price of the landsat twenty and thirty dollars an acre instead of two--bitterly andstubbornly fought. But delays occurred, the process of the law wasinterminable, and in the intervals the committee addressed itself to thework of seating the "Ranchers' Commission, " as the projected Board ofCommissioners came to be called. 

It was Harran who first suggested that his brother, Lyman, be putforward as the candidate for this district. At once the proposition hada great success. Lyman seemed made for the place. While allied by everytie of blood to the ranching interests, he had never been identifiedwith them. He was city-bred. The Railroad would not be over-suspiciousof him. He was a good lawyer, a good business man, keen, clear-headed, far-sighted, had already some practical knowledge of politics, havingserved a term as assistant district attorney, and even at the presentmoment occupying the position of sheriff's attorney. More than all, hewas the son of Magnus Derrick; he could be relied upon, could be trustedimplicitly to remain loyal to the ranchers' cause. 

The campaign for Railroad Commissioner had been very interesting. Atthe very outset Magnus's committee found itself involved in corruptpolitics. The primaries had to be captured at all costs and by anymeans, and when the convention assembled it was found necessary to buyoutright the votes of certain delegates. The campaign fund raised bycontributions from Magnus, Annixter, Broderson, and Osterman was drawnupon to the extent of five thousand dollars. 

Only the committee knew of this corruption. The League, ignoringways and means, supposed as a matter of course that the campaign washonorably conducted. 

For a whole week after the consummation of this part of the deal, Magnushad kept to his house, refusing to be seen, alleging that he wasill, which was not far from the truth. The shame of the business, theloathing of what he had done, were to him things unspeakable. He couldno longer look Harran in the face. He began a course of deceptionwith his wife. More than once, he had resolved to break with the wholeaffair, resigning his position, allowing the others to proceed withouthim. But now it was too late. He was pledged. He had joined the League. He was its chief, and his defection might mean its disintegration at thevery time when it needed all its strength to fight the land cases. Morethan a mere deal in bad politics was involved. There was the land grab. His withdrawal from an unholy cause would mean the weakening, perhapsthe collapse, of another cause that he believed to be righteous as truthitself. He was hopelessly caught in the mesh. Wrong seemed indissolublyknitted into the texture of Right. He was blinded, dizzied, overwhelmed, caught in the current of events, and hurried along he knew not where. Heresigned himself. 

In the end, and after much ostentatious opposition on the part of therailroad heelers, Lyman was nominated and subsequently elected. 

When this consummation was reached Magnus, Osterman, Broderson, andAnnixter stared at each other. Their wildest hopes had not dared to fixthemselves upon so easy a victory as this. It was not believable thatthe corporation would allow itself to be fooled so easily, would rushopen-eyed into the trap. How had it happened?

Osterman, however, threw his hat into the air with wild whoops ofdelight. Old Broderson permitted himself a feeble cheer. Even Magnusbeamed satisfaction. The other members of the League, present at thetime, shook hands all around and spoke of opening a few bottles on thestrength of the occasion. Annixter alone was recalcitrant. 

"It's too easy, " he declared. "No, I'm not satisfied. Where's Shelgrimin all this? Why don't he show his hand, damn his soul? The thing isyellow, I tell you. There's a big fish in these waters somewheres. Idon't know his name, and I don't know his game, but he's moving roundoff and on, just out of sight. If you think you've netted him, I DON'T, that's all I've got to say. "

But he was jeered down as a croaker. There was the Commission. Hecouldn't get around that, could he? There was Darrell and Lyman Derrick, both pledged to the ranches. Good Lord, he was never satisfied. He'd beobstinate till the very last gun was fired. Why, if he got drowned in ariver he'd float upstream just to be contrary. 

In the course of time, the new board was seated. For the first fewmonths of its term, it was occupied in clearing up the business leftover by the old board and in the completion of the railway map. Butnow, the decks were cleared. It was about to address itself to theconsideration of a revision of the tariff for the carriage of grainbetween the San Joaquin Valley and tide-water. 

Both Lyman and Darrell were pledged to an average ten per cent. Cut ofthe grain rates throughout the entire State. 

The typewriter returned with the letters for Lyman to sign, and he putaway the map and took up his morning's routine of business, wondering, the while, what would become of his practice during the time he wasinvolved in the business of the Ranchers' Railroad Commission. 

But towards noon, at the moment when Lyman was drawing off a glass ofmineral water from the siphon that stood at his elbow, there was aninterruption. Some one rapped vigorously upon the door, which wasimmediately after opened, and Magnus and Harran came in, followed byPresley. 

"Hello, hello!" cried Lyman, jumping up, extending his hands, "why, here's a surprise. I didn't expect you all till to-night. Come in, comein and sit down. Have a glass of sizz-water, Governor. "

The others explained that they had come up from Bonneville the nightbefore, as the Executive Committee of the League had received a despatchfrom the lawyers it had retained to fight the Railroad, that the judgeof the court in San Francisco, where the test cases were being tried, might be expected to hand down his decision the next day. 

Very soon after the announcement of the new grading of the ranchers'lands, the corporation had offered, through S. Behrman, to lease thedisputed lands to the ranchers at a nominal figure. The offer had beenangrily rejected, and the Railroad had put up the lands for sale atRuggles's office in Bonneville. At the exorbitant price named, buyerspromptly appeared--dummy buyers, beyond shadow of doubt, acting eitherfor the Railroad or for S. Behrman--men hitherto unknown in the county, men without property, without money, adventurers, heelers. Prominentamong them, and bidding for the railroad's holdings included onAnnixter's ranch, was Delaney. 

The farce of deeding the corporation's sections to these fictitiouspurchasers was solemnly gone through with at Ruggles's office, theRailroad guaranteeing them possession. The League refused to allow thesupposed buyers to come upon the land, and the Railroad, faithful toits pledge in the matter of guaranteeing its dummies possession, at oncebegan suits in ejectment in the district court in Visalia, the countyseat. 

It was the preliminary skirmish, the reconnaisance in force, thecombatants feeling each other's strength, willing to proceed withcaution, postponing the actual death-grip for a while till each hadstrengthened its position and organised its forces. 

During the time the cases were on trial at Visalia, S. Behrman was muchin evidence in and about the courts. The trial itself, after tediouspreliminaries, was brief. The ranchers lost. The test cases wereimmediately carried up to the United States Circuit Court in SanFrancisco. At the moment the decision of this court was pending. 

"Why, this is news, " exclaimed Lyman, in response to the Governor'sannouncement; "I did not expect them to be so prompt. I was in courtonly last week and there seemed to be no end of business ahead. Isuppose you are very anxious?"

Magnus nodded. He had seated himself in one of Lyman's deep chairs, hisgrey top-hat, with its wide brim, on the floor beside him. His coat ofblack broad-cloth that had been tightly packed in his valise, was yetwrinkled and creased; his trousers were strapped under his high boots. As he spoke, he stroked the bridge of his hawklike nose with his bentforefinger. 

Leaning-back in his chair, he watched his two sons with secret delight. To his eye, both were perfect specimens of their class, intelligent, well-looking, resourceful. He was intensely proud of them. He was neverhappier, never more nearly jovial, never more erect, more military, morealert, and buoyant than when in the company of his two sons. He honestlybelieved that no finer examples of young manhood existed throughout theentire nation. 

"I think we should win in this court, " Harran observed, watching thebubbles break in his glass. "The investigation has been much morecomplete than in the Visalia trial. Our case this time is too good. Ithas made too much talk. The court would not dare render a decision forthe Railroad. Why, there's the agreement in black and white--and thecirculars the Railroad issued. How CAN one get around those?"

"Well, well, we shall know in a few hours now, " remarked Magnus. 

"Oh, " exclaimed Lyman, surprised, "it is for this morning, then. Whyaren't you at the court?"

"It seemed undignified, boy, " answered the Governor. "We shall know soonenough. "

"Good God!" exclaimed Harran abruptly, "when I think of what isinvolved. Why, Lyman, it's our home, the ranch house itself, nearly allLos Muertos, practically our whole fortune, and just now when there ispromise of an enormous crop of wheat. And it is not only us. There areover half a million acres of the San Joaquin involved. In some cases ofthe smaller ranches, it is the confiscation of the whole of therancher's land. If this thing goes through, it will absolutely beggarnearly a hundred men. Broderson wouldn't have a thousand acres to hisname. Why, it's monstrous. "

"But the corporations offered to lease these lands, " remarked Lyman. "Are any of the ranchers taking up that offer--or are any of them buyingoutright?"

"Buying! At the new figure!" exclaimed Harran, "at twenty and thirty anacre! Why, there's not one in ten that CAN. They are land-poor. And asfor leasing--leasing land they virtually own--no, there's precious feware doing that, thank God! That would be acknowledging the railroad'sownership right away--forfeiting their rights for good. None of theLEAGUERS are doing it, I know. That would be the rankest treachery. "

He paused for a moment, drinking the rest of the mineral water, theninterrupting Lyman, who was about to speak to Presley, drawing him intothe conversation through politeness, said: "Matters are just rompingright along to a crisis these days. It's a make or break for the wheatgrowers of the State now, no mistake. Here are the land cases and thenew grain tariff drawing to a head at about the same time. If we win ourland cases, there's your new freight rates to be applied, and then allis beer and skittles. Won't the San Joaquin go wild if we pull it off, and I believe we will. "

"How we wheat growers are exploited and trapped and deceived atevery turn, " observed Magnus sadly. "The courts, the capitalists, therailroads, each of them in turn hoodwinks us into some new and wonderfulscheme, only to betray us in the end. Well, " he added, turning to Lyman, "one thing at least we can depend on. We will cut their grain rates forthem, eh, Lyman?"

Lyman crossed his legs and settled himself in his office chair. 

"I have wanted to have a talk with you about that, sir, " he said. "Yes, we will cut the rates--an average 10 per cent. Cut throughout theState, as we are pledged. But I am going to warn you, Governor, and you, Harran; don't expect too much at first. The man who, even after twentyyears' training in the operation of railroads, can draw an equitable, smoothly working schedule of freight rates between shipping point andcommon point, is capable of governing the United States. What with mainlines, and leased lines, and points of transfer, and the laws governingcommon carriers, and the rulings of the Inter-State Commerce Commission, the whole matter has become so confused that Vanderbilt himself couldn'tstraighten it out. And how can it be expected that railroad commissionswho are chosen--well, let's be frank--as ours was, for instance, fromout a number of men who don't know the difference between a switchingcharge and a differential rate, are going to regulate the whole businessin six months' time? Cut rates; yes, any fool can do that; any fool canwrite one dollar instead of two, but if you cut too low by a fraction ofone per cent. And if the railroad can get out an injunction, tie youup and show that your new rate prevents the road being operated at aprofit, how are you any better off?"

"Your conscientiousness does you credit, Lyman, " said the Governor. "Irespect you for it, my son. I know you will be fair to the railroad. That is all we want. Fairness to the corporation is fairness to thefarmer, and we won't expect you to readjust the whole matter out ofhand. Take your time. We can afford to wait. "

"And suppose the next commission is a railroad board, and reverses allour figures?"

The one-time mining king, the most redoubtable poker player of CalaverasCounty, permitted himself a momentary twinkle of his eyes. 

"By then it will be too late. We will, all of us, have made our fortunesby then. "

The remark left Presley astonished out of all measure He never couldaccustom himself to these strange lapses in the Governor's character. Magnus was by nature a public man, judicious, deliberate, standing firmfor principle, yet upon rare occasion, by some such remark as this, hewould betray the presence of a sub-nature of recklessness, inconsistent, all at variance with his creeds and tenets. 

At the very bottom, when all was said and done, Magnus remained theForty-niner. Deep down in his heart the spirit of the Adventurer yetpersisted. "We will all of us have made fortunes by then. " That was itprecisely. "After us the deluge. " For all his public spirit, for all hischampionship of justice and truth, his respect for law, Magnus remainedthe gambler, willing to play for colossal stakes, to hazard a fortune onthe chance of winning a million. It was the true California spiritthat found expression through him, the spirit of the West, unwilling tooccupy itself with details, refusing to wait, to be patient, to achieveby legitimate plodding; the miner's instinct of wealth acquired in asingle night prevailed, in spite of all. It was in this frame of mindthat Magnus and the multitude of other ranchers of whom he was a type, farmed their ranches. They had no love for their land. They were notattached to the soil. They worked their ranches as a quarter of acentury before they had worked their mines. To husband the resources oftheir marvellous San Joaquin, they considered niggardly, petty, Hebraic. To get all there was out of the land, to squeeze it dry, to exhaust it, seemed their policy. When, at last, the land worn out, would refuse toyield, they would invest their money in something else; by then, theywould all have made fortunes. They did not care. "After us the deluge. "

Lyman, however, was obviously uneasy, willing to change the subject. Herose to his feet, pulling down his cuffs. 

"By the way, " he observed, "I want you three to lunch with me to-dayat my club. It is close by. You can wait there for news of the court'sdecision as well as anywhere else, and I should like to show you theplace. I have just joined. "

At the club, when the four men were seated at a small table in the roundwindow of the main room, Lyman's popularity with all classes was veryapparent. Hardly a man entered that did not call out a salutation tohim, some even coming over to shake his hand. He seemed to be everyman's friend, and to all he seemed equally genial. His affability, evento those whom he disliked, was unfailing. 

"See that fellow yonder, " he said to Magnus, indicating a certainmiddle-aged man, flamboyantly dressed, who wore his hair long, whowas afflicted with sore eyes, and the collar of whose velvet coat wassprinkled with dandruff, "that's Hartrath, the artist, a man absolutelydevoid of even the commonest decency. How he got in here is a mystery tome. "

Yet, when this Hartrath came across to say "How do you do" to Lyman, Lyman was as eager in his cordiality as his warmest friend could haveexpected. 

"Why the devil are you so chummy with him, then?" observed Harran whenHartrath had gone away. 

Lyman's explanation was vague. The truth of the matter was, thatMagnus's oldest son was consumed by inordinate ambition. Politicalpreferment was his dream, and to the realisation of this dreampopularity was an essential. Every man who could vote, blackguard orgentleman, was to be conciliated, if possible. He made it his study tobecome known throughout the entire community--to put influential menunder obligations to himself. He never forgot a name or a face. Witheverybody he was the hail-fellow-well-met. His ambition was not trivial. In his disregard for small things, he resembled his father. Municipaloffice had no attraction for him. His goal was higher. He had plannedhis life twenty years ahead. Already Sheriff's Attorney, AssistantDistrict Attorney and Railroad Commissioner, he could, if he desired, attain the office of District Attorney itself. Just now, it was aquestion with him whether or not it would be politic to fill thisoffice. Would it advance or sidetrack him in the career he had outlinedfor himself? Lyman wanted to be something better than District Attorney, better than Mayor, than State Senator, or even than member of the UnitedStates Congress. He wanted to be, in fact, what his father was only inname--to succeed where Magnus had failed. He wanted to be governorof the State. He had put his teeth together, and, deaf to all otherconsiderations, blind to all other issues, he worked with the infiniteslowness, the unshakable tenacity of the coral insect to this one end. 

After luncheon was over, Lyman ordered cigars and liqueurs, and withthe three others returned to the main room of the club. However, theirformer place in the round window was occupied. A middle-aged man, with iron grey hair and moustache, who wore a frock coat and a whitewaistcoat, and in some indefinable manner suggested a retired navalofficer, was sitting at their table smoking a long, thin cigar. At sightof him, Presley became animated. He uttered a mild exclamation:

"Why, isn't that Mr. Cedarquist?"

"Cedarquist?" repeated Lyman Derrick. "I know him well. Yes, of course, it is, " he continued. "Governor, you must know him. He is one of ourrepresentative men. You would enjoy talking to him. He was the head ofthe big Atlas Iron Works. They have shut down recently, you know. Not failed exactly, but just ceased to be a paying investment, andCedarquist closed them out. He has other interests, though. He's a richman--a capitalist. "

Lyman brought the group up to the gentleman in question and introducedthem. "Mr. Magnus Derrick, of course, " observed Cedarquist, as he tookthe Governor's hand. "I've known you by repute for some time, sir. Thisis a great pleasure, I assure you. " Then, turning to Presley, he added:"Hello, Pres, my boy. How is the great, the very great Poem getting on?"

"It's not getting on at all, sir, " answered Presley, in someembarrassment, as they all sat down. "In fact, I've about given up theidea. There's so much interest in what you might call 'living issues'down at Los Muertos now, that I'm getting further and further from itevery day. "

"I should say as much, " remarked the manufacturer, turning towardsMagnus. "I'm watching your fight with Shelgrim, Mr. Derrick, with everydegree of interest. " He raised his drink of whiskey and soda. "Here'ssuccess to you. "

As he replaced his glass, the artist Hartrath joined the groupuninvited. As a pretext, he engaged Lyman in conversation. Lyman, hebelieved, was a man with a "pull" at the City Hall. In connection with aprojected Million-Dollar Fair and Flower Festival, which at that momentwas the talk of the city, certain statues were to be erected, andHartrath bespoke Lyman's influence to further the pretensions of asculptor friend of his, who wished to be Art Director of the affair. Inthe matter of this Fair and Flower Festival, Hartrath was not lacking inenthusiasm. He addressed the others with extravagant gestures, blinkinghis inflamed eyelids. 

"A million dollars, " he exclaimed. "Hey! think of that. Why, do you knowthat we have five hundred thousand practically pledged already? Talkabout public spirit, gentlemen, this is the most public-spirited cityon the continent. And the money is not thrown away. We will have Easternvisitors here by the thousands--capitalists--men with money to invest. The million we spend on our fair will be money in our pockets. Ah, youshould see how the women of this city are taking hold of the matter. They are giving all kinds of little entertainments, teas, 'Olde TymeSinging Skules, ' amateur theatricals, gingerbread fetes, all for thebenefit of the fund, and the business men, too--pouring out their moneylike water. It is splendid, splendid, to see a community so patriotic. "

The manufacturer, Cedarquist, fixed the artist with a glance ofmelancholy interest. 

"And how much, " he remarked, "will they contribute--your gingerbreadwomen and public-spirited capitalists, towards the blowing up of theruins of the Atlas Iron Works?"

"Blowing up? I don't understand, " murmured the artist, surprised. "Whenyou get your Eastern capitalists out here with your Million-DollarFair, " continued Cedarquist, "you don't propose, do you, to let them seea Million-Dollar Iron Foundry standing idle, because of the indifferenceof San Francisco business men? They might ask pertinent questions, your capitalists, and we should have to answer that our business menpreferred to invest their money in corner lots and government bonds, rather than to back up a legitimate, industrial enterprise. We don'twant fairs. We want active furnaces. We don't want public statues, andfountains, and park extensions and gingerbread fetes. We want businessenterprise. Isn't it like us? Isn't it like us?" he exclaimed sadly. "What a melancholy comment! San Francisco! It is not a city--it is aMidway Plaisance. California likes to be fooled. Do you suppose Shelgrimcould convert the whole San Joaquin Valley into his back yard otherwise?Indifference to public affairs--absolute indifference, it stamps us all. Our State is the very paradise of fakirs. You and your Million-DollarFair!" He turned to Hartrath with a quiet smile. "It is just such menas you, Mr. Hartrath, that are the ruin of us. You organise a sham oftinsel and pasteboard, put on fool's cap and bells, beat a gong at astreet corner, and the crowd cheers you and drops nickels into your hat. Your ginger-bread fete; yes, I saw it in full blast the other night onthe grounds of one of your women's places on Sutter Street. I was on myway home from the last board meeting of the Atlas Company. A gingerbreadfete, my God! and the Atlas plant shutting down for want of financialbacking. A million dollars spent to attract the Eastern investor, inorder to show him an abandoned rolling mill, wherein the only activityis the sale of remnant material and scrap steel. "

Lyman, however, interfered. The situation was becoming strained. Hetried to conciliate the three men--the artist, the manufacturer, and thefarmer, the warring elements. But Hartrath, unwilling to face the enmitythat he felt accumulating against him, took himself away. A picture ofhis--"A Study of the Contra Costa Foot-hills"--was to be raffled in theclub rooms for the benefit of the Fair. He, himself, was in charge ofthe matter. He disappeared. 

Cedarquist looked after him with contemplative interest. Then, turningto Magnus, excused himself for the acridity of his words. 

"He's no worse than many others, and the people of this State and cityare, after all, only a little more addle-headed than other Americans. "It was his favourite topic. Sure of the interest of his hearers, heunburdened himself. 

"If I were to name the one crying evil of American life, Mr. Derrick, "he continued, "it would be the indifference of the better people topublic affairs. It is so in all our great centres. There are other greattrusts, God knows, in the United States besides our own dear P. And S. W. Railroad. Every State has its own grievance. If it is not a railroadtrust, it is a sugar trust, or an oil trust, or an industrial trust, that exploits the People, BECAUSE THE PEOPLE ALLOW IT. The indifferenceof the People is the opportunity of the despot. It is as true as thatthe whole is greater than the part, and the maxim is so old that it istrite--it is laughable. It is neglected and disused for the sake ofsome new ingenious and complicated theory, some wonderful scheme ofreorganisation, but the fact remains, nevertheless, simple, fundamental, everlasting. The People have but to say 'No, ' and not the strongesttyranny, political, religious, or financial, that was ever organised, could survive one week. "

The others, absorbed, attentive, approved, nodding their heads insilence as the manufacturer finished. 

"That's one reason, Mr. Derrick, " the other resumed after a moment, "whyI have been so glad to meet you. You and your League are trying to say'No' to the trust. I hope you will succeed. If your example will rallythe People to your cause, you will. Otherwise--" he shook his head. 

"One stage of the fight is to be passed this very day, " observed Magnus. "My sons and myself are expecting hourly news from the City Hall, adecision in our case is pending. "

"We are both of us fighters, it seems, Mr. Derrick, " said Cedarquist. "Each with his particular enemy. We are well met, indeed, the farmer andthe manufacturer, both in the same grist between the two millstonesof the lethargy of the Public and the aggression of the Trust, the twogreat evils of modern America. Pres, my boy, there is your epic poemready to hand. "

But Cedarquist was full of another idea. Rarely did so favourable anopportunity present itself for explaining his theories, his ambitions. Addressing himself to Magnus, he continued:

"Fortunately for myself, the Atlas Company was not my only investment. I have other interests. The building of ships--steel sailing ships--hasbeen an ambition of mine, --for this purpose, Mr. Derrick, to carryAmerican wheat. For years, I have studied this question of Americanwheat, and at last, I have arrived at a theory. Let me explain. Atpresent, all our California wheat goes to Liverpool, and from that portis distributed over the world. But a change is coming. I am sure of it. You young men, " he turned to Presley, Lyman, and Harran, "will live tosee it. Our century is about done. The great word of this nineteenthcentury has been Production. The great word of the twentieth centurywill be--listen to me, you youngsters--Markets. As a market for ourProduction--or let me take a concrete example--as a market for ourWHEAT, Europe is played out. Population in Europe is not increasing fastenough to keep up with the rapidity of our production. In some cases, as in France, the population is stationary. WE, however, have gone onproducing wheat at a tremendous rate. 

"The result is over-production. We supply more than Europe can eat, anddown go the prices. The remedy is NOT in the curtailing of our wheatareas, but in this, we MUST HAVE NEW MARKETS, GREATER MARKETS. For yearswe have been sending our wheat from East to West, from California toEurope. But the time will come when we must send it from West to East. We must march with the course of empire, not against it. I mean, wemust look to China. Rice in China is losing its nutritive quality. TheAsiatics, though, must be fed; if not on rice, then on wheat. Why, Mr. Derrick, if only one-half the population of China ate a half ounce offlour per man per day all the wheat areas in California could not feedthem. Ah, if I could only hammer that into the brains of every rancherof the San Joaquin, yes, and of every owner of every bonanza farm inDakota and Minnesota. Send your wheat to China; handle it yourselves;do away with the middleman; break up the Chicago wheat pits and elevatorrings and mixing houses. When in feeding China you have decreased theEuropean shipments, the effect is instantaneous. Prices go up in Europewithout having the least effect upon the prices in China. We hold thekey, we have the wheat, --infinitely more than we ourselves can eat. Asia and Europe must look to America to be fed. What fatuous neglect ofopportunity to continue to deluge Europe with our surplus food when theEast trembles upon the verge of starvation!"

The two men, Cedarquist and Magnus, continued the conversation a littlefurther. The manufacturer's idea was new to the Governor. He was greatlyinterested. He withdrew from the conversation. Thoughtful, he leanedback in his place, stroking the bridge of his beak-like nose with acrooked forefinger. 

Cedarquist turned to Harran and began asking details as to theconditions of the wheat growers of the San Joaquin. Lyman stillmaintained an attitude of polite aloofness, yawning occasionally behindthree fingers, and Presley was left to the company of his own thoughts. 

There had been a day when the affairs and grievances of the farmers ofhis acquaintance--Magnus, Annixter, Osterman, and old Broderson--hadfilled him only with disgust. His mind full of a great, vague epic poemof the West, he had kept himself apart, disdainful of what he chose toconsider their petty squabbles. But the scene in Annixter's harness roomhad thrilled and uplifted him. He was palpitating with excitement allthrough the succeeding months. He abandoned the idea of an epic poem. Insix months he had not written a single verse. Day after day he trembledwith excitement as the relations between the Trust and League becamemore and more strained. He saw the matter in its true light. It wastypical. It was the world-old war between Freedom and Tyranny, and attimes his hatred of the railroad shook him like a crisp and witheredreed, while the languid indifference of the people of the State to thequarrel filled him with a blind exasperation. 

But, as he had once explained to Vanamee, he must find expression. Hefelt that he would suffocate otherwise. He had begun to keep a journal. As the inclination spurred him, he wrote down his thoughts and ideas inthis, sometimes every day, sometimes only three or four times a month. Also he flung aside his books of poems--Milton, Tennyson, Browning, evenHomer--and addressed himself to Mill, Malthus, Young, Poushkin, HenryGeorge, Schopenhauer. He attacked the subject of Social Inequality withunbounded enthusiasm. He devoured, rather than read, and emerged fromthe affair, his mind a confused jumble of conflicting notions, sick withover-effort, raging against injustice and oppression, and with not onesane suggestion as to remedy or redress. 

The butt of his cigarette scorched his fingers and roused him from hisbrooding. In the act of lighting another, he glanced across the roomand was surprised to see two very prettily dressed young women in thecompany of an older gentleman, in a long frock coat, standing beforeHartrath's painting, examining it, their heads upon one side. 

Presley uttered a murmur of surprise. He, himself, was a member of theclub, and the presence of women within its doors, except on specialoccasions, was not tolerated. He turned to Lyman Derrick for anexplanation, but this other had also seen the women and abruptlyexclaimed:

"I declare, I had forgotten about it. Why, this is Ladies' Day, ofcourse. "

"Why, yes, " interposed Cedarquist, glancing at the women over hisshoulder. "Didn't you know? They let 'em in twice a year, you remember, and this is a double occasion. They are going to raffle Hartrath'spicture, --for the benefit of the Gingerbread Fair. Why, you are notup to date, Lyman. This is a sacred and religious rite, --an importantpublic event. "

"Of course, of course, " murmured Lyman. He found means to survey Harranand Magnus. Certainly, neither his father nor his brother were dressedfor the function that impended. He had been stupid. Magnus invariablyattracted attention, and now with his trousers strapped under his boots, his wrinkled frock coat--Lyman twisted his cuffs into sight with animpatient, nervous movement of his wrists, glancing a second time athis brother's pink face, forward curling, yellow hair and clothes ofa country cut. But there was no help for it. He wondered what were theclub regulations in the matter of bringing in visitors on Ladies' Day. "Sure enough, Ladies' Day, " he remarked, "I am very glad you struck it, Governor. We can sit right where we are. I guess this is as good a placeas any to see the crowd. It's a good chance to see all the big guns ofthe city. Do you expect your people here, Mr. Cedarquist?"

"My wife may come, and my daughters, " said the manufacturer. 

"Ah, " murmured Presley, "so much the better. I was going to give myselfthe pleasure of calling upon your daughters, Mr. Cedarquist, thisafternoon. "

"You can save your carfare, Pres, " said Cedarquist, "you will see themhere. "

No doubt, the invitations for the occasion had appointed one o'clock asthe time, for between that hour and two, the guests arrived in an almostunbroken stream. From their point of vantage in the round window of themain room, Magnus, his two sons, and Presley looked on very interested. Cedarquist had excused himself, affirming that he must look out for hiswomen folk. 

Of every ten of the arrivals, seven, at least, were ladies. Theyentered the room--this unfamiliar masculine haunt, where their husbands, brothers, and sons spent so much of their time--with a certain show ofhesitancy and little, nervous, oblique glances, moving their heads fromside to side like a file of hens venturing into a strange barn. Theycame in groups, ushered by a single member of the club, doing thehonours with effusive bows and polite gestures, indicating the variousobjects of interest, pictures, busts, and the like, that decorated theroom. 

Fresh from his recollections of Bonneville, Guadalajara, and the dancein Annixter's barn, Presley was astonished at the beauty of these womenand the elegance of their toilettes. The crowd thickened rapidly. Amurmur of conversation arose, subdued, gracious, mingled with the softrustle of silk, grenadines, velvet. The scent of delicate perfumesspread in the air, Violet de Parme, Peau d'Espagne. Colours of the mostharmonious blends appeared and disappeared at intervals in the slowlymoving press, touches of lavender-tinted velvets, pale violet crepes andcream-coloured appliqued laces. 

There seemed to be no need of introductions. Everybody appeared tobe acquainted. There was no awkwardness, no constraint. The assemblydisengaged an impression of refined pleasure. On every hand, innumerabledialogues seemed to go forward easily and naturally, without break orinterruption, witty, engaging, the couple never at a loss for repartee. A third party was gracefully included, then a fourth. Little groups wereformed, --groups that divided themselves, or melted into other groups, or disintegrated again into isolated pairs, or lost themselves inthe background of the mass, --all without friction, withoutembarrassment, --the whole affair going forward of itself, decorous, tactful, well-bred. 

At a distance, and not too loud, a stringed orchestra sent up a pleasinghum. Waiters, with brass buttons on their full dress coats, went fromgroup to group, silent, unobtrusive, serving salads and ices. 

But the focus of the assembly was the little space before Hartrath'spainting. It was called "A Study of the Contra Costa Foothills, " andwas set in a frame of natural redwood, the bark still adhering. It wasconspicuously displayed on an easel at the right of the entrance to themain room of the club, and was very large. In the foreground, and tothe left, under the shade of a live-oak, stood a couple of reddish cows, knee-deep in a patch of yellow poppies, while in the right-hand corner, to balance the composition, was placed a girl in a pink dress and whitesunbonnet, in which the shadows were indicated by broad dashes of paleblue paint. The ladies and young girls examined the production withlittle murmurs of admiration, hazarding remembered phrases, searching for the exact balance between generous praise and criticaldiscrimination, expressing their opinions in the mild technicalities ofthe Art Books and painting classes. They spoke of atmospheric effects, of middle distance, of "chiaro-oscuro, " of fore-shortening, of thedecomposition of light, of the subordination of individuality tofidelity of interpretation. 

One tall girl, with hair almost white in its blondness, having observedthat the handling of the masses reminded her strongly of Corot, hercompanion, who carried a gold lorgnette by a chain around her neck, answered:

"Ah! Millet, perhaps, but not Corot. "

This verdict had an immediate success. It was passed from group togroup. It seemed to imply a delicate distinction that carried convictionat once. It was decided formally that the reddish brown cows in thepicture were reminiscent of Daubigny, and that the handling of themasses was altogether Millet, but that the general effect was not quiteCorot. 

Presley, curious to see the painting that was the subject of so muchdiscussion, had left the group in the round window, and stood close byHartrath, craning his head over the shoulders of the crowd, trying tocatch a glimpse of the reddish cows, the milk-maid and the blue paintedfoothills. He was suddenly aware of Cedarquist's voice in his ear, and, turning about, found himself face to face with the manufacturer, hiswife and his two daughters. 

There was a meeting. Salutations were exchanged, Presley shaking handsall around, expressing his delight at seeing his old friends once more, for he had known the family from his boyhood, Mrs. Cedarquist being hisaunt. Mrs. Cedarquist and her two daughters declared that the air of LosMuertos must certainly have done him a world of good. He was stouter, there could be no doubt of it. A little pale, perhaps. He was fatiguinghimself with his writing, no doubt. Ah, he must take care. Health waseverything, after all. Had he been writing any more verse? Every monththey scanned the magazines, looking for his name. 

Mrs. Cedarquist was a fashionable woman, the president or chairman ofa score of clubs. She was forever running after fads, appearingcontinually in the society wherein she moved with new and astoundingproteges--fakirs whom she unearthed no one knew where, discovering themlong in advance of her companions. Now it was a Russian Countess, withdirty finger nails, who travelled throughout America and borrowed money;now an Aesthete who possessed a wonderful collection of topaz gems, whosubmitted decorative schemes for the interior arrangement of houses andwho "received" in Mrs. Cedarquist's drawing-rooms dressed in a whitevelvet cassock; now a widow of some Mohammedan of Bengal or Rajputana, who had a blue spot in the middle of her forehead and who solicitedcontributions for her sisters in affliction; now a certain bearded poet, recently back from the Klondike; now a decayed musician who had beenejected from a young ladies' musical conservatory of Europe becauseof certain surprising pamphlets on free love, and who had come to SanFrancisco to introduce the community to the music of Brahms; now aJapanese youth who wore spectacles and a grey flannel shirt and who, at intervals, delivered himself of the most astonishing poems, vague, unrhymed, unmetrical lucubrations, incoherent, bizarre; now a ChristianScientist, a lean, grey woman, whose creed was neither Christian norscientific; now a university professor, with the bristling beard ofan anarchist chief-of-section, and a roaring, guttural voice, whoseintenseness left him gasping and apoplectic; now a civilised Cherokeewith a mission; now a female elocutionist, whose forte was Byron's Songsof Greece; now a high caste Chinaman; now a miniature painter; now atenor, a pianiste, a mandolin player, a missionary, a drawing master, a virtuoso, a collector, an Armenian, a botanist with a new flower, acritic with a new theory, a doctor with a new treatment. 

And all these people had a veritable mania for declamation and fancydress. The Russian Countess gave talks on the prisons of Siberia, wearing the headdress and pinchbeck ornaments of a Slav bride; theAesthete, in his white cassock, gave readings on obscure questionsof art and ethics. The widow of India, in the costume of her caste, described the social life of her people at home. The bearded poet, perspiring in furs and boots of reindeer skin, declaimed verses of hisown composition about the wild life of the Alaskan mining camps. TheJapanese youth, in the silk robes of the Samurai two-sworded nobles, read from his own works--"The flat-bordered earth, nailed down at night, rusting under the darkness, " "The brave, upright rains that came downlike errands from iron-bodied yore-time. " The Christian Scientist, infunereal, impressive black, discussed the contra-will and pan-psychichylozoism. The university professor put on a full dress suit and lislethread gloves at three in the afternoon and before literary clubs andcircles bellowed extracts from Goethe and Schiler in the German, shakinghis fists, purple with vehemence. The Cherokee, arrayed in fringedbuckskin and blue beads, rented from a costumer, intoned folk songs ofhis people in the vernacular. The elocutionist in cheese-cloth toga andtin bracelets, rendered "The Isles of Greece, where burning Sappholoved and sung. " The Chinaman, in the robes of a mandarin, lecturedon Confucius. The Armenian, in fez and baggy trousers, spoke of theUnspeakable Turk. The mandolin player, dressed like a bull fighter, heldmusical conversaziones, interpreting the peasant songs of Andalusia. 

It was the Fake, the eternal, irrepressible Sham; glib, nimble, ubiquitous, tricked out in all the paraphernalia of imposture, anendless defile of charlatans that passed interminably before the gaze ofthe city, marshalled by "lady presidents, " exploited by clubs of women, by literary societies, reading circles, and culture organisations. Theattention the Fake received, the time devoted to it, the money which itabsorbed, were incredible. It was all one that impostor after impostorwas exposed; it was all one that the clubs, the circles, the societieswere proved beyond doubt to have been swindled. The more the Philistinepress of the city railed and guyed, the more the women rallied tothe defence of their protege of the hour. That their favourite waspersecuted, was to them a veritable rapture. Promptly they invested theapostle of culture with the glamour of a martyr. 

The fakirs worked the community as shell-game tricksters work a countyfair, departing with bursting pocket-books, passing on the word to thenext in line, assured that the place was not worked out, knowing wellthat there was enough for all. 

More frequently the public of the city, unable to think of more than onething at one time, prostrated itself at the feet of a single apostle, but at other moments, such as the present, when a Flower Festival or aMillion-Dollar Fair aroused enthusiasm in all quarters, the occasionwas one of gala for the entire Fake. The decayed professors, virtuosi, litterateurs, and artists thronged to the place en masse. Their clamourfilled all the air. On every hand one heard the scraping of violins, the tinkling of mandolins, the suave accents of "art talks, " theincoherencies of poets, the declamation of elocutionists, theinarticulate wanderings of the Japanese, the confused mutterings of theCherokee, the guttural bellowing of the German university professor, allin the name of the Million-Dollar Fair. Money to the extent of hundredsof thousands was set in motion. 

Mrs. Cedarquist was busy from morning until night. One after another, she was introduced to newly arrived fakirs. To each poet, to eachlitterateur, to each professor she addressed the same question:

"How long have you known you had this power?"

She spent her days in one quiver of excitement and jubilation. Shewas "in the movement. " The people of the city were awakening to aRealisation of the Beautiful, to a sense of the higher needs of life. This was Art, this was Literature, this was Culture and Refinement. TheRenaissance had appeared in the West. 

She was a short, rather stout, red-faced, very much over-dressed littlewoman of some fifty years. She was rich in her own name, even beforeher marriage, being a relative of Shelgrim himself and on familiar termswith the great financier and his family. Her husband, while deploringthe policy of the railroad, saw no good reason for quarrelling withShelgrim, and on more than one occasion had dined at his house. On thisoccasion, delighted that she had come upon a "minor poet, " she insistedupon presenting him to Hartrath. 

"You two should have so much in common, " she explained. 

Presley shook the flaccid hand of the artist, murmuringconventionalities, while Mrs. Cedarquist hastened to say:

"I am sure you know Mr. Presley's verse, Mr. Hartrath. You should, believe me. You two have much in common. I can see so much that is alikein your modes of interpreting nature. In Mr. Presley's sonnet, 'TheBetter Part, ' there is the same note as in your picture, the samesincerity of tone, the same subtlety of touch, the same nuances, --ah. "

"Oh, my dear Madame, " murmured the artist, interrupting Presley'simpatient retort; "I am a mere bungler. You don't mean quite that, I amsure. I am too sensitive. It is my cross. Beauty, " he closed his soreeyes with a little expression of pain, "beauty unmans me. "

But Mrs. Cedarquist was not listening. Her eyes were fixed on theartist's luxuriant hair, a thick and glossy mane, that all but coveredhis coat collar. 

"Leonine!" she murmured-- "leonine! Like Samson of old. "

However, abruptly bestirring herself, she exclaimed a second later:

"But I must run away. I am selling tickets for you this afternoon, Mr. Hartrath. I am having such success. Twenty-five already. Mr. Presley, you will take two chances, I am sure, and, oh, by the way, I have suchgood news. You know I am one of the lady members of the subscriptioncommittee for our Fair, and you know we approached Mr. Shelgrim for adonation to help along. Oh, such a liberal patron, a real Lorenzo di'Medici. In the name of the Pacific and Southwestern he has subscribed, think of it, five thousand dollars; and yet they will talk of themeanness of the railroad. "

"Possibly it is to his interest, " murmured Presley. "The fairs andfestivals bring people to the city over his railroad. "

But the others turned on him, expostulating. 

"Ah, you Philistine, " declared Mrs. Cedarquist. "And this from YOU!, Presley; to attribute such base motives----"

"If the poets become materialised, Mr. Presley, " declared Hartrath, "what can we say to the people?"

"And Shelgrim encourages your million-dollar fairs and fetes, " said avoice at Presley's elbow, "because it is throwing dust in the people'seyes. "

The group turned about and saw Cedarquist, who had come up unobservedin time to catch the drift of the talk. But he spoke without bitterness;there was even a good-humoured twinkle in his eyes. 

"Yes, " he continued, smiling, "our dear Shelgrim promotes your fairs, not only as Pres says, because it is money in his pocket, but becauseit amuses the people, distracts their attention from the doings of hisrailroad. When Beatrice was a baby and had little colics, I used tojingle my keys in front of her nose, and it took her attention from thepain in her tummy; so Shelgrim. "

The others laughed good-humouredly, protesting, nevertheless, and Mrs. Cedarquist shook her finger in warning at the artist and exclaimed:

"The Philistines be upon thee, Samson!"

"By the way, " observed Hartrath, willing to change the subject, "I hearyou are on the Famine Relief Committee. Does your work progress?"

"Oh, most famously, I assure you, " she said. "Such a movement as wehave started. Those poor creatures. The photographs of them are simplydreadful. I had the committee to luncheon the other day and we passedthem around. We are getting subscriptions from all over the State, andMr. Cedarquist is to arrange for the ship. "

The Relief Committee in question was one of a great number that had beenformed in California--and all over the Union, for the matter of that--toprovide relief for the victims of a great famine in Central India. Thewhole world had been struck with horror at the reports of sufferingand mortality in the affected districts, and had hastened to send aid. Certain women of San Francisco, with Mrs. Cedarquist at their head, hadorganised a number of committees, but the manufacturer's wife turned themeetings of these committees into social affairs--luncheons, teas, whereone discussed the ways and means of assisting the starving Asiatics overteacups and plates of salad. 

Shortly afterward a mild commotion spread throughout the assemblage ofthe club's guests. The drawing of the numbers in the raffle was about tobe made. Hartrath, in a flurry of agitation, excused himself. Cedarquisttook Presley by the arm. 

"Pres, let's get out of this, " he said. "Come into the wine room and Iwill shake you for a glass of sherry. "

They had some difficulty in extricating themselves. The main room wherethe drawing was to take place suddenly became densely thronged. All theguests pressed eagerly about the table near the picture, upon which oneof the hall boys had just placed a ballot box containing the numbers. The ladies, holding their tickets in their hands, pushed forward. Astaccato chatter of excited murmurs arose. "What became of Harran andLyman and the Governor?" inquired Presley. 

Lyman had disappeared, alleging a business engagement, but Magnus andhis younger son had retired to the library of the club on the floorabove. It was almost deserted. They were deep in earnest conversation. 

"Harran, " said the Governor, with decision, "there is a deal, there, inwhat Cedarquist says. Our wheat to China, hey, boy?"

"It is certainly worth thinking of, sir. "

"It appeals to me, boy; it appeals to me. It's big and there's a fortunein it. Big chances mean big returns; and I know--your old father isn't aback number yet, Harran--I may not have so wide an outlook as our friendCedarquist, but I am quick to see my chance. Boy, the whole East isopening, disintegrating before the Anglo-Saxon. It is time that breadstuffs, as well, should make markets for themselves in the Orient. Justat this moment, too, when Lyman will scale down freight rates so we canhaul to tidewater at little cost. "

Magnus paused again, his frown beetling, and in the silence theexcited murmur from the main room of the club, the soprano chatter of amultitude of women, found its way to the deserted library. 

"I believe it's worth looking into, Governor, " asserted Harran. 

Magnus rose, and, his hands behind him, paced the floor of the librarya couple of times, his imagination all stimulated and vivid. Thegreat gambler perceived his Chance, the kaleidoscopic shifting ofcircumstances that made a Situation. It had come silently, unexpectedly. He had not seen its approach. Abruptly he woke one morning to see thecombination realised. But also he saw a vision. A sudden and abruptrevolution in the Wheat. A new world of markets discovered, the matteras important as the discovery of America. The torrent of wheat was to bediverted, flowing back upon itself in a sudden, colossal eddy, strandingthe middleman, the ENTRE-PRENEUR, the elevator-and mixing-house mendry and despairing, their occupation gone. He saw the farmer suddenlyemancipated, the world's food no longer at the mercy of the speculator, thousands upon thousands of men set free of the grip of Trust and ringand monopoly acting for themselves, selling their own wheat, organisinginto one gigantic trust, themselves, sending their agents to all theentry ports of China. Himself, Annixter, Broderson and Osterman wouldpool their issues. He would convince them of the magnificence of the newmovement. They would be its pioneers. Harran would be sent to Hong Kongto represent the four. They would charter--probably buy--a ship, perhapsone of Cedarquist's, American built, the nation's flag at the peak, andthe sailing of that ship, gorged with the crops from Broderson's andOsterman's ranches, from Quien Sabe and Los Muertos, would be like thesailing of the caravels from Palos. It would mark a new era; it wouldmake an epoch. 

With this vision still expanding before the eye of his mind, Magnus, with Harran at his elbow, prepared to depart. 

They descended to the lower floor and involved themselves for a momentin the throng of fashionables that blocked the hallway and the entranceto the main room, where the numbers of the raffle were being drawn. Nearthe head of the stairs they encountered Presley and Cedarquist, who hadjust come out of the wine room. 

Magnus, still on fire with the new idea, pressed a few questions uponthe manufacturer before bidding him good-bye. He wished to talk furtherupon the great subject, interested as to details, but Cedarquist wasvague in his replies. He was no farmer, he hardly knew wheat when he sawit, only he knew the trend of the world's affairs; he felt them to besetting inevitably eastward. 

However, his very vagueness was a further inspiration to the Governor. He swept details aside. He saw only the grand coup, the huge results, the East conquered, the march of empire rolling westward, finallyarriving at its starting point, the vague, mysterious Orient. 

He saw his wheat, like the crest of an advancing billow, crossing thePacific, bursting upon Asia, flooding the Orient in a golden torrent. Itwas the new era. He had lived to see the death of the old and the birthof the new; first the mine, now the ranch; first gold, now wheat. Onceagain he became the pioneer, hardy, brilliant, taking colossal chances, blazing the way, grasping a fortune--a million in a single day. All thebigness of his nature leaped up again within him. At the magnitude ofthe inspiration he felt young again, indomitable, the leader at last, king of his fellows, wresting from fortune at this eleventh hour, beforehis old age, the place of high command which so long had been deniedhim. At last he could achieve. 

Abruptly Magnus was aware that some one had spoken his name. He lookedabout and saw behind him, at a little distance, two gentlemen, strangersto him. They had withdrawn from the crowd into a little recess. Evidently having no women to look after, they had lost interest in theafternoon's affair. Magnus realised that they had not seen him. One ofthem was reading aloud to his companion from an evening edition of thatday's newspaper. It was in the course of this reading that Magnus caughtthe sound of his name. He paused, listening, and Presley, Harran andCedarquist followed his example. Soon they all understood. They werelistening to the report of the judge's decision, for which Magnus waswaiting--the decision in the case of the League vs. The Railroad. Forthe moment, the polite clamour of the raffle hushed itself--the winningnumber was being drawn. The guests held their breath, and in the ensuingsilence Magnus and the others heard these words distinctly:

". .. . It follows that the title to the lands in question is in theplaintiff--the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad, and the defendantshave no title, and their possession is wrongful. There must be findingsand judgment for the plaintiff, and it is so ordered. "

In spite of himself, Magnus paled. Harran shut his teeth with an oath. Their exaltation of the previous moment collapsed like a pyramid ofcards. The vision of the new movement of the wheat, the conquest of theEast, the invasion of the Orient, seemed only the flimsiest mockery. With a brusque wrench, they were snatched back to reality. Betweenthem and the vision, between the fecund San Joaquin, reeking withfruitfulness, and the millions of Asia crowding toward the verge ofstarvation, lay the iron-hearted monster of steel and steam, implacable, insatiable, huge--its entrails gorged with the life blood that itsucked from an entire commonwealth, its ever hungry maw glutted with theharvests that should have fed the famished bellies of the whole world ofthe Orient. 

But abruptly, while the four men stood there, gazing into each other'sfaces, a vigorous hand-clapping broke out. The raffle of Hartrath'spicture was over, and as Presley turned about he saw Mrs. Cedarquistand her two daughters signalling eagerly to the manufacturer, unable toreach him because of the intervening crowd. Then Mrs. Cedarquist raisedher voice and cried:

"I've won. I've won. "

Unnoticed, and with but a brief word to Cedarquist, Magnus and Harranwent down the marble steps leading to the street door, silent, Harran'sarm tight around his father's shoulder. 

At once the orchestra struck into a lively air. A renewed murmur ofconversation broke out, and Cedarquist, as he said good-bye to Presley, looked first at the retreating figures of the ranchers, then at thegayly dressed throng of beautiful women and debonair young men, andindicating the whole scene with a single gesture, said, smiling sadly ashe spoke:

"Not a city, Presley, not a city, but a Midway Plaisance. "

CHAPTER II

Underneath the Long Trestle where Broderson Creek cut the line of therailroad and the Upper Road, the ground was low and covered with asecond growth of grey green willows. Along the borders of the creek wereoccasional marshy spots, and now and then Hilma Tree came here to gatherwater-cresses, which she made into salads. 

The place was picturesque, secluded, an oasis of green shade in all thelimitless, flat monotony of the surrounding wheat lands. The creek haderoded deep into the little gully, and no matter how hot it was on thebaking, shimmering levels of the ranches above, down here one alwaysfound one's self enveloped in an odorous, moist coolness. From time totime, the incessant murmur of the creek, pouring over and around thelarger stones, was interrupted by the thunder of trains roaring outupon the trestle overhead, passing on with the furious gallop of theirhundreds of iron wheels, leaving in the air a taint of hot oil, acridsmoke, and reek of escaping steam. 

On a certain afternoon, in the spring of the year, Hilma was returningto Quien Sabe from Hooven's by the trail that led from Los Muertos toAnnixter's ranch houses, under the trestle. She had spent the afternoonwith Minna Hooven, who, for the time being, was kept indoors because ofa wrenched ankle. As Hilma descended into the gravel flats and thicketsof willows underneath the trestle, she decided that she would gathersome cresses for her supper that night. She found a spot around the baseof one of the supports of the trestle where the cresses grew thickest, and plucked a couple of handfuls, washing them in the creek and pinningthem up in her handkerchief. It made a little, round, cold bundle, andHilma, warm from her walk, found a delicious enjoyment in pressing thedamp ball of it to her cheeks and neck. 

For all the change that Annixter had noted in her upon the occasion ofthe barn dance, Hilma remained in many things a young child. She wasnever at loss for enjoyment, and could always amuse herself when leftalone. Just now, she chose to drink from the creek, lying prone on theground, her face half-buried in the water, and this, not because she wasthirsty, but because it was a new way to drink. She imagined herself abelated traveller, a poor girl, an outcast, quenching her thirst at thewayside brook, her little packet of cresses doing duty for a bundle ofclothes. Night was coming on. Perhaps it would storm. She had nowhere togo. She would apply at a hut for shelter. 

Abruptly, the temptation to dabble her feet in the creek presenteditself to her. Always she had liked to play in the water. What a delightnow to take off her shoes and stockings and wade out into the shallowsnear the bank! She had worn low shoes that afternoon, and the dust ofthe trail had filtered in above the edges. At times, she felt the gritand grey sand on the soles of her feet, and the sensation had sether teeth on edge. What a delicious alternative the cold, clean watersuggested, and how easy it would be to do as she pleased just then, ifonly she were a little girl. In the end, it was stupid to be grown up. 

Sitting upon the bank, one finger tucked into the heel of her shoe, Hilma hesitated. Suppose a train should come! She fancied she could seethe engineer leaning from the cab with a great grin on his face, or thebrakeman shouting gibes at her from the platform. Abruptly she blushedscarlet. The blood throbbed in her temples. Her heart beat. Since thefamous evening of the barn dance, Annixter had spoken to her but twice. Hilma no longer looked after the ranch house these days. The thought ofsetting foot within Annixter's dining-room and bed-room terrified her, and in the end her mother had taken over that part of her work. Of thetwo meetings with the master of Quien Sabe, one had been a mere exchangeof good mornings as the two happened to meet over by the artesian well;the other, more complicated, had occurred in the dairy-house again, Annixter, pretending to look over the new cheese press, asking aboutdetails of her work. When this had happened on that previous occasion, ending with Annixter's attempt to kiss her, Hilma had been talkativeenough, chattering on from one subject to another, never at a loss for atheme. But this last time was a veritable ordeal. No sooner hadAnnixter appeared than her heart leaped and quivered like that of thehound-harried doe. Her speech failed her. Throughout the whole briefinterview she had been miserably tongue-tied, stammering monosyllables, confused, horribly awkward, and when Annixter had gone away, she hadfled to her little room, and bolting the door, had flung herself facedownward on the bed and wept as though her heart were breaking, she didnot know why. 

That Annixter had been overwhelmed with business all through the winterwas an inexpressible relief to Hilma. His affairs took him away from theranch continually. He was absent sometimes for weeks, making tripsto San Francisco, or to Sacramento, or to Bonneville. Perhaps he wasforgetting her, overlooking her; and while, at first, she told herselfthat she asked nothing better, the idea of it began to occupy her mind. She began to wonder if it was really so. 

She knew his trouble. Everybody did. The news of the sudden forwardmovement of the Railroad's forces, inaugurating the campaign, had flaredwhite-hot and blazing all over the country side. To Hilma's notion, Annixter's attitude was heroic beyond all expression. His courage infacing the Railroad, as he had faced Delaney in the barn, seemed to herthe pitch of sublimity. She refused to see any auxiliaries aiding him inhis fight. To her imagination, the great League, which all the rancherswere joining, was a mere form. Single-handed, Annixter fronted themonster. But for him the corporation would gobble Quien Sabe, as awhale would a minnow. He was a hero who stood between them all anddestruction. He was a protector of her family. He was her champion. She began to mention him in her prayers every night, adding a furtherpetition to the effect that he would become a good man, and that heshould not swear so much, and that he should never meet Delaney again. 

However, as Hilma still debated the idea of bathing her feet in thecreek, a train did actually thunder past overhead--the regular eveningOverland, --the through express, that never stopped between Bakersfieldand Fresno. It stormed by with a deafening clamour, and a swirl ofsmoke, in a long succession of way-coaches, and chocolate colouredPullmans, grimy with the dust of the great deserts of the Southwest. The quivering of the trestle's supports set a tremble in the groundunderfoot. The thunder of wheels drowned all sound of the flowing of thecreek, and also the noise of the buckskin mare's hoofs descending fromthe trail upon the gravel about the creek, so that Hilma, turning aboutafter the passage of the train, saw Annixter close at hand, with theabruptness of a vision. 

He was looking at her, smiling as he rarely did, the firm line of hisout-thrust lower lip relaxed good-humouredly. He had taken off hiscampaign hat to her, and though his stiff, yellow hair was twistedinto a bristling mop, the little persistent tuft on the crown, usuallydefiantly erect as an Apache's scalp-lock, was nowhere in sight. 

"Hello, it's you, is it, Miss Hilma?" he exclaimed, getting down fromthe buckskin, and allowing her to drink. 

Hilma nodded, scrambling to her feet, dusting her skirt with nervouspats of both hands. 

Annixter sat down on a great rock close by and, the loop of the bridleover his arm, lit a cigar, and began to talk. He complained of the heatof the day, the bad condition of the Lower Road, over which he had comeon his way from a committee meeting of the League at Los Muertos; ofthe slowness of the work on the irrigating ditch, and, as a matter ofcourse, of the general hard times. 

"Miss Hilma, " he said abruptly, "never you marry a ranchman. He's neverout of trouble. "

Hilma gasped, her eyes widening till the full round of the pupil wasdisclosed. Instantly, a certain, inexplicable guiltiness overpowered herwith incredible confusion. Her hands trembled as she pressed the bundleof cresses into a hard ball between her palms. 

Annixter continued to talk. He was disturbed and excited himself atthis unexpected meeting. Never through all the past winter months ofstrenuous activity, the fever of political campaigns, the harrowingdelays and ultimate defeat in one law court after another, had heforgotten the look in Hilma's face as he stood with one arm aroundher on the floor of his barn, in peril of his life from the buster'srevolver. That dumb confession of Hilma's wide-open eyes had been enoughfor him. Yet, somehow, he never had had a chance to act upon it. Duringthe short period when he could be on his ranch Hilma had always managedto avoid him. Once, even, she had spent a month, about Christmas time, with her mother's father, who kept a hotel in San Francisco. 

Now, to-day, however, he had her all to himself. He would put an endto the situation that troubled him, and vexed him, day after day, month after month. Beyond question, the moment had come for somethingdefinite, he could not say precisely what. Readjusting his cigar betweenhis teeth, he resumed his speech. It suited his humour to take the girlinto his confidence, following an instinct which warned him that thiswould bring about a certain closeness of their relations, a certainintimacy. 

"What do you think of this row, anyways, Miss Hilma, --this railroadfuss in general? Think Shelgrim and his rushers are going to jump QuienSabe--are going to run us off the ranch?"

"Oh, no, sir, " protested Hilma, still breathless. "Oh, no, indeed not. "

"Well, what then?"

Hilma made a little uncertain movement of ignorance. 

"I don't know what. "

"Well, the League agreed to-day that if the test cases were lost inthe Supreme Court--you know we've appealed to the Supreme Court, atWashington--we'd fight. "

"Fight?"

"Yes, fight. "

"Fight like--like you and Mr. Delaney that time with--oh, dear--withguns?"

"I don't know, " grumbled Annixter vaguely. "What do YOU think?"

Hilma's low-pitched, almost husky voice trembled a little as shereplied, "Fighting--with guns--that's so terrible. Oh, those revolversin the barn! I can hear them yet. Every shot seemed like the explosionof tons of powder. "

"Shall we clear out, then? Shall we let Delaney have possession, and S. Behrman, and all that lot? Shall we give in to them?"

"Never, never, " she exclaimed, her great eyes flashing. 

"YOU wouldn't like to be turned out of your home, would you, Miss Hilma, because Quien Sabe is your home isn't it? You've lived here ever sinceyou were as big as a minute. You wouldn't like to have S. Behrman andthe rest of 'em turn you out?"

"N-no, " she murmured. "No, I shouldn't like that. There's mamma and----"

"Well, do you think for one second I'm going to let 'em?" criedAnnixter, his teeth tightening on his cigar. "You stay right whereyou are. I'll take care of you, right enough. Look here, " he demandedabruptly, "you've no use for that roaring lush, Delaney, have you?""I think he is a wicked man, " she declared. "I know the Railroad haspretended to sell him part of the ranch, and he lets Mr. S. Behrman andMr. Ruggles just use him. "

"Right. I thought you wouldn't be keen on him. "

There was a long pause. The buckskin began blowing among the pebbles, nosing for grass, and Annixter shifted his cigar to the other corner ofhis mouth. 

"Pretty place, " he muttered, looking around him. Then he added: "MissHilma, see here, I want to have a kind of talk with you, if you don'tmind. I don't know just how to say these sort of things, and if I getall balled up as I go along, you just set it down to the fact that I'venever had any experience in dealing with feemale girls; understand? Yousee, ever since the barn dance--yes, and long before then--I've beenthinking a lot about you. Straight, I have, and I guess you know it. You're about the only girl that I ever knew well, and I guess, " hedeclared deliberately, "you're about the only one I want to know. It's my nature. You didn't say anything that time when we stood theretogether and Delaney was playing the fool, but, somehow, I got the ideathat you didn't want Delaney to do for me one little bit; that if he'dgot me then you would have been sorrier than if he'd got any one else. Well, I felt just that way about you. I would rather have had him shootany other girl in the room than you; yes, or in the whole State. Why, ifanything should happen to you, Miss Hilma--well, I wouldn't care to goon with anything. S. Behrman could jump Quien Sabe, and welcome. AndDelaney could shoot me full of holes whenever he got good and ready. I'd quit. I'd lay right down. I wouldn't care a whoop about anything anymore. You are the only girl for me in the whole world. I didn't think soat first. I didn't want to. But seeing you around every day, and seeinghow pretty you were, and how clever, and hearing your voice and all, why, it just got all inside of me somehow, and now I can't think ofanything else. I hate to go to San Francisco, or Sacramento, or Visalia, or even Bonneville, for only a day, just because you aren't there, inany of those places, and I just rush what I've got to do so as I canget back here. While you were away that Christmas time, why, I was aslonesome as--oh, you don't know anything about it. I just scratched offthe days on the calendar every night, one by one, till you got back. And it just comes to this, I want you with me all the time. I want youshould have a home that's my home, too. I want to take care of you, andhave you all for myself, you understand. What do you say?"

Hilma, standing up before him, retied a knot in her handkerchief bundlewith elaborate precaution, blinking at it through her tears. 

"What do you say, Miss Hilma?" Annixter repeated. "How about that? Whatdo you say?"

Just above a whisper, Hilma murmured:

"I--I don't know. "

"Don't know what? Don't you think we could hit it off together?"

"I don't know. "

"I know we could, Hilma. I don't mean to scare you. What are you cryingfor?" "I don't know. "

Annixter got up, cast away his cigar, and dropping the buckskin'sbridle, came and stood beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. Hilmadid not move, and he felt her trembling. She still plucked at the knotof the handkerchief. "I can't do without you, little girl, " Annixtercontinued, "and I want you. I want you bad. I don't get much fun out oflife ever. It, sure, isn't my nature, I guess. I'm a hard man. Everybodyis trying to down me, and now I'm up against the Railroad. I'm fighting'em all, Hilma, night and day, lock, stock, and barrel, and I'm fightingnow for my home, my land, everything I have in the world. If I win out, I want somebody to be glad with me. If I don't--I want somebody to besorry for me, sorry with me, --and that somebody is you. I am dog-tiredof going it alone. I want some one to back me up. I want to feel youalongside of me, to give me a touch of the shoulder now and then. I'mtired of fighting for THINGS--land, property, money. I want to fight forsome PERSON--somebody beside myself. Understand? want to feel that itisn't all selfishness--that there are other interests than mine in thegame--that there's some one dependent on me, and that's thinking of meas I'm thinking of them--some one I can come home to at night and put myarm around--like this, and have her put her two arms around me--like--"He paused a second, and once again, as it had been in that momentof imminent peril, when he stood with his arm around her, their eyesmet, --"put her two arms around me, " prompted Annixter, half smiling, "like--like what, Hilma?"

"I don't know. "

"Like what, Hilma?" he insisted. 

"Like--like this?" she questioned. With a movement of infinitetenderness and affection she slid her arms around his neck, still cryinga little. 

The sensation of her warm body in his embrace, the feeling of hersmooth, round arm, through the thinness of her sleeve, pressing againsthis cheek, thrilled Annixter with a delight such as he had never known. He bent his head and kissed her upon the nape of her neck, where thedelicate amber tint melted into the thick, sweet smelling mass of herdark brown hair. She shivered a little, holding him closer, ashamedas yet to look up. Without speech, they stood there for a long minute, holding each other close. Then Hilma pulled away from him, mopping hertear-stained cheeks with the little moist ball of her handkerchief. 

"What do you say? Is it a go?" demanded Annixter jovially. 

"I thought I hated you all the time, " she said, and the velvetyhuskiness of her voice never sounded so sweet to him. 

"And I thought it was that crockery smashing goat of a lout of acow-puncher. "

"Delaney? The idea! Oh, dear! I think it must always have been you. "

"Since when, Hilma?" he asked, putting his arm around her. "Ah, but itis good to have you, my girl, " he exclaimed, delighted beyond words thatshe permitted this freedom. "Since when? Tell us all about it. "

"Oh, since always. It was ever so long before I came to think ofyou--to, well, to think about--I mean to remember--oh, you know what Imean. But when I did, oh, THEN!"

"Then what?"

"I don't know--I haven't thought--that way long enough to know. "

"But you said you thought it must have been me always. "

"I know; but that was different--oh, I'm all mixed up. I'm so nervousand trembly now. Oh, " she cried suddenly, her face overcast with a lookof earnestness and great seriousness, both her hands catching at hiswrist, "Oh, you WILL be good to me, now, won't you? I'm only a little, little child in so many ways, and I've given myself to you, all in aminute, and I can't go back of it now, and it's for always. I don't knowhow it happened or why. Sometimes I think I didn't wish it, but now it'sdone, and I am glad and happy. But NOW if you weren't good to me--oh, think of how it would be with me. You are strong, and big, and rich, andI am only a servant of yours, a little nobody, but I've given all I hadto you--myself--and you must be so good to me now. Always rememberthat. Be good to me and be gentle and kind to me in LITTLE things, --ineverything, or you will break my heart. "

Annixter took her in his arms. He was speechless. No words that he hadat his command seemed adequate. All he could say was:

"That's all right, little girl. Don't you be frightened. I'll take careof you. That's all right, that's all right. "

For a long time they sat there under the shade of the great trestle, their arms about each other, speaking only at intervals. An hour passed. The buckskin, finding no feed to her taste, took the trail stablewards, the bridle dragging. Annixter let her go. Rather than to take his armfrom around Hilma's waist he would have lost his whole stable. At last, however, he bestirred himself and began to talk. He thought it time toformulate some plan of action. 

"Well, now, Hilma, what are we going to do?"

"Do?" she repeated. "Why, must we do anything? Oh, isn't this enough?"

"There's better ahead, " he went on. "I want to fix you up somewherewhere you can have a bit of a home all to yourself. Let's see;Bonneville wouldn't do. There's always a lot of yaps about therethat know us, and they would begin to cackle first off. How about SanFrancisco. We might go up next week and have a look around. I would findrooms you could take somewheres, and we would fix 'em up as lovely ashow-do-you-do. "

"Oh, but why go away from Quien Sabe?" she protested. "And, then, sosoon, too. Why must we have a wedding trip, now that you are so busy?Wouldn't it be better--oh, I tell you, we could go to Monterey afterwe were married, for a little week, where mamma's people live, and thencome back here to the ranch house and settle right down where we are andlet me keep house for you. I wouldn't even want a single servant. "

Annixter heard and his face grew troubled. 

"Hum, " he said, "I see. "

He gathered up a handful of pebbles and began snapping them carefullyinto the creek. He fell thoughtful. Here was a phase of the affair hehad not planned in the least. He had supposed all the time that Hilmatook his meaning. His old suspicion that she was trying to get a hold onhim stirred again for a moment. There was no good of such talk asthat. Always these feemale girls seemed crazy to get married, bent oncomplicating the situation. 

"Isn't that best?" said Hilma, glancing at him. 

"I don't know, " he muttered gloomily. 

"Well, then, let's not. Let's come right back to Quien Sabe withoutgoing to Monterey. Anything that you want I want. "

"I hadn't thought of it in just that way, " he observed. 

"In what way, then?"

"Can't we--can't we wait about this marrying business?"

"That's just it, " she said gayly. "I said it was too soon. There wouldbe so much to do between whiles. Why not say at the end of the summer?"

"Say what?"

"Our marriage, I mean. "

"Why get married, then? What's the good of all that fuss about it? Idon't go anything upon a minister puddling round in my affairs. What'sthe difference, anyhow? We understand each other. Isn't that enough?Pshaw, Hilma, I'M no marrying man. "

She looked at him a moment, bewildered, then slowly she took hismeaning. She rose to her feet, her eyes wide, her face paling withterror. He did not look at her, but he could hear the catch in herthroat. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a long, deep breath, and again "Oh!" the backof her hand against her lips. 

It was a quick gasp of a veritable physical anguish. Her eyes brimmedover. Annixter rose, looking at her. 

"Well?" he said, awkwardly, "Well?"

Hilma leaped back from him with an instinctive recoil of her wholebeing, throwing out her hands in a gesture of defence, fearing she knewnot what. There was as yet no sense of insult in her mind, no outragedmodesty. She was only terrified. It was as though searching for wildflowers she had come suddenly upon a snake. 

She stood for an instant, spellbound, her eyes wide, her bosom swelling;then, all at once, turned and fled, darting across the plank thatserved for a foot bridge over the creek, gaining the opposite bank anddisappearing with a brisk rustle of underbrush, such as might have beenmade by the flight of a frightened fawn. 

Abruptly Annixter found himself alone. For a moment he did not move, then he picked up his campaign hat, carefully creased its limp crown andput it on his head and stood for a moment, looking vaguely at the groundon both sides of him. He went away without uttering a word, withoutchange of countenance, his hands in his pockets, his feet taking greatstrides along the trail in the direction of the ranch house. 

He had no sight of Hilma again that evening, and the next morning hewas up early and did not breakfast at the ranch house. Business of theLeague called him to Bonneville to confer with Magnus and the firm oflawyers retained by the League to fight the land-grabbing cases. Anappeal was to be taken to the Supreme Court at Washington, and it was tobe settled that day which of the cases involved should be considered astest cases. 

Instead of driving or riding into Bonneville, as he usually did, Annixter took an early morning train, the Bakersfield-Fresno local atGuadalajara, and went to Bonneville by rail, arriving there at twentyminutes after seven and breakfasting by appointment with Magnus Derrickand Osterman at the Yosemite House, on Main Street. 

The conference of the committee with the lawyers took place in a frontroom of the Yosemite, one of the latter bringing with him his clerk, whomade a stenographic report of the proceedings and took carbon copiesof all letters written. The conference was long and complicated, thebusiness transacted of the utmost moment, and it was not until twoo'clock that Annixter found himself at liberty. 

However, as he and Magnus descended into the lobby of the hotel, theywere aware of an excited and interested group collected about the swingdoors that opened from the lobby of the Yosemite into the bar of thesame name. Dyke was there--even at a distance they could hear thereverberation of his deep-toned voice, uplifted in wrath and furiousexpostulation. Magnus and Annixter joined the group wondering, and allat once fell full upon the first scene of a drama. 

That same morning Dyke's mother had awakened him according to hisinstructions at daybreak. A consignment of his hop poles from the northhad arrived at the freight office of the P. And S. W. In Bonneville, andhe was to drive in on his farm wagon and bring them out. He would have abusy day. 

"Hello, hello, " he said, as his mother pulled his ear to arouse him;"morning, mamma. "

"It's time, " she said, "after five already. Your breakfast is on thestove. "

He took her hand and kissed it with great affection. He loved his motherdevotedly, quite as much as he did the little tad. In their littlecottage, in the forest of green hops that surrounded them on every hand, the three led a joyous and secluded life, contented, industrious, happy, asking nothing better. Dyke, himself, was a big-hearted, jovial man whospread an atmosphere of good-humour wherever he went. In the evenings heplayed with Sidney like a big boy, an older brother, lying on the bed, or the sofa, taking her in his arms. Between them they had invented agreat game. The ex-engineer, his boots removed, his huge legs in theair, hoisted the little tad on the soles of his stockinged feet like acircus acrobat, dandling her there, pretending he was about to lether fall. Sidney, choking with delight, held on nervously, with littlescreams and chirps of excitement, while he shifted her gingerly from onefoot to another, and thence, the final act, the great gallery play, tothe palm of one great hand. At this point Mrs. Dyke was called in, bothfather and daughter, children both, crying out that she was to come inand look, look. She arrived out of breath from the kitchen, the potatomasher in her hand. "Such children, " she murmured, shaking her head atthem, amused for all that, tucking the potato masher under her arm andclapping her hands. In the end, it was part of the game that Sidneyshould tumble down upon Dyke, whereat he invariably vented a greatbellow as if in pain, declaring that his ribs were broken. Gasping, hiseyes shut, he pretended to be in the extreme of dissolution--perhapshe was dying. Sidney, always a little uncertain, amused but distressed, shook him nervously, tugging at his beard, pushing open his eyelid withone finger, imploring him not to frighten her, to wake up and be good. 

On this occasion, while yet he was half-dressed, Dyke tiptoed into hismother's room to look at Sidney fast asleep in her little iron cot, herarm under her head, her lips parted. With infinite precaution he kissedher twice, and then finding one little stocking, hung with its mate veryneatly over the back of a chair, dropped into it a dime, rolled up in awad of paper. He winked all to himself and went out again, closing thedoor with exaggerated carefulness. 

He breakfasted alone, Mrs. Dyke pouring his coffee and handing him hisplate of ham and eggs, and half an hour later took himself off in hisspringless, skeleton wagon, humming a tune behind his beard and crackingthe whip over the backs of his staid and solid farm horses. 

The morning was fine, the sun just coming up. He left Guadalajara, sleeping and lifeless, on his left, and going across lots, over anangle of Quien Sabe, came out upon the Upper Road, a mile below theLong Trestle. He was in great spirits, looking about him over the brownfields, ruddy with the dawn. Almost directly in front of him, but faroff, the gilded dome of the court-house at Bonneville was glintingradiant in the first rays of the sun, while a few miles distant, toward the north, the venerable campanile of the Mission San Juan stoodsilhouetted in purplish black against the flaming east. As he proceeded, the great farm horses jogging forward, placid, deliberate, the countryside waked to another day. Crossing the irrigating ditch further on, hemet a gang of Portuguese, with picks and shovels over their shoulders, just going to work. Hooven, already abroad, shouted him a "Goot mornun"from behind the fence of Los Muertos. Far off, toward the southwest, in the bare expanse of the open fields, where a clump of eucalyptusand cypress trees set a dark green note, a thin stream of smoke rosestraight into the air from the kitchen of Derrick's ranch houses. 

But a mile or so beyond the Long Trestle he was surprised to see MagnusDerrick's protege, the one-time shepherd, Vanamee, coming across QuienSabe, by a trail from one of Annixter's division houses. Without knowingexactly why, Dyke received the impression that the young man had notbeen in bed all of that night. 

As the two approached each other, Dyke eyed the young fellow. He wasdistrustful of Vanamee, having the country-bred suspicion of any personhe could not understand. Vanamee was, beyond doubt, no part of the lifeof ranch and country town. He was an alien, a vagabond, a strange fellowwho came and went in mysterious fashion, making no friends, keepingto himself. Why did he never wear a hat, why indulge in a fine, black, pointed beard, when either a round beard or a mustache was theinvariable custom? Why did he not cut his hair? Above all, why did heprowl about so much at night? As the two passed each other, Dyke, forall his good-nature, was a little blunt in his greeting and looked backat the ex-shepherd over his shoulder. 

Dyke was right in his suspicion. Vanamee's bed had not been disturbedfor three nights. On the Monday of that week he had passed the entirenight in the garden of the Mission, overlooking the Seed ranch, in thelittle valley. Tuesday evening had found him miles away from thatspot, in a deep arroyo in the Sierra foothills to the eastward, whileWednesday he had slept in an abandoned 'dobe on Osterman's stock range, twenty miles from his resting place of the night before. 

The fact of the matter was that the old restlessness had once moreseized upon Vanamee. Something began tugging at him; the spur of someunseen rider touched his flank. The instinct of the wanderer woke andmoved. For some time now he had been a part of the Los Muertos staff. OnQuien Sabe, as on the other ranches, the slack season was at hand. Whilewaiting for the wheat to come up no one was doing much of anything. Vanamee had come over to Los Muertos and spent most of his days onhorseback, riding the range, rounding up and watching the cattle in thefourth division of the ranch. But if the vagabond instinct now rouseditself in the strange fellow's nature, a counter influence had also setin. More and more Vanamee frequented the Mission garden after nightfall, sometimes remaining there till the dawn began to whiten, lying prone onthe ground, his chin on his folded arms, his eyes searching the darknessover the little valley of the Seed ranch, watching, watching. As thedays went by, he became more reticent than ever. Presley often came tofind him on the stock range, a lonely figure in the great wildernessof bare, green hillsides, but Vanamee no longer took him into hisconfidence. Father Sarria alone heard his strange stories. 

Dyke drove on toward Bonneville, thinking over the whole matter. Heknew, as every one did in that part of the country, the legend ofVanamee and Angele, the romance of the Mission garden, the mysteryof the Other, Vanamee's flight to the deserts of the southwest, hisperiodic returns, his strange, reticent, solitary character, but, likemany another of the country people, he accounted for Vanamee by a shortand easy method. No doubt, the fellow's wits were turned. That was thelong and short of it. 

The ex-engineer reached the Post Office in Bonneville towards eleveno'clock, but he did not at once present his notice of the arrival ofhis consignment at Ruggles's office. It entertained him to indulge in anhour's lounging about the streets. It was seldom he got into town, andwhen he did he permitted himself the luxury of enjoying his evidentpopularity. He met friends everywhere, in the Post Office, in the drugstore, in the barber shop and around the court-house. With each one heheld a moment's conversation; almost invariably this ended in the sameway:

"Come on 'n have a drink. "

"Well, I don't care if I do. "

And the friends proceeded to the Yosemite bar, pledging each other withpunctilious ceremony. Dyke, however, was a strictly temperate man. His life on the engine had trained him well. Alcohol he never touched, drinking instead ginger ale, sarsaparilla-and-iron--soft drinks. 

At the drug store, which also kept a stock of miscellaneous stationery, his eye was caught by a "transparent slate, " a child's toy, where upona little pane of frosted glass one could trace with considerableelaboration outline figures of cows, ploughs, bunches of fruit and evenrural water mills that were printed on slips of paper underneath. 

"Now, there's an idea, Jim, " he observed to the boy behind thesoda-water fountain; "I know a little tad that would just about jump outof her skin for that. Think I'll have to take it with me. "

"How's Sidney getting along?" the other asked, while wrapping up thepackage. 

Dyke's enthusiasm had made of his little girl a celebrity throughoutBonneville. 

The ex-engineer promptly became voluble, assertive, doggedly emphatic. 

"Smartest little tad in all Tulare County, and more fun! A regular wholeshow in herself. "

"And the hops?" inquired the other. 

"Bully, " declared Dyke, with the good-natured man's readiness to talk ofhis private affairs to any one who would listen. "Bully. I'm dead sureof a bonanza crop by now. The rain came JUST right. I actually don'tknow as I can store the crop in those barns I built, it's going to be sobig. That foreman of mine was a daisy. Jim, I'm going to make money inthat deal. After I've paid off the mortgage--you know I had to mortgage, yes, crop and homestead both, but I can pay it off and all the interestto boot, lovely, --well, and as I was saying, after all expenses are paidoff I'll clear big money, m' son. Yes, sir. I KNEW there was boodle inhops. You know the crop is contracted for already. Sure, the foremanmanaged that. He's a daisy. Chap in San Francisco will take it all andat the advanced price. I wanted to hang on, to see if it wouldn't go tosix cents, but the foreman said, 'No, that's good enough. ' So I signed. Ain't it bully, hey?"

"Then what'll you do?"

"Well, I don't know. I'll have a lay-off for a month or so and take thelittle tad and mother up and show 'em the city--'Frisco--until it'stime for the schools to open, and then we'll put Sid in the seminary atMarysville. Catch on?"

"I suppose you'll stay right by hops now?"

"Right you are, m'son. I know a good thing when I see it. There's plentyothers going into hops next season. I set 'em the example. Wouldn't besurprised if it came to be a regular industry hereabouts. I'm planningahead for next year already. I can let the foreman go, now that I'velearned the game myself, and I think I'll buy a piece of land off QuienSabe and get a bigger crop, and build a couple more barns, and, byGeorge, in about five years time I'll have things humming. I'm going tomake MONEY, Jim. "

He emerged once more into the street and went up the block leisurely, planting his feet squarely. He fancied that he could feel he wasconsidered of more importance nowadays. He was no longer a subordinate, an employee. He was his own man, a proprietor, an owner of land, furthering a successful enterprise. No one had helped him; he hadfollowed no one's lead. He had struck out unaided for himself, and hissuccess was due solely to his own intelligence, industry, and foresight. He squared his great shoulders till the blue gingham of his jumper allbut cracked. Of late, his great blond beard had grown and the work inthe sun had made his face very red. Under the visor of his cap--relic ofhis engineering days--his blue eyes twinkled with vast good-nature. Hefelt that he made a fine figure as he went by a group of young girls inlawns and muslins and garden hats on their way to the Post Office. Hewondered if they looked after him, wondered if they had heard that hewas in a fair way to become a rich man. 

But the chronometer in the window of the jewelry store warned him thattime was passing. He turned about, and, crossing the street, took hisway to Ruggles's office, which was the freight as well as the landoffice of the P. And S. W. Railroad. 

As he stood for a moment at the counter in front of the wire partition, waiting for the clerk to make out the order for the freight agent at thedepot, Dyke was surprised to see a familiar figure in conference withRuggles himself, by a desk inside the railing. 

The figure was that of a middle-aged man, fat, with a great stomach, which he stroked from time to time. As he turned about, addressing aremark to the clerk, Dyke recognised S. Behrman. The banker, railroadagent, and political manipulator seemed to the ex-engineer's eyes to bemore gross than ever. His smooth-shaven jowl stood out big and tremulouson either side of his face; the roll of fat on the nape of his neck, sprinkled with sparse, stiff hairs, bulged out with greater prominence. His great stomach, covered with a light brown linen vest, stamped withinnumerable interlocked horseshoes, protruded far in advance, enormous, aggressive. He wore his inevitable round-topped hat of stiff brownstraw, varnished so bright that it reflected the light of the officewindows like a helmet, and even from where he stood Dyke could hear hisloud breathing and the clink of the hollow links of his watch chain uponthe vest buttons of imitation pearl, as his stomach rose and fell. 

Dyke looked at him with attention. There was the enemy, therepresentative of the Trust with which Derrick's League was lockinghorns. The great struggle had begun to invest the combatants withinterest. Daily, almost hourly, Dyke was in touch with the ranchers, the wheat-growers. He heard their denunciations, their growls ofexasperation and defiance. Here was the other side--this placid, fatman, with a stiff straw hat and linen vest, who never lost histemper, who smiled affably upon his enemies, giving them good advice, commiserating with them in one defeat after another, never ruffled, never excited, sure of his power, conscious that back of him was theMachine, the colossal force, the inexhaustible coffers of a mightyorganisation, vomiting millions to the League's thousands. 

The League was clamorous, ubiquitous, its objects known to every urchinon the streets, but the Trust was silent, its ways inscrutable, thepublic saw only results. It worked on in the dark, calm, disciplined, irresistible. Abruptly Dyke received the impression of the multitudinousramifications of the colossus. Under his feet the ground seemed mined;down there below him in the dark the huge tentacles went silentlytwisting and advancing, spreading out in every direction, sapping thestrength of all opposition, quiet, gradual, biding the time to reach upand out and grip with a sudden unleashing of gigantic strength. 

"I'll be wanting some cars of you people before the summer is out, "observed Dyke to the clerk as he folded up and put away the order thatthe other had handed him. He remembered perfectly well that he hadarranged the matter of transporting his crop some months before, buthis role of proprietor amused him and he liked to busy himself again andagain with the details of his undertaking. 

"I suppose, " he added, "you'll be able to give 'em to me. There'll bea big wheat crop to move this year and I don't want to be caught in anycar famine. "

"Oh, you'll get your cars, " murmured the other. 

"I'll be the means of bringing business your way, " Dyke went on; "I'vedone so well with my hops that there are a lot of others going intothe business next season. Suppose, " he continued, struck with anidea, "suppose we went into some sort of pool, a sort of shippers'organisation, could you give us special rates, cheaper rates--say a centand a half?"

The other looked up. 

"A cent and a half! Say FOUR cents and a half and maybe I'll talkbusiness with you. "

"Four cents and a half, " returned Dyke, "I don't see it. Why, theregular rate is only two cents. "

"No, it isn't, " answered the clerk, looking him gravely in the eye, "it's five cents. "

"Well, there's where you are wrong, m'son, " Dyke retorted, genially. "You look it up. You'll find the freight on hops from Bonnevilleto 'Frisco is two cents a pound for car load lots. You told me thatyourself last fall. "

"That was last fall, " observed the clerk. There was a silence. Dyke shota glance of suspicion at the other. Then, reassured, he remarked:

"You look it up. You'll see I'm right. "

S. Behrman came forward and shook hands politely with the ex-engineer. 

"Anything I can do for you, Mr. Dyke?"

Dyke explained. When he had done speaking, the clerk turned to S. Behrman and observed, respectfully:

"Our regular rate on hops is five cents. "

"Yes, " answered S. Behrman, pausing to reflect; "yes, Mr. Dyke, that'sright--five cents. "

The clerk brought forward a folder of yellow paper and handed itto Dyke. It was inscribed at the top "Tariff Schedule No. 8, " andunderneath these words, in brackets, was a smaller inscription, "SUPERSEDES NO. 7 OF AUG. 1"

"See for yourself, " said S. Behrman. He indicated an item under the headof "Miscellany. "

"The following rates for carriage of hops in car load lots, " read Dyke, "take effect June 1, and will remain in force until superseded by alater tariff. Those quoted beyond Stockton are subject to changes intraffic arrangements with carriers by water from that point. "

In the list that was printed below, Dyke saw that the rate for hopsbetween Bonneville or Guadalajara and San Francisco was five cents. 

For a moment Dyke was confused. Then swiftly the matter became clear inhis mind. The Railroad had raised the freight on hops from two cents tofive. 

All his calculations as to a profit on his little investment he hadbased on a freight rate of two cents a pound. He was under contract todeliver his crop. He could not draw back. The new rate ate up every centof his gains. He stood there ruined. 

"Why, what do you mean?" he burst out. "You promised me a rate of twocents and I went ahead with my business with that understanding. What doyou mean?"

S. Behrman and the clerk watched him from the other side of the counter. 

"The rate is five cents, " declared the clerk doggedly. 

"Well, that ruins me, " shouted Dyke. "Do you understand? I won't makefifty cents. MAKE! Why, I will OWE, --I'll be--be--That ruins me, do youunderstand?"

The other, raised a shoulder. 

"We don't force you to ship. You can do as you like. The rate is fivecents. "

"Well--but--damn you, I'm under contract to deliver. What am I going todo? Why, you told me--you promised me a two-cent rate. "

"I don't remember it, " said the clerk. "I don't know anything aboutthat. But I know this; I know that hops have gone up. I know the Germancrop was a failure and that the crop in New York wasn't worth thehauling. Hops have gone up to nearly a dollar. You don't suppose wedon't know that, do you, Mr. Dyke?"

"What's the price of hops got to do with you?"

"It's got THIS to do with us, " returned the other with a suddenaggressiveness, "that the freight rate has gone up to meet the price. We're not doing business for our health. My orders are to raise yourrate to five cents, and I think you are getting off easy. "

Dyke stared in blank astonishment. For the moment, the audacity ofthe affair was what most appealed to him. He forgot its personalapplication. 

"Good Lord, " he murmured, "good Lord! What will you people do next? Lookhere. What's your basis of applying freight rates, anyhow?" he suddenlyvociferated with furious sarcasm. "What's your rule? What are you guidedby?"

But at the words, S. Behrman, who had kept silent during the heat of thediscussion, leaned abruptly forward. For the only time in his knowledge, Dyke saw his face inflamed with anger and with the enmity and contemptof all this farming element with whom he was contending. 

"Yes, what's your rule? What's your basis?" demanded Dyke, turningswiftly to him. 

S. Behrman emphasised each word of his reply with a tap of oneforefinger on the counter before him:

"All--the--traffic--will--bear. "

The ex-engineer stepped back a pace, his fingers on the ledge of thecounter, to steady himself. He felt himself grow pale, his heart becamea mere leaden weight in his chest, inert, refusing to beat. 

In a second the whole affair, in all its bearings, went speeding beforethe eye of his imagination like the rapid unrolling of a panorama. Everycent of his earnings was sunk in this hop business of his. More thanthat, he had borrowed money to carry it on, certain of success--borrowedof S. Behrman, offering his crop and his little home as security. Oncehe failed to meet his obligations, S. Behrman would foreclose. Not onlywould the Railroad devour every morsel of his profits, but also it wouldtake from him his home; at a blow he would be left penniless and withouta home. What would then become of his mother--and what would becomeof the little tad? She, whom he had been planning to educate like averitable lady. For all that year he had talked of his ambition for hislittle daughter to every one he met. All Bonneville knew of it. Whata mark for gibes he had made of himself. The workingman turned farmer!What a target for jeers--he who had fancied he could elude the Railroad!He remembered he had once said the great Trust had overlooked his littleenterprise, disdaining to plunder such small fry. He should have knownbetter than that. How had he ever imagined the Road would permit him tomake any money?

Anger was not in him yet; no rousing of the blind, white-hot wrath thatleaps to the attack with prehensile fingers, moved him. The blow merelycrushed, staggered, confused. 

He stepped aside to give place to a coatless man in a pink shirt, whoentered, carrying in his hands an automatic door-closing apparatus. 

"Where does this go?" inquired the man. 

Dyke sat down for a moment on a seat that had been removed from aworn-out railway car to do duty in Ruggles's office. On the back of ayellow envelope he made some vague figures with a stump of blue pencil, multiplying, subtracting, perplexing himself with many errors. 

S. Behrman, the clerk, and the man with the door-closing apparatusinvolved themselves in a long argument, gazing intently at the top panelof the door. The man who had come to fix the apparatus was unwilling toguarantee it, unless a sign was put on the outside of the door, warningincomers that the door was self-closing. This sign would cost fifteencents extra. 

"But you didn't say anything about this when the thing was ordered, "declared S. Behrman. "No, I won't pay it, my friend. It's anovercharge. "

"You needn't think, " observed the clerk, "that just because you aredealing with the Railroad you are going to work us. "

Genslinger came in, accompanied by Delaney. S. Behrman and theclerk, abruptly dismissing the man with the door-closing machine, putthemselves behind the counter and engaged in conversation with thesetwo. Genslinger introduced Delaney. The buster had a string of horses hewas shipping southward. No doubt he had come to make arrangements withthe Railroad in the matter of stock cars. The conference of the four menwas amicable in the extreme. 

Dyke, studying the figures on the back of the envelope, came forwardagain. Absorbed only in his own distress, he ignored the editor and thecow-puncher. 

"Say, " he hazarded, "how about this? I make out----

"We've told you what our rates are, Mr. Dyke, " exclaimed the clerkangrily. "That's all the arrangement we will make. Take it or leave it. "He turned again to Genslinger, giving the ex-engineer his back. 

Dyke moved away and stood for a moment in the centre of the room, staring at the figures on the envelope. 

"I don't see, " he muttered, "just what I'm going to do. No, I don't seewhat I'm going to do at all. "

Ruggles came in, bringing with him two other men in whom Dyke recogniseddummy buyers of the Los Muertos and Osterman ranchos. They brushed byhim, jostling his elbow, and as he went out of the door he heard themexchange jovial greetings with Delaney, Genslinger, and S. Behrman. 

Dyke went down the stairs to the street and proceeded onward aimlesslyin the direction of the Yosemite House, fingering the yellow envelopeand looking vacantly at the sidewalk. 

There was a stoop to his massive shoulders. His great arms dangledloosely at his sides, the palms of his hands open. 

As he went along, a certain feeling of shame touched him. Surely hispredicament must be apparent to every passer-by. No doubt, every onerecognised the unsuccessful man in the very way he slouched along. Theyoung girls in lawns, muslins, and garden hats, returning from the PostOffice, their hands full of letters, must surely see in him the type ofthe failure, the bankrupt. 

Then brusquely his tardy rage flamed up. By God, NO, it was not hisfault; he had made no mistake. His energy, industry, and foresight hadbeen sound. He had been merely the object of a colossal trick, a sordidinjustice, a victim of the insatiate greed of the monster, caught andchoked by one of those millions of tentacles suddenly reaching up frombelow, from out the dark beneath his feet, coiling around his throat, throttling him, strangling him, sucking his blood. For a moment hethought of the courts, but instantly laughed at the idea. What court wasimmune from the power of the monster? Ah, the rage of helplessness, thefury of impotence! No help, no hope, --ruined in a brief instant--he averitable giant, built of great sinews, powerful, in the full tide ofhis manhood, having all his health, all his wits. How could he nowface his home? How could he tell his mother of this catastrophe?And Sidney--the little tad; how could he explain to her thiswretchedness--how soften her disappointment? How keep the tears fromout her eyes--how keep alive her confidence in him--her faith in hisresources?

Bitter, fierce, ominous, his wrath loomed up in his heart. His fistsgripped tight together, his teeth clenched. Oh, for a moment to havehis hand upon the throat of S. Behrman, wringing the breath from him, wrenching out the red life of him--staining the street with the bloodsucked from the veins of the People!

To the first friend that he met, Dyke told the tale of the tragedy, and to the next, and to the next. The affair went from mouth to mouth, spreading with electrical swiftness, overpassing and running ahead ofDyke himself, so that by the time he reached the lobby of the YosemiteHouse, he found his story awaiting him. A group formed about him. Inhis immediate vicinity business for the instant was suspended. The groupswelled. One after another of his friends added themselves to it. MagnusDerrick joined it, and Annixter. Again and again, Dyke recounted thematter, beginning with the time when he was discharged from the samecorporation's service for refusing to accept an unfair wage. His voicequivered with exasperation; his heavy frame shook with rage; his eyeswere injected, bloodshot; his face flamed vermilion, while his deepbass rumbled throughout the running comments of his auditors like thethunderous reverberation of diapason. 

From all points of view, the story was discussed by those who listenedto him, now in the heat of excitement, now calmly, judicially. Oneverdict, however, prevailed. It was voiced by Annixter: "You're stuck. You can roar till you're black in the face, but you can't buck againstthe Railroad. There's nothing to be done. " "You can shoot the ruffian, you can shoot S. Behrman, " clamoured one of the group. "Yes, sir; by theLord, you can shoot him. "

"Poor fool, " commented Annixter, turning away. 

Nothing to be done. No, there was nothing to be done--not one thing. Dyke, at last alone and driving his team out of the town, turnedthe business confusedly over in his mind from end to end. Advice, suggestion, even offers of financial aid had been showered upon him fromall directions. Friends were not wanting who heatedly presented to hisconsideration all manner of ingenious plans, wonderful devices. Theywere worthless. The tentacle held fast. He was stuck. 

By degrees, as his wagon carried him farther out into the country, andopen empty fields, his anger lapsed, and the numbness of bewildermentreturned. He could not look one hour ahead into the future; couldformulate no plans even for the next day. He did not know what to do. Hewas stuck. 

With the limpness and inertia of a sack of sand, the reins slippingloosely in his dangling fingers, his eyes fixed, staring between thehorses' heads, he allowed himself to be carried aimlessly along. Heresigned himself. What did he care? What was the use of going on? He wasstuck. 

The team he was driving had once belonged to the Los Muertos stables andunguided as the horses were, they took the county road towards Derrick'sranch house. Dyke, all abroad, was unaware of the fact till, drawnby the smell of water, the horses halted by the trough in front ofCaraher's saloon. 

The ex-engineer dismounted, looking about him, realising where he was. So much the worse; it did not matter. Now that he had come so far it wasas short to go home by this route as to return on his tracks. Slowly heunchecked the horses and stood at their heads, watching them drink. 

"I don't see, " he muttered, "just what I am going to do. "

Caraher appeared at the door of his place, his red face, red beard, andflaming cravat standing sharply out from the shadow of the doorway. Hecalled a welcome to Dyke. 

"Hello, Captain. "

Dyke looked up, nodding his head listlessly. 

"Hello, Caraher, " he answered. 

"Well, " continued the saloonkeeper, coming forward a step, "what's thenews in town?"

Dyke told him. Caraher's red face suddenly took on a darker colour. Thered glint in his eyes shot from under his eyebrows. Furious, he vented arolling explosion of oaths. 

"And now it's your turn, " he vociferated. "They ain't after only the bigwheat-growers, the rich men. By God, they'll even pick the poor man'spocket. Oh, they'll get their bellies full some day. It can't lastforever. They'll wake up the wrong kind of man some morning, the manthat's got guts in him, that will hit back when he's kicked and thatwill talk to 'em with a torch in one hand and a stick of dynamite in theother. " He raised his clenched fists in the air. "So help me, God, "he cried, "when I think it all over I go crazy, I see red. Oh, if thepeople only knew their strength. Oh, if I could wake 'em up. There's notonly Shelgrim, but there's others. All the magnates, all the butchers, all the blood-suckers, by the thousands. Their day will come, by God, itwill. "

By now, the ex-engineer and the bar-keeper had retired to the saloonback of the grocery to talk over the details of this new outrage. Dyke, still a little dazed, sat down by one of the tables, preoccupied, sayingbut little, and Caraher as a matter of course set the whiskey bottle athis elbow. 

It happened that at this same moment, Presley, returning to Los Muertosfrom Bonneville, his pockets full of mail, stopped in at the grocery tobuy some black lead for his bicycle. In the saloon, on the other sideof the narrow partition, he overheard the conversation between Dyke andCaraher. The door was open. He caught every word distinctly. 

"Tell us all about it, Dyke, " urged Caraher. 

For the fiftieth time Dyke told the story. Already it had crystallisedinto a certain form. He used the same phrases with each repetition, thesame sentences, the same words. In his mind it became set. Thus he wouldtell it to any one who would listen from now on, week after week, yearafter year, all the rest of his life--"And I based my calculations on atwo-cent rate. So soon as they saw I was to make money they doubledthe tariff--all the traffic would bear--and I mortgaged to S. Behrman--ruined me with a turn of the hand--stuck, cinched, and not onething to be done. "

As he talked, he drank glass after glass of whiskey, and the honestrage, the open, above-board fury of his mind coagulated, thickened, andsunk to a dull, evil hatred, a wicked, oblique malevolence. Caraher, sure now of winning a disciple, replenished his glass. 

"Do you blame us now, " he cried, "us others, the Reds? Ah, yes, it'sall very well for your middle class to preach moderation. I could do it, too. You could do it, too, if your belly was fed, if your propertywas safe, if your wife had not been murdered if your children were notstarving. Easy enough then to preach law-abiding methods, legal redress, and all such rot. But how about US?" he vociferated. "Ah, yes, I'm aloud-mouthed rum-seller, ain't I? I'm a wild-eyed striker, ain't I?I'm a blood-thirsty anarchist, ain't I? Wait till you've seen yourwife brought home to you with the face you used to kiss smashed in by ahorse's hoof--killed by the Trust, as it happened to me. Then talk aboutmoderation! And you, Dyke, black-listed engineer, discharged employee, ruined agriculturist, wait till you see your little tad and your motherturned out of doors when S. Behrman forecloses. Wait till you see 'emgetting thin and white, and till you hear your little girl ask you whyyou all don't eat a little more and that she wants her dinner and youcan't give it to her. Wait till you see--at the same time thatyour family is dying for lack of bread--a hundred thousand acres ofwheat--millions of bushels of food--grabbed and gobbled by the RailroadTrust, and then talk of moderation. That talk is just what the Trustwants to hear. It ain't frightened of that. There's one thing only itdoes listen to, one thing it is frightened of--the people with dynamitein their hands, --six inches of plugged gaspipe. THAT talks. "

Dyke did not reply. He filled another pony of whiskey and drank it intwo gulps. His frown had lowered to a scowl, his face was a dark red, his head had sunk, bull-like, between his massive shoulders; withoutwinking he gazed long and with troubled eyes at his knotted, muscularhands, lying open on the table before him, idle, their occupation gone. 

Presley forgot his black lead. He listened to Caraher. Through the opendoor he caught a glimpse of Dyke's back, broad, muscled, bowed down, thegreat shoulders stooping. 

The whole drama of the doubled freight rate leaped salient and distinctin the eye of his mind. And this was but one instance, an isolated case. Because he was near at hand he happened to see it. How many others werethere, the length and breadth of the State? Constantly this sort ofthing must occur--little industries choked out in their very beginnings, the air full of the death rattles of little enterprises, expiringunobserved in far-off counties, up in canyons and arroyos of thefoothills, forgotten by every one but the monster who was daunted by themagnitude of no business, however great, who overlooked no opportunityof plunder, however petty, who with one tentacle grabbed a hundredthousand acres of wheat, and with another pilfered a pocketful ofgrowing hops. 

He went away without a word, his head bent, his hands clutched tightlyon the cork grips of the handle bars of his bicycle. His lips werewhite. In his heart a blind demon of revolt raged tumultuous, shriekingblasphemies. 

At Los Muertos, Presley overtook Annixter. As he guided his wheel up thedriveway to Derrick's ranch house, he saw the master of Quien Sabe andHarran in conversation on the steps of the porch. Magnus stood in thedoorway, talking to his wife. 

Occupied with the press of business and involved in the final conferencewith the League's lawyers on the eve of the latter's departure forWashington, Annixter had missed the train that was to take him back toGuadalajara and Quien Sabe. Accordingly, he had accepted the Governor'sinvitation to return with him on his buck-board to Los Muertos, andbefore leaving Bonneville had telephoned to his ranch to have youngVacca bring the buckskin, by way of the Lower Road, to meet him atLos Muertos. He found her waiting there for him, but before going on, delayed a few moments to tell Harran of Dyke's affair. 

"I wonder what he will do now?" observed Harran when his first outburstof indignation had subsided. 

"Nothing, " declared Annixter. "He's stuck. "

"That eats up every cent of Dyke's earnings, " Harran went on. "He hasbeen ten years saving them. Oh, I told him to make sure of the Railroadwhen he first spoke to me about growing hops. "

"I've just seen him, " said Presley, as he joined the others. "He was atCaraher's. I only saw his back. He was drinking at a table and his backwas towards me. But the man looked broken--absolutely crushed. It isterrible, terrible. "

"He was at Caraher's, was he?" demanded Annixter. 

"Yes. "

"Drinking, hey?"

"I think so. Yes, I saw a bottle. "

"Drinking at Caraher's, " exclaimed Annixter, rancorously; "I can see HISfinish. "

There was a silence. It seemed as if nothing more was to be said. Theypaused, looking thoughtfully on the ground. 

In silence, grim, bitter, infinitely sad, the three men as if at thatmoment actually standing in the bar-room of Caraher's roadside saloon, contemplated the slow sinking, the inevitable collapse and submergingof one of their companions, the wreck of a career, the ruin of anindividual; an honest man, strong, fearless, upright, struck down by acolossal power, perverted by an evil influence, go reeling to his ruin. 

"I see his finish, " repeated Annixter. "Exit Dyke, and score anothertally for S. Behrman, Shelgrim and Co. "

He moved away impatiently, loosening the tie-rope with which thebuckskin was fastened. He swung himself up. 

"God for us all, " he declared as he rode away, "and the devil take thehindmost. Good-bye, I'm going home. I still have one a little longer. "

He galloped away along the Lower Road, in the direction of Quien Sabe, emerging from the grove of cypress and eucalyptus about the ranch house, and coming out upon the bare brown plain of the wheat land, stretchingaway from him in apparent barrenness on either hand. 

It was late in the day, already his shadow was long upon the padded dustof the road in front of him. On ahead, a long ways off, and a little tothe north, the venerable campanile of the Mission San Juan was glintingradiant in the last rays of the sun, while behind him, towards thenorth and west, the gilded dome of the courthouse at Bonneville stoodsilhouetted in purplish black against the flaming west. Annixter spurredthe buck-skin forward. He feared he might be late to his supper. Hewondered if it would be brought to him by Hilma. 

Hilma! The name struck across in his brain with a pleasant, glowingtremour. All through that day of activity, of strenuous business, theminute and cautious planning of the final campaign in the great war ofthe League and the Trust, the idea of her and the recollection of herhad been the undercurrent of his thoughts. At last he was alone. Hecould put all other things behind him and occupy himself solely withher. 

In that glory of the day's end, in that chaos of sunshine, he saw heragain. Unimaginative, crude, direct, his fancy, nevertheless, placedher before him, steeped in sunshine, saturated with glorious light, brilliant, radiant, alluring. He saw the sweet simplicity of hercarriage, the statuesque evenness of the contours of her figure, thesingle, deep swell of her bosom, the solid masses of her hair. Heremembered the small contradictory suggestions of feminine daintiness hehad so often remarked about her, her slim, narrow feet, the little steelbuckles of her low shoes, the knot of black ribbon she had begun to wearof late on the back of her head, and he heard her voice, low-pitched, velvety, a sweet, murmuring huskiness that seemed to come more from herchest than from her throat. 

The buckskin's hoofs clattered upon the gravelly flats of Broderson'sCreek underneath the Long Trestle. Annixter's mind went back to thescene of the previous evening, when he had come upon her at this place. He set his teeth with anger and disappointment. Why had she not beenable to understand? What was the matter with these women, always setupon this marrying notion? Was it not enough that he wanted her morethan any other girl he knew and that she wanted him? She had said asmuch. Did she think she was going to be mistress of Quien Sabe? Ah, thatwas it. She was after his property, was for marrying him because of hismoney. His unconquerable suspicion of the woman, his innate distrustof the feminine element would not be done away with. What fathomlessduplicity was hers, that she could appear so innocent. It was almostunbelievable; in fact, was it believable?

For the first time doubt assailed him. Suppose Hilma was indeed allthat she appeared to be. Suppose it was not with her a question of hisproperty, after all; it was a poor time to think of marrying him for hisproperty when all Quien Sabe hung in the issue of the next few months. Suppose she had been sincere. But he caught himself up. Was he to befooled by a feemale girl at this late date? He, Buck Annixter, crafty, hard-headed, a man of affairs? Not much. Whatever transpired he wouldremain the master. 

He reached Quien Sabe in this frame of mind. But at this hour, Annixter, for all his resolutions, could no longer control his thoughts. As hestripped the saddle from the buckskin and led her to the watering troughby the stable corral, his heart was beating thick at the very notionof being near Hilma again. It was growing dark, but covertly he glancedhere and there out of the corners of his eyes to see if she was anywhereabout. Annixter--how, he could not tell--had become possessed of theidea that Hilma would not inform her parents of what had passed betweenthem the previous evening under the Long Trestle. He had no idea thatmatters were at an end between himself and the young woman. He mustapologise, he saw that clearly enough, must eat crow, as he toldhimself. Well, he would eat crow. He was not afraid of her any longer, now that she had made her confession to him. He would see her as soon aspossible and get this business straightened out, and begin again from anew starting point. What he wanted with Hilma, Annixter did not defineclearly in his mind. At one time he had known perfectly well what hewanted. Now, the goal of his desires had become vague. He could not sayexactly what it was. He preferred that things should go forward withoutmuch idea of consequences; if consequences came, they would do sonaturally enough, and of themselves; all that he positively knew wasthat Hilma occupied his thoughts morning, noon, and night; that he washappy when he was with her, and miserable when away from her. 

The Chinese cook served his supper in silence. Annixter ate and drankand lighted a cigar, and after his meal sat on the porch of his house, smoking and enjoying the twilight. The evening was beautiful, warm, thesky one powder of stars. From the direction of the stables he heard oneof the Portuguese hands picking a guitar. 

But he wanted to see Hilma. The idea of going to bed without at least aglimpse of her became distasteful to him. Annixter got up and descendingfrom the porch began to walk aimlessly about between the ranchbuildings, with eye and ear alert. Possibly he might meet hersomewheres. 

The Trees' little house, toward which inevitably Annixter directedhis steps, was dark. Had they all gone to bed so soon? He made awide circuit about it, listening, but heard no sound. The door of thedairy-house stood ajar. He pushed it open, and stepped into the odorousdarkness of its interior. The pans and deep cans of polished metalglowed faintly from the corners and from the walls. The smell of newcheese was pungent in his nostrils. Everything was quiet. There wasnobody there. He went out again, closing the door, and stood for amoment in the space between the dairy-house and the new barn, uncertainas to what he should do next. 

As he waited there, his foreman came out of the men's bunk house, on theother side of the kitchens, and crossed over toward the barn. "Hello, Billy, " muttered Annixter as he passed. 

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Annixter, " said the other, pausing in front ofhim. "I didn't know you were back. By the way, " he added, speaking asthough the matter was already known to Annixter, "I see old man Tree andhis family have left us. Are they going to be gone long? Have they leftfor good?"

"What's that?" Annixter exclaimed. "When did they go? Did all of themgo, all three?"

"Why, I thought you knew. Sure, they all left on the afternoon train forSan Francisco. Cleared out in a hurry--took all their trunks. Yes, allthree went--the young lady, too. They gave me notice early this morning. They ain't ought to have done that. I don't know who I'm to get to runthe dairy on such short notice. Do you know any one, Mr. Annixter?"

"Well, why in hell did you let them go?" vociferated Annixter. "Whydidn't you keep them here till I got back? Why didn't you find out ifthey were going for good? I can't be everywhere. What do I feed you forif it ain't to look after things I can't attend to?"

He turned on his heel and strode away straight before him, not caringwhere he was going. He tramped out from the group of ranch buildings;holding on over the open reach of his ranch, his teeth set, his heelsdigging furiously into the ground. The minutes passed. He walked onswiftly, muttering to himself from time to time. 

"Gone, by the Lord. Gone, by the Lord. By the Lord Harry, she's clearedout. "

As yet his head was empty of all thought. He could not steady his witsto consider this new turn of affairs. He did not even try. 

"Gone, by the Lord, " he exclaimed. "By the Lord, she's cleared out. "

He found the irrigating ditch, and the beaten path made by the ditchtenders that bordered it, and followed it some five minutes; then struckoff at right angles over the rugged surface of the ranch land, to wherea great white stone jutted from the ground. There he sat down, andleaning forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked out vaguelyinto the night, his thoughts swiftly readjusting themselves. 

He was alone. The silence of the night, the infinite repose of theflat, bare earth--two immensities--widened around and above him likeillimitable seas. A grey half-light, mysterious, grave, flooded downwardfrom the stars. 

Annixter was in torment. Now, there could be no longer any doubt--now itwas Hilma or nothing. Once out of his reach, once lost to him, and therecollection of her assailed him with unconquerable vehemence. Much asshe had occupied his mind, he had never realised till now how vast hadbeen the place she had filled in his life. He had told her as much, buteven then he did not believe it. 

Suddenly, a bitter rage against himself overwhelmed him as he thought ofthe hurt he had given her the previous evening. He should have manageddifferently. How, he did not know, but the sense of the outrage he hadput upon her abruptly recoiled against him with cruel force. Now, he wassorry for it, infinitely sorry, passionately sorry. He had hurt her. He had brought the tears to her eyes. He had so flagrantly insulted herthat she could no longer bear to breathe the same air with him. She hadtold her parents all. She had left Quien Sabe--had left him for good, at the very moment when he believed he had won her. Brute, beast that hewas, he had driven her away. 

An hour went by; then two, then four, then six. Annixter still sat inhis place, groping and battling in a confusion of spirit, the like ofwhich he had never felt before. He did not know what was the matter withhim. He could not find his way out of the dark and out of the turmoilthat wheeled around him. He had had no experience with women. There wasno precedent to guide him. How was he to get out of this? What was theclew that would set everything straight again?

That he would give Hilma up, never once entered his head. Have her hewould. She had given herself to him. Everything should have been easyafter that, and instead, here he was alone in the night, wrestling withhimself, in deeper trouble than ever, and Hilma farther than ever awayfrom him. 

It was true, he might have Hilma, even now, if he was willing to marryher. But marriage, to his mind, had been always a vague, most remotepossibility, almost as vague and as remote as his death, --a thing thathappened to some men, but that would surely never occur to him, or, ifit did, it would be after long years had passed, when he was older, moresettled, more mature--an event that belonged to the period of his middlelife, distant as yet. 

He had never faced the question of his marriage. He had kept it at animmense distance from him. It had never been a part of his order ofthings. He was not a marrying man. 

But Hilma was an ever-present reality, as near to him as his right hand. Marriage was a formless, far distant abstraction. Hilma a tangible, imminent fact. Before he could think of the two as one; before he couldconsider the idea of marriage, side by side with the idea of Hilma, measureless distances had to be traversed, things as disassociated inhis mind as fire and water, had to be fused together; and between thetwo he was torn as if upon a rack. 

Slowly, by imperceptible degrees, the imagination, unused, unwillingmachine, began to work. The brain's activity lapsed proportionately. He began to think less, and feel more. In that rugged composition, confused, dark, harsh, a furrow had been driven deep, a little seedplanted, a little seed at first weak, forgotten, lost in the lower darkplaces of his character. 

But as the intellect moved slower, its functions growing numb, theidea of self dwindled. Annixter no longer considered himself; no longerconsidered the notion of marriage from the point of view of his owncomfort, his own wishes, his own advantage. He realised that in hisnewfound desire to make her happy, he was sincere. There was somethingin that idea, after all. To make some one happy--how about that now? Itwas worth thinking of. 

Far away, low down in the east, a dim belt, a grey light began to whitenover the horizon. The tower of the Mission stood black against it. Thedawn was coming. The baffling obscurity of the night was passing. Hiddenthings were coming into view. 

Annixter, his eyes half-closed, his chin upon his fist, allowed hisimagination full play. How would it be if he should take Hilma intohis life, this beautiful young girl, pure as he now knew her to be;innocent, noble with the inborn nobility of dawning womanhood? Anoverwhelming sense of his own unworthiness suddenly bore down upon himwith crushing force, as he thought of this. He had gone about thewhole affair wrongly. He had been mistaken from the very first. She wasinfinitely above him. He did not want--he should not desire to be themaster. It was she, his servant, poor, simple, lowly even, who shouldcondescend to him. 

Abruptly there was presented to his mind's eye a picture of the years tocome, if he now should follow his best, his highest, his most unselfishimpulse. He saw Hilma, his own, for better or for worse, for richer orfor poorer, all barriers down between them, he giving himself to her asfreely, as nobly, as she had given herself to him. By a supreme effort, not of the will, but of the emotion, he fought his way across thatvast gulf that for a time had gaped between Hilma and the idea of hismarriage. Instantly, like the swift blending of beautiful colours, likethe harmony of beautiful chords of music, the two ideas melted into one, and in that moment into his harsh, unlovely world a new idea was born. Annixter stood suddenly upright, a mighty tenderness, a gentlenessof spirit, such as he had never conceived of, in his heart strained, swelled, and in a moment seemed to burst. Out of the dark furrows ofhis soul, up from the deep rugged recesses of his being, something rose, expanding. He opened his arms wide. An immense happiness overpoweredhim. Actual tears came to his eyes. Without knowing why, he was notashamed of it. This poor, crude fellow, harsh, hard, narrow, with hisunlovely nature, his fierce truculency, his selfishness, his obstinacy, abruptly knew that all the sweetness of life, all the great vivifyingeternal force of humanity had burst into life within him. 

The little seed, long since planted, gathering strength quietly, had atlast germinated. 

Then as the realisation of this hardened into certainty, in the growinglight of the new day that had just dawned for him, Annixter uttered acry. Now at length, he knew the meaning of it all. 

"Why--I--I, I LOVE her, " he cried. Never until then had it occurred tohim. Never until then, in all his thoughts of Hilma, had that great wordpassed his lips. 

It was a Memnonian cry, the greeting of the hard, harsh image of man, rough-hewn, flinty, granitic, uttering a note of joy, acclaiming the newrisen sun. 

By now it was almost day. The east glowed opalescent. All about himAnnixter saw the land inundated with light. But there was a change. Overnight something had occurred. In his perturbation the change seemedto him, at first, elusive, almost fanciful, unreal. But now as the lightspread, he looked again at the gigantic scroll of ranch lands unrolledbefore him from edge to edge of the horizon. The change was notfanciful. The change was real. The earth was no longer bare. The landwas no longer barren, --no longer empty, no longer dull brown. All atonce Annixter shouted aloud. 

There it was, the Wheat, the Wheat! The little seed long planted, germinating in the deep, dark furrows of the soil, straining, swelling, suddenly in one night had burst upward to the light. The wheat hadcome up. It was there before him, around him, everywhere, illimitable, immeasurable. The winter brownness of the ground was overlaid with alittle shimmer of green. The promise of the sowing was being fulfilled. The earth, the loyal mother, who never failed, who never disappointed, was keeping her faith again. Once more the strength of nations wasrenewed. Once more the force of the world was revivified. Once morethe Titan, benignant, calm, stirred and woke, and the morning abruptlyblazed into glory upon the spectacle of a man whose heart leapedexuberant with the love of a woman, and an exulting earth gleamingtranscendent with the radiant magnificence of an inviolable pledge. 

CHAPTER III

Presley's room in the ranch house of Los Muertos was in the second storyof the building. It was a corner room; one of its windows facing thesouth, the other the east. Its appointments were of the simplest. Inone angle was the small white painted iron bed, covered with a whitecounterpane. The walls were hung with a white paper figured with knotsof pale green leaves, very gay and bright. There was a straw mattingon the floor. White muslin half-curtains hung in the windows, uponthe sills of which certain plants bearing pink waxen flowers of whichPresley did not know the name, grew in oblong green boxes. The wallswere unadorned, save by two pictures, one a reproduction of the "Readingfrom Homer, " the other a charcoal drawing of the Mission of San Juan deGuadalajara, which Presley had made himself. By the east window stoodthe plainest of deal tables, innocent of any cloth or covering, such asmight have been used in a kitchen. It was Presley's work table, and wasinvariably littered with papers, half-finished manuscripts, drafts ofpoems, notebooks, pens, half-smoked cigarettes, and the like. Near athand, upon a shelf, were his books. There were but two chairs in theroom--the straight backed wooden chair, that stood in front of thetable, angular, upright, and in which it was impossible to take one'sease, and the long comfortable wicker steamer chair, stretching itslength in front of the south window. Presley was immensely fond ofthis room. It amused and interested him to maintain its air of rigoroussimplicity and freshness. He abhorred cluttered bric-a-brac andmeaningless objets d'art. Once in so often he submitted his room to avigorous inspection; setting it to rights, removing everything but theessentials, the few ornaments which, in a way, were part of his life. 

His writing had by this time undergone a complete change. The notes forhis great Song of the West, the epic poem he once had hoped to writehe had flung aside, together with all the abortive attempts at itsbeginning. Also he had torn up a great quantity of "fugitive" verses, preserving only a certain half-finished poem, that he called "TheToilers. " This poem was a comment upon the social fabric, and had beeninspired by the sight of a painting he had seen in Cedarquist's artgallery. He had written all but the last verse. 

On the day that he had overheard the conversation between Dyke andCaraher, in the latter's saloon, which had acquainted him with themonstrous injustice of the increased tariff, Presley had returned to LosMuertos, white and trembling, roused to a pitch of exaltation, the likeof which he had never known in all his life. His wrath was little shortof even Caraher's. He too "saw red"; a mighty spirit of revolt heavedtumultuous within him. It did not seem possible that this outrage couldgo on much longer. The oppression was incredible; the plain story ofit set down in truthful statement of fact would not be believed by theoutside world. 

He went up to his little room and paced the floor with clenched fistsand burning face, till at last, the repression of his contendingthoughts all but suffocated him, and he flung himself before his tableand began to write. For a time, his pen seemed to travel of itself;words came to him without searching, shaping themselves intophrases, --the phrases building themselves up to great, forciblesentences, full of eloquence, of fire, of passion. As his prose grewmore exalted, it passed easily into the domain of poetry. Soon thecadence of his paragraphs settled to an ordered beat and rhythm, and inthe end Presley had thrust aside his journal and was once more writingverse. 

He picked up his incomplete poem of "The Toilers, " read it hastily acouple of times to catch its swing, then the Idea of the last verse--theIdea for which he so long had sought in vain--abruptly springing to hisbrain, wrote it off without so much as replenishing his pen with ink. He added still another verse, bringing the poem to a definite close, resuming its entire conception, and ending with a single majesticthought, simple, noble, dignified, absolutely convincing. 

Presley laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair, with thecertainty that for one moment he had touched untrod heights. His handswere cold, his head on fire, his heart leaping tumultuous in his breast. 

Now at last, he had achieved. He saw why he had never grasped theinspiration for his vast, vague, IMPERSONAL Song of the West. At thetime when he sought for it, his convictions had not been aroused; hehad not then cared for the People. His sympathies had not been touched. Small wonder that he had missed it. Now he was of the People; he hadbeen stirred to his lowest depths. His earnestness was almost a frenzy. He BELIEVED, and so to him all things were possible at once. 

Then the artist in him reasserted itself. He became more interested inhis poem, as such, than in the cause that had inspired it. He went overit again, retouching it carefully, changing a word here and there, andimproving its rhythm. For the moment, he forgot the People, forgot hisrage, his agitation of the previous hour, he remembered only that he hadwritten a great poem. 

Then doubt intruded. After all, was it so great? Did not its sublimityoverpass a little the bounds of the ridiculous? Had he seen true? Had hefailed again? He re-read the poem carefully; and it seemed all at onceto lose force. 

By now, Presley could not tell whether what he had written was truepoetry or doggerel. He distrusted profoundly his own judgment. He musthave the opinion of some one else, some one competent to judge. He couldnot wait; to-morrow would not do. He must know to a certainty before hecould rest that night. 

He made a careful copy of what he had written, and putting on his hatand laced boots, went down stairs and out upon the lawn, crossing overto the stables. He found Phelps there, washing down the buckboard. 

"Do you know where Vanamee is to-day?" he asked the latter. Phelps puthis chin in the air. 

"Ask me something easy, " he responded. "He might be at Guadalajara, orhe might be up at Osterman's, or he might be a hundred miles away fromeither place. I know where he ought to be, Mr. Presley, but that ain'tsaying where the crazy gesabe is. He OUGHT to be range-riding over eastof Four, at the head waters of Mission Creek. "

"I'll try for him there, at all events, " answered Presley. "If you seeHarran when he comes in, tell him I may not be back in time for supper. "

Presley found the pony in the corral, cinched the saddle upon him, andwent off over the Lower Road, going eastward at a brisk canter. 

At Hooven's he called a "How do you do" to Minna, whom he saw lying in aslat hammock under the mammoth live oak, her foot in bandages; andthen galloped on over the bridge across the irrigating ditch, wonderingvaguely what would become of such a pretty girl as Minna, and if inthe end she would marry the Portuguese foreman in charge of theditching-gang. He told himself that he hoped she would, and thatspeedily. There was no lack of comment as to Minna Hooven about theranches. Certainly she was a good girl, but she was seen at all hourshere and there about Bonneville and Guadalajara, skylarking with thePortuguese farm hands of Quien Sabe and Los Muertos. She was verypretty; the men made fools of themselves over her. Presley hoped theywould not end by making a fool of her. 

Just beyond the irrigating ditch, Presley left the Lower Road, andfollowing a trail that branched off southeasterly from this point, heldon across the Fourth Division of the ranch, keeping the Mission Creekon his left. A few miles farther on, he went through a gate in a barbedwire fence, and at once engaged himself in a system of little arroyosand low rolling hills, that steadily lifted and increased in size ashe proceeded. This higher ground was the advance guard of the Sierrafoothills, and served as the stock range for Los Muertos. The hills werehuge rolling hummocks of bare ground, covered only by wild oats. Atlong intervals, were isolated live oaks. In the canyons and arroyos, thechaparral and manzanita grew in dark olive-green thickets. The groundwas honey-combed with gopher-holes, and the gophers themselves wereeverywhere. Occasionally a jack rabbit bounded across the open, from onegrowth of chaparral to another, taking long leaps, his ears erect. Highoverhead, a hawk or two swung at anchor, and once, with a startling rushof wings, a covey of quail flushed from the brush at the side of thetrail. 

On the hillsides, in thinly scattered groups were the cattle, grazingdeliberately, working slowly toward the water-holes for their eveningdrink, the horses keeping to themselves, the colts nuzzling at theirmothers' bellies, whisking their tails, stamping their unshod feet. Butonce in a remoter field, solitary, magnificent, enormous, the short haircurling tight upon his forehead, his small red eyes twinkling, his vastneck heavy with muscles, Presley came upon the monarch, the king, the great Durham bull, maintaining his lonely state, unapproachable, austere. 

Presley found the one-time shepherd by a water-hole, in a far distantcorner of the range. He had made his simple camp for the night. Hisblue-grey army blanket lay spread under a live oak, his horse grazednear at hand. He himself sat on his heels before a little fire ofdead manzanita roots, cooking his coffee and bacon. Never had Presleyconceived so keen an impression of loneliness as his crouching figurepresented. The bald, bare landscape widened about him to infinity. Vanamee was a spot in it all, a tiny dot, a single atom of humanorganisation, floating endlessly on the ocean of an illimitable nature. 

The two friends ate together, and Vanamee, having snared a brace ofquails, dressed and then roasted them on a sharpened stick. Aftereating, they drank great refreshing draughts from the water-hole. Then, at length, Presley having lit his cigarette, and Vanamee his pipe, theformer said:

"Vanamee, I have been writing again. "

Vanamee turned his lean ascetic face toward him, his black eyes fixedattentively. 

"I know, " he said, "your journal. "

"No, this is a poem. You remember, I told you about it once. 'TheToilers, ' I called it. "

"Oh, verse! Well, I am glad you have gone back to it. It is your naturalvehicle. "

"You remember the poem?" asked Presley. "It was unfinished. "

"Yes, I remember it. There was better promise in it than anything youever wrote. Now, I suppose, you have finished it. "

Without reply, Presley brought it from out the breast pocket of hisshooting coat. The moment seemed propitious. The stillness of the vast, bare hills was profound. The sun was setting in a cloudless brazier ofred light; a golden dust pervaded all the landscape. Presley read hispoem aloud. When he had finished, his friend looked at him. 

"What have you been doing lately?" he demanded. Presley, wondering, toldof his various comings and goings. 

"I don't mean that, " returned the other. "Something has happened to you, something has aroused you. I am right, am I not? Yes, I thought so. Inthis poem of yours, you have not been trying to make a sounding piece ofliterature. You wrote it under tremendous stress. Its very imperfectionsshow that. It is better than a mere rhyme. It is an Utterance--aMessage. It is Truth. You have come back to the primal heart of things, and you have seen clearly. Yes, it is a great poem. "

"Thank you, " exclaimed Presley fervidly. "I had begun to mistrustmyself. "

"Now, " observed Vanamee, "I presume you will rush it into print. To haveformulated a great thought, simply to have accomplished, is not enough. "

"I think I am sincere, " objected Presley. "If it is good it will do goodto others. You said yourself it was a Message. If it has any value, I donot think it would be right to keep it back from even a very small andmost indifferent public. "

"Don't publish it in the magazines at all events, " Vanamee answered. "Your inspiration has come FROM the People. Then let it go straight TOthe People--not the literary readers of the monthly periodicals, therich, who would only be indirectly interested. If you must publish it, let it be in the daily press. Don't interrupt. I know what you will say. It will be that the daily press is common, is vulgar, is undignified;and I tell you that such a poem as this of yours, called as it is, 'TheToilers, ' must be read BY the Toilers. It MUST BE common; it must bevulgarised. You must not stand upon your dignity with the People, if youare to reach them. "

"That is true, I suppose, " Presley admitted, "but I can't get rid of theidea that it would be throwing my poem away. The great magazine gives mesuch--a--background; gives me such weight. "

"Gives YOU such weight, gives you such background. Is it YOURSELF youthink of? You helper of the helpless. Is that your sincerity? You mustsink yourself; must forget yourself and your own desire of fame, ofadmitted success. It is your POEM, your MESSAGE, that mustprevail, --not YOU, who wrote it. You preach a doctrine of abnegation, ofself-obliteration, and you sign your name to your words as high on thetablets as you can reach, so that all the world may see, not the poem, but the poet. Presley, there are many like you. The social reformerwrites a book on the iniquity of the possession of land, and out of theproceeds, buys a corner lot. The economist who laments the hardships ofthe poor, allows himself to grow rich upon the sale of his book. "

But Presley would hear no further. 

"No, " he cried, "I know I am sincere, and to prove it to you, I willpublish my poem, as you say, in the daily press, and I will accept nomoney for it. "

They talked on for about an hour, while the evening wore away. Presleyvery soon noticed that Vanamee was again preoccupied. More than everof late, his silence, his brooding had increased. By and by he roseabruptly, turning his head to the north, in the direction of the Missionchurch of San Juan. "I think, " he said to Presley, "that I must begoing. "

"Going? Where to at this time of night?"

"Off there. " Vanamee made an uncertain gesture toward the north. "Good-bye, " and without another word he disappeared in the grey of thetwilight. Presley was left alone wondering. He found his horse, and, tightening the girths, mounted and rode home under the sheen of thestars, thoughtful, his head bowed. Before he went to bed that nighthe sent "The Toilers" to the Sunday Editor of a daily newspaper in SanFrancisco. 

Upon leaving Presley, Vanamee, his thumbs hooked into his emptycartridge belt, strode swiftly down from the hills of the Los Muertosstock-range and on through the silent town of Guadalajara. His lean, swarthy face, with its hollow cheeks, fine, black, pointed beard, and sad eyes, was set to the northward. As was his custom, he wasbareheaded, and the rapidity of his stride made a breeze in his long, black hair. He knew where he was going. He knew what he must livethrough that night. 

Again, the deathless grief that never slept leaped out of the shadows, and fastened upon his shoulders. It was scourging him back to that sceneof a vanished happiness, a dead romance, a perished idyl, --the Missiongarden in the shade of the venerable pear trees. 

But, besides this, other influences tugged at his heart. There was amystery in the garden. In that spot the night was not always empty, thedarkness not always silent. Something far off stirred and listened tohis cry, at times drawing nearer to him. At first this presence hadbeen a matter for terror; but of late, as he felt it gradually drawingnearer, the terror had at long intervals given place to a feeling of analmost ineffable sweetness. But distrusting his own senses, unwillingto submit himself to such torturing, uncertain happiness, averse to theterrible confusion of spirit that followed upon a night spent in thegarden, Vanamee had tried to keep away from the place. However, when thesorrow of his life reassailed him, and the thoughts and recollections ofAngele brought the ache into his heart, and the tears to his eyes, thetemptation to return to the garden invariably gripped him close. Therewere times when he could not resist. Of themselves, his footsteps turnedin that direction. It was almost as if he himself had been called. 

Guadalajara was silent, dark. Not even in Solotari's was there a light. The town was asleep. Only the inevitable guitar hummed from an unseen'dobe. Vanamee pushed on. The smell of the fields and open country, anda distant scent of flowers that he knew well, came to his nostrils, as he emerged from the town by way of the road that led on towards theMission through Quien Sabe. On either side of him lay the brown earth, silently nurturing the implanted seed. Two days before it had rainedcopiously, and the soil, still moist, disengaged a pungent aroma offecundity. 

Vanamee, following the road, passed through the collection of buildingsof Annixter's home ranch. Everything slept. At intervals, the aer-motoron the artesian well creaked audibly, as it turned in a languid breezefrom the northeast. A cat, hunting field-mice, crept from the shadowof the gigantic barn and paused uncertainly in the open, the tip ofher tail twitching. From within the barn itself came the sound of thefriction of a heavy body and a stir of hoofs, as one of the dozing cowslay down with a long breath. 

Vanamee left the ranch house behind him and proceeded on his way. Beyondhim, to the right of the road, he could make out the higher ground inthe Mission enclosure, and the watching tower of the Mission itself. Theminutes passed. He went steadily forward. Then abruptly he paused, hishead in the air, eye and ear alert. To that strange sixth sense of his, responsive as the leaves of the sensitive plant, had suddenly come theimpression of a human being near at hand. He had neither seen norheard, but for all that he stopped an instant in his tracks; then, thesensation confirmed, went on again with slow steps, advancing warily. 

At last, his swiftly roving eyes lighted upon an object, just darkerthan the grey-brown of the night-ridden land. It was at some distancefrom the roadside. Vanamee approached it cautiously, leaving the road, treading carefully upon the moist clods of earth underfoot. Twenty pacesdistant, he halted. 

Annixter was there, seated upon a round, white rock, his back towardshim. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin in hishands. He did not move. Silent, motionless, he gazed out upon the flat, sombre land. 

It was the night wherein the master of Quien Sabe wrought out hissalvation, struggling with Self from dusk to dawn. At the moment whenVanamee came upon him, the turmoil within him had only begun. Theheart of the man had not yet wakened. The night was young, the dawn fardistant, and all around him the fields of upturned clods lay bare andbrown, empty of all life, unbroken by a single green shoot. 

For a moment, the life-circles of these two men, of so widely differingcharacters, touched each other, there in the silence of the night underthe stars. Then silently Vanamee withdrew, going on his way, wonderingat the trouble that, like himself, drove this hardheaded man of affairs, untroubled by dreams, out into the night to brood over an empty land. 

Then speedily he forgot all else. The material world drew off from him. Reality dwindled to a point and vanished like the vanishing of a starat moonrise. Earthly things dissolved and disappeared, as a strange, unnamed essence flowed in upon him. A new atmosphere for him pervadedhis surroundings. He entered the world of the Vision, of the Legend, ofthe Miracle, where all things were possible. He stood at the gate of theMission garden. 

Above him rose the ancient tower of the Mission church. Through thearches at its summit, where swung the Spanish queen's bells, he saw theslow-burning stars. The silent bats, with flickering wings, threw theirdancing shadows on the pallid surface of the venerable facade. 

Not the faintest chirring of a cricket broke the silence. The bees wereasleep. In the grasses, in the trees, deep in the calix of punka flowerand magnolia bloom, the gnats, the caterpillars, the beetles, all themicroscopic, multitudinous life of the daytime drowsed and dozed. Noteven the minute scuffling of a lizard over the warm, worn pavement ofthe colonnade disturbed the infinite repose, the profound stillness. Only within the garden, the intermittent trickling of the fountain madeitself heard, flowing steadily, marking off the lapse of seconds, the progress of hours, the cycle of years, the inevitable march ofcenturies. At one time, the doorway before which Vanamee now stood hadbeen hermetically closed. But he, himself, had long since changed that. He stood before it for a moment, steeping himself in the mystery andromance of the place, then raising he latch, pushed open the gate, entered, and closed it softly behind him. He was in the cloister garden. 

The stars were out, strewn thick and close in the deep blue of the sky, the milky way glowing like a silver veil. Ursa Major wheeled giganticin the north. The great nebula in Orion was a whorl of shimmering stardust. Venus flamed a lambent disk of pale saffron, low over the horizon. From edge to edge of the world marched the constellations, like theprogress of emperors, and from the innumerable glory of their courses amysterious sheen of diaphanous light disengaged itself, expanding overall the earth, serene, infinite, majestic. 

The little garden revealed itself but dimly beneath the brooding light, only half emerging from the shadow. The polished surfaces of the leavesof the pear trees winked faintly back the reflected light as the treesjust stirred in the uncertain breeze. A blurred shield of silver markedthe ripples of the fountain. Under the flood of dull blue lustre, thegravelled walks lay vague amid the grasses, like webs of white satinon the bed of a lake. Against the eastern wall the headstones of thegraves, an indistinct procession of grey cowls ranged themselves. 

Vanamee crossed the garden, pausing to kiss the turf upon Angele'sgrave. Then he approached the line of pear trees, and laid himself downin their shadow, his chin propped upon his hands, his eyes wanderingover the expanse of the little valley that stretched away from the footof the hill upon which the Mission was built. 

Once again he summoned the Vision. Once again he conjured up theIllusion. Once again, tortured with doubt, racked with a deathlessgrief, he craved an Answer of the night. Once again, mystic that hewas, he sent his mind out from him across the enchanted sea of theSupernatural. Hope, of what he did not know, roused up within him. Surely, on such a night as this, the hallucination must define itself. Surely, the Manifestation must be vouchsafed. 

His eyes closed, his will girding itself to a supreme effort, his sensesexalted to a state of pleasing numbness, he called upon Angele to cometo him, his voiceless cry penetrating far out into that sea of faint, ephemeral light that floated tideless over the little valley beneathhim. Then motionless, prone upon the ground, he waited. 

Months had passed since that first night when, at length, an Answer hadcome to Vanamee. At first, startled out of all composure, troubled andstirred to his lowest depths, because of the very thing for which hesought, he resolved never again to put his strange powers to the test. But for all that, he had come a second night to the garden, and a third, and a fourth. At last, his visits were habitual. Night after nighthe was there, surrendering himself to the influences of the place, gradually convinced that something did actually answer when he called. His faith increased as the winter grew into spring. As the springadvanced and the nights became shorter, it crystallised into certainty. Would he have her again, his love, long dead? Would she come to him oncemore out of the grave, out of the night? He could not tell; he couldonly hope. All that he knew was that his cry found an answer, that hisoutstretched hands, groping in the darkness, met the touch of otherfingers. Patiently he waited. The nights became warmer as the springdrew on. The stars shone clearer. The nights seemed brighter. For nearlya month after the occasion of his first answer nothing new occurred. Some nights it failed him entirely; upon others it was faint, illusive. 

Then, at last, the most subtle, the barest of perceptible changes began. His groping mind far-off there, wandering like a lost bird over thevalley, touched upon some thing again, touched and held it and thistime drew it a single step closer to him. His heart beating, the bloodsurging in his temples, he watched with the eyes of his imagination, this gradual approach. What was coming to him? Who was coming to him?Shrouded in the obscurity of the night, whose was the face now turnedtowards his? Whose the footsteps that with such infinite slowness drewnearer to where he waited? He did not dare to say. 

His mind went back many years to that time before the tragedy ofAngele's death, before the mystery of the Other. He waited then as hewaited now. But then he had not waited in vain. Then, as now, he hadseemed to feel her approach, seemed to feel her drawing nearer andnearer to their rendezvous. Now, what would happen? He did not know. Hewaited. He waited, hoping all things. He waited, believing all things. He waited, enduring all things. He trusted in the Vision. 

Meanwhile, as spring advanced, the flowers in the Seed ranch beganto come to life. Over the five hundred acres whereon the flowers wereplanted, the widening growth of vines and bushes spread like the wavesof a green sea. Then, timidly, colours of the faintest tints began toappear. Under the moonlight, Vanamee saw them expanding, delicatepink, faint blue, tenderest variations of lavender and yellow, whiteshimmering with reflections of gold, all subdued and pallid in themoonlight. 

By degrees, the night became impregnated with the perfume of theflowers. Illusive at first, evanescent as filaments of gossamer; thenas the buds opened, emphasising itself, breathing deeper, stronger. Anexquisite mingling of many odours passed continually over the Mission, from the garden of the Seed ranch, meeting and blending with the aromaof its magnolia buds and punka blossoms. 

As the colours of the flowers of the Seed ranch deepened, and as theirodours penetrated deeper and more distinctly, as the starlight of eachsucceeding night grew brighter and the air became warmer, the illusiondefined itself. By imperceptible degrees, as Vanamee waited under theshadows of the pear trees, the Answer grew nearer and nearer. He sawnothing but the distant glimmer of the flowers. He heard nothing butthe drip of the fountain. Nothing moved about him but the invisible, slow-passing breaths of perfume; yet he felt the approach of the Vision. 

It came first to about the middle of the Seed ranch itself, some halfa mile away, where the violets grew; shrinking, timid flowers, hidingclose to the ground. Then it passed forward beyond the violets, and drewnearer and stood amid the mignonette, hardier blooms that daredlook heavenward from out the leaves. A few nights later it left themignonette behind, and advanced into the beds of white iris that pushedmore boldly forth from the earth, their waxen petals claiming theattention. It advanced then a long step into the proud, challengingbeauty of the carnations and roses; and at last, after many nights, Vanamee felt that it paused, as if trembling at its hardihood, fullin the superb glory of the royal lilies themselves, that grew on theextreme border of the Seed ranch nearest to him. After this, there wasa certain long wait. Then, upon a dark midnight, it advanced again. Vanamee could scarcely repress a cry. Now, the illusion emerged from theflowers. It stood, not distant, but unseen, almost at the base of thehill upon whose crest he waited, in a depression of the ground where theshadows lay thickest. It was nearly within earshot. 

The nights passed. The spring grew warmer. In the daytime intermittentrains freshened all the earth. The flowers of the Seed ranch grewrapidly. Bud after bud burst forth, while those already opened expandedto full maturity. The colour of the Seed ranch deepened. 

One night, after hours of waiting, Vanamee felt upon his cheek the touchof a prolonged puff of warm wind, breathing across the little valleyfrom out the east. It reached the Mission garden and stirred thebranches of the pear trees. It seemed veritably to be compounded ofthe very essence of the flowers. Never had the aroma been so sweet, sopervasive. It passed and faded, leaving in its wake an absolute silence. Then, at length, the silence of the night, that silence to which Vanameehad so long appealed, was broken by a tiny sound. Alert, half-risen fromthe ground, he listened; for now, at length, he heard something. Thesound repeated itself. It came from near at hand, from the thick shadowat the foot of the hill. What it was, he could not tell, but it did notbelong to a single one of the infinite similar noises of the place withwhich he was so familiar. It was neither the rustle of a leaf, the snapof a parted twig, the drone of an insect, the dropping of a magnoliablossom. It was a vibration merely, faint, elusive, impossible ofdefinition; a minute notch in the fine, keen edge of stillness. 

Again the nights passed. The summer stars became brighter. The warmthincreased. The flowers of the Seed ranch grew still more. The fivehundred acres of the ranch were carpeted with them. 

At length, upon a certain midnight, a new light began to spread inthe sky. The thin scimitar of the moon rose, veiled and dim behind theearth-mists. The light increased. Distant objects, until now hidden, came into view, and as the radiance brightened, Vanamee, looking downupon the little valley, saw a spectacle of incomparable beauty. All thebuds of the Seed ranch had opened. The faint tints of the flowers haddeepened, had asserted themselves. They challenged the eye. Pink becamea royal red. Blue rose into purple. Yellow flamed into orange. Orangeglowed golden and brilliant. The earth disappeared under great bands andfields of resplendent colour. Then, at length, the moon abruptly soaredzenithward from out the veiling mist, passing from one filmy haze toanother. For a moment there was a gleam of a golden light, and Vanamee, his eyes searching the shade at the foot of the hill, felt his heartsuddenly leap, and then hang poised, refusing to beat. In that instantof passing light, something had caught his eye. Something that moved, down there, half in and half out of the shadow, at the hill's foot. It had come and gone in an instant. The haze once more screened themoonlight. The shade again engulfed the vision. What was it he had seen?He did not know. So brief had been that movement, the drowsy brain hadnot been quick enough to interpret the cipher message of the eye. Nowit was gone. But something had been there. He had seen it. Was it thelifting of a strand of hair, the wave of a white hand, the flutter of agarment's edge? He could not tell, but it did not belong to any of thosesights which he had seen so often in that place. It was neither theglancing of a moth's wing, the nodding of a wind-touched blossom, northe noiseless flitting of a bat. It was a gleam merely, faint, elusive, impossible of definition, an intangible agitation, in the vast, dim blurof the darkness. 

And that was all. Until now no single real thing had occurred, nothingthat Vanamee could reduce to terms of actuality, nothing he could putinto words. The manifestation, when not recognisable to that strangesixth sense of his, appealed only to the most refined, the most delicateperception of eye and ear. It was all ephemeral, filmy, dreamy, themystic forming of the Vision--the invisible developing a concretenucleus, the starlight coagulating, the radiance of the flowersthickening to something actual; perfume, the most delicious fragrance, becoming a tangible presence. 

But into that garden the serpent intruded. Though cradled in the slowrhythm of the dream, lulled by this beauty of a summer's night, heavywith the scent of flowers, the silence broken only by a ripplingfountain, the darkness illuminated by a world of radiant blossoms, Vanamee could not forget the tragedy of the Other; that terror of manyyears ago, --that prowler of the night, that strange, fearful figure withthe unseen face, swooping in there from out the darkness, gone inan instant, yet leaving behind the trail and trace of death and ofpollution. 

Never had Vanamee seen this more clearly than when leaving Presley onthe stock range of Los Muertos, he had come across to the Mission gardenby way of the Quien Sabe ranch. 

It was the same night in which Annixter out-watched the stars, coming, at last, to himself. 

As the hours passed, the two men, far apart, ignoring each other, waitedfor the Manifestation, --Annixter on the ranch, Vanamee in the garden. 

Prone upon his face, under the pear trees, his forehead buried in thehollow of his arm, Vanamee lay motionless. For the last time, raisinghis head, he sent his voiceless cry out into the night across themulti-coloured levels of the little valley, calling upon the miracle, summoning the darkness to give Angele back to him, resigning himself tothe hallucination. He bowed his head upon his arm again and waited. Theminutes passed. The fountain dripped steadily. Over the hills a haze ofsaffron light foretold the rising of the full moon. Nothing stirred. Thesilence was profound. 

Then, abruptly, Vanamee's right hand shut tight upon his wrist. There--there it was. It began again, his invocation was answered. Faroff there, the ripple formed again upon the still, black pool ofthe night. No sound, no sight; vibration merely, appreciable by somesublimated faculty of the mind as yet unnamed. Rigid, his nerves taut, motionless, prone on the ground, he waited. 

It advanced with infinite slowness. Now it passed through the beds ofviolets, now through the mignonette. A moment later, and he knew itstood among the white iris. Then it left those behind. It was in thesplendour of the red roses and carnations. It passed like a moving starinto the superb abundance, the imperial opulence of the royal lilies. It was advancing slowly, but there was no pause. He held his breath, notdaring to raise his head. It passed beyond the limits of the Seed ranch, and entered the shade at the foot of the hill below him. Would it comefarther than this? Here it had always stopped hitherto, stopped for amoment, and then, in spite of his efforts, had slipped from his graspand faded back into the night. But now he wondered if he had beenwilling to put forth his utmost strength, after all. Had there notalways been an element of dread in the thought of beholding the mysteryface to face? Had he not even allowed the Vision to dissolve, the Answerto recede into the obscurity whence it came?

But never a night had been so beautiful as this. It was the full periodof the spring. The air was a veritable caress. The infinite reposeof the little garden, sleeping under the night, was delicious beyondexpression. It was a tiny corner of the world, shut off, discreet, distilling romance, a garden of dreams, of enchantments. 

Below, in the little valley, the resplendent colourations of the millionflowers, roses, lilies, hyacinths, carnations, violets, glowed likeincandescence in the golden light of the rising moon. The air was thickwith the perfume, heavy with it, clogged with it. The sweetnessfilled the very mouth. The throat choked with it. Overhead wheeled theillimitable procession of the constellations. Underfoot, the earth wasasleep. The very flowers were dreaming. A cathedral hush overlay allthe land, and a sense of benediction brooded low, --a divine kindlinessmanifesting itself in beauty, in peace, in absolute repose. 

It was a time for visions. It was the hour when dreams come true, andlying deep in the grasses beneath the pear trees, Vanamee, dizzied withmysticism, reaching up and out toward the supernatural, felt, as itwere, his mind begin to rise upward from out his body. He passed into astate of being the like of which he had not known before. He felt thathis imagination was reshaping itself, preparing to receive an impressionnever experienced until now. His body felt light to him, then itdwindled, vanished. He saw with new eyes, heard with new ears, felt witha new heart. 

"Come to me, " he murmured. 

Then slowly he felt the advance of the Vision. It was approaching. Everyinstant it drew gradually nearer. At last, he was to see. It had leftthe shadow at the base of the hill; it was on the hill itself. Slowly, steadily, it ascended the slope; just below him there, he heard a faintstirring. The grasses rustled under the touch of a foot. The leavesof the bushes murmured, as a hand brushed against them; a slender twigcreaked. The sounds of approach were more distinct. They came nearer. They reached the top of the hill. They were within whispering distance. 

Vanamee, trembling, kept his head buried in his arm. The sounds, atlength, paused definitely. The Vision could come no nearer. He raisedhis head and looked. The moon had risen. Its great shield of goldstood over the eastern horizon. Within six feet of Vanamee, clear anddistinct, against the disk of the moon, stood the figure of a younggirl. She was dressed in a gown of scarlet silk, with flowing sleeves, such as Japanese wear, embroidered with flowers and figures ofbirds worked in gold threads. On either side of her face, makingthree-cornered her round, white forehead, hung the soft masses of herhair of gold. Her hands hung limply at her sides. But from between herparted lips--lips of almost an Egyptian fulness--her breath came slowand regular, and her eyes, heavy lidded, slanting upwards toward thetemples, perplexing, oriental, were closed. She was asleep. 

From out this life of flowers, this world of colour, this atmosphereoppressive with perfume, this darkness clogged and cloyed, and thickenedwith sweet odours, she came to him. She came to him from out of theflowers, the smell of the roses in her hair of gold, the aroma and theimperial red of the carnations in her lips, the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume of the lilies, and the lilies' slender, balancing grace inher neck. Her hands disengaged the scent of the heliotrope. The folds ofher scarlet gown gave off the enervating smell of poppies. Her feet wereredolent of hyacinth. She stood before him, a Vision realised--a dreamcome true. She emerged from out the invisible. He beheld her, a figureof gold and pale vermilion, redolent of perfume, poised motionless inthe 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, theembrace of the grave, from out the memory of corruption, she rose intolight 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 hisyouth. Years had made no difference with her. She was still young. It was the old purity that returned, the deathless beauty, theever-renascent life, the eternal consecrated and immortal youth. For afew seconds, she stood there before him, and he, upon the ground at herfeet, looked up at her, spellbound. Then, slowly she withdrew. Stillasleep, her eyelids closed, she turned from him, descending the slope. She was gone. 

Vanamee started up, coming, as it were, to himself, looking wildly abouthim. Sarria was there. 

"I saw her, " said the priest. "It was Angele, the little girl, yourAngele's daughter. She is like her mother. "

But Vanamee scarcely heard. He walked as if in a trance, pushing bySarria, going forth from the garden. Angele or Angele's daughter, it wasall 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 hiseye below him to the southward. Then, suddenly flinging up his arms, heuttered a great cry. 

There it was. The Wheat! The Wheat! In the night it had come up. It wasthere, everywhere, from margin to margin of the horizon. The earth, longempty, teemed with green life. Once more the pendulum of the seasonsswung in its mighty arc, from death back to life. Life out of death, eternity rising from out dissolution. There was the lesson. Angele wasnot the symbol, but the PROOF of immortality. The seed dying, rottingand corrupting in the earth; rising again in life unconquerable, andin immaculate purity, --Angele dying as she gave birth to her littledaughter, 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 theseed had died. So died Angele. And that which thou sowest, thou sowestnot that body that shall be, but bare grain. It may chance of wheat, orof 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 theresurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption. It is raised inincorruption. It is sown in dishonour. It is raised in glory. It is sownin 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 sunbanished the lesser glory of moon and stars, Vanamee, from his mountaintop, beholding the eternal green life of the growing Wheat, bursting itsbonds, and in his heart exulting in his triumph over the grave, flungout his arms with a mighty shout:

"Oh, Death, where is thy sting? Oh, Grave, where is thy victory?"

CHAPTER IV

Presley's Socialistic poem, "The Toilers, " had an enormous success. Theeditor of the Sunday supplement of the San Francisco paper to whichit was sent, printed it in Gothic type, with a scare-head title sodecorative as to be almost illegible, and furthermore caused the poem tobe illustrated by one of the paper's staff artists in a most impressivefashion. The whole affair occupied an entire page. Thus advertised, thepoem 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 withthe most violent condemnation. Editorials were written upon it. Specialarticles, 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 asan 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. Washe actually the "greatest American poet since Bryant"? He had had nothought of fame while composing "The Toilers. " He had only been movedto his heart's foundations, --thoroughly in earnest, seeing clearly, --andhad addressed himself to the poem's composition in a happy moment whenwords came easily to him, and the elaboration of fine sentences was notdifficult. Was it thus fame was achieved? For a while he was temptedto 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 thischeap reward. Now he was too much in earnest. He wanted to help hisPeople, the community in which he lived--the little world of the SanJoaquin, at grapples with the Railroad. The struggle had found its poet. He told himself that his place was here. Only the words of the managerof a lecture bureau troubled him for a moment. To range the entirenation, telling all his countrymen of the drama that was working itselfout on this fringe of the continent, this ignored and distant PacificCoast, rousing their interest and stirring them up to action--appealedto him. It might do great good. To devote himself to "the Cause, "accepting no penny of remuneration; to give his life to loosing the gripof the iron-hearted monster of steel and steam would be beyond questionheroic. Other States than California had their grievances. All over thecountry the family of cyclops was growing. He would declare himself thechampion of the People in their opposition to the Trust. He would be anapostle, a prophet, a martyr of Freedom. 

But Presley was essentially a dreamer, not a man of affairs. Hehesitated to act at this precise psychological moment, striking whilethe iron was yet hot, and while he hesitated, other affairs near at handbegan to absorb his attention. 

One night, about an hour after he had gone to bed, he was awakened bythe sound of voices on the porch of the ranch house, and, descending, found Mrs. Dyke there with Sidney. The ex-engineer's mother was talkingto Magnus and Harran, and crying as she talked. It seemed that Dyke wasmissing. He had gone into town early that afternoon with the wagon andteam, and was to have been home for supper. By now it was ten o'clockand there was no news of him. Mrs. Dyke told how she first had goneto Quien Sabe, intending to telephone from there to Bonneville, butAnnixter was in San Francisco, and in his absence the house waslocked up, and the over-seer, who had a duplicate key, was himselfin Bonneville. She had telegraphed three times from Guadalajara toBonneville 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 LosMuertos to the Governor's, to beg him to telephone into Bonneville, toknow what had become of Dyke. 

While Harran rang up Central in town, Mrs. Dyke told Presley and Magnusof the lamentable change in Dyke. 

"They have broken my son's spirit, Mr. Derrick, " she said. "If you wereonly there to see. Hour after hour, he sits on the porch with his handslying open in his lap, looking at them without a word. He won't lookme in the face any more, and he don't sleep. Night after night, he haswalked the floor until morning. And he will go on that way for daystogether, 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 isterrible--into an awful rage, cursing, swearing, grinding his teeth, his hands clenched over his head, stamping so that the house shakes, andsaying that if S. Behrman don't give him back his money, he will killhim with his two hands. But that isn't the worst, Mr. Derrick. He goesto Mr. Caraher's saloon now, and stays there for hours, and listensto Mr. Caraher. There is something on my son's mind; I know thereis--something that he and Mr. Caraher have talked over together, andI can't find out what it is. Mr. Caraher is a bad man, and my son hasfallen under his influence. " The tears filled her eyes. Bravely, sheturned to hide them, turning away to take Sidney in her arms, puttingher head upon the little girl's shoulder. 

"I--I haven't broken down before, Mr. Derrick, " she said, "but after wehave been so happy in our little house, just us three--and the futureseemed so bright--oh, God will punish the gentlemen who own the railroadfor being so hard and cruel. "

Harran came out on the porch, from the telephone, and she interruptedherself, fixing her eyes eagerly upon him. 

"I think it is all right, Mrs. Dyke, " he said, reassuringly. "We knowwhere he is, I believe. You and the little tad stay here, and Hooven andI will go after him. "

About two hours later, Harran brought Dyke back to Los Muertos inHooven's wagon. He had found him at Caraher's saloon, very drunk. 

There was nothing maudlin about Dyke's drunkenness. In him the alcoholmerely roused the spirit of evil, vengeful, reckless. 

As the wagon passed out from under the eucalyptus trees about the ranchhouse, taking Mrs. Dyke, Sidney, and the one-time engineer back to thehop ranch, Presley leaning from his window heard the latter remark:

"Caraher is right. There is only one thing they listen to, and that'sdynamite. "

The following day Presley drove Magnus over to Guadalajara to take thetrain 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 affairsin that quarter. He returned to Los Muertos overwhelmed with sadness andtrembling with anger. The hop ranch that he had last seen in the fulltide of prosperity was almost a ruin. Work had evidently been abandonedlong since. Weeds were already choking the vines. Everywhere the polessagged and drooped. Many had even fallen, dragging the vines with them, spreading them over the ground in an inextricable tangle of deadleaves, decaying tendrils, and snarled string. The fence was broken;the unfinished storehouse, which never was to see completion, was alamentable spectacle of gaping doors and windows--a melancholy skeleton. Last of all, Presley had caught a glimpse of Dyke himself, seated inhis rocking chair on the porch, his beard and hair unkempt, motionless, looking with vague eyes upon his hands that lay palm upwards and idle inhis 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 thesmoking-car of the train, this latter, pushing back his hat andsmoothing 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 wasright. The Governor had aged suddenly. His former erectness wasgone, the broad shoulders stooped a little, the strong lines of histhin-lipped mouth were relaxed, and his hand, as it clasped over theyellowed ivory knob of his cane, had an unwonted tremulousness nothitherto noticeable. But the change in Magnus was more than physical. At last, in the full tide of power, President of the League, known andtalked of in every county of the State, leader in a great struggle, consulted, deferred to as the "Prominent Man, " at length attaining thatposition, so long and vainly sought for, he yet found no pleasure inhis triumph, and little but bitterness in life. His success had come bydevious 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, hehad connived with knavery, he, the politician of the old school, of suchrigorous integrity, who had abandoned a "career" rather than compromisewith honesty. At this eleventh hour, involved and entrapped in thefine-spun web of a new order of things, bewildered by Osterman'sdexterity, by his volubility and glibness, goaded and harassed beyondthe point of reason by the aggression of the Trust he fought, he had atlast failed. He had fallen he had given a bribe. He had thought that, after all, this would make but little difference with him. The affairwas known only to Osterman, Broderson, and Annixter; they would notjudge him, being themselves involved. He could still preserve a boldfront; could still hold his head high. As time went on the affair wouldlose its point. 

But this was not so. Some subtle element of his character had forsakenhim. He felt it. He knew it. Some certain stiffness that had given himall his rigidity, that had lent force to his authority, weight to hisdominance, temper to his fine, inflexible hardness, was diminishingday by day. In the decisions which he, as President of the League, wascalled upon to make so often, he now hesitated. He could no longerbe arrogant, masterful, acting upon his own judgment, independent ofopinion. He began to consult his lieutenants, asking their advice, distrusting his own opinions. He made mistakes, blunders, and when thosewere brought to his notice, took refuge in bluster. He knew it to bebluster--knew that sooner or later his subordinates would recognise itas such. How long could he maintain his position? So only he could keephis grip upon the lever of control till the battle was over, all wouldbe 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 asto 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'sExecutive Committee, certain test cases had been chosen, which shouldrepresent all the lands in question. Neither Magnus nor Annixter hadso appealed, believing, of course, that their cases were covered by thetest cases on trial at Washington. Magnus had here blundered again, andthe League's agents in San Francisco had written to warn him that theRailroad might be able to take advantage of a technicality, and bypretending that neither Quien Sabe nor Los Muertos were included in theappeal, attempt to put its dummy buyers in possession of the two ranchesbefore the Supreme Court handed down its decision. The ninety daysallowed for taking this appeal were nearly at an end and after then theRailroad could act. Osterman and Magnus at once decided to go up to thecity, there joining Annixter (who had been absent from Quien Sabe forthe last ten days), and talk the matter over with Lyman. Lyman, becauseof his position as Commissioner, might be cognisant of the Railroad'splans, and, at the same time, could give sound legal advice as to whatwas to be done should the new rumour prove true. 

"Say, " remarked Osterman, as the train pulled out of the Bonnevillestation, and the two men settled themselves for the long journey, "sayGovernor, what's all up with Buck Annixter these days? He's got a beanabout something, sure. "

"I had not noticed, " answered Magnus. "Mr. Annixter has been awaysome time lately. I cannot imagine what should keep him so long in SanFrancisco. "

"That's it, " said Osterman, winking. "Have three guesses. Guess rightand you get a cigar. I guess g-i-r-l spells Hilma Tree. And a littlewhile 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, " observedMagnus. "A fine figure of a woman. She would make some man a good wife. "

"Hoh! Wife! Buck Annixter marry! Not much. He's gone a-girling at last, old Buck! It's as funny as twins. Have to josh him about it when I seehim, sure. "

But when Osterman and Magnus at last fell in with Annixter in thevestibule of the Lick House, on Montgomery Street, nothing could be gotout of him. He was in an execrable humour. When Magnus had broached thesubject of business, he had declared that all business could go to pot, and when Osterman, his tongue in his cheek, had permitted himself amost 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 somuch for?"

"Cat fur, to make kitten-breeches, " retorted Annixter with oracularvagueness. 

Two weeks before this time, Annixter had come up to the city andhad gone at once to a certain hotel on Bush Street, behind the FirstNational Bank, that he knew was kept by a family connection of theTrees. In his conjecture that Hilma and her parents would stop here, hewas right. Their names were on the register. Ignoring custom, Annixtermarched 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 returnedalone, leaving Hilma to spend the day with one of her cousins who livedfar out on Stanyan Street in a little house facing the park. 

Between Annixter and Hilma's parents, a reconciliation had beeneffected, Annixter convincing them both of his sincerity in wishing tomake Hilma his wife. Hilma, however, refused to see him. As soon asshe knew he had followed her to San Francisco she had been unwillingto return to the hotel and had arranged with her cousin to spend anindefinite time at her house. 

She was wretchedly unhappy during all this time; would not set foot outof doors, and cried herself to sleep night after night. She detested thecity. Already she was miserably homesick for the ranch. She rememberedthe days she had spent in the little dairy-house, happy in her work, making butter and cheese; skimming the great pans of milk, scouring thecopper vessels and vats, plunging her arms, elbow deep, into the whitecurds; 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 ofthe cocks, the distant whistle of the passing trains, the faint soundingof the Angelus. She recalled with infinite longing the solitary expanseof the ranches, the level reaches between the horizons, full of lightand silence; the heat at noon, the cloudless iridescence of the sunriseand sunset. She had been so happy in that life! Now, all those days werepassed. This crude, raw city, with its crowding houses all of woodand tin, its blotting fogs, its uproarious trade winds, disturbed andsaddened 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 itspuff of white silk her mother had bought for her, a pink shirtwaist, herbelt of imitation alligator skin, her new skirt of brown cloth, and herlow shoes, set off with their little steel buckles. 

She found a tiny summer house, built in Japanese fashion, around adiminutive 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 toofrightened to move. She looked at him with wide eyes that began to fillwith tears. 

"Oh, " she said, at last, "oh--I didn't know. "

"Well, " exclaimed Annixter, "here you are at last. I've been watchingthat blamed house till I was afraid the policeman would move me on. Bythe Lord, " he suddenly cried, "you're pale. You--you, Hilma, do you feelwell?"

"Yes--I am well, " she faltered. 

"No, you're not, " he declared. "I know better. You are coming back toQuien Sabe with me. This place don't agree with you. Hilma, what'sall the matter? Why haven't you let me see you all this time? Do youknow--how things are with me? Your mother told you, didn't she? Do youknow how sorry I am? Do you know that I see now that I made the mistakeof my life there, that time, under the Long Trestle? I found it out thenight after you went away. I sat all night on a stone out on the ranchsomewhere and I don't know exactly what happened, but I've been adifferent man since then. I see things all different now. Why, I've onlybegun to live since then. I know what love means now, and instead ofbeing ashamed of it, I'm proud of it. If I never was to see you again Iwould be glad I'd lived through that night, just the same. I just wokeup that night. I'd been absolutely and completely selfish up to themoment I realised I really loved you, and now, whether you'll let memarry you or not, I mean to live--I don't know, in a different way. I'veGOT to live different. I--well--oh, I can't make you understand, butjust loving you has changed my life all around. It's made it easierto 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, ofbeing glad that people hated me and were afraid of me? Well, since I'veloved you I'm ashamed of it all. I don't want to be hard any more, andnobody is going to hate me if I can help it. I'm happy and I want otherpeople so. I love you, " he suddenly exclaimed; "I love you, and if youwill 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 youunderstand, 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 aweek 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 thelittle 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--" Allat once she turned to him and put her arms around his neck. "Oh, DO youlove 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? Youwill be my dear, dear husband?"

The tears sprang to Annixter's eyes. He took her in his arms and heldher there for a moment. Never in his life had he felt so unworthy, soundeserving of this clean, pure girl who forgave him and trusted hisspoken word and believed him to be the good man he could only wish tobe. She was so far above him, so exalted, so noble that he should havebowed 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 wordsto say. The tears overflowed his eyes and ran down upon his cheeks. Shedrew away from him and held him a second at arm's length, looking athim, 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 satin the deserted little Japanese pleasure house, their arms about eachother, talking, talking, talking. 

On the following Saturday they were married in an uptown Presbyterianchurch, and spent the week of their honeymoon at a small, family hotelon Sutter Street. As a matter of course, they saw the sights of the citytogether. They made the inevitable bridal trip to the Cliff House andspent an afternoon in the grewsome and made-to-order beauties ofSutro's Gardens; they went through Chinatown, the Palace Hotel, thepark museum--where Hilma resolutely refused to believe in the Egyptianmummy--and they drove out in a hired hack to the Presidio and the GoldenGate. 

On the sixth day of their excursions, Hilma abruptly declared they hadhad enough of "playing out, " and must be serious and get to work. 

This work was nothing less than the buying of the furniture andappointments for the rejuvenated ranch house at Quien Sabe, where theywere to live. Annixter had telegraphed to his overseer to have thebuilding repainted, replastered, and reshingled and to empty the roomsof everything but the telephone and safe. He also sent instructions tohave the dimensions of each room noted down and the result forwardedto him. It was the arrival of these memoranda that had roused Hilma toaction. 

Then ensued a most delicious week. Armed with formidable lists, writtenby Annixter on hotel envelopes, they two descended upon the departmentstores of the city, the carpet stores, the furniture stores. Right andleft they bought and bargained, sending each consignment as soon aspurchased to Quien Sabe. Nearly an entire car load of carpets, curtains, kitchen furniture, pictures, fixtures, lamps, straw matting, chairs, andthe like were sent down to the ranch, Annixter making a point that theirnew home should be entirely equipped by San Francisco dealers. 

The furnishings of the bedroom and sitting-room were left to the verylast. For the former, Hilma bought a "set" of pure white enamel, threechairs, a washstand and bureau, a marvellous bargain of thirty dollars, discovered by wonderful accident at a "Friday Sale. " The bed was apiece by itself, bought elsewhere, but none the less a wonder. It was ofbrass, very brave and gay, and actually boasted a canopy! They boughtit complete, just as it stood in the window of the department store andHilma 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 abed 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 asingle suggestion himself, merely approved of all she bought. In thesitting-room was to be a beautiful blue and white paper, cool strawmatting, 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 coveredwith a deep shade of crinkly red tissue paper. On the walls were to hangseveral pictures--lovely affairs, photographs from life, all properlytinted--of choir boys in robes, with beautiful eyes; pensive young girlsin pink gowns, with flowing yellow hair, drooping over golden harps; acoloured 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, --quitemasterpieces, both. 

At last everything had been bought, all arrangements made, Hilma'strunks packed with her new dresses, and the tickets to Bonnevillebought. 

"We'll go by the Overland, by Jingo, " declared Annixter across thetable to his wife, at their last meal in the hotel where they had beenstopping; "no way trains or locals for us, hey?"

"But we reach Bonneville at SUCH an hour, " protested Hilma. "Five in themorning!"

"Never mind, " he declared, "we'll go home in PULLMAN'S, Hilma. I'm notgoing to have any of those slobs in Bonneville say I didn't know how todo 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, Idon't shine, perhaps, but I know what's due my wife. "

He was obdurate, and late one afternoon the couple boarded theTranscontinental (the crack Overland Flyer of the Pacific andSouthwestern) at the Oakland mole. Only Hilma's parents were there tosay 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 bedignified, but that goat Osterman, one could never tell what he would donext. 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 wickertelescope baskets, satchels, and valises, his tickets in his mouth, hishat on wrong side foremost, Hilma and her parents hurrying on behindhim, trying to keep up. Annixter was in a turmoil of nerves lestsomething should go wrong; catching a train was always for him a littlecrisis. He rushed ahead so furiously that when he had found his Pullmanhe had lost his party. He set down his valises to mark the place andcharged back along the platform, waving his arms. 

"Come on, " he cried, when, at length, he espied the others. "We've nomore 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, afine way to treat passengers! There was P. And S. W. Management foryou. He would, by the Lord, he would--but the porter appeared in thevestibule of the car to placate him. He had already taken his valisesinside. 

Annixter would not permit Hilma's parents to board the car, declaringthat the train might pull out any moment. So he and his wife, followingthe porter down the narrow passage by the stateroom, took their placesand, 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 hadfound a business chance awaiting him in the matter of supplying hisrelative's hotel with dairy products. But Bonneville was not too farfrom San Francisco; the separation was by no means final. 

The porters began taking up the steps that stood by the vestibule ofeach sleeping-car. 

"Well, have a good time, daughter, " observed her father; "and come up tosee us whenever you can. "

From beyond the enclosure of the depot's reverberating roof came themeasured clang of a bell. 

"I guess we're off, " cried Annixter. "Good-bye, Mrs. Tree. "

"Remember your promise, Hilma, " her mother hastened to exclaim, "towrite every Sunday afternoon. "

There came a prolonged creaking and groan of straining wood and ironwork, all along the length of the train. They all began to cry theirgood-byes at once. The train stirred, moved forward, and gathering slowheadway, rolled slowly out into the sunlight. Hilma leaned out of thewindow and as long as she could keep her mother in sight waved herhandkerchief. Then at length she sat back in her seat and looked at herhusband. 

"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 thatit?"

It was true that Hilma had felt a faint tremour of seasickness on theferry-boat coming from the city to the Oakland mole. No doubt a littlenausea yet remained with her. But Annixter refused to accept thisexplanation. 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 'roundto-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 youlie 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 thesubject drop, protesting that she had dark circles under her eyes; thatshe had grown thinner. 

"Wonder if there's a doctor on board, " he murmured, looking uncertainlyabout the car. "Let me see your tongue. I know--a little whiskey is whatyou 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 herfists, the thumbs tucked inside. She closed her eyes, shaking her headenergetically. 

"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, andthe first call for supper, and your wife is hungry. "

They went forward and had supper in the diner, while the long train, nowout upon the main line, settled itself to its pace, the prolonged, evengallop that it would hold for the better part of the week, spinning outthe miles as a cotton spinner spins thread. 

It was already dark when Antioch was left behind. Abruptly the sunsetappeared to wheel in the sky and readjusted itself to the right of thetrack behind Mount Diablo, here visible almost to its base. The trainhad turned southward. Neroly was passed, then Brentwood, then Byron. In the gathering dusk, mountains began to build themselves up on eitherhand, 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, billowingin the wind of the train's passage. The mountains grew higher, theland richer, and by the time the moon rose, the train was well into thenorthernmost limits of the valley of the San Joaquin. 

Annixter had engaged an entire section, and after he and his wife wentto bed had the porter close the upper berth. Hilma sat up in bed tosay her prayers, both hands over her face, and then kissing Annixtergood-night, went to sleep with the directness of a little child, holdinghis hand in both her own. 

Annixter, who never could sleep on the train, dozed and tossed andfretted for hours, consulting his watch and time-table whenever therewas a stop; twice he rose to get a drink of ice water, and betweenwhiles was forever sitting up in the narrow berth, stretching himselfand yawning, murmuring with uncertain relevance:

"Oh, Lord! Oh-h-h LORD!"

There were some dozen other passengers in the car--a lady with threechildren, a group of school-teachers, a couple of drummers, a stoutgentleman with whiskers, and a well-dressed young man in a plaidtravelling cap, whom Annixter had observed before supper time readingDaudet'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 couldhear one of the lady's children fidgeting and complaining. The stoutgentleman snored monotonously in two notes, one a rasping bass, theother a prolonged treble. At intervals, a brakeman or the passengerconductor pushed down the aisle, between the curtains, his red andwhite lamp over his arm. Looking out into the car Annixter saw in an endsection where the berths had not been made up, the porter, in his whiteduck coat, dozing, his mouth wide open, his head on his shoulder. 

The hours passed. Midnight came and went. Annixter, checking off thestations, 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 shadewith both hands on either side of his face and looked out. The night wasthick, dark, clouded over. A fine rain was falling, leaving horizontalstreaks on the glass of the outside window. Only the faintest grey blurindicated the sky. Everything else was impenetrable blackness. 

"I think sure we must have passed Fresno, " he muttered. He looked at hiswatch. It was about half-past three. "If we have passed Fresno, " he saidto himself, "I'd better wake the little girl pretty soon. She'll needabout an hour to dress. Better find out for sure. "

He drew on his trousers and shoes, got into his coat, and stepped outinto the aisle. In the seat that had been occupied by the porter, the Pullman conductor, his cash box and car-schedules before him, waschecking up his berths, a blue pencil behind his ear. 

"What's the next stop, Captain?" inquired Annixter, coming up. "Have wereached Fresno yet?"

"Just passed it, " the other responded, looking at Annixter over hisspectacles. 

"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 preventa fall, and the conductor's cash box was shunted off the surface of theplush seat and came clanking to the floor. The Pintsch lights overheadvibrated with blinding rapidity in the long, sliding jar that ranthrough the train from end to end, and the momentum of its speedsuddenly decreasing, all but pitched the conductor from his seat. Ahideous ear-splitting rasp made itself heard from the clamped-downWestinghouse gear underneath, and Annixter knew that the wheels hadceased to revolve and that the train was sliding forward upon themotionless flanges. 

"Hello, hello, " he exclaimed, "what's all up now?"

"Emergency brakes, " declared the conductor, catching up his cash box andthrusting his papers and tickets into it. "Nothing much; probably a cowon the track. "

He disappeared, carrying his lantern with him. 

But the other passengers, all but the stout gentleman, were awake; headswere 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 onthe track, I guess. Don't get scared. It isn't anything. "

But with a final shriek of the Westinghouse appliance, the train came toa definite halt. 

At once the silence was absolute. The ears, still numb with thelong-continued roar of wheels and clashing iron, at first refused toregister correctly the smaller noises of the surroundings. Voices camefrom the other end of the car, strange and unfamiliar, as though heardat a great distance across the water. The stillness of the night outsidewas so profound that the rain, dripping from the car roof upon theroad-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 thesound of hurried footsteps crushing into the clinkers by the side of theties. 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 redbeard ran down the aisle and out upon the platform in front. The forwarddoor closed. Everything was quiet again. In the stillness the fatgentleman's snores made themselves heard once more. 

The minutes passed; nothing stirred. There was no sound but the drippingrain. The line of cars lay immobilised and inert under the night. One ofthe 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 youthey 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 outthe 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 almostsimultaneously; then, after a long interval, a fourth. 

"Say, that's SHOOTING. By God, boys, they're shooting. Say, this is ahold-up. "

Instantly a white-hot excitement flared from end to end of thecar. Incredibly sinister, heard thus in the night, and in the rain, mysterious, fearful, those four pistol shots started confusion from outthe sense of security like a frightened rabbit hunted from her burrow. Wide-eyed, the passengers of the car looked into each other's faces. Ithad come to them at last, this, they had so often read about. Now theywere to see the real thing, now they were to face actuality, face thisdanger of the night, leaping in from out the blackness of the roadside, masked, armed, ready to kill. They were facing it now. They were heldup. 

Hilma said nothing, only catching Annixter's hand, looking squarely intohis 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 betterof 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 toeach other, looking to the men, silently appealing for protection. Twoof 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, smiledreassuringly, and said:

"I'm not a bit frightened. They won't do anything to us if we keepquiet. I've my watch and jewelry all ready for them in my little blackbag, see?"

She exhibited it to the passengers. Her children were all awake. Theywere quiet, looking about them with eager faces, interested and amusedat this surprise. In his berth, the fat gentleman with whiskers snoredprofoundly. 

"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; "theyare after the Wells-Fargo box and the registered mail. You won't do anygood out there. "

But the other loudly protested. No; he was going out. He didn't proposeto be buncoed without a fight. He wasn't any coward. 

"Well, you don't go, that's all, " said his friend, angrily. "There'swomen 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 bepacified, but still holding his pistol. 

"Don't let him open that window, " cried Annixter sharply from his placeby Hilma's side, for the drummer had made as if to open the sash in oneof the sections that had not been made up. 

"Sure, that's right, " said the others. "Don't open any windows. Keepyour 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 theothers could interfere and draw him away. 

"Say, by jove, " he shouted, as he turned back to the car, "our engine'sgone. 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 lookedout. Sure enough, the train was without a locomotive. 

"They've done it so we can't get away, " vociferated the drummer withthe pistol. "Now, by jiminy-Christmas, they'll come through the cars andstand 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 thetrain, came the sound of a heavy explosion. The windows of the carvibrated with it. 

"Shooting again. "

"That isn't shooting, " exclaimed Annixter. "They've pulled the expressand mail car on ahead with the engine and now they are dynamiting heropen. "

"That must be it. Yes, sure, that's just what they are doing. "

The forward door of the car opened and closed and the school-teachersshrieked and cowered. The drummer with the revolver faced about, hiseyes bulging. However, it was only the train conductor, hatless, hislantern 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 hewas in a bad temper. 

"I don't know anything more than you, " he shouted angrily. "It was ahold-up. I guess you know that, don't you? Well, what more do you wantto know? I ain't got time to fool around. They cut off our express carand have cracked it open, and they shot one of our train crew, that'sall, 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 toknow?"

The well-dressed young man stepped forward. 

"I'm a doctor, " he said. "Well, come along then, " returned theconductor, in a surly voice, "and the passengers in this car, " he added, turning back at the door and nodding his head menacingly, "will go backto 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 seemeddeserted. Helpless, bereft of its engine, a huge, decapitated monster itlay, half-way around a curve, rained upon, abandoned. 

There was more fear in this last condition of affairs, more terrorin the idea of this prolonged line of sleepers, with their nickelledfittings, 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 enginewas gone; they were helpless. What next was to happen?

Nobody came near the car. Even the porter had disappeared. The waitseemed endless, and the persistent snoring of the whiskered gentlemanrasped the nerves like the scrape of a file. 

"Well, how long are we going to stick here now?" began one of thedrummers. "Wonder if they hurt the engine with their dynamite?"

"Oh, I know they will come through the car and rob us, " wailed theschool-teachers. 

The lady with the little children went back to bed, and Annixter, assured that the trouble was over, did likewise. But nobody slept. Fromberth to berth came the sound of suppressed voices talking it all over, formulating conjectures. Certain points seemed to be settled upon, noone knew how, as indisputable. The highwaymen had been four in numberand had stopped the train by pulling the bell cord. A brakeman hadattempted to interfere and had been shot. The robbers had been on thetrain all the way from San Francisco. The drummer named Max rememberedto have seen four "suspicious-looking characters" in the smoking-carat Lathrop, and had intended to speak to the conductor about them. Thisdrummer had been in a hold-up before, and told the story of it over andover again. 

At last, after what seemed to have been an hour's delay, and when thedawn had already begun to show in the east, the locomotive backed on tothe train again with a reverberating jar that ran from car to car. Atthe jolting, the school-teachers screamed in chorus, and the whiskeredgentleman 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, whatplace is this?"

The others roared with derision. 

"We were HELD UP, sir, that's what we were. We were held up and youslept through it all. You missed the show of your life. "

The gentleman fixed the group with a prolonged gaze. He said never aword, but little by little he was convinced that the drummers told thetruth. All at once he grew wrathful, his face purpling. He withdrew hishead angrily, buttoning his curtains together in a fury. The cause ofhis rage was inexplicable, but they could hear him resettling himselfupon his pillows with exasperated movements of his head and shoulders. In a few moments the deep bass and shrill treble of his snoring oncemore sounded through the car. 

At last the train got under way again, with useless warning blasts ofthe engine's whistle. In a few moments it was tearing away throughthe dawn at a wonderful speed, rocking around curves, roaring acrossculverts, making up time. 

And all the rest of that strange night the passengers, sitting up intheir unmade beds, in the swaying car, lighted by a strange mingling ofpallid dawn and trembling Pintsch lights, rushing at break-neck speedthrough the misty rain, were oppressed by a vision of figures of terror, far behind them in the night they had left, masked, armed, gallopingtoward the mountains pistol in hand, the booty bound to the saddlebow, galloping, galloping on, sending a thrill of fear through all thecountry side. 

The young doctor returned. He sat down in the smoking-room, lighting acigarette, and Annixter and the drummers pressed around him to know thestory of the whole affair. 

"The man is dead, " he declared, "the brakeman. He was shot through thelungs twice. They think the fellow got away with about five thousand ingold coin. "

"The fellow? Wasn't there four of them?"

"No; only one. And say, let me tell you, he had his nerve with him. Itseems he was on the roof of the express car all the time, and going asfast as we were, he jumped from the roof of the car down on to the coalon the engine's tender, and crawled over that and held up the men in thecab 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 thatcame through here once or twice--had a red mustache. "

"THAT chap?" "Sure. Well, as soon as the train stopped, this brakemanguessed something was wrong and ran up, saw the fellow cutting off theexpress car and took a couple of shots at him, and the fireman saysthe fellow didn't even take his hand off the coupling-pin; just turnedaround 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 hadcome 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 thefellow had him covered before he could turn round. Held him up and tookhis 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'dcut the express car off, he made the engineer run her up the track abouthalf a mile to a road crossing, WHERE HE HAD A HORSE TIED. What do youthink of that? Didn't he have it all figured out close? And when he gotthere, he dynamited the safe and got the Wells-Fargo box. He took fivethousand in gold coin; the messenger says it was railroad money that thecompany were sending down to Bakersfield to pay off with. It was in abag. He never touched the registered mail, nor a whole wad of greenbacksthat were in the safe, but just took the coin, got on his horse, and litout. 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 thebrakeman recognised him positively. We got his ante-mortem statement. The brakeman said the fellow had a grudge against the road. He was adischarged 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, itlanded Annixter and Hilma in the midst of the very thing they mostwished to avoid--an enormous crowd. The news that the Overland had beenheld up thirty miles south of Fresno, a brakeman killed and the safelooted, and that Dyke alone was responsible for the night's work, had been wired on ahead from Fowler, the train conductor throwing thedespatch to the station agent from the flying train. 

Before the train had come to a standstill under the arched roof of theBonneville depot, it was all but taken by assault. Annixter, with Hilmaon his arm, had almost to fight his way out of the car. The depot wasblack with people. S. Behrman was there, Delaney, Cyrus Ruggles, thetown marshal, the mayor. Genslinger, his hat on the back of hishead, ranged the train from cab to rear-lights, note-book in hand, interviewing, questioning, collecting facts for his extra. As Annixterdescended finally to the platform, the editor, alert as a black-and-tanterrier, 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 jobbecause he wouldn't work for starvation wages. Then you raised freightrates on him and robbed him of all he had. You ruined him and drove himto fill himself up with Caraher's whiskey. He's only taken back what youplundered 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 SanQuentin. That's my version of the affair, Mister Genslinger, but it'sworth your subsidy from the P. And S. W. To print it. "

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd that stood around, andGenslinger, with an angry shrug of one shoulder, took himself away. 

At length, Annixter brought Hilma through the crowd to where young Vaccawas waiting with the team. However, they could not at once start forthe ranch, Annixter wishing to ask some questions at the freight officeabout a final consignment of chairs. It was nearly eleven o'clock beforethey could start home. But to gain the Upper Road to Quien Sabe, it wasnecessary to traverse all of Main Street, running through the heart ofBonneville. 

The entire town seemed to be upon the sidewalks. By now the rain wasover and the sun shining. The story of the hold-up--the work of a manwhom every one knew and liked--was in every mouth. How had Dyke come todo it? Who would have believed it of him? Think of his poor motherand the little tad. Well, after all, he was not so much to blame; therailroad people had brought it on themselves. But he had shot a manto death. Ah, that was a serious business. Good-natured, big, broad-shouldered, jovial Dyke, the man they knew, with whom they hadshaken 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 theywere 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 mountainsrose 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 washidden 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 daywho 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 rearentrance of the City Hall. Fully twenty saddle horses were tied tothe iron rail underneath the scant, half-grown trees near by, and asAnnixter and Hilma drove by, the crowd parted and a dozen men withrevolvers on their hips pushed their way to the curbstone, and, mountingtheir horses, rode away at a gallop. 

"It's the posse, " said young Vacca. 

Outside the town limits the ground was level. There was nothing toobstruct the view, and to the north, in the direction of Osterman'sranch, Vacca made out another party of horsemen, galloping eastward, andbeyond these still another. 

"There're the other posses, " he announced. "That further one is ArchieMoore's. He's the sheriff. He came down from Visalia on a special enginethis morning. "

When the team turned into the driveway to the ranch house, Hilma uttereda little cry, clasping her hands joyfully. The house was one glitterof new white paint, the driveway had been freshly gravelled, theflower-beds replenished. Mrs. Vacca and her daughter, who had been busyputting on the finishing touches, came to the door to welcome them. 

"What's this case here?" asked Annixter, when, after helping his wifefrom the carry-all, his eye fell upon a wooden box of some three by fivefeet 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 inwith this. "

Annixter and young Vacca bore the case into the sitting-room of thehouse, and Annixter, hammer in hand, attacked it vigorously. Vaccadiscreetly withdrew on signal from his mother, closing the door afterhim. 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 topand wrenched with all his might. The boards had been clamped together bya 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 bytypewriter to Annixter. It bore the trade-mark of a business firm of LosAngeles. Annixter glanced at this and promptly caught it up before Hilmacould see, with an exclamation of intelligence. 

"Oh, I know what this is, " he observed, carelessly trying to restrainher busy hands. "It isn't anything. Just some machinery. Let it go. "But already she had pulled away the excelsior. Underneath, in temporaryracks, 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'slook through the rooms. "

"But you said you knew what it was, " she protested, bewildered. "Youwanted to make believe it was machinery. Are you keeping anything fromme? Tell me what it all means. Oh, why are you getting--these?"

She caught his arm, looking with intense eagerness into his face. Shehalf 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 tojump Quien Sabe or Los Muertos or any of the other ranches--we made upour minds--the Leaguers have--that we wouldn't let it. That's all. "

"And I thought, " cried Hilma, drawing back fearfully from the case ofrifles, "and I thought it was a wedding present. "

And that was their home-coming, the end of their bridal trip. Throughthe terror of the night, echoing with pistol shots, through that sceneof robbery and murder, into this atmosphere of alarms, a man-huntorganising, armed horsemen silhouetted against the horizons, cases ofrifles where wedding presents should have been, Annixter brought hisyoung wife to be mistress of a home he might at any moment be calledupon to defend with his life. 

The days passed. Soon a week had gone by. Magnus Derrick and Ostermanreturned from the city without any definite idea as to the Corporation'splans. Lyman had been reticent. He knew nothing as to the progress ofthe land cases in Washington. There was no news. The Executive Committeeof the League held a perfunctory meeting at Los Muertos at which nothingbut routine business was transacted. A scheme put forward by Ostermanfor a conference with the railroad managers fell through because of therefusal of the company to treat with the ranchers upon any other basisthan that of the new grading. It was impossible to learn whether or notthe company considered Los Muertos, Quien Sabe, and the ranches aroundBonneville covered by the test cases then on appeal. 

Meanwhile there was no decrease in the excitement that Dyke's hold-uphad set loose over all the county. Day after day it was the one topic ofconversation, at street corners, at cross-roads, over dinner tables, inoffice, bank, and store. S. Behrman placarded the town with a noticeof $500. 00 reward for the ex-engineer's capture, dead or alive, and theexpress company supplemented this by another offer of an equal amount. The country was thick with parties of horsemen, armed with riflesand revolvers, recruited from Visalia, Goshen, and the few railroadsympathisers around Bonneville and Guadlajara. One after another ofthese returned, empty-handed, covered with dust and mud, their horsesexhausted, to be met and passed by fresh posses starting out to continuethe pursuit. The sheriff of Santa Clara County sent down his bloodhoundsfrom San Jose--small, harmless-looking dogs, with a terrific bay--tohelp 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 buttsclashed on the asphalt pavements of Bonneville; accidental discharges ofrevolvers brought the whole town into the street; farm hands calledto each other across the fences of ranch-divisions--in a word, thecountry-side was in an uproar. 

And all to no effect. The hoof-marks of Dyke's horse had been traced inthe mud of the road to within a quarter of a mile of the foot-hills andthere irretrievably lost. Three days after the hold-up, a sheep-herderwas found who had seen the highwayman on a ridge in the highermountains, to the northeast of Taurusa. And that was absolutely all. Rumours were thick, promising clews were discovered, new trails takenup, but nothing transpired to bring the pursuers and pursued any closertogether. Then, after ten days of strain, public interest began to flag. It was believed that Dyke had succeeded in getting away. If this wastrue, he had gone to the southward, after gaining the mountains, andit would be his intention to work out of the range somewhere near thesouthern part of the San Joaquin, near Bakersfield. Thus, the sheriffs, marshals, and deputies decided. They had hunted too many criminals inthese mountains before not to know the usual courses taken. In time, Dyke MUST come out of the mountains to get water and provisions. Butthis time passed, and from not one of the watched points came any wordof his appearance. At last the posses began to disband. Little by littlethe pursuit was given up. 

Only S. Behrman persisted. He had made up his mind to bring Dyke in. Hesucceeded in arousing the same degree of determination in Delaney--bynow, a trusted aide of the Railroad--and of his own cousin, a realestate broker, named Christian, who knew the mountains and had once beenmarshal of Visalia in the old stock-raising days. These two went intothe Sierras, accompanied by two hired deputies, and carrying with them amonth's provisions and two of the bloodhounds loaned by the Santa Clarasheriff. 

On a certain Sunday, a few days after the departure of Christian andDelaney, Annixter, who had been reading "David Copperfield" in hishammock on the porch of the ranch house, put down the book and went tofind Hilma, who was helping Louisa Vacca set the table for dinner. Hefound her in the dining-room, her hands full of the gold-bordered chinaplates, only used on special occasions and which Louisa was forbidden totouch. 

His wife was more than ordinarily pretty that day. She wore a dress offlowered organdie over pink sateen with pink ribbons about her waist andneck, and on her slim feet the low shoes she always affected, with theirsmart, bright buckles. Her thick, brown, sweet-smelling hair washeaped high upon her head and set off with a bow of black velvet, andunderneath the shadow of its coils, her wide-open eyes, rimmed withthe thin, black line of her lashes, shone continually, reflectingthe sunlight. Marriage had only accentuated the beautiful maturity ofHilma's figure--now no longer precocious--defining the single, deepswell from her throat to her waist, the strong, fine amplitude of herhips, the sweet feminine undulation of her neck and shoulders. Hercheeks were pink with health, and her large round arms carried thepiled-up dishes with never a tremour. Annixter, observant enough wherehis wife was concerned noted how the reflection of the white china set aglow of pale light underneath her chin. 

"Hilma, " he said, "I've been wondering lately about things. We're soblamed happy ourselves it won't do for us to forget about other peoplewho are down, will it? Might change our luck. And I'm just likely toforget 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 nobodyain't thought about at all. That's MRS. Dyke--and the little tad. Iwouldn't be surprised if they were in a hole over there. What do yousay we drive over to the hop ranch after dinner and see if she wantsanything?"

Hilma put down the plates and came around the table and kissed himwithout a word. 

As soon as their dinner was over, Annixter had the carry-all hitchedup, and, dispensing with young Vacca, drove over to the hop ranch withHilma. 

Hilma could not keep back the tears as they passed through thelamentable desolation of the withered, brown vines, symbols of perishedhopes and abandoned effort, and Annixter swore between his teeth. 

Though the wheels of the carry-all grated loudly on the roadway in frontof the house, nobody came to the door nor looked from the windows. Theplace seemed tenantless, infinitely lonely, infinitely sad. Annixtertied the team, and with Hilma approached the wide-open door, scufflingand tramping on the porch to attract attention. Nobody stirred. A Sundaystillness pervaded the place. Outside, the withered hop-leaves rustledlike dry paper in the breeze. The quiet was ominous. They peered intothe 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, herhead, with its white hair, down upon her arm. A clutter of unwasheddishes 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 dailieswere scattered all over the room. On the table itself were crumpledyellow telegrams, a dozen of them, a score of them, blowing about in thedraught from the door. And in the midst of all this disarray, surroundedby the published accounts of her son's crime, the telegraphed answersto her pitiful appeals for tidings fluttering about her head, thehighwayman's mother, worn out, abandoned and forgotten, slept throughthe stillness of the Sunday afternoon. 

Neither Hilma nor Annixter ever forgot their interview with Mrs. Dykethat day. Suddenly waking, she had caught sight of Annixter, and at onceexclaimed eagerly:

"Is there any news?"

For a long time afterwards nothing could be got from her. She was numbto all other issues than the one question of Dyke's capture. She did notanswer their questions nor reply to their offers of assistance. Hilmaand Annixter conferred together without lowering their voices, at hervery elbow, while she looked vacantly at the floor, drawing one handover the other in a persistent, maniacal gesture. From time to time shewould start suddenly from her chair, her eyes wide, and as if all atonce realising Annixter's presence, would cry out:

"Is there any news?"

"Where is Sidney, Mrs. Dyke?" asked Hilma for the fourth time. "Is shewell? 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, rockingherself back and forth, drawing one hand over the other, "he didn't doit, 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. Hilmaput her arms around the poor, old woman, as she bowed herself again uponthe table, sobbing and weeping. 

"Oh, my son, my son, " she cried, "my own boy, my only son! If I couldhave died for you to have prevented this. I remember him when he waslittle. Such a splendid little fellow, so brave, so loving, with neveran unkind thought, never a mean action. So it was all his life. We werenever apart. It was always 'dear little son, ' and 'dear mammy' betweenus--never once was he unkind, and he loved me and was the gentlestson to me. And he was a GOOD man. He is now, he is now. They don'tunderstand him. They are not even sure that he did this. He nevermeant 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, theywouldn't let him alone. He was not right in his mind. They hounded himto it, " she cried fiercely, "they hounded him to it. They drove him andgoaded him till he couldn't stand it any longer, and now they mean tokill him for turning on them. They are hunting him with dogs; nightafter 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 neverforgive them. " She rose to her feet, terrible, her white hair unbound. "May God punish them as they deserve, may they never prosper--on myknees I shall pray for it every night--may their money be a curse tothem, may their sons, their first-born, only sons, be taken from them intheir youth. "

But Hilma interrupted, begging her to be silent, to be quiet. The tearscame 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 Ihad, to have come to this! He was not right in his mind or he would haveknown it would break my heart. Oh, my son, my son, if I could have diedfor you. "

Sidney came in, clinging to her dress, weeping, imploring her not tocry, protesting that they never could catch her papa, that he would comeback soon. Hilma took them both, the little child and the broken-downold woman, in the great embrace of her strong arms, and they all threesobbed together. 

Annixter stood on the porch outside, his back turned, looking straightbefore him into the wilderness of dead vines, his teeth shut hard, hislower lip thrust out. 

"I hope S. Behrman is satisfied with all this, " he muttered. "I hope heis satisfied now, damn his soul!"

All at once an idea occurred to him. He turned about and reentered theroom. 

"Mrs Dyke, " he began, "I want you and Sidney to come over and live atQuien Sabe. I know--you can't make me believe that the reporters andofficers and officious busy-faces that pretend to offer help just so asthey can satisfy their curiosity aren't nagging you to death. I want youto let me take care of you and the little tad till all this trouble ofyours is over with. There's plenty of place for you. You can have thehouse my wife's people used to live in. You've got to look these thingsin the face. What are you going to do to get along? You must be veryshort of money. S. Behrman will foreclose on you and take the wholeplace in a little while, now. I want you to let me help you, let Hilmaand me be good friends to you. It would be a privilege. "

Mrs. Dyke tried bravely to assume her pride, insisting that she couldmanage, but her spirit was broken. The whole affair ended unexpectedly, with Annixter and Hilma bringing Dyke's mother and little girl back toQuien Sabe in the carry-all. 

Mrs. Dyke would not take with her a stick of furniture nor a singleornament. It would only serve to remind her of a vanished happiness. Shepacked a few clothes of her own and Sidney's in a little trunk, Hilmahelping her, and Annixter stowed the trunk under the carry-all's backseat. Mrs. Dyke turned the key in the door of the house and Annixterhelped 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 andlooked back at the ruin of the hop ranch, the roof of the house justshowing above the trees. She never saw it again. 

As soon as Annixter and Hilma were alone, after their return to QuienSabe--Mrs. Dyke and Sidney having been installed in the Trees' oldhouse--Hilma threw her arms around her husband's neck. 

"Fine, " she exclaimed, "oh, it was fine of you, dear to think of themand 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 littlewhile 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 becauseit's made you a better man. I'm so proud and glad to think it's so. Itis 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 foundwaiting for them, Louisa Vacca came to the door of the dining-roomto say that Harran Derrick had telephoned over from Los Muertos forAnnixter, and had left word for him to ring up Los Muertos as soon as hecame 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 Muertosat once. Magnus answered the call. There was a special meeting of theExecutive Committee of the League summoned for the next day, he toldAnnixter. It was for the purpose of considering the new grain tariffprepared by the Railroad Commissioners. Lyman had written that theschedule of this tariff had just been issued, that he had not been ableto construct it precisely according to the wheat-growers' wishes, and that he, himself, would come down to Los Muertos and explain itsapparent discrepancies. Magnus said Lyman would be present at thesession. 

Annixter, curious for details, forbore, nevertheless, to question. Theconnection from Los Muertos to Quien Sabe was made through Bonneville, and in those troublesome times no one could be trusted. It could notbe known who would overhear conversations carried on over the lines. He assured Magnus that he would be on hand. The time for the Committeemeeting had been set for seven o'clock in the evening, in order toaccommodate Lyman, who wrote that he would be down on the evening train, but would be compelled, by pressure of business, to return to the cityearly the next morning. 

At the time appointed, the men composing the Committee gathered aboutthe table in the dining-room of the Los Muertos ranch house. It wasalmost a reproduction of the scene of the famous evening when Ostermanhad proposed the plan of the Ranchers' Railroad Commission. MagnusDerrick 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 everymember of the Committee, lounged as before on the sofa, smokingcigarettes, the cat Nathalie on his knee. Besides Magnus and Annixter, Osterman was present, and old Broderson and Harran; Garnet from theRuby Rancho and Gethings of the San Pablo, who were also members of theExecutive Committee, were on hand, preoccupied, bearded men, smokingblack cigars, and, last of all, Dabney, the silent old man, of whomlittle was known but his name, and who had been made a member of theCommittee, 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 hecalled the meeting to order. "The Secretary will call the roll. "

Osterman called the roll, and, to fill in the time, read over theminutes of the previous meeting. The treasurer was making his report asto the funds at the disposal of the League when Lyman arrived. 

Magnus and Harran went forward to meet him, and the Committee ratherawkwardly rose and remained standing while the three exchangedgreetings, 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 thelatest fashion, his clothes of careful design and unimpeachable fit. Hisshoes, of patent leather, reflected the lamplight, and he carried adrab overcoat over his arm. Before being introduced to the Committee, heexcused himself a moment and ran to see his mother, who waited for himin the adjoining sitting-room. But in a few moments he returned, askingpardon 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 wasevidently anxious to please, to produce a good impression upon thegrave, clumsy farmers before whom he stood. But at the same time, Presley, watching him from his place on the sofa, could imagine that hewas rather nervous. He was too nimble in his cordiality, and the littlegestures he made in bringing his cuffs into view and in touching theends of his tight, black mustache with the ball of his thumb wererepeated 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 goodlooks, his correct dress, his ease of manner. Lyman shook hands allaround, keeping up a flow of small talk, finding a new phrase for eachmember, complimenting Osterman, whom he already knew, upon his talentfor organisation, recalling a mutual acquaintance to the mind of oldBroderson. 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 theCommittee, stating again that the Board of Railway Commissioners whichthey--the ranchers--had succeeded in seating had at length issued thenew schedule of reduced rates, and that Mr. Derrick had been obligingenough to offer to come down to Los Muertos in person to acquaint thewheat-growers of the San Joaquin with the new rates for the carriage oftheir grain. 

But Lyman very politely protested, addressing his father punctiliouslyas "Mr. Chairman, " and the other ranchers as "Gentlemen of the ExecutiveCommittee of the League. " He had no wish, he said, to disarrange theregular proceedings of the Committee. Would it not be preferable todefer the reading of his report till "new business" was called for?In the meanwhile, let the Committee proceed with its usual work. Heunderstood the necessarily delicate nature of this work, and would bepleased to withdraw till the proper time arrived for him to speak. 

"Good deal of backing and filling about the reading of a column offigures, " muttered Annixter to the man at his elbow. 

Lyman "awaited the Committee's decision. " He sat down, touching the endsof his mustache. 

"Oh, play ball, " growled Annixter. 

Gethings rose to say that as the meeting had been called solely for thepurpose of hearing and considering the new grain tariff, he was of theopinion that routine business could be dispensed with and the scheduleread 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 commerciallawyer, which rolled off his tongue with the most persuasive fluency. By degrees, in the course of his speech, he began to insinuate the ideathat the wheat-growers had never expected to settle their difficultieswith the Railroad by the work of a single commission; that theyhad counted upon a long, continued campaign of many years, railwaycommission succeeding railway commission, before the desired low ratesshould be secured; that the present Board of Commissioners was only thebeginning and that too great results were not expected from them. Allthis he contrived to mention casually, in the talk, as if it were aforegone conclusion, a matter understood by all. 

As the speech continued, the eyes of the ranchers around the table werefixed with growing attention upon this well-dressed, city-bred youngman, who spoke so fluently and who told them of their own intentions. Afeeling of perplexity began to spread, and the first taint of distrustinvaded their minds. 

"But the good work has been most auspiciously inaugurated, " continuedLyman. "Reforms so sweeping as the one contemplated cannot beaccomplished in a single night. Great things grow slowly, benefits tobe permanent must accrue gradually. Yet, in spite of all this, yourcommissioners have done much. Already the phalanx of the enemyis pierced, already his armour is dinted. Pledged as were yourcommissioners to an average ten per cent. Reduction in rates for thecarriage of grain by the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad, we haverigidly adhered to the demands of our constituency, we have obeyed thePeople. The main problem has not yet been completely solved; that isfor later, when we shall have gathered sufficient strength to attack theenemy in his very stronghold; BUT AN AVERAGE TEN PER CENT. CUT HAS BEENMADE ALL OVER THE STATE. We have made a great advance, have taken agreat step forward, and if the work is carried ahead, upon the lineslaid down by the present commissioners and their constituents, thereis every reason to believe that within a very few years equitable andstable rates for the shipment of grain from the San Joaquin Valley toStockton, Port Costa, and tidewater will be permanently imposed. "

"Well, hold on, " exclaimed Annixter, out of order and ignoring theGovernor's reproof, "hasn't your commission reduced grain rates in theSan 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, forinstance, 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 anyreduction 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 thisright? 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 inthe San Joaquin the very first move; that is for later. But you will seewe made very material reductions on shipments from the upper SacramentoValley; also the rate from Ione to Marysville has been reduced eightycents a ton. "

"Why, rot, " cried Annixter, "no one ever ships wheat that way. "

"The Salinas rate, " continued Lyman, "has been lowered seventy-fivecents; the St. Helena rate fifty cents, and please notice the verydrastic cut from Red Bluff, north, along the Oregon route, to the OregonState Line. "

"Where not a carload of wheat is shipped in a year, " commented Gethingsof the San Pablo. 

"Oh, you will find yourself mistaken there, Mr. Gethings, " returnedLyman courteously. "And for the matter of that, a low rate wouldstimulate wheat-production in that district. "

The order of the meeting was broken up, neglected; Magnus did not evenpretend to preside. In the growing excitement over the inexplicableschedule, routine was not thought of. Every one spoke at will. 

"Why, Lyman, " demanded Magnus, looking across the table to his son, "isthis 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 werebefore we secured your election as commissioner. "

"We were pledged to make an average ten per cent. Cut, sir----" "It ISan 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 bycutting grain rates between points where practically no grain isshipped. We, the wheat-growers in the San Joaquin, where all the wheatis grown, are right where we were before. The Railroad won't lose anickel. By Jingo, boys, " he glanced around the table, "I'd like to knowwhat this means. "

"The Railroad, if you come to that, " returned Lyman, "has already lodgeda 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 ratesit don't 'protest, ' m' son. The first you hear from Mr. Shelgrim isan injunction from the courts preventing the order for new rates fromtaking effect. By the Lord, " he cried angrily, leaping to his feet, "Iwould like to know what all this means, too. Why didn't you reduce ourgrain rates? What did we elect you for?"

"Yes, what did we elect you for?" demanded Osterman and Gethings, alsogetting to their feet. 

"Order, order, gentlemen, " cried Magnus, remembering the duties of hisoffice and rapping his knuckles on the table. "This meeting has beenallowed to degenerate too far already. "

"You elected us, " declared Lyman doggedly, "to make an average tenper cent. Cut on grain rates. We have done it. Only because you don'tbenefit at once, you object. It makes a difference whose ox is gored, itseems. "

"Lyman!"

It was Magnus who spoke. He had drawn himself to his full six feet. Hiseyes 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 toomuch. I told you that this question of transportation was difficult. You would not wish to put rates so low that the action would amount toconfiscation 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 tobe approached IN TIME. The main point was AN AVERAGE TEN PER CENT. REDUCTION. Rates WILL be lowered in the San Joaquin. The ranchers aroundBonneville will be able to ship to Port Costa at equitable rates, but soradical 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, shakinghis finger across the table. "What do we men who backed you care aboutrates up in Del Norte and Siskiyou Counties? Not a whoop in hell. It wasthe San Joaquin rate we were fighting for, and we elected you to reducethat. 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. Havehad their spoon in this boiling. It's because our commissioners havebetrayed us. It's because we're a set of damn fool farmers and have beencinched again. "

Lyman paled under his dark skin at the direct attack. He evidently hadnot expected this so soon. For the fraction of one instant he lost hispoise. He strove to speak, but caught his breath, stammering. 

"What have you to say, then?" cried Harran, who, until now, had notspoken. 

"I have this to say, " answered Lyman, making head as best he might, "that this is no proper spirit in which to discuss business. TheCommission has fulfilled its obligations. It has adjusted rates tothe best of its ability. We have been at work for two months on thepreparation of this schedule----"

"That's a lie, " shouted Annixter, his face scarlet; "that's a lie. Thatschedule was drawn in the offices of the Pacific and Southwestern andyou know it. It's a scheme of rates made for the Railroad and by theRailroad and you were bought over to put your name to it. "

There was a concerted outburst at the words. All the men in the roomwere on their feet, gesticulating and vociferating. 

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, " cried Magnus, "are we schoolboys, are weruffians 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'vemisunderstood. You've expected too much. Next year, --next year, --soonnow, the Commission will take up the--the Commission will consider theSan 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 thematter over again from the beginning. But Magnus did not listen. Inthat brief lapse of time he was convinced that the terrible thing hadhappened, that the unbelievable had come to pass. It was in the air. Between father and son, in some subtle fashion, the truth that was alie stood suddenly revealed. But even then Magnus would not receive it. Lyman do this! His son, his eldest son, descend to this! Once more andfor the last time he turned to him and in his voice there was that ringthat compelled silence. 

"Lyman, " he said, "I adjure you--I--I demand of you as you are my sonand 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 amember of the Railroad Commission. It is your father who speaks, and Iaddress you as my son. Do you understand the gravity of this crisis;do you realise the responsibility of your position; do you not see theimportance of this moment? Explain yourself. "

"There is nothing to explain. "

"You have not reduced rates in the San Joaquin? You have not reducedrates 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; haveyou reduced the Bonneville rate?"

"No. "

"And answer ME, " shouted Harran, leaning far across the table, "answerME. Were you paid by the Railroad to leave the San Joaquin rateuntouched?"

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'sface that you WERE paid to do it. "

On the instant the clamour burst forth afresh. Still on their feet, theranchers had, little by little, worked around the table, Magnus alonekeeping his place. The others were in a group before Lyman, crowdinghim, as it were, to the wall, shouting into his face with menacinggestures. The truth that was a lie, the certainty of a trust betrayed, apledge 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 yourson a level with mine again, I'll slap it. "

"Keep your hands off, " exclaimed Lyman quickly, the aggressiveness ofthe cornered rat flaming up within him. "No violence. Don't you go toofar. "

"How much were you paid? How much were you paid?" vociferated Harran. 

"Yes, yes, what was your price?" cried the others. They were besidethemselves with anger; their words came harsh from between their setteeth; their gestures were made with their fists clenched. 

"You know the Commission acted in good faith, " retorted Lyman. "You knowthat all was fair and above board. "

"Liar, " shouted Annixter; "liar, bribe-eater. You were bought and paidfor, " and with the words his arm seemed almost of itself to leap outfrom his shoulder. Lyman received the blow squarely in the face and theforce of it sent him staggering backwards toward the wall. He trippedover his valise and fell half way, his back supported against the closeddoor of the room. Magnus sprang forward. His son had been struck, andthe 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 flashedto his mind. He lowered his upraised arm. No, he had but one son. The poor, staggering creature with the fine clothes, white face, andblood-streaked lips was no longer his. A blow could not dishonour himmore 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 myhouse. "

Lyman, his handkerchief to his lips, his smart cravat in disarray, caught up his hat and coat. He was shaking with fury, his protrudingeyes were blood-shot. He swung open the door. 

"Ruffians, " he shouted from the threshold, "ruffians, bullies. Do yourown 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'reso clean and straight? You weren't so particular at Sacramento justbefore 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 hethinks about that. Ask him how much he paid the Democratic bosses atSacramento to swing the convention. "

He went out, slamming the door. 

Presley followed. The whole affair made him sick at heart, filled himwith infinite disgust, infinite weariness. He wished to get away from itall. He left the dining-room and the excited, clamouring men behind himand stepped out on the porch of the ranch house, closing the door behindhim. Lyman was nowhere in sight. Presley was alone. It was late, andafter the lamp-heated air of the dining-room, the coolness of the nightwas delicious, and its vast silence, after the noise and fury of thecommittee meeting, descended from the stars like a benediction. Presleystepped to the edge of the porch, looking off to southward. 

And there before him, mile after mile, illimitable, covering the earthfrom 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 mightyforce, the strength of nations, the life of the world. There in thenight, under the dome of the sky, it was growing steadily. To Presley'smind, the scene in the room he had just left dwindled to paltryinsignificance before this sight. Ah, yes, the Wheat--it was over thisthat the Railroad, the ranchers, the traitor false to his trust, allthe members of an obscure conspiracy, were wrangling. As if humanagency could affect this colossal power! What were these heated, tinysquabbles, this feverish, small bustle of mankind, this minute swarmingof the human insect, to the great, majestic, silent ocean of the Wheatitself! Indifferent, gigantic, resistless, it moved in its appointedgrooves. Men, Liliputians, gnats in the sunshine, buzzed impudently intheir tiny battles, were born, lived through their little day, died, andwere forgotten; while the Wheat, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, grew steadilyunder the night, alone with the stars and with God. 

CHAPTER V. 

Jack-rabbits were a pest that year and Presley occasionally foundamusement in hunting them with Harran's half-dozen greyhounds, followingthe chase on horseback. One day, between two and three months afterLyman s visit to Los Muertos, as he was returning toward the ranch housefrom a distant and lonely quarter of Los Muertos, he came unexpectedlyupon a strange sight. 

Some twenty men, Annixter's and Osterman's tenants, and small ranchersfrom east of Guadalajara--all members of the League--were going throughthe manual of arms under Harran Derrick's supervision. They were allequipped with new Winchester rifles. Harran carried one of these himselfand with it he illustrated the various commands he gave. As soon as oneof the men under his supervision became more than usually proficient, hewas told off to instruct a file of the more backward. After the manualof arms, Harran gave the command to take distance as skirmishers, andwhen the line had opened out so that some half-dozen feet intervenedbetween each man, an advance was made across the field, the men stoopinglow and snapping the hammers of their rifles at an imaginary enemy. 

The League had its agents in San Francisco, who watched the movementsof the Railroad as closely as was possible, and some time before this, Annixter had received word that the Marshal and his deputies were comingdown 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 ithad stimulated the League to unusual activity, and some three or fourhundred men were furnished with arms and from time to time were drilledin secret. 

Among themselves, the ranchers said that if the Railroad managers didnot 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 theranch house that same day. Harran had caught up with him by the time hereached the Lower Road, and the two jogged homeward through the miles ofstanding wheat. 

"They may jump the ranch, Pres, " he said, "if they try hard enough, butthey will never do it while I am alive. By the way, " he added, "you knowwe served notices yesterday upon S. Behrman and Cy. Ruggles to quit thecountry. Of course, they won't do it, but they won't be able to say theydidn't have warning. "

About an hour later, the two reached the ranch house, but as Harran rodeup 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 gianteucalyptus tree near by. Harran, uneasy under this unexpected visit ofthe enemy's friend, dismounted without stabling his horse, and went atonce to the dining-room, where visitors were invariably received. Butthe dining-room was empty, and his mother told him that Magnus andthe editor were in the "office. " Magnus had said they were not to bedisturbed. 

Earlier in the afternoon, the editor had driven up to the porch and hadasked 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 Phelpsto inspect the condition of the young wheat on Hooven's holding, butwithin half an hour he returned, and Genslinger had asked him for a "fewmoments' 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 hisalert, jerky manner, his black, bead-like eyes twinkling around the roomfrom 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 thenthe small holding can be cultivated to better advantage. I shall have aneditorial 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 onemanagement. "

"That may be, that may be, " rejoined the other. 

There was a long pause. Genslinger leaned back in his chair and rubbeda knee. Magnus, standing erect in front of the safe, waited for him tospeak. 

"This is an unfortunate business, Governor, " began the editor, "thismisunderstanding between the ranchers and the Railroad. I wish it couldbe adjusted. HERE are two industries that MUST be in harmony with oneanother, 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 beganagain. He did not look at Magnus, except at long intervals. 

"About the present Railroad Commission, " he remarked. "That was aninteresting campaign you conducted in Sacramento and San Francisco. "

Magnus held his peace, his hands shut tight. Did Genslinger know ofLyman's disgrace? Was it for this he had come? Would the story of it bethe leading article in to-morrow's Mercury?

"An interesting campaign, " repeated Genslinger, slowly; "a veryinteresting campaign. I watched it with every degree of interest. I sawits every phase, Mr. Derrick. "

"The campaign was not without its interest, " admitted Magnus. 

"Yes, " said Genslinger, still more deliberately, "and some phases of itwere--more interesting than others, as, for instance, let us say theway in which you--personally--secured the votes of certain chairmen ofdelegations--NEED I particularise further? Yes, those men--the wayyou got their votes. Now, THAT I should say, Mr. Derrick, was the mostinteresting move in the whole game--to you. Hm, curious, " he murmured, musingly. "Let's see. You deposited two one-thousand dollar bills andfour five-hundred dollar bills in a box--three hundred and eight wasthe number--in a box in the Safety Deposit Vaults in San Francisco, andthen--let's see, you gave a key to this box to each of the gentlemenin question, and after the election the box was empty. Now, I call thatinteresting--curious, because it's a new, safe, and highly ingeniousmethod of bribery. How did you happen to think of it, Governor?"

"Do you know what you are doing, sir?" Magnus burst forth. "Do you knowwhat you are insinuating, here, in my own house?"

"Why, Governor, " returned the editor, blandly, "I'm not INSINUATINGanything. 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 GrandJury, if you want to. "

"My character is known all over the State, " blustered Magnus. "Mypolitics are pure politics. My----"

"No one needs a better reputation for pure politics than the man whosets out to be a briber, " interrupted Genslinger, "and I might as welltell you, Governor, that you can't shout me down. I can put my handon the two chairmen you bought before it's dark to-day. I've had theirdepositions in my safe for the last six weeks. We could make the arreststo-morrow, if we wanted. Governor, you sure did a risky thing when youwent into that Sacramento fight, an awful risky thing. Some men canafford to have bribery charges preferred against them, and it don't hurtone little bit, but YOU--Lord, it would BUST you, Governor, bust youdead. I know all about the whole shananigan business from A to Z, andif you don't believe it--here, " he drew a long strip of paper from hispocket, "here's a galley proof of the story. "

Magnus took it in his hands. There, under his eyes, scare-headed, double-leaded, the more important clauses printed in bold type, was thedetailed 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 forexactness. 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 Derrickfinished 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 letyou see it before it was published. "

The one thought uppermost in Derrick's mind, his one impulse of themoment was, at whatever cost, to preserve his dignity, not to allowthis man to exult in the sight of one quiver of weakness, one trace ofdefeat, one suggestion of humiliation. By an effort that put all hisiron rigidity to the test, he forced himself to look straight intoGenslinger's eyes. 

"I congratulate you, " he observed, handing back the proof, "upon yourjournalistic enterprise. Your paper will sell to-morrow. " "Oh, Idon't know as I want to publish this story, " remarked the editor, indifferently, putting away the galley. "I'm just like that. The funfor me is running a good story to earth, but once I've got it, I loseinterest. And, then, I wouldn't like to see you--holding the positionyou do, President of the League and a leading man of the county--Iwouldn't like to see a story like this smash you over. It's worthmore to you to keep it out of print than for me to put it in. I've gotnothing much to gain but a few extra editions, but you--Lord, you wouldlose everything. Your committee was in the deal right enough. But yourLeague, all the San Joaquin Valley, everybody in the State believes thecommissioners were fairly elected. "

"Your story, " suddenly exclaimed Magnus, struck with an idea, "willbe thoroughly discredited just so soon as the new grain tariff ispublished. I have means of knowing that the San Joaquin rate--the issueupon which the board was elected--is not to be touched. Is it likely theranchers would secure the election of a board that plays them false?"

"Oh, we know all about that, " answered Genslinger, smiling. "You thoughtyou were electing Lyman easily. You thought you had got the Railroad towalk right into your trap. You didn't understand how you could pull offyour deal so easily. Why, Governor, LYMAN WAS PLEDGED TO THE RAILROADTWO YEARS AGO. He was THE ONE PARTICULAR man the corporation wanted forcommissioner. And your people elected him--saved the Railroad all thetrouble of campaigning for him. And you can't make any counter chargeof bribery there. No, sir, the corporation don't use such amateurishmethods as that. Confidentially and between us two, all that theRailroad 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 hisposition. "It really is too bad to see good men trying to bunt a stonewall over with their bare heads. You couldn't have won at any stage ofthe game. I wish I could have talked to you and your friends before youwent into that Sacramento fight. I could have told you then how littlechance you had. When will you people realise that you can't buck againstthe Railroad? Why, Magnus, it's like me going out in a paper boat andshooting peas at a battleship. "

"Is that all you wished to see me about, Mr. Genslinger?" remarkedMagnus, bestirring himself. "I am rather occupied to-day. " "Well, "returned the other, "you know what the publication of this article wouldmean for you. " He paused again, took off his glasses, breathed on them, polished the lenses with his handkerchief and readjusted them on hisnose. "I've been thinking, Governor, " he began again, with renewedalertness, 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 toillustrate the paper. You see, if I had a photo-engraving plant ofmy own, I could do a good deal of outside jobbing as well, and theinvestment 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 goodplant. I've been figuring out the business. Besides the plant, therewould be the expense of a high grade paper. Can't print half-tones onanything but coated paper, and that COSTS. Well, what with this and withthat and running expenses till the thing began to pay, it would costme about ten thousand dollars, and I was wondering if, perhaps, youcouldn'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 onhim 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 muchabout securities. In fact, I believed you would see how greatly it wasto your advantage to talk business with me. You see, I'm not going toprint this article about you, Governor, and I'm not going to let it getout so as any one else can print it, and it seems to me that one goodturn deserves another. You understand?"

Magnus understood. An overwhelming desire suddenly took possession ofhim to grip this blackmailer by the throat, to strangle him where hestood; or, if not, at least to turn upon him with that old-time terribleanger, before which whole conventions had once cowered. But in the samemoment the Governor realised this was not to be. Only its righteousnesshad made his wrath terrible; only the justice of his anger had made himfeared. Now the foundation was gone from under his feet; he had knockedit 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 notresent an insult. Genslinger rose, smoothing his hat. 

"Well, " he said, "of course, you want time to think it over, and youcan't raise money like that on short notice. I'll wait till Friday noonof this week. We begin to set Saturday's paper at about four, Fridayafternoon, 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 findanything disagreeable in your Saturday morning 'Mercury, ' Mr. Derrick. "

He went out, closing the door behind him, and in a moment, Magnus heardthe wheels of his buckboard grating on the driveway. 

The following morning brought a letter to Magnus from Gethings, of theSan Pueblo ranch, which was situated very close to Visalia. The letterwas to the effect that all around Visalia, upon the ranches affected bythe regrade of the Railroad, men were arming and drilling, and that thestrength of the League in that quarter was undoubted. "But to refer, "continued the letter, "to a most painful recollection. You will, nodoubt, remember that, at the close of our last committee meeting, specific charges were made as to fraud in the nomination and electionof one of our commissioners, emanating, most unfortunately, from thecommissioner himself. These charges, my dear Mr. Derrick, were directedat yourself. How the secrets of the committee have been noised about, I cannot understand. You may be, of course, assured of my ownunquestioning confidence and loyalty. However, I regret exceedinglyto state not only that the rumour of the charges referred to above isspreading in this district, but that also they are made use of by theenemies of the League. It is to be deplored that some of the Leaguersthemselves--you know, we number in our ranks many small farmers, ignorant Portuguese and foreigners--have listened to these storiesand have permitted a feeling of uneasiness to develop among them. Eventhough it were admitted that fraudulent means had been employed in theelections, which, of course, I personally do not admit, I do not thinkit would make very much difference in the confidence which the vastmajority of the Leaguers repose in their chiefs. Yet we have so insistedupon the probity of our position as opposed to Railroad chicanery, that I believe it advisable to quell this distant suspicion at once; topublish a denial of these rumoured charges would only be to give themtoo much importance. However, can you not write me a letter, statingexactly how the campaign was conducted, and the commission nominated andelected? I could show this to some of the more disaffected, and it wouldserve to allay all suspicion on the instant. I think it would be wellto write as though the initiative came, not from me, but from yourself, ignoring this present letter. I offer this only as a suggestion, andwill 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 thefiling cabinet in his office, and wiped the sweat from his forehead andface. He stood for one moment, his hands rigid at his sides, his fistsclinched. 

"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 withconscience, 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, worsethan all, worse than all, the consciousness of lost self-respect, theknowledge of a prestige vanishing, a dignity impaired, knowledge thatthe grip which held a multitude in check was trembling, that controlwas wavering, that command was being weakened. Then the little tricksto deceive the crowd, the little subterfuges, the little pretences thatkept up appearances, the lies, the bluster, the pose, the strut, thegasconade, where once was iron authority; the turning of the head soas not to see that which could not be prevented; the suspicion ofsuspicion, the haunting fear of the Man on the Street, the uneasinessof the direct glance, the questioning as to motives--why had this beensaid, what was meant by that word, that gesture, that glance?

Wednesday passed, and Thursday. Magnus kept to himself, seeing novisitors, avoiding even his family. How to break through the mesh of thenet, how to regain the old position, how to prevent discovery? If therewere only some way, some vast, superhuman effort by which he could risein his old strength once more, crushing Lyman with one hand, Genslingerwith the other, and for one more moment, the last, to stand supremeagain, indomitable, the leader; then go to his death, triumphant at theend, his memory untarnished, his fame undimmed. But the plague-spotwas in himself, knitted forever into the fabric of his being. ThoughGenslinger should be silenced, though Lyman should be crushed, thougheven the League should overcome the Railroad, though he should be theacknowledged leader of a resplendent victory, yet the plague-spotwould remain. There was no success for him now. However conspicuousthe outward achievement, he, he himself, Magnus Derrick, had failed, miserably and irredeemably. 

Petty, material complications intruded, sordid considerations. Even ifGenslinger was to be paid, where was the money to come from? His legalbattles 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 resultingin Lyman's election had drawn heavily upon his account. All along hehad been relying upon a "bonanza crop" to reimburse him. It was notbelievable that the Railroad would "jump" Los Muertos, but if thisshould 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 ofredress! Would it not cripple him financially? Genslinger could dohis worst. He, Magnus, would brave it out. Was not his character abovesuspicion?

Was it? This letter of Gethings's. Already the murmur of uneasinessmade itself heard. Was this not the thin edge of the wedge? How thepublication of Genslinger's story would drive it home! How the spark ofsuspicion would flare into the blaze of open accusation! There would beinvestigations. Investigation! There was terror in the word. He couldnot stand investigation. Magnus groaned aloud, covering his head withhis 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 ironintegrity, abandoning a career rather than enter the "new politics, "had, in one moment of weakness, hazarding all, even honour, on a singlestake, taking great chances to achieve great results, swept away thework of a lifetime. 

Gambler that he was, he had at last chanced his highest stake, hispersonal honour, in the greatest game of his life, and had lost. 

It was Presley's morbidly keen observation that first noticed theevidence of a new trouble in the Governor's face and manner. Presley wassure that Lyman's defection had not so upset him. The morning after thecommittee meeting, Magnus had called Harran and Annie Derrick into theoffice, and, after telling his wife of Lyman's betrayal, had forbiddeneither of them to mention his name again. His attitude towards hisprodigal son was that of stern, unrelenting resentment. But now, Presleycould not fail to detect traces of a more deep-seated travail. Somethingwas in the wind, the times were troublous. What next was about tohappen? What fresh calamity impended?

One morning, toward the very end of the week, Presley woke early in hissmall, white-painted iron bed. He hastened to get up and dress. Therewas much to be done that day. Until late the night before, he hadbeen at work on a collection of some of his verses, gathered from themagazines in which they had first appeared. Presley had received aliberal offer for the publication of these verses in book form. "TheToilers" was to be included in this book, and, indeed, was to give itits name--"The Toilers and Other Poems. " Thus it was that, until theprevious midnight, he had been preparing the collection for publication, revising, annotating, arranging. The book was to be sent off thatmorning. 

But also Presley had received a typewritten note from Annixter, invitinghim to Quien Sabe that same day. Annixter explained that it was Hilma'sbirthday, and that he had planned a picnic on the high ground of hisranch, at the headwaters of Broderson Creek. They were to go in thecarry-all, Hilma, Presley, Mrs. Dyke, Sidney, and himself, and were tomake 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 ofAnnixter--more so than ever since his marriage with Hilma and theastonishing transformation of his character. Hilma, as well, wasdelightful as Mrs. Annixter; and Mrs. Dyke and the little tad had alwaysbeen his friends. He would have a good time. 

But nobody was to go into Bonneville that morning with the mail, and ifhe 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 onhorseback to Quien Sabe, by way of Bonneville. 

It was barely six o'clock when Presley sat down to his coffee and eggsin the dining-room of Los Muertos. The day promised to be hot, andfor the first time, Presley had put on a new khaki riding suit, veryEnglish-looking, though in place of the regulation top-boots, he worehis laced knee-boots, with a great spur on the left heel. Harran joinedhim at breakfast, in his working clothes of blue canvas. He was boundfor 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 hadhis usual luck. Practically, every acre of the ranch was sown towheat, and everywhere the stand is good. I was over on Two, day beforeyesterday, and if nothing happens, I believe it will go thirty sacksto the acre there. Cutter reports that there are spots on Four where wewill get forty-two or three. Hooven, too, brought up some wonderful fineears for me to look at. The grains were just beginning to show. Some ofthe ears carried twenty grains. That means nearly forty bushels of wheatto 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 tothe stable-corral to get his pony. 

As he rode out of the stable-yard and passed by the ranch house, onthe driveway, he was surprised to see Magnus on the lowest step of theporch. 

"Good morning, Governor, " called Presley. "Aren't you up pretty early?"

"Good morning, Pres, my boy. " The Governor came forward and, putting hishand 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 apackage of papers, but they involve a considerable sum of money, andyou must be careful of them. A few years ago, when our enmity was not sostrong, Mr. Genslinger and I had some business dealings with eachother. I thought it as well just now, considering that we are so openlyopposed, to terminate the whole affair, and break off relations. We cameto a settlement a few days ago. These are the final papers. They must begiven to him in person, Presley. You understand. "

Presley cantered on, turning into the county road and holding northwardby the mammoth watering tank and Broderson's popular windbreak. As hepassed 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 favourablelight. He found, to his immense astonishment, that Caraher knewsomething of Mill and Bakounin, not, however, from their books, butfrom extracts and quotations from their writings, reprinted in theanarchistic journals to which he subscribed. More than once, the two hadheld long conversations, and from Caraher's own lips, Presley heardthe terrible story of the death of his wife, who had been accidentallykilled by Pinkertons during a "demonstration" of strikers. It investedthe saloon-keeper, in Presley's imagination, with all the dignity of thetragedy. He could not blame Caraher for being a "red. " He even wonderedhow it was the saloon-keeper had not put his theories into practice, andadjusted 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 Presleyhad protested against his radical ideas. "You don't know the Railroadyet. Watch it and its doings long enough, and you'll come over to my wayof thinking, too. "

It was about half-past seven when Presley reached Bonneville. Thebusiness part of the town was as yet hardly astir; he despatched hismanuscript, and then hurried to the office of the "Mercury. " Genslinger, as he feared, had not yet put in appearance, but the janitor of thebuilding gave Presley the address of the editor's residence, and it wasthere he found him in the act of sitting down to breakfast. Presley washardly courteous to the little man, and abruptly refused his offer of adrink. He delivered Magnus's envelope to him and departed. 

It had occurred to him that it would not do to present himself at QuienSabe on Hilma's birthday, empty-handed, and, on leaving Genslinger'shouse, he turned his pony's head toward the business part of the townagain pulling up in front of the jeweller's, just as the clerk wastaking down the shutters. 

At the jeweller's, he purchased a little brooch for Hilma and at thecigar stand in the lobby of the Yosemite House, a box of superfinecigars, which, when it was too late, he realised that the masterof Quien Sabe would never smoke, holding, as he did, with defiantinconsistency, to miserable weeds, black, bitter, and flagrantlydoctored, which he bought, three for a nickel, at Guadalajara. 

Presley arrived at Quien Sabe nearly half an hour behind the appointedtime; 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 atree near the house, young Vacca dozing on the seat. Hilma and Sidney, the latter exuberant with a gayety that all but brought the tears toPresley's eyes, were making sandwiches on the back porch. Mrs. Dyke wasnowhere to be seen, and Annixter was shaving himself in his bedroom. 

This latter put a half-lathered face out of the window as Presleycantered 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 oftime. "

Presley came into the bedroom, his huge spur clinking on the strawmatting. Annixter was without coat, vest or collar, his blue silksuspenders hung in loops over either hip, his hair was disordered, thecrown lock stiffer than ever. 

"Glad to see you, old boy, " he announced, as Presley came in. "No, don'tshake hands, I'm all lather. Here, find a chair, will you? I won't belong. "

"I thought you said ten o'clock, " observed Presley, sitting down on theedge 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. Presleylooked with suspicious disfavour at his suspenders. 

"Why is it, " he observed, "that as soon as a man is about to getmarried, he buys himself pale blue suspenders, silk ones? Think of it. You, Buck Annixter, with sky-blue, silk suspenders. It ought to be astrap and a nail. "

"Old fool, " observed Annixter, whose repartee was the heaving of brickbats. "Say, " he continued, holding the razor from his face, and jerkinghis head over his shoulder, while he looked at Presley's reflectionin his mirror; "say, look around. Isn't this a nifty little room? Werefitted the whole house, you know. Notice she's all painted?"

"I have been looking around, " answered Presley, sweeping the room with aseries of glances. He forebore criticism. Annixter was so boyishly proudof the effect that it would have been unkind to have undeceived him. Presley looked at the marvellous, department-store bed of brass, withits brave, gay canopy; the mill-made wash-stand, with its pitcher andbowl of blinding red and green china, the straw-framed lithographs ofsymbolic female figures against the multi-coloured, new wall-paper; theinadequate spindle chairs of white and gold; the sphere of tissue paperhanging from the gas fixture, and the plumes of pampas grass tackedto the wall at artistic angles, and overhanging two astonishing oilpaintings, in dazzling golden frames. 

"Say, how about those paintings, Pres?" inquired Annixter a littleuneasily. "I don't know whether they're good or not. They were paintedby a three-fingered Chinaman in Monterey, and I got the lot for thirtydollars, frames thrown in. Why, I think the frames alone are worththirty 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 livewith 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'regiving this picnic as much for Mrs. Dyke and the little tad as you arefor 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 sakeas I am for theirs. There was a time when you would have let them all goto grass, and never so much as thought of them. I don't want to seem tobe officious, but you've changed for the better, old man, and I guessI 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 upto the fact that I really loved her, why, it was glory hallelujah all ina minute, and, in a way, I kind of loved everybody then, and wanted tobe everybody's friend. And I began to see that a fellow can't liveFOR himself any more than he can live BY himself. He's got to think ofothers. If he's got brains, he's got to think for the poor ducks thathaven't 'em, and not give 'em a boot in the backsides because theyhappen to be stupid; and if he's got money, he's got to help those thatare busted, and if he's got a house, he's got to think of those thatain't got anywhere to go. I've got a whole lot of ideas since I beganto love Hilma, and just as soon as I can, I'm going to get in and HELPpeople, 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 HenryWard Beecher couldn't do any more than that. And it's all come aboutbecause of Hilma, and because we cared for each other. "

Presley jumped up, and caught Annixter about the shoulders with onearm, gripping his hand hard. This absurd figure, with dangling silksuspenders, lathered chin, and tearful eyes, seemed to be suddenlyinvested with true nobility. Beside this blundering struggle to doright, to help his fellows, Presley's own vague schemes, glitteringsystems of reconstruction, collapsed to ruin, and he himself, with allhis refinement, with all his poetry, culture, and education, stood, abungler at the world's workbench. 

"You're all RIGHT, old man, " he exclaimed, unable to think of anythingadequate. "You're all right. That's the way to talk, and here, by theway, 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, raisinghis head, "there's somebody in a hurry for sure. "

The noise of a horse galloping so fast that the hoof-beats sounded inone uninterrupted rattle, abruptly made itself heard. The noise wascoming from the direction of the road that led from the Mission to QuienSabe. With incredible swiftness, the hoof-beats drew nearer. There wasthat in their sound which brought Presley to his feet. Annixter threwopen 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 theroad. All at once, he jumped from his place, and dashed towards thewindow. "Dyke, " he shouted. "Dyke, it's Dyke. "

While the words were yet in his mouth, the sound of the hoof-beats roseto 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 opensquare in front of the house. 

"Oh, my God!" cried Presley. 

The ex-engineer threw the horse on its haunches, springing from thesaddle; and, as he did so, the beast collapsed, shuddering, to theground. Annixter sprang from the window, and ran forward, Presleyfollowing. 

There was Dyke, hatless, his pistol in his hand, a gaunt terrible figurethe beard immeasurably long, the cheeks fallen in, the eyes sunken. Hisclothes ripped and torn by weeks of flight and hiding in the chaparral, were ragged beyond words, the boots were shreds of leather, bloody tothe 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, hissuspenders 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 thestable-man, and Dyke himself, darting hither and thither about theyellow mare, buckling, strapping, cinching, their lips pale, theirfingers trembling with excitement. 

"Want anything to eat?" Annixter's head was under the saddle flap as hetore at the cinch. "Want anything to eat? Want any money? Want a gun?"

"Water, " returned Dyke. "They've watched every spring. I'm killed withthirst. "

"There's the hydrant. Quick now. "

"I got as far as the Kern River, but they turned me back, " he saidbetween 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'sthat back cinch strap, BILLY? God damn it, are you going to let him beshot before he can get away? Now, Dyke, up you go. She'll kill herselfrunning 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 blessyou. Let her go. You're OFF. "

Answering the goad of the spur, and already quivering with theexcitement of the men who surrounded her, the buckskin cleared thestable-corral in two leaps; then, gathering her legs under her, her headlow, her neck stretched out, swung into the road from out the drivewaydisappearing in a blur of dust. 

With the agility of a monkey, young Vacca swung himself into theframework of the artesian well, clambering aloft to its very top. Heswept the country with a glance. 

"Well?" demanded Annixter from the ground. The others cocked their headsto listen. 

"I see him; I see him!" shouted Vacca. "He's going like the devil. He'sheaded 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 towardsGuadalajara, 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 onthe jump from the hills on the Los Muertos stock range. They're makingtowards Guadalajara. And I can hear the courthouse bell in Bonnevilleringing. 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 infront of the house. They were grey with dust, their noses were to theground. At the gate where Dyke had turned into the ranch housegrounds, they halted in confusion a moment. One started to follow thehighwayman's trail towards the stable corral, but the other, quarteringover the road with lightning swiftness, suddenly picked up the newscent leading on towards Guadalajara. He tossed his head in the air, andPresley abruptly shut his hands over his ears. 

Ah, that terrible cry! deep-toned, reverberating like the bourdon of agreat bell. It was the trackers exulting on the trail of the pursued, the prolonged, raucous howl, eager, ominous, vibrating with the alarm ofthe tocsin, sullen with the heavy muffling note of death. But close uponthe bay of the hounds, came the gallop of horses. Five men, their eyesupon the hounds, their rifles across their pommels, their horses reekingand black with sweat, swept by in a storm of dust, glinting hoofs, andstreaming 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 wasthe 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. Dykein the doorway of the little house where the latter lived. They werelooking out, bewildered, ignorant of what had happened. But on theporch of the Ranch house itself, alone, forgotten in the excitement, Sidney--the little tad--stood, with pale face and serious, wide-openeyes. She had seen everything, and had understood. She said nothing. Herhead inclined towards the roadway, she listened to the faint and distantbaying of the dogs. 

Dyke thundered across the railway tracks by the depot at Guadalajara notfive minutes ahead of his pursuers. Luck seemed to have deserted him. The station, usually so quiet, was now occupied by the crew of a freighttrain that lay on the down track; while on the up line, near at hand andheaded in the same direction, was a detached locomotive, whose engineerand fireman recognized him, he was sure, as the buckskin leaped acrossthe 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 headwatersof Broderson Creek, on Quien Sabe, and had all but fallen into the handsof the posse that had been watching for that very move. It was uselessnow to regret that he had tried to foil pursuit by turning back onhis tracks to regain the mountains east of Bonneville. Now Delaney wasalmost on him. To distance that posse, was the only thing to be thoughtof 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 intothis populous countryside, where an enemy might be met with at everyturn of the road. Now it was life or death. He would either escape or bekilled. He knew very well that he would never allow himself to be takenalive. But he had no mind to be killed--to turn and fight--till escapewas blocked. His one thought was to leave pursuit behind. 

Weeks of flight had sharpened Dyke's every sense. As he turned into theUpper Road beyond Guadalajara, he saw the three men galloping down fromDerrick's stock range, making for the road ahead of him. They would cuthim off there. He swung the buckskin about. He must take the LowerRoad across Los Muertos from Guadalajara, and he must reach it beforeDelaney's dogs and posse. Back he galloped, the buckskin measuring herlength with every leap. Once more the station came in sight. Rising inhis stirrups, he looked across the fields in the direction of the LowerRoad. There was a cloud of dust there. From a wagon? No, horses onthe run, and their riders were armed! He could catch the flash of gunbarrels. They were all closing in on him, converging on Guadalajara byevery available road. The Upper Road west of Guadalajara led straight toBonneville. That way was impossible. Was he in a trap? Had the time forfighting come at last?

But as Dyke neared the depot at Guadalajara, his eye fell upon thedetached locomotive that lay quietly steaming on the up line, and witha thrill of exultation, he remembered that he was an engineer born andbred. Delaney's dogs were already to be heard, and the roll of hoofs onthe Lower Road was dinning in his ears, as he leaped from the buckskinbefore the depot. The train crew scattered like frightened sheep beforehim, but Dyke ignored them. His pistol was in his hand as, once more onfoot, he sprang toward the lone engine. 

"Out of the cab, " he shouted. "Both of you. Quick, or I'll kill youboth. "

The two men tumbled from the iron apron of the tender as Dyke swunghimself up, dropping his pistol on the floor of the cab and reachingwith the old instinct for the familiar levers. The great compound hissedand 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 figuresleaning over as they took the curve at full speed. Dyke threw everythingwide open and caught up his revolver. From behind came the challenge ofa Winchester. The party on the Lower Road were even closer than Delaney. They had seen his manoeuvre, and the first shot of the fight shiveredthe cab windows above the engineer's head. 

But spinning futilely at first, the drivers of the engine at last caughtthe rails. The engine moved, advanced, travelled past the depot andthe freight train, and gathering speed, rolled out on the track beyond. Smoke, black and boiling, shot skyward from the stack; not a joint thatdid not shudder with the mighty strain of the steam; but the great ironbrute--one of Baldwin's newest and best--came to call, obedient anddocile as soon as ever the great pulsing heart of it felt a master handupon its levers. It gathered its speed, bracing its steel muscles, itsthews of iron, and roared out upon the open track, filling the air withthe rasp of its tempest-breath, blotting the sunshine with the belchof its hot, thick smoke. Already it was lessening in the distance, whenDelaney, 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 telegraphoffice. 

"There's a derailing switch between here and Pixley, isn't there?" hecried. 

"Yes. "

"Wire ahead to open it. We'll derail him there. Come on;" he turned toDelaney and the others. They sprang into the cab of the locomotive thatwas attached to the freight train. 

"Name of the State of California, " shouted the sheriff to the bewilderedengineer. "Cut off from your train. "

The sheriff was a man to be obeyed without hesitating. Time was notallowed the crew of the freight train for debating as to the right orthe wrong of requisitioning the engine, and before anyone thought of thesafety or danger of the affair, the freight engine was already flyingout upon the down line, hot in pursuit of Dyke, now far ahead upon theup track. 

"I remember perfectly well there's a derailing switch between here andPixley, " shouted the sheriff above the roar of the locomotive. "They useit in case they have to derail runaway engines. It runs right off intothe country. We'll pile him up there. Ready with your guns, boys. "

"If we should meet another train coming up on this track----" protestedthe frightened engineer. 

"Then we'd jump or be smashed. Hi! look! There he is. " As the freightengine rounded a curve, Dyke's engine came into view, shooting on somequarter of a mile ahead of them, wreathed in whirling smoke. 

"The switch ain't much further on, " clamoured the engineer. "You can seePixley now. "

Dyke, his hand on the grip of the valve that controlled the steam, hishead out of the cab window, thundered on. He was back in his old placeagain; once more he was the engineer; once more he felt the enginequiver under him; the familiar noises were in his ears; the familiarbuffeting of the wind surged, roaring at his face; the familiar odoursof hot steam and smoke reeked in his nostrils, and on either side ofhim, parallel panoramas, the two halves of the landscape sliced, as itwere, in two by the clashing wheels of his engine, streamed by in greenand brown blurs. 

He found himself settling to the old position on the cab seat, leaningon 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 withinhim, prompted him to shoot a glance behind. He saw the other engine onthe down line, plunging after him, rocking from side to side with thefury 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. Theindicator of the steam gauge rose; his speed increased; a glance atthe telegraph poles told him he was doing his fifty miles an hour. Thefreight engine behind him was never built for that pace. Barring theterrible risk of accident, his chances were good. 

But suddenly--the engineer dominating the highway-man--he shut off hissteam and threw back his brake to the extreme notch. Directly aheadof him rose a semaphore, placed at a point where evidently a derailingswitch branched from the line. The semaphore's arm was dropped over thetrack, 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 hadforgotten the automatic semaphore that worked simultaneously with themovement of the rails. To go forward was certain destruction. Dykereversed. There was nothing for it but to go back. With a wrench and aspasm of all its metal fibres, the great compound braced itself, slidingwith 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 downline, must meet and pass each other. 

Dyke released the levers, reaching for his revolver. The engineer oncemore 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 ofthe 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, farless mobile than Dyke's flyer, was slow to obey. The smudge on the railsahead grew swiftly larger. 

"He's coming. He's coming--look out, there's a shot. He's shootingalready. "

A bright, white sliver of wood leaped into the air from the sooty windowsill of the cab. 

"Fire on him! Fire on him!"

While the engines were yet two hundred yards apart, the duel began, shotanswering shot, the sharp staccato reports punctuating the thunder ofwheels and the clamour of steam. 

Then the ground trembled and rocked; a roar as of heavy ordnancedeveloped with the abruptness of an explosion. The two engines passedeach other, the men firing the while, emptying their revolvers, shattering wood, shivering glass, the bullets clanging against the metalwork as they struck and struck and struck. The men leaned from thecabs towards each other, frantic with excitement, shouting curses, theengines rocking, the steam roaring; confusion whirling in the scenelike the whirl of a witch's dance, the white clouds of steam, the blackeddies from the smokestack, the blue wreaths from the hot mouths ofrevolvers, swirling together in a blinding maze of vapour, spinningaround them, dazing them, dizzying them, while the head rang withhideous clamour and the body twitched and trembled with the leap and jarof 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 outwardfrom sudden darkness, prehensile, malevolent; terrible as thunder, swiftas lightning, the two engines met and passed. 

"He's hit, " cried Delaney. "I know I hit him. He can't go far now. Afterhim again. He won't dare go through Bonneville. "

It was true. Dyke had stood between cab and tender throughout all theduel, exposed, reckless, thinking only of attack and not of defence, anda bullet from one of the pistols had grazed his hip. How serious was thewound he did not know, but he had no thought of giving up. He tore backthrough the depot at Guadalajara in a storm of bullets, and, clinging tothe broken window ledge of his cab, was carried towards Bonneville, onover the Long Trestle and Broderson Creek and through the open countrybetween the two ranches of Los Muertos and Quien Sabe. 

But to go on to Bonneville meant certain death. Before, as well asbehind him, the roads were now blocked. Once more he thought of themountains. He resolved to abandon the engine and make another finalattempt to get into the shelter of the hills in the northernmost cornerof Quien Sabe. He set his teeth. He would not give in. There was onemore fight left in him yet. Now to try the final hope. 

He slowed the engine down, and, reloading his revolver, jumped from theplatform to the road. He looked about him, listening. All around himwidened 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 certainindefinite sense of abandonment, even in that moment, came over Dyke. His last friend, that also had been his first, was leaving him. Heremembered that day, long ago, when he had opened the throttle of hisfirst machine. To-day, it was leaving him alone, his last friend turningagainst him. Slowly it was going back towards Bonneville, to the shopsof the Railroad, the camp of the enemy, that enemy that had ruinedhim and wrecked him. For the last time in his life, he had been theengineer. Now, once more, he became the highwayman, the outlaw againstwhom 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 hecould 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 surroundingtrees out of the wheat like an island. He reached it, the bloodsquelching in his shoes. But the sight of two men, Portuguesefarm-hands, staring at him from an angle of the barn, abruptly rousedhim to action. He sprang forward with peremptory commands, demanding ahorse. 

At Guadalajara, Delaney and the sheriff descended from the freightengine. 

"Horses now, " declared the sheriff. "He won't go into Bonneville, that'scertain. He'll leave the engine between here and there, and strike offinto the country. We'll follow after him now in the saddle. Soon as heleaves 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, Delaneyexclaiming, "Here's MY mount, " as he bestrode the buckskin. 

At Guadalajara, the two bloodhounds were picked up again. Urging thejaded horses to a gallop, the party set off along the Upper Road, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left for traces of Dyke'sabandonment of the engine. 

Three miles beyond the Long Trestle, they found S. Behrman holding hissaddle horse by the bridle, and looking attentively at a trail that hadbeen broken through the standing wheat on Quien Sabe. The party drewrein. 

"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, asthey picked up the scent. 

"That's him, " cried S. Behrman. "Get on, boys. "

They dashed forward, following the hounds. S. Behrman laboriouslyclimbed to his saddle, panting, perspiring, mopping the roll of fat overhis coat collar, and turned in after them, trotting along far in therear, his great stomach and tremulous jowl shaking with the horse'sgait. 

"What a day, " he murmured. "What a day. "

Dyke's trail was fresh, and was followed as easily as if made onnew-fallen snow. In a short time, the posse swept into the openspace 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 atthe headwaters of Broderson Creek. 

On again, at full gallop, through the young wheat, trampling it underthe flying hoofs; the hounds hot on the scent, baying continually; themen, on fresh mounts, secured at the division house, bending forward intheir saddles, spurring relentlessly. S. Behrman jolted along far in therear. 

And even then, harried through an open country, where there was no placeto hide, it was a matter of amazement how long a chase the highwaymanled them. Fences were passed; fences whose barbed wire had been slashedapart by the fugitive's knife. The ground rose under foot; the hillswere at hand; still the pursuit held on. The sun, long past themeridian, began to turn earthward. Would night come on before they wereup with him?

"Look! Look! There he is! Quick, there he goes!"

High on the bare slope of the nearest hill, all the posse, looking inthe direction of Delaney's gesture, saw the figure of a horseman emergefrom an arroyo, filled with chaparral, and struggle at a labouringgallop straight up the slope. Suddenly, every member of the partyshouted 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 horsedashed on alone. The man, pausing for a second looked around, saw thechase 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 dashedthe band of horsemen, the trail now so fresh that it could be easilydiscerned by all. On and on it led them, a furious, wild scramblestraight up the slopes. The minutes went by. The dry bed of a rivuletwas passed; then another fence; then a tangle of manzanita; a meadow ofwild oats, full of agitated cattle; then an arroyo, thick with chaparraland scrub oaks, and then, without warning, the pistol shots ripped outand 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 hisface, the blood jetting from between his fingers. 

Dyke was there, at bay at last, his back against a bank of rock, theroots of a fallen tree serving him as a rampart, his revolver smoking inhis hand. 

"You're under arrest, Dyke, " cried the sheriff. "It's not the least useto fight. The whole country is up. "

Dyke fired again, the shot splintering the foreleg of the horse thesheriff rode. 

The posse, four men all told--the wounded deputy having crawled outof the fight after Dyke's first shot--fell back after the preliminaryfusillade, dismounted, and took shelter behind rocks and trees. On thatrugged ground, fighting from the saddle was impracticable. Dyke, in themeanwhile, 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 tosurrender. "

Dyke did not reply. The sheriff, Delaney, and the man named Christianconferred together in a low voice. Then Delaney and Christian leftthe others, making a wide detour up the sides of the arroyo, to gain aposition to the left and somewhat to the rear of Dyke. 

But it was at this moment that S. Behrman arrived. It could not be saidwhether it was courage or carelessness that brought the Railroad's agentwithin reach of Dyke's revolver. Possibly he was really a brave man;possibly occupied with keeping an uncertain seat upon the back of hislabouring, scrambling horse, he had not noticed that he was so closeupon that scene of battle. He certainly did not observe the posse lyingupon the ground behind sheltering rocks and trees, and before anyonecould call a warning, he had ridden out into the open, within thirtypaces of Dyke's intrenchment. 

Dyke saw. There was the arch-enemy; the man of all men whom he mosthated; the man who had ruined him, who had exasperated him and drivenhim to crime, and who had instigated tireless pursuit through all thosepast terrible weeks. Suddenly, inviting death, he leaped up and forward;he had forgotten all else, all other considerations, at the sight ofthis 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 stomachas Dyke drew the trigger. Had the cartridge exploded, death, certain andswift, would have followed, but at this, of all moments, the revolvermissed fire. 

S. Behrman, with an unexpected agility, leaped from the saddle, and, keeping his horse between him and Dyke, ran, dodging and ducking, fromtree to tree. His first shot a failure, Dyke fired again and again athis enemy, emptying his revolver, reckless of consequences. His everyshot went wild, and before he could draw his knife, the whole posse wasupon him. 

Without concerted plans, obeying no signal but the promptings of theimpulse that snatched, unerring, at opportunity--the men, Delaney andChristian 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 themhad a riata snatched from a saddle-pommel, and with this they tried tobind him. 

The fight was four to one--four men with law on their side, to onewounded freebooter, half-starved, exhausted by days and nights ofpursuit, worn down with loss of sleep, thirst, privation, and thegrinding, nerve-racking consciousness of an ever-present peril. 

They swarmed upon him from all sides, gripping at his legs, at hisarms, his throat, his head, striking, clutching, kicking, falling tothe ground, rolling over and over, now under, now above, now staggeringforward, 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 faceflaming, his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted with sweat. Now he wasdown, pinned under, two men across his legs, and now half-way up again, struggling to one knee. Then upright again, with half his enemieshanging on his back. His colossal strength seemed doubled; when hisarms were held, he fought bull-like with his head. A score of times, itseemed as if they were about to secure him finally and irrevocably, andthen he would free an arm, a leg, a shoulder, and the group that, forthe 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, andhe himself twisting, squirming, dodging, his great fists working likepistons, backed away, dragging and carrying the others with him. 

More than once, he loosened almost every grip, and for an instant stoodnearly free, panting, rolling his eyes, his clothes torn from his body, bleeding, dripping with sweat, a terrible figure, nearly free. Thesheriff, 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 commonsense. "

Yet, however Dyke might throw off the clutches and fettering embracesthat encircled him, however he might disintegrate and scatter the bandof foes that heaped themselves upon him, however he might gain oneinstant of comparative liberty, some one of his assailants always hung, doggedly, blindly to an arm, a leg, or a foot, and the others, drawing asecond'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 enoughtogether 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 uponthe cow-puncher's forehead. But he could no longer protect himself fromattacks 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 jawin both hands. The sheriff's horse, with its splintered foreleg, wouldhave to be shot. Delaney's head was cut from temple to cheekbone. Theright wrist of the sheriff was all but dislocated. The other deputy wasso exhausted he had to be helped to his horse. But Dyke was taken. 

He himself had suddenly lapsed into semi-unconsciousness, unable towalk. They sat him on the buckskin, S. Behrman supporting him, thesheriff, on foot, leading the horse by the bridle. The little processionformed, and descended from the hills, turning in the direction ofBonneville. A special train, one car and an engine, would be made upthere, and the highwayman would sleep in the Visalia jail that night. 

Delaney and S. Behrman found themselves in the rear of the cavalcade asit 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. "

CHAPTER VI

Osterman cut his wheat that summer before any of the other ranchers, and as soon as his harvest was over organized a jack-rabbit drive. Like Annixter's barn-dance, it was to be an event in which all thecountry-side should take part. The drive was to begin on the mostwestern division of the Osterman ranch, whence it would proceed towardsthe southeast, crossing into the northern part of Quien Sabe--on whichAnnixter had sown no wheat--and ending in the hills at the headwaters ofBroderson Creek, where a barbecue was to be held. 

Early on the morning of the day of the drive, as Harran and Presley weresaddling 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 afterRuggles early and late to have him put him in possession here on LosMuertos, 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, whohad come forward as a purchaser of Los Muertos when the Railroad hadregraded its holdings on the ranches around Bonneville. 

"He claims, of course, " Phelps went on, "that when he bought Los Muertosof the Railroad he was guaranteed possession, and he wants the place intime for the harvest. "

"That's almost as thin, " muttered Harran as he thrust the bit into hishorse's mouth, "as Delaney buying Annixter's Home ranch. That sliceof Quien Sabe, according to the Railroad's grading, is worth about tenthousand dollars; yes, even fifteen, and I don't believe Delaney isworth the price of a good horse. Why, those people don't even try topreserve appearances. Where would Christian find the money to buy LosMuertos? 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 areS. Behrman's right and left hands. Well, he'll get 'em cut off, " hecried with sudden fierceness, "if he comes too near the machine. "

"How is it, Harran, " asked Presley as the two young men rode out of thestable yard, "how is it the Railroad gang can do anything before theSupreme Court hands down a decision?"

"Well, you know how they talk, " growled Harran. "They have claimed thatthe cases taken up to the Supreme Court were not test cases as WE claimthey ARE, and that because neither Annixter nor the Governor appealed, they've lost their cases by default. It's the rottenest kind of sharppractice, but it won't do any good. The League is too strong. They won'tdare move on us yet awhile. Why, Pres, the moment they'd try to jumpany of these ranches around here, they would have six hundred riflescracking at them as quick as how-do-you-do. Why, it would take aregiment 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 continuallypassed or overtook other horsemen, or buggies, carry-alls, buck-boardsor even farm wagons, going in the same direction. These were full of thefarming people from all the country round about Bonneville, on their wayto the rabbit drive--the same people seen at the barn-dance--in theirSunday finest, the girls in muslin frocks and garden hats, the men withlinen dusters over their black clothes; the older women in printsand dotted calicoes. Many of these latter had already taken off theirbonnets--the day was very hot--and pinning them in newspapers, stowedthem under the seats. They tucked their handkerchiefs into the collarsof their dresses, or knotted them about their fat necks, to keep outthe dust. From the axle trees of the vehicles swung carefully coveredbuckets of galvanised iron, in which the lunch was packed. Theyounger children, the boys with great frilled collars, the girls withill-fitting shoes cramping their feet, leaned from the sides of buggyand carry-all, eating bananas and "macaroons, " staring about withox-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 theland. The hills, bone-dry, were browned and parched. The grasses andwild-oats, sear and yellow, snapped like glass filaments under foot. Theroads, the bordering fences, even the lower leaves and branches of thetrees, were thick and grey with dust. All colour had been burned fromthe landscape, except in the irrigated patches, that in the waste ofbrown and dull yellow glowed like oases. 

The wheat, now close to its maturity, had turned from pale yellow togolden yellow, and from that to brown. Like a gigantic carpet, it spreaditself over all the land. There was nothing else to be seen but thelimitless 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 vehiclesand riders increased. They overtook and passed Hooven and his familyin the former's farm wagon, a saddled horse tied to the back board. Thelittle Dutchman, wearing the old frock coat of Magnus Derrick, and anew broad-brimmed straw hat, sat on the front seat with Mrs. Hooven. Thelittle girl Hilda, and the older daughter Minna, were behind them on aboard laid across the sides of the wagon. Presley and Harran stopped toshake hands. "Say, " cried Hooven, exhibiting an old, but extremely wellkept, rifle, "say, bei Gott, me, I tek some schatz at dose rebbit, youbedt. Ven he hef shtop to run und sit oop soh, bei der hind laigs on, Ioop 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 MAIRSCHELLMINE-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 dosemairschell?"

As the two friends rode on, Presley had in his mind the image of MinnaHooven, very pretty in a clean gown of pink gingham, a cheap strawsailor hat from a Bonneville store on her blue black hair. He rememberedher very pale face, very red lips and eyes of greenish blue, --a prettygirl certainly, always trailing a group of men behind her. Her loveaffairs 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 viciousabout 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 hastenedto reply, "only she's too pretty for a poor girl, and too sure of herprettiness besides. That's the kind, " he continued, "who would find itpretty easy to go wrong if they lived in a city. "

Around Caraher's was a veritable throng. Saddle horses and buggies bythe score were clustered underneath the shed or hitched to the railingsin front of the watering trough. Three of Broderson's Portuguese tenantsand a couple of workmen from the railroad shops in Bonneville were onthe porch, already very drunk. 

Continually, young men, singly or in groups, came from the door-way, wiping their lips with sidelong gestures of the hand. The whole placeexhaled the febrile bustle of the saloon on a holiday morning. 

The procession of teams streamed on through Bonneville, reenforcedat every street corner. Along the Upper Road from Quien Sabe andGuadalajara came fresh auxiliaries, Spanish-Mexicans from the townitself, --swarthy young men on capering horses, dark-eyed girls andmatrons, in red and black and yellow, more Portuguese in brand-newoveralls, smoking long thin cigars. Even Father Sarria appeared. 

"Look, " said Presley, "there goes Annixter and Hilma. He's got hisbuckskin back. " The master of Quien Sabe, in top laced boots andcampaign 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 interveningcrowd, standing up in his stirrups and waving a hand, "Great day! What amob, hey? Say when this thing is over and everybody starts to walk intothe barbecue, come and have lunch with us. I'll look for you, you andHarran. Hello, Harran, where's the Governor?"

"He didn't come to-day, " Harran shouted back, as the crowd carried himfurther away from Annixter. "Left him and old Broderson at Los Muertos. "

The throng emerged into the open country again, spreading out upon theOsterman ranch. From all directions could be seen horses and buggiesdriving across the stubble, converging upon the rendezvous. Osterman'sRanch house was left to the eastward; the army of the guests hurryingforward--for it began to be late--to where around a flag pole, flyinga red flag, a vast crowd of buggies and horses was already forming. Themarshals began to appear. Hooven, descending from the farm wagon, pinnedhis white badge to his hat brim and mounted his horse. Osterman, inmarvellous riding clothes of English pattern, galloped up and down uponhis 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 ofPresley and Harran, waving his crop. The procession came to a halt, the horses' heads pointing eastward. The line began to be formed. Themarshals perspiring, shouting, fretting, galloping about, urging thisone forward, ordering this one back, ranged the thousands of conveyancesand cavaliers in a long line, shaped like a wide open crescent. Itswings, under the command of lieutenants, were slightly advanced. Far outbefore its centre Osterman took his place, delighted beyond expressionat 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 thewagon. 

"I never was so warm, " murmured Minna, fanning herself with her hat. Allseemed in readiness. For miles over the flat expanse of stubble, curvedthe interminable lines of horses and vehicles. At a guess, nearly fivethousand people were present. The drive was one of the largest everheld. But no start was made; immobilized, the vast crescent stuckmotionless under the blazing sun. Here and there could be heard voicesuplifted 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 someold woman, nervous, hard of hearing, always gathered up the reins andstarted off, only to be hustled and ordered back into the line by thenearest marshal. This manoeuvre never failed to produce its effect ofhilarity 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 withoutit, 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 arestarting already 'way over there. "

In fact, it did appear as if the far extremity of the line was inmotion. 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 shoutedwrathfully:

"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 toofast. "

And the marshals, rushing here and there on their sweating horses topoints where the line bulged forward, shouted, waving their arms: "Nottoo fast, not too fast. .. . Keep back here. .. . Here, keep closer togetherhere. Do you want to let all the rabbits run back between you?"

A great confused sound rose into the air, --the creaking of axles, thejolt of iron tires over the dry clods, the click of brittle stubbleunder the horses' hoofs, the barking of dogs, the shouts of conversationand laughter. 

The entire line, horses, buggies, wagons, gigs, dogs, men and boys onfoot, and armed with clubs, moved slowly across the fields, sending upa cloud of white dust, that hung above the scene like smoke. A briskgaiety was in the air. Everyone was in the best of humor, callingfrom team to team, laughing, skylarking, joshing. Garnett, of theRuby Rancho, and Gethings, of the San Pablo, both on horseback, foundthemselves side by side. Ignoring the drive and the spirit of theoccasion, they kept up a prolonged and serious conversation on anexpected rise in the price of wheat. Dabney, also on horseback, followedthem, listening attentively to every word, but hazarding no remark. 

Mrs. Derrick and Hilma sat in the back seat of the carry-all, behindyoung Vacca. Mrs. Derrick, a little disturbed by such a great concourseof people, frightened at the idea of the killing of so many rabbits, drew back in her place, her young-girl eyes troubled and filled witha vague distress. Hilma, very much excited, leaned from the carry-all, anxious to see everything, watching for rabbits, asking innumerablequestions of Annixter, who rode at her side. 

The change that had been progressing in Hilma, ever since the night ofthe famous barn-dance, now seemed to be approaching its climax; firstthe girl, then the woman, last of all the Mother. Conscious dignity, anew element in her character, developed. The shrinking, the timidity ofthe girl just awakening to the consciousness of sex, passed away fromher. The confusion, the troublous complexity of the woman, a mysteryeven to herself, disappeared. Motherhood dawned, the old simplicityof her maiden days came back to her. It was no longer a simplicity ofignorance, but of supreme knowledge, the simplicity of the perfect, thesimplicity 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 ofperpetual peace. 

And with this, with the knowledge that the crown hung poised aboveher head, there came upon Hilma a gentleness infinitely beautiful, infinitely pathetic; a sweetness that touched all who came near herwith the softness of a caress. She moved surrounded by an invisibleatmosphere of Love. Love was in her wide-opened brown eyes, Love--thedim reflection of that descending crown poised over her head--radiatedin a faint lustre from her dark, thick hair. Around her beautiful neck, sloping to her shoulders with full, graceful curves, Love lay encircledlike a necklace--Love that was beyond words, sweet, breathed fromher parted lips. From her white, large arms downward to her pinkfinger-tips--Love, an invisible electric fluid, disengaged itself, subtle, alluring. In the velvety huskiness of her voice, Love vibratedlike a note of unknown music. 

Annixter, her uncouth, rugged husband, living in this influence of awife, who was also a mother, at all hours touched to the quick by thissense of nobility, of gentleness and of love, the instincts of a fatheralready clutching and tugging at his heart, was trembling on the vergeof a mighty transformation. The hardness and inhumanity of the man wasfast breaking up. One night, returning late to the Ranch house, aftera compulsory visit to the city, he had come upon Hilma asleep. He hadnever forgotten that night. A realization of his boundless happiness inthis love he gave and received, the thought that Hilma TRUSTED him, aknowledge of his own unworthiness, a vast and humble thankfulness thathis God had chosen him of all men for this great joy, had brought himto his knees for the first time in all his troubled, restless lifeof combat and aggression. He prayed, he knew not what, --vague words, wordless thoughts, resolving fiercely to do right, to make some returnfor God's gift thus placed within his hands. 

Where once Annixter had thought only of himself, he now thought only ofHilma. The time when this thought of another should broaden and wideninto thought of OTHERS, was yet to come; but already it had expanded toinclude the unborn child--already, as in the case of Mrs. Dyke, it hadbroadened to enfold another child and another mother bound to him by noties other than those of humanity and pity. In time, starting from thispoint it would reach out more and more till it should take in all menand all women, and the intolerant selfish man, while retaining allof his native strength, should become tolerant and generous, kind andforgiving. 

For the moment, however, the two natures struggled within him. A fightwas to be fought, one more, the last, the fiercest, the attack of theenemy 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 theadvancing line of the drive. 

"Where are the rabbits?" she asked of Annixter. "I don't see any atall. "

"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 faroff. "

"The beggars run 'way ahead, at first. "

"I should say so. See them run, --little specks. Every now and then theysit 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, agreat jack sprang into view, bounding away with tremendous leaps, hisblack-tipped ears erect. He disappeared, his grey body losing itselfagainst 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 affordhiding place for so much as a field-mouse, jack-rabbits started up atevery moment as the line went forward. At first, they appeared singlyand at long intervals; then in twos and threes, as the drive continuedto 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 incredibleswiftness, and were lost to view only to be replaced by a score ofothers. 

Gradually, the number of jacks to be seen over the expanse of stubble infront of the line of teams increased. Their antics were infinite. No twoacted precisely alike. Some lay stubbornly close in a little depressionbetween two clods, till the horses' hoofs were all but upon them, then sprang out from their hiding-place at the last second. Others ranforward but a few yards at a time, refusing to take flight, scenting agreater danger before them than behind. Still others, forced up at thelast moment, doubled with lightning alacrity in their tracks, turningback to scuttle between the teams, taking desperate chances. As often asthis 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 thejack escaped, or confused by the noise, darted back again, fleeingaway as if his life depended on the issue of the instant. Once even, abewildered rabbit jumped fair into Mrs. Derrick's lap as she sat in thecarry-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 pawsquivering 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 glasseson ahead was far into the thousands. What seemed to be ground resolveditself, when seen through the glasses, into a maze of small, movingbodies, leaping, ducking, doubling, running back and forth--a wildernessof agitated ears, white tails and twinkling legs. The outside wings ofthe curved line of vehicles began to draw in a little; Osterman's ranchwas 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 insteada few feet at a time, and crouching down, their ears close upon theirbacks. Thus it was, that by degrees the teams began to close up on themain herd. At every instant the numbers increased. It was no longerthousands, it was tens of thousands. The earth was alive with rabbits. 

Denser and denser grew the throng. In all directions nothing was to beseen but the loose mass of the moving jacks. The horns of the crescentof teams began to contract. Far off the corral came into sight. Thedisintegrated mass of rabbits commenced, as it were, to solidify, tocoagulate. At first, each jack was some three feet distant from hisnearest 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 coveringthe earth. It was a sea, whipped into confusion, tossing incessantly, leaping, falling, agitated by unseen forces. At times the unexpectedtameness of the rabbits all at once vanished. Throughout certainportions of the herd eddies of terror abruptly burst forth. A panicspread; then there would ensue a blind, wild rushing together ofthousands of crowded bodies, and a furious scrambling over backs, till the scuffing thud of innumerable feet over the earth rose to areverberating murmur as of distant thunder, here and there pierced bythe strange, wild cry of the rabbit in distress. 

The line of vehicles was halted. To go forward now meant to tramplethe rabbits under foot. The drive came to a standstill while the herdentered the corral. This took time, for the rabbits were by now toocrowded to run. However, like an opened sluice-gate, the extendingflanks of the entrance of the corral slowly engulfed the herd. The mass, packed tight as ever, by degrees diminished, precisely as a pool ofwater when a dam is opened. The last stragglers went in with a rush, andthe 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 forthe 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 beneathstruggling to the top, those on top sinking and disappearing belowtheir fellows. All wildness, all fear of man, seemed to have entirelydisappeared. Men and boys reaching over the sides of the corral, pickedup a jack in each hand, holding them by the ears, while two reportersfrom San Francisco papers took photographs of the scene. The noise madeby the tens of thousands of moving bodies was as the noise of wind in aforest, 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 thatpurpose 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 mostpart--were more eager. Annixter drew Hilma away, and, indeed, most ofthe people set about the barbecue at once. 

In the corral, however, the killing went forward. Armed with a club ineach hand, the young fellows from Guadalajara and Bonneville, and thefarm boys from the ranches, leaped over the rails of the corral. Theywalked unsteadily upon the myriad of crowding bodies underfoot, or, asspace was cleared, sank almost waist deep into the mass that leaped andsquirmed about them. Blindly, furiously, they struck and struck. TheAnglo-Saxon spectators round about drew back in disgust, but the hot, degenerated blood of Portuguese, Mexican, and mixed Spaniard boiled upin excitement at this wholesale slaughter. 

But only a few of the participants of the drive cared to look on. Allthe guests betook themselves some quarter of a mile farther on into thehills. 

The picnic and barbecue were to be held around the spring whereBroderson Creek took its rise. Already two entire beeves were roastingthere; teams were hitched, saddles removed, and men, women, andchildren, a great throng, spread out under the shade of the live oaks. Avast confused clamour rose in the air, a babel of talk, a clatter oftin plates, of knives and forks. Bottles were uncorked, napkins andoil-cloths spread over the ground. The men lit pipes and cigars, thewomen seized the occasion to nurse their babies. 

Osterman, ubiquitous as ever, resplendent in his boots and Englishriding breeches, moved about between the groups, keeping up an endlessflow of talk, cracking jokes, winking, nudging, gesturing, putting histongue in his cheek, never at a loss for a reply, playing the goat. 

"That josher, Osterman, always at his monkey-shines, but a good fellowfor all that; brainy too. Nothing stuck up about him either, like MagnusDerrick. "

"Everything all right, Buck?" inquired Osterman, coming up to whereAnnixter, 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 hispocket a silver-plated jack-knife with a cork-screw attachment. Harranand Presley came up, bearing between them a great smoking, roastedportion of beef just off the fire. Hilma hastened to put forward a hugechina platter. 

Osterman had a joke to crack with the two boys, a joke that was ratherbroad, but as he turned about, the words almost on his lips, his glancefell 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 backagainst the tree, between two boles of the roots. The position was alittle elevated and the supporting roots on either side of her werelike the arms of a great chair--a chair of state. She sat thus, as ona throne, raised above the rest, the radiance of the unseen crown ofmotherhood glowing from her forehead, the beauty of the perfect womansurrounding her like a glory. 

And the josh died away on Osterman's lips, and unconsciously and swiftlyhe bared his head. Something was passing there in the air about him thathe did not understand, something, however, that imposed reverence andprofound respect. For the first time in his life, embarrassment seizedupon him, upon this joker, this wearer of clothes, this teller of funnystories, with his large, red ears, bald head and comic actor's face. Hestammered 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 wentdown the dry and dusty throats of the multitude. Conversation laggedwhile the People ate, while hunger was appeased. Everybody had theirfill. One ate for the sake of eating, resolved that there should benothing left, considering it a matter of pride to exhibit a clean plate. 

After dinner, preparations were made for games. On a flat plateau at thetop of one of the hills the contestants were to strive. There was to bea footrace of young girls under seventeen, a fat men's race, the youngerfellows were to put the shot, to compete in the running broad jump, andthe standing high jump, in the hop, skip, and step and in wrestling. 

Presley was delighted with it all. It was Homeric, this feasting, thisvast consuming of meat and bread and wine, followed now by games ofstrength. An epic simplicity and directness, an honest Anglo-Saxon mirthand innocence, commended it. Crude it was; coarse it was, but notaint of viciousness was here. These people were good people, kindly, benignant even, always readier to give than to receive, always morewilling to help than to be helped. They were good stock. Of such was thebackbone of the nation--sturdy Americans everyone of them. Where elsein the world round were such strong, honest men, such strong, beautifulwomen?

Annixter, Harran, and Presley climbed to the level plateau where thegames 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 entireafternoons, reading his books of poems, smoking and dozing. From thishigh point one dominated the entire valley to the south and west. Theview was superb. The three men paused for a moment on the crest of thehill to consider it. 

Young Vacca came running and panting up the hill after them, calling forAnnixter. 

"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 amessage. 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 wasVanamee holding by the bridle an animal that was one lather of sweat. A few of the picnickers were turning their heads curiously in thatdirection. Evidently something of moment was in the wind. 

"What's all up?" demanded Annixter, as he and Harran, followed byPresley, 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 thecinching 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 yourplace already, Mr. Annixter, " said Vanamee. "I passed by it on my wayup. They have put Delaney in possession, and have set all your furnitureout in the road. "

Annixter turned about, his lips white. Already Presley and Harran hadrun 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 THISspot, understand. I'll be back in a minute. I must tell Hilma this. "

Hooven ran up as Annixter disappeared. His little eyes were blazing, hewas 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 armaround Hilma. "They're in our house now. I'm off. Go to Derrick's andwait 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'sand--good-bye. "

She said never a word. She looked once long into his eyes, then kissedhim on the mouth. 

Meanwhile, the news had spread. The multitude rose to its feet. Womenand men, with pale faces, looked at each other speechless, or brokeforth into inarticulate exclamations. A strange, unfamiliar murmur tookthe place of the tumultuous gaiety of the previous moments. A sense ofdread, 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 Leaguersalready assembled. They were all mounted. Hooven was there and Harran, and besides these, Garnett of the Ruby ranch and Gethings of the SanPablo, 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 menwho were going to rise when this happened?"

They had wavered, these other Leaguers. Now, when the actual crisisimpended, they were smitten with confusion. Ah, no, they were not goingto stand up and be shot at just to save Derrick's land. They werenot armed. What did Annixter and Osterman take them for? No, sir; theRailroad had stolen a march on them. After all his big talk Derrick hadallowed them to be taken by surprise. The only thing to do was to calla meeting of the Executive Committee. That was the only thing. As forgoing down there with no weapons in their hands, NO, sir. That wasasking a little TOO much. "Come on, then, boys, " shouted Osterman, turning his back on the others. "The Governor says to meet him atHooven's. We'll make for the Long Trestle and strike the trail toHooven's there. "

They set off. It was a terrible ride. Twice during the scramblingdescent from the hills, Presley's pony fell beneath him. Annixter, onhis 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, straightthrough the standing wheat, the nine horses, flogged and spurred, stretched out to their utmost. Their passage through the wheat soundedlike the rip and tear of a gigantic web of cloth. The landscape oneither 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 secondcrossing of Broderson's Creek in a single leap. Down under the LongTrestle tore the cavalcade in a shower of mud and gravel; up again onthe further bank, the horses blowing like steam engines; on into thetrail to Hooven's, single file now, Presley's pony lagging, Hooven'shorse bleeding at the eyes, the buckskin, game as a fighting cock, catching her second wind, far in the lead now, distancing even theEnglish 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 intothe yard around the house, thundered the Leaguers. Magnus was waitingfor 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. Ithought YOU would bring more men with you. "

"There are only nine of us. "

"And the six hundred Leaguers who were going to rise when thishappened!" exclaimed Garnett, bitterly. 

"Rot the League, " cried Annixter. "It's gone to pot--went to pieces atthe 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 withhim?"

"The United States marshal from San Francisco, " explained Magnus, "camedown early this morning and stopped at Guadalajara. We learned it allthrough our friends in Bonneville about an hour ago. They telephonedme and Mr. Broderson. S. Behrman met him and provided about a dozendeputies. Delaney, Ruggles, and Christian joined them at Guadalajara. They left Guadalajara, going towards Mr. Annixter's ranch house on QuienSabe. They are serving the writs in ejectment and putting the dummybuyers in possession. They are armed. S. Behrman is with them. "

"Where are they now?"

"Cutter is watching them from the Long Trestle. They returned toGuadalajara. They are there now. "

"Well, " observed Gethings, "From Guadalajara they can only go to twoplaces. Either they will take the Upper Road and go on to Osterman'snext, 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 comehere. 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 stirringhim, "say, dose feller pretty demn schmart, I tink. We got to put somepicket way oudt bei der Lower Roadt alzoh, und he tek dose glassusMist'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 fineentrenchment, you bedt. We fighd um from dose ditsch. "

In fact, the dry irrigating ditch was a natural trench, admirably suitedto the purpose, crossing both roads as Hooven pointed out and barringapproach from Guadalajara to all the ranches save Annixter's--which hadalready been seized. 

Gethings departed to join Cutter on the Long Trestle, while Phelps andHarran, taking Annixter's field glasses with them, and mounting theirhorses, went out towards Guadalajara on the Lower Road to watch for themarshal's approach from that direction. 

After the outposts had left them, the party in Hooven's cottage lookedto their weapons. Long since, every member of the League had been inthe habit of carrying his revolver with him. They were all armed and, inaddition, Hooven had his rifle. Presley alone carried no weapon. 

The main room of Hooven's house, in which the Leaguers were nowassembled, was barren, poverty-stricken, but tolerably clean. An oldclock ticked vociferously on a shelf. In one corner was a bed, with apatched, faded quilt. In the centre of the room, straddling over thebare floor, stood a pine table. Around this the men gathered, two orthree occupying chairs, Annixter sitting sideways on the table, the reststanding. 

"I believe, gentlemen, " said Magnus, "that we can go through this daywithout bloodshed. I believe not one shot need be fired. The Railroadwill not force the issue, will not bring about actual fighting. Whenthe marshal realises that we are thoroughly in earnest, thoroughlydetermined, I am convinced that he will withdraw. "

There were murmurs of assent. 

"Look here, " said Annixter, "if this thing can by any means be settledpeaceably, 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 theLeague, the quarrelsome, irascible fellow who loved and sought aquarrel? Was it Annixter, who now had been the first and only oneof them all to suffer, whose ranch had been seized, whose householdpossessions had been flung out into the road?

"When you come right down to it, " he continued, "killing a man, nomatter what he's done to you, is a serious business. I propose we makeone more attempt to stave this thing off. Let's see if we can't get totalk with the marshal himself; at any rate, warn him of the danger ofgoing any further. Boys, let's not fire the first shot. What do yousay?"

The others agreed unanimously and promptly; and old Broderson, tugginguneasily at his long beard, added:

"No--no--no violence, no UNNECESSARY violence, that is. I should hateto have innocent blood on my hands--that is, if it IS innocent. I don'tknow, that S. Behrman--ah, he is a--a--surely he had innocent blood onHIS head. That Dyke affair, terrible, terrible; but then Dyke WAS in thewrong--driven to it, though; the Railroad did drive him to it. I want tobe fair and just to everybody. "

"There's a team coming up the road from Los Muertos, " announced Presleyfrom 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 theyharm me. "

"Is the team going towards Guadalajara?" enquired Garnett, getting upand 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 fromthe road in front of Hooven's, saw him halt it. An excited interviewfollowed. They could hear the Portuguese expostulating volubly, but inthe 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 andRuggles are in a two-horse buggy. All the others are on horseback. Thereare eleven of them. Christian and Delaney are with them. Those two haverifles. I left Hooven watching them. "

"Better call in Gethings and Cutter right away, " said Annixter. "We'llneed all our men. "

"I'll call them in, " Presley volunteered at once. "Can I have thebuckskin? My pony is about done up. "

He departed at a brisk gallop, but on the way met Gethings and Cutterreturning. They, too, from their elevated position, had observed themarshal's party leaving Guadalajara by the Lower Road. Presley told themof the decision of the Leaguers not to fire until fired upon. 

"All right, " said Gethings. "But if it comes to a gun-fight, that meansit'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 hadalready taken their position in the ditch. The plank bridge across ithad been torn up. Magnus, two long revolvers lying on the embankmentin 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 hiscoat. 

"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 anypart in this affair. "

"Yes, keep him out of it, " cried Annixter from his position at theextreme end of the line. "Go back to Hooven's house, Pres, and lookafter the horses, " he added. "This is no business of yours. And keepthe 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 andCutter had ridden. He fastened them under the great live oak and thencame out and stood in the road in front of the house to watch what wasgoing on. 

In the ditch, shoulder deep, the Leaguers, ready, watchful, waited insilence, their eyes fixed on the white shimmer of the road leading toGuadalajara. 

"Where's Hooven?" enquired Cutter. 

"I don't know, " Osterman replied. "He was out watching the Lower Roadwith 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 havecome in just after me. He thought maybe the marshal's party might make afeint in this direction, then go around by the Upper Road, after all. Hewanted 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 themcame 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 onehorse. "

"Too much dust for one horse. "

Annixter, who had taken his field glasses from Harran, adjusted them tohis eyes. 

"That's not them, " he announced presently, "nor Hooven either. That'sa cart. " Then after another moment, he added, "The butcher's cart fromGuadalajara. "

The tension was relaxed. The men drew long breaths, settling back intheir 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. Weshall have to detain him and question him. I wonder the marshal let himpass. "

The cart approached at a lively trot. 

"Anybody else in that cart, Mr. Annixter?" asked Magnus. "Lookcarefully. It may be a ruse. It is strange the marshal should have lethim pass. "

The Leaguers roused themselves again. Osterman laid his hand on hisrevolver. 

"No, " called Annixter, in another instant, "no, there's only one man init. "

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 thatbridge broke?"

But at the idea of being held, the boy protested at top voice, badlyfrightened, 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 gotnothing to do with you. "

He tugged at the reins, trying to turn the cart about. Cutter, with hisjack-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 hurtyou. But you are not going back to town till we say so. Did you passanybody on the road out of town?"

In reply to the Leaguers' questions, the young butcher at last toldthem he had passed a two-horse buggy and a lot of men on horseback justbeyond the railroad tracks. They were headed for Los Muertos. 

"That's them, all right, " muttered Annixter. "They're coming by thisroad, sure. "

The butcher's horse and cart were led to one side of the road, and thehorse 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 werepassing, and still he failed to appear. 

"What's he up to, anyways?"

"Bet you what you like, they caught him. Just like that crazy Dutchmanto get excited and go too near. You can always depend on Hooven to losehis 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 suddenlycried out:

"Here comes Hooven. "

The German galloped into sight, around the turn of the road, his riflelaid across his saddle. He came on rapidly, pulled up, and dismounted atthe ditch. 

"Dey're commen, " he cried, trembling with excitement. "I watch um longdime bei der side oaf der roadt in der busches. Dey shtop bei der gateoder side der relroadt trecks and talk long dime mit one n'udder. Dendey gome on. Dey're gowun sure do zum monkey-doodle pizeness. Me, I seeGritschun put der kertridges in his guhn. I tink dey gowun to gome MYblace 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 fireunless----"

"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, cameinto view around the curve of the road. Three riders accompanied it, and behind these, seen at intervals in a cloud of dust weretwo--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 hadbeen said would never come to pass, the last trial of strength, the lastfight between the Trust and the People, the direct, brutal grapple ofarmed men, the law defied, the Government ignored, behold, here it wasclose at hand. 

Osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound silence that hadfallen upon the scene, the click was plainly audible from end to end ofthe 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 theprolonged clatter of the horses' feet began to make itself heard. TheLeaguers 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, beyondquestion--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 ofthese, riding well up, was a group of horsemen, indistinguishable in thedust 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 theirrigating ditch, Magnus sprang out upon the road, leaving his revolversbehind him. He beckoned Garnett and Gethings to follow, and the threeranchers, who, with the exception of Broderson, were the oldest menpresent, 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 theirrevolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for anything. 

At the Governor's words, they saw Ruggles pull sharply on the reins. Thebuggy came to a standstill, the riders doing likewise. Magnus approachedthe 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 notbe made out. They heard the marshal reply quietly enough and the twoshook hands. Delaney came around from the side of the buggy, his horsestanding 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 asentence or two into the conversation, but at first, so far as theLeaguers could discern, neither Magnus nor the marshal paid them anyattention. They saw, however, that the latter repeatedly shook his headand 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, addressedan unheard remark to him. The cow-puncher replied curtly and the wordsseemed to anger Gethings. He made a gesture, pointing back to theditch, showing the intrenched Leaguers to the posse. Delaney appearedto communicate the news that the Leaguers were on hand and prepared toresist, to the other members of the party. They all looked toward theditch and plainly saw the ranchers there, standing to their arms. 

But meanwhile Ruggles had addressed himself more directly to Magnus, andbetween the two an angry discussion was going forward. Once even Harranheard 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'tMagnus see that?"

The other members of the marshal's force had come forward from theirplaces behind the buggy and were spread out across the road. Some ofthem were gathered about Magnus, Garnett, and Gethings; and some weretalking together, looking and pointing towards the ditch. Whether actingupon signal or not, the Leaguers in the ditch could not tell, but itwas certain that one or two of the posse had moved considerably forward. Besides this, Delaney had now placed his horse between Magnus and theditch, and two others riding up from the rear had followed his example. The posse surrounded the three ranchers, and by now, everybody wastalking at once. 

"Look here, " Harran called to Annixter, "this won't do. I don't like thelooks of this thing. They all seem to be edging up, and before we knowit 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 becomemore heated than ever. Their voices were raised; now and then they madefurious gestures. 

"They ought to come back, " cried Osterman. "We couldn't shoot now ifanything 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 deputyjoined in. 

"I'm going to call the Governor back, " exclaimed Annixter, suddenlyclambering out of the ditch. "No, no, " cried Osterman, "keep in theditch. They can't drive us out if we keep here. "

Hooven and Harran, who had instinctively followed Annixter, hesitatedat Osterman's words and the three halted irresolutely on the road beforethe 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 littlefrom 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 myland. "

"Oh, come back here, Harran, " called Osterman. "That ain't going to doany 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 thearm and pulling him back. 

"He didn't call. Don't get excited. You'll ruin everything. Get backinto the ditch again. "

But Cutter, Phelps, and the old man Dabney, misunderstanding whatwas happening, and seeing Osterman leave the ditch, had followed hisexample. All the Leaguers were now out of the ditch, and a little waydown 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 yetquarrelling, and the angry debate between Magnus, Garnett, and themarshal still continued. 

Till this moment, the real estate broker, Christian, had taken no partin 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 thehub of the wheel. The animal recoiled sharply, and, striking againstGarnett, threw him to the ground. Delaney's horse stood between thebuggy and the Leaguers gathered on the road in front of the ditch; theincident, 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 riflecarefully, fired into the group of men around the buggy. 

Instantly the revolvers and rifles seemed to go off of themselves. Bothsides, deputies and Leaguers, opened fire simultaneously. At first, itwas nothing but a confused roar of explosions; then the roar lapsed toan irregular, quick succession of reports, shot leaping after shot;then a moment's silence, and, last of all, regular as clock-ticks, threeshots at exact intervals. Then stillness. 

Delaney, shot through the stomach, slid down from his horse, and, onhis hands and knees, crawled from the road into the standing wheat. Christian fell backward from the saddle toward the buggy, and hungsuspended in that position, his head and shoulders on the wheel, onestiff leg still across his saddle. Hooven, in attempting to rise fromhis kneeling position, received a rifle ball squarely in the throat, androlled forward upon his face. Old Broderson, crying out, "Oh, they'veshot me, boys, " staggered sideways, his head bent, his hands rigid athis sides, and fell into the ditch. Osterman, blood running from hismouth and nose, turned about and walked back. Presley helped him acrossthe irrigating ditch and Osterman laid himself down, his head on hisfolded arms. Harran Derrick dropped where he stood, turning over on hisface, and lay motionless, groaning terribly, a pool of blood formingunder his stomach. The old man Dabney, silent as ever, received hisdeath, speechless. He fell to his knees, got up again, fell once more, and died without a word. Annixter, instantly killed, fell his lengthto the ground, and lay without movement, just as he had fallen, one armacross his face. 

CHAPTER VII

On their way to Derrick's ranch house, Hilma and Mrs. Derrick heard thesounds of distant firing. 

"Stop!" cried Hilma, laying her hand upon young Vacca's arm. "Stop thehorses. Listen, what was that?"

The carry-all came to a halt and from far away across the rustling wheatcame the faint rattle of rifles and revolvers. 

"Say, " cried Vacca, rolling his eyes, "oh, say, they're fighting overthere. "

Mrs. Derrick put her hands over her face. 

"Fighting, " she cried, "oh, oh, it's terrible. Magnus is there--andHarran. "

"Where do you think it is?" demanded Hilma. "That's over towardHooven's. "

"I'm going. Turn back. Drive to Hooven's, quick. "

"Better not, Mrs. Annixter, " protested the young man. "Mr. Annixter saidwe were to go to Derrick's. Better keep away from Hooven's if there'strouble 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 beall 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, " sheexclaimed, turning to Mrs. Derrick, "how CAN you--when Harran and yourhusband may be--may--are in danger. "

Grumbling, Vacca turned the carry-all about and drove across the openfields 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 housesof 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 havedone. "

Vacca pulled the horses up, for the road in front of Annixter's housewas 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 theroad, everything that she and her husband had bought during thatwonderful week after their marriage. Here was the white enamelled "set"of the bedroom furniture, the three chairs, wash-stand and bureau, --thebureau drawers falling out, spilling their contents into the dust; therewere the white wool rugs of the sitting-room, the flower stand, with itspots all broken, its flowers wilting; the cracked goldfish globe, thefishes already dead; the rocking chair, the sewing machine, the greatround table of yellow oak, the lamp with its deep shade of crinklyred tissue paper, the pretty tinted photographs that had hung on thewall--the choir boys with beautiful eyes, the pensive young girls inpink gowns--the pieces of wood carving that represented quails andducks, and, last of all, its curtains of crisp, clean muslin, cruellytorn 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 allmen to stare at, a mockery and a shame. 

To Hilma it was as though something of herself, of her person, had beenthus exposed and degraded; all that she held sacred pilloried, gibbeted, and exhibited to the world's derision. Tears of anguish sprang to hereyes, 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'sattention, two men, deputies, no doubt, on the porch of the ranch house. They held possession there, and the evidence of the presence of theenemy in this raid upon Quien Sabe had daunted him. 

"No, SIR, " he declared, getting out of the carry-all, "I ain't going totake you anywhere where you're liable to get hurt. Besides, the road'sblocked 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, andHilma, picking her way through and around the wreck of her home, set offby 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. Anoverturned buggy lay on the side of the road in the distance, its horsesin a tangle of harness, held by two or three men. She saw Caraher'sbuckboard under the live oak and near it a second buggy which sherecognised 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 togetherthey pushed their way through the crowd of men and women and entered theyard. 

The throng gave way before the two women, parting to right and leftwithout a word. 

"Presley, " cried Mrs. Derrick, as she caught sight of him in the doorwayof the house, "oh, Presley, what has happened? Is Harran safe? Is Magnussafe? Where are they?"

"Don't go in, Mrs. Derrick, " said Presley, coming forward, "don't goin. "

"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 fullof men. She was dimly conscious of Cyrus Ruggles and S. Behrman, bothdeadly 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 ofbandages, and a blue, oblong paper box full of cotton. But above thehushed noises of voices and footsteps, one terrible sound made itselfheard--the prolonged, rasping sound of breathing, half choked, laboured, agonised. 

"Where is my husband?" she cried. She pushed the men aside. She sawMagnus, bareheaded, three or four men lying on the floor, one halfnaked, 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 bodyof her husband lying upon the bed. She did not cry out. She said noword. She went to the bed, and sitting upon it, took Annixter's headin her lap, holding it gently between her hands. Thereafter she didnot move, but sat holding her dead husband's head in her lap, lookingvaguely about from face to face of those in the room, while, withouta sob, without a cry, the great tears filled her wide-opened eyes androlled slowly down upon her cheeks. 

On hearing that his wife was outside, Magnus came quickly forward. Shethrew 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, couldnot break down now. 

"The doctor is with him, " he said; "we are doing all we can. Try and bebrave, Annie. There is always hope. This is a terrible day's work. Godforgive us all. "

She pressed forward, but he held her back. 

"No, don't see him now. Go into the next room. Garnett, take care ofher. "

But she would not be denied. She pushed by Magnus, and, breakingthrough 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 apillow, his coat that had been taken off spread over his chest. One legof his trousers was soaked through and through with blood. His eyes werehalf-closed, and with the regularity of a machine, the eyeballs twitchedand twitched. His face was so white that it made his yellow hair lookbrown, while from his opened mouth, there issued that loud and terriblesound of guttering, rasping, laboured breathing that gagged and chokedand 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, half-carrying, half-leading her, took her to the one adjoining room--Minna Hooven'sbedchamber. 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 ofservice, sick with horror, trembling from head to foot. 

The surviving members of both Leaguers and deputies--the warringfactions of the Railroad and the People--mingled together now with nothought of hostility. Presley helped the doctor to cover Christian'sbody. S. Behrman and Ruggles held bowls of water while Osterman wasattended to. The horror of that dreadful business had driven all otherconsiderations from the mind. The sworn foes of the last hour had nothought of anything but to care for those whom, in their fury, they hadshot down. The marshal, abandoning for that day the attempt to serve thewrits, departed for San Francisco. 

The bodies had been brought in from the road where they fell. Annixter'scorpse had been laid upon the bed; those of Dabney and Hooven, whose wounds had all been in the face and head, were covered with atablecloth. Upon the floor, places were made for the others. Cutterand Ruggles rode into Guadalajara to bring out the doctor there, and totelephone 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, bandagesof adhesive tape reeved about his abdomen and shoulder. His eyes werehalf-closed. Presley, who looked after him, pending the arrival of ahack from Bonneville that was to take him home, knew that he was inagony. 

But this poser, this silly fellow, this cracker of jokes, whom no onehad ever taken very seriously, at the last redeemed himself. When atlength, the doctor had arrived, he had, for the first time, opened hiseyes. 

"I can wait, " he said. "Take Harran first. " And when at length, his turnhad come, and while the sweat rolled from his forehead as the doctorbegan probing for the bullet, he had reached out his free arm and takenPresley's hand in his, gripping it harder and harder, as the probeentered 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 shuttight, but he uttered no groan. 

When the worst anguish was over and he could find breath to speak, hisfirst words had been:

"Were any of the others badly hurt?"

As Presley stood by the door of the house after bringing in a pail ofwater for the doctor, he was aware of a party of men who had struckoff from the road on the other side of the irrigating ditch and wereadvancing cautiously into the field of wheat. He wondered what it meantand 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 crawledoff into the wheat. They are looking for him there. "

Presley had forgotten all about the buster and had only a vaguerecollection of seeing him slide from his horse at the beginning of thefight. Anxious to know what had become of him, he hurried up and joinedthe party of searchers. 

"We better look out, " said one of the young men, "how we go foolingaround in here. If he's alive yet he's just as liable as not to thinkwe're after him and take a shot at us. "

"I guess there ain't much fight left in him, " another answered. "Look atthe wheat here. "

"Lord! He's bled like a stuck pig. "

"Here's his hat, " abruptly exclaimed the leader of the party. "He can'tbe far off. Let's call him. "

They called repeatedly without getting any answer, then proceededcautiously. All at once the men in advance stopped so suddenly thatthose following carromed against them. There was an outburst ofexclamation. 

"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 hisempty revolver. 

The men, farm hands from the neighbouring ranches, young fellows fromGuadalajara, drew back in instinctive repulsion. One at length venturednear, 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. YOUfeel his heart. "

"You can't always tell by that. "

"How can you tell, then? Pshaw, you fellows make me sick. Here, let meget there. I'll do it. "

There was a long pause, as the other bent down and laid his hand on thecow-puncher's breast. 

"Well?"

"I can't tell. Sometimes I think I feel it beat and sometimes I don't. Inever 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 himback 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 throwingtheir coats over the body, the party carried it back to the road. Thedoctor was summoned and declared the cow-puncher to have been dead overhalf 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 saidyou 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 ofthe crowd. "Whadt has happun? Sey, den, dose vellers, hev dey hurdt mymen, eh, whadt?"

She sprang from the wagon, followed by Minna with Hilda in her arms. Thecrowd bore back as they advanced, staring at them in silence. 

"Eh, whadt has happun, whadt has happun?" wailed Mrs. Hooven, as shehurried 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 adjoiningroom, the bedroom of the house, and to this room Mrs. Hooven--Minnastill at her heels--proceeded, guided by an instinct born of theoccasion. Those in the outside room, saying no word, made way for them. They entered, closing the door behind them, and through all the restof that terrible day, no sound nor sight of them was had by those whocrowded into and about that house of death. Of all the main actors ofthe 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 vastconcourse of people from Bonneville, from Guadalajara, from the ranches, swelled by the thousands who had that morning participated in the rabbitdrive, 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 forDelaney's body, had to fight his way to the house again. 

And from all this multitude there rose an indefinable murmur. Asyet, there was no menace in it, no anger. It was confusion merely, bewilderment, the first long-drawn "oh!" that greets the news of somegreat tragedy. The people had taken no thought as yet. Curiosity wastheir 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 ofthe affair. The crowd of people packed the road in front of the housefor nearly a quarter of a mile in either direction. They balancedthemselves upon the lower strands of the barbed wire fence in theireffort to see over each others' shoulders; they stood on the seats oftheir carts, buggies, and farm wagons, a few even upon the saddles oftheir riding horses. They crowded, pushed, struggled, surged forward andback without knowing why, converging incessantly upon Hooven's house. 

When, at length, Presley got to the gate, he found a carry-all drawn upbefore it. Between the gate and the door of the house a lane had beenformed, and as he paused there a moment, a group of Leaguers, amongwhom were Garnett and Gethings, came slowly from the door carryingold Broderson in their arms. The doctor, bareheaded and in his shirtsleeves, squinting in the sunlight, attended them, repeating at everystep:

"Slow, slow, take it easy, gentlemen. "

Old Broderson was unconscious. His face was not pale, no bandages couldbe seen. With infinite precautions, the men bore him to the carry-alland deposited him on the back seat; the rain flaps were let down on oneside to shut off the gaze of the multitude. 

But at this point a moment of confusion ensued. Presley, because of halfa dozen people who stood in his way, could not see what was going on. There were exclamations, hurried movements. The doctor uttered a sharpcommand and a man ran back to the house returning on the instant withthe doctor's satchel. By this time, Presley was close to the wheels ofthe carry-all and could see the doctor inside the vehicle bending overold Broderson. 

"Here it is, here it is, " exclaimed the man who had been sent to thehouse. 

"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. Theseconds passed, then a minute. The horses of the carry-all shifted theirfeet and whisked their tails, driving off the flies. At length, thedoctor got down from the carry-all, letting down the rain-flaps on thatside as well. 

"Will somebody go home with the body?" he asked. Gethings steppedforward and took his place by the driver. The carry-all drove away. 

Presley reentered the house. During his absence it had been cleared ofall 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 takenaway in a hack and the tablecloth over Dabney's body replaced witha sheet. But still unabated, agonised, raucous, came the sounds ofHarran's breathing. Everything possible had already been done. For themoment it was out of the question to attempt to move him. His mother andfather were at his side, Magnus, with a face of stone, his look fixed onthose persistently twitching eyes, Annie Derrick crouching at her son'sside, one of his hands in hers, fanning his face continually with thecrumpled sheet of an old newspaper. 

Presley on tip-toes joined the group, looking on attentively. One of thesurgeons who had been called from Bonneville stood close by, watchingHarran'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 irregularand the lids closed over the twitching eyes. All at once the breathceased. 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, stretchedherself over the body of her son, her head upon his breast, and theGovernor'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 Carahermet 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 thetime. The League is wrong. All the world is wrong. You are the only oneof us all who is right. I'm with you from now on. BY GOD, I TOO, I'M ARED!"

In course of time, a farm wagon from Bonneville arrived at Hooven's. Thebodies of Annixter and Harran were placed in it, and it drove down theLower Road towards the Los Muertos ranch houses. 

The bodies of Delaney and Christian had already been carried toGuadalajara and thence taken by train to Bonneville. 

Hilma followed the farm wagon in the Derricks' carry-all, with Magnusand his wife. During all that ride none of them spoke a word. It hadbeen 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 wascarried. 

Later on in the day, when it was almost evening, the undertaker's blackwagon passed the Derricks' Home ranch on its way from Hooven's andturned into the county road towards Bonneville. The initial excitementof the affair of the irrigating ditch had died down; the crowd longsince had dispersed. By the time the wagon passed Caraher's saloon, thesun 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 whomnothing was known but his name, who made no friends, whom nobody knew orspoke to, who had come from no one knew whence and who went no one knewwhither. 

Towards midnight of that same day, Mrs. Dyke was awakened by the soundsof groaning in the room next to hers. Magnus Derrick was not sooccupied by Harran's death that he could not think of others who were indistress, 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 tothem. 

"Though, " he warned them, "it is precarious hospitality at the best. "

Until late, Mrs. Dyke had sat up with Hilma, comforting her as best shecould, rocking her to and fro in her arms, crying with her, trying toquiet her, for once having given way to her grief, Hilma wept with aterrible anguish and a violence that racked her from head to foot, andat last, worn out, a little child again, had sobbed herself to sleep inthe older woman's arms, and as a little child, Mrs. Dyke had put her tobed 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 thelamp with her. Mrs. Dyke needed no enlightenment. She woke Presley andbesought 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 evenremove his clothes. Long after the doctor had departed and that houseof tragedy had quieted down, he still remained in his place by the openwindow of his little room, looking off across the leagues of growingwheat, watching the slow kindling of the dawn. Horror weighedintolerably upon him. Monstrous things, huge, terrible, whose names heknew only too well, whirled at a gallop through his imagination, or rosespectral and grisly before the eyes of his mind. Harran dead, Annixterdead, 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 familiarto him as brothers. They were all his associates, his good friends, thegroup was his environment, belonging to his daily life. And he, standingthere in the dust of the road by the irrigating ditch, had seen themshot. He found himself suddenly at his table, the candle burning athis elbow, his journal before him, writing swiftly, the desire forexpression, the craving for outlet to the thoughts that clamouredtumultuous at his brain, never more insistent, more imperious. Thus hewrote:

"Dabney dead, Hooven dead, Harran dead, Annixter dead, Broderson dead, Osterman dying, S. Behrman alive, successful; the Railroad in possessionof Quien Sabe. I saw them shot. Not twelve hours since I stood there atthe irrigating ditch. Ah, that terrible moment of horror and confusion!powder smoke--flashing pistol barrels--blood stains--rearing horses--menstaggering to their death--Christian in a horrible posture, one rigidleg high in the air across his saddle--Broderson falling sideways intothe ditch--Osterman laying himself down, his head on his arms, as iftired, tired out. These things, I have seen them. The picture of thisday's work is from henceforth part of my mind, part of ME. They havedone it, S. Behrman and the owners of the railroad have done it, whileall the world looked on, while the people of these United States lookedon. 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 'rightsof Capital, ' talk to US of the Trust, talk to US of the 'equilibriumbetween the classes. ' Try your ingenious ideas upon us. WE KNOW. Icannot tell whether or not your theories are excellent. I do not know ifyour ideas are plausible. I do not know how practical is your scheme ofsociety. I do not know if the Railroad has a right to our lands, but IDO know that Harran is dead, that Annixter is dead, that Broderson isdead, that Hooven is dead, that Osterman is dying, and that S. Behrmanis alive, successful, triumphant; that he has ridden into possession ofa principality over the dead bodies of five men shot down by his hiredassociates. 

"I can see the outcome. The Railroad will prevail. The Trust willoverpower us. Here in this corner of a great nation, here, on the edgeof the continent, here, in this valley of the West, far from the greatcentres, isolated, remote, lost, the great iron hand crushes life fromus, crushes liberty and the pursuit of happiness from us, and our littlestruggles, our moment's convulsion of death agony causes not one jar inthe vast, clashing machinery of the nation's life; a fleck of grit inthe wheels, perhaps, a grain of sand in the cogs--the momentary creakof the axle is the mother's wail of bereavement, the wife's cry ofanguish--and the great wheel turns, spinning smooth again, even again, and the tiny impediment of a second, scarce noticed, is forgotten. Makethe people believe that the faint tremour in their great engine is amenace to its function? What a folly to think of it. Tell them of thedanger 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 theRailroad and it will not be believed. What! a pitched battle betweenFarmer and Railroad, a battle that cost the lives of seven men?Impossible, it could not have happened. Your story is fiction--isexaggerated. 

"Yet it is Lexington--God help us, God enlighten us, God rouse us fromour lethargy--it is Lexington; farmers with guns in their hands fightingfor Liberty. Is our State of California the only one that has itsancient and hereditary foe? Are there no other Trusts between the oceansthan this of the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad? Ask yourselves, youof the Middle West, ask yourselves, you of the North, ask yourselves, you of the East, ask yourselves, you of the South--ask yourselves, everycitizen of every State from Maine to Mexico, from the Dakotas to theCarolinas, have you not the monster in your boundaries? If it is not aTrust of transportation, it is only another head of the same Hydra. Is not our death struggle typical? Is it not one of many, is itnot symbolical of the great and terrible conflict that is going oneverywhere in these United States? Ah, you people, blind, bound, tricked, betrayed, can you not see it? Can you not see how the monstershave plundered your treasures and holding them in the grip of theiriron claws, dole them out to you only at the price of your blood, at theprice of the lives of your wives and your little children? You give yourbabies to Moloch for the loaf of bread you have kneaded yourselves. You offer your starved wives to Juggernaut for the iron nail you haveyourselves compounded. "

He spent the night over his journal, writing down such thoughts asthese or walking the floor from wall to wall, or, seized at times withunreasoning horror and blind rage, flinging himself face downward uponhis bed, vowing with inarticulate cries that neither S. Behrman norShelgrim should ever live to consummate their triumph. 

Morning came and with it the daily papers and news. Presley did not evenglance at the "Mercury. " Bonneville published two other daily journalsthat professed to voice the will and reflect the temper of the peopleand these he read eagerly. 

Osterman was yet alive and there were chances of his recovery. TheLeague--some three hundred of its members had gathered at Bonnevilleover night and were patrolling the streets and, still resolved tokeep the peace, were even guarding the railroad shops and buildings. Furthermore, the Leaguers had issued manifestoes, urging all citizensto preserve law and order, yet summoning an indignation meeting to beconvened that afternoon at the City Opera House. 

It appeared from the newspapers that those who obstructed the marshalin the discharge of his duty could be proceeded against by the DistrictAttorney 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 knownthat there were no funds in the marshal's office to pay expenses for thesummoning of jurors or the serving of processes. S. Behrman and Rugglesin interviews stated that the Railroad withdrew entirely from the fight;the matter now, according to them, was between the Leaguers and theUnited States Government; they washed their hands of the whole business. The ranchers could settle with Washington. But it seemed that Congresshad recently forbade the use of troops for civil purposes; the wholematter of the League-Railroad contest was evidently for the moment to beleft in status quo. 

But to Presley's mind the most important piece of news that morning wasthe report of the action of the Railroad upon hearing of the battle. 

Instantly Bonneville had been isolated. Not a single local train wasrunning, not one of the through trains made any halt at the station. Themails were not moved. Further than this, by some arrangement difficultto understand, the telegraph operators at Bonneville and Guadalajara, acting under orders, refused to receive any telegrams except thoseemanating from railway officials. The story of the fight, the storycreating the first impression, was to be told to San Francisco and theoutside world by S. Behrman, Ruggles, and the local P. And S. W. Agents. 

An hour before breakfast, the undertakers arrived and took charge of thebodies of Harran and Annixter. Presley saw neither Hilma, Magnus, norMrs. Derrick. The doctor came to look after Hilma. He breakfasted withMrs. Dyke and Presley, and from him Presley learned that Hilma wouldrecover both from the shock of her husband's death and from hermiscarriage of the previous night. 

"She ought to have her mother with her, " said the physician. "She doesnothing but call for her or beg to be allowed to go to her. I have triedto 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? Thereare no trains. "

But Presley found that it was impossible for him to stay at Los Muertosthat day. Gloom and the shadow of tragedy brooded heavy over the place. A great silence pervaded everything, a silence broken only by thesubdued coming and going of the undertaker and his assistants. WhenPresley, having resolved to go into Bonneville, came out through thedoorway of the house, he found the undertaker tying a long strip ofcrape to the bell-handle. 

Presley saddled his pony and rode into town. By this time, after longhours of continued reflection upon one subject, a sombre broodingmalevolence, a deep-seated desire of revenge, had grown big within hismind. The first numbness had passed off; familiarity with what had beendone had blunted the edge of horror, and now the impulse of retaliationprevailed. At first, the sullen anger of defeat, the sense of outrage, had only smouldered, but the more he brooded, the fiercer flamed hisrage. Sudden paroxysms of wrath gripped him by the throat; abruptoutbursts of fury injected his eyes with blood. He ground his teeth, hismouth filled with curses, his hands clenched till they grew white andbloodless. Was the Railroad to triumph then in the end? After all thosemonths of preparation, after all those grandiloquent resolutions, afterall the arrogant presumption of the League! The League! what a farce;what had it amounted to when the crisis came? Was the Trust to crushthem all so easily? Was S. Behrman to swallow Los Muertos? S. Behrman!Presley saw him plainly, huge, rotund, white; saw his jowl tremulous andobese, the roll of fat over his collar sprinkled with sparse hairs, thegreat stomach with its brown linen vest and heavy watch chain of hollowlinks, clinking against the buttons of imitation pearl. And this man wasto crush Magnus Derrick--had already stamped the life from such men asHarran and Annixter. This man, in the name of the Trust, was to grab LosMuertos as he had grabbed Quien Sabe, and after Los Muertos, Broderson'sranch, 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 intothe white, fat throat of the man, to clutch like iron into the greatpuffed jowl of him, to wrench out the life, to batter it out, strangleit out, to pay him back for the long years of extortion and oppression, to square accounts for bribed jurors, bought judges, corruptedlegislatures, to have justice for the trick of the Ranchers' RailroadCommission, the charlatanism of the "ten per cent. Cut, " the ruin ofDyke, the seizure of Quien Sabe, the murder of Harran, the assassinationof Annixter!

It was in such mood that he reached Caraher's. The saloon-keeper hadjust 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 rodeon towards Bonneville, his face was very pale, his lips shut tight, resolute, determined. His manner was that of a man whose mind is madeup. The hour for the mass meeting at the Opera House had been set forone o'clock, but long before noon the street in front of the buildingand, in fact, all the streets in its vicinity, were packed from side toside with a shifting, struggling, surging, and excited multitude. Therewere few women in the throng, but hardly a single male inhabitant ofeither Bonneville or Guadalajara was absent. Men had even come fromVisalia and Pixley. It was no longer the crowd of curiosity seekers thathad thronged around Hooven's place by the irrigating ditch; the Peoplewere no longer confused, bewildered. A full realisation of just what hadbeen done the day before was clear now in the minds of all. Business wassuspended; nearly all the stores were closed. Since early morning themembers of the League had put in an appearance and rode from point topoint, their rifles across their saddle pommels. Then, by ten o'clock, the streets had begun to fill up, the groups on the corners grewand merged into one another; pedestrians, unable to find room onthe sidewalks, took to the streets. Hourly the crowd increased tillshoulders touched and elbows, till free circulation became impeded, thencongested, then impossible. The crowd, a solid mass, was wedged tightfrom store front to store front. And from all this throng, this singleunit, this living, breathing organism--the People--there rose a droning, terrible note. It was not yet the wild, fierce clamour of riot andinsurrection, shrill, high pitched; but it was a beginning, the growl ofthe awakened brute, feeling the iron in its flank, heaving up its headwith bared teeth, the throat vibrating to the long, indrawn snarl ofwrath. 

Thus the forenoon passed, while the people, their bulk growing hourlyvaster, kept to the streets, moving slowly backward and forward, oscillating in the grooves of the thoroughfares, the steady, low-pitchedgrowl rising continually into the hot, still air. 

Then, at length, about twelve o'clock, the movement of the throngassumed definite direction. It set towards the Opera House. Presley, whohad left his pony at the City livery stable, found himself caught inthe current and carried slowly forward in its direction. His arms werepinioned to his sides by the press, the crush against his body was allbut rib-cracking, he could hardly draw his breath. All around him roseand fell wave after wave of faces, hundreds upon hundreds, thousandsupon thousands, red, lowering, sullen. All were set in one direction andslowly, slowly they advanced, crowding closer, till they almost touchedone another. For reasons that were inexplicable, great, tumultuousheavings, like ground-swells of an incoming tide, surged over andthrough the multitude. At times, Presley, lifted from his feet, wasswept back, back, back, with the crowd, till the entrance of the OperaHouse was half a block away; then, the returning billow beat back againand swung him along, gasping, staggering, clutching, till he was landedonce more in the vortex of frantic action in front of the foyer. Herethe waves were shorter, quicker, the crushing pressure on all sides ofhis body left him without strength to utter the cry that rose to hislips; 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 forwardin its leap. There was a moment's whirl of confused sights, congestedfaces, opened mouths, bloodshot eyes, clutching hands; a moment'soutburst of furious sound, shouts, cheers, oaths; a moment's jam whereinPresley veritably believed his ribs must snap like pipestems and hewas carried, dazed, breathless, helpless, an atom on the crest ofa storm-driven wave, up the steps of the Opera House, on into thevestibule, through the doors, and at last into the auditorium of thehouse itself. 

There was a mad rush for places; men disdaining the aisle, steppedfrom one orchestra chair to another, striding over the backs of seats, leaving the print of dusty feet upon the red plush cushions. In atwinkling the house was filled from stage to topmost gallery. Theaisles were packed solid, even on the edge of the stage itself men weresitting, a black fringe on either side of the footlights. 

The curtain was up, disclosing a half-set scene, --the flats, leaning atperilous angles, --that represented some sort of terrace, the pavement, alternate squares of black and white marble, while red, white, andyellow 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 ofwater 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 theirappearance--Garnett of the Ruby ranch, Gethings of the San Pablo, Keastof 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 thatcertain resolutions were to be drawn up. He introduced the next speaker. 

This one pleaded for moderation. He was conservative. All along he hadopposed the idea of armed resistance except as the very last resort. He "deplored" the terrible affair of yesterday. He begged the peopleto wait in patience, to attempt no more violence. He informed them thatarmed guards of the League were, at that moment, patrolling Los Muertos, Broderson's, and Osterman's. It was well known that the United Statesmarshal confessed himself powerless to serve the writs. There would beno more bloodshed. 

"We have had, " he continued, "bloodshed enough, and I want to say righthere that I am not so sure but what yesterday's terrible affair mighthave been avoided. A gentleman whom we all esteem, who from the firsthas been our recognised leader, is, at this moment, mourning the loss ofa young son, killed before his eyes. God knows that I sympathise, as dowe all, in the affliction of our President. I am sorry for him. My heartgoes out to him in this hour of distress, but, at the same time, theposition of the League must be defined. We owe it to ourselves, we oweit to the people of this county. The League armed for the very purposeof preserving the peace, not of breaking it. We believed that with sixhundred armed and drilled men at our disposal, ready to muster at amoment's call, we could so overawe any attempt to expel us from ourlands that such an attempt would not be made until the cases pendingbefore the Supreme Court had been decided. If when the enemy appeared inour midst yesterday they had been met by six hundred rifles, it is notconceivable that the issue would have been forced. No fight would haveensued, and to-day we would not have to mourn the deaths of four of ourfellow-citizens. A mistake has been made and we of the League must notbe held responsible. "

The speaker sat down amidst loud applause from the Leaguers and lesspronounced demonstrations on the part of the audience. 

A second Leaguer took his place, a tall, clumsy man, half-rancher, half-politician. 

"I want to second what my colleague has just said, " he began. "Thismatter of resisting the marshal when he tried to put the Railroaddummies in possession on the ranches around here, was all talked overin the committee meetings of the League long ago. It never was ourintention to fire a single shot. No such absolute authority as wasassumed yesterday was delegated to anybody. Our esteemed President isall right, but we all know that he is a man who loves authority and wholikes to go his own gait without accounting to anybody. We--the rest ofus 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'tbe taken by surprise as we were yesterday. And it seems no watch waskept at all, or if there was, it was mighty ineffective. Our idea was toforestall any movement on the part of the Railroad and then when weknew the marshal was coming down, to call a meeting of our ExecutiveCommittee and decide as to what should be done. We ought to have hadtime to call out the whole League. Instead of that, what happens? Whilewe're all off chasing rabbits, the Railroad is allowed to steal a marchon us and when it is too late, a handful of Leaguers is got together anda 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 believinghe did a hasty and inconsiderate thing. If he had managed right, hecould have had six hundred men to oppose the Railroad and there wouldnot have been any gun fight or any killing. He DIDN'T manage right andthere WAS a killing and I don't see as how the League ought to beheld responsible. The idea of the League, the whole reason why itwas organised, was to protect ALL the ranches of this valley from theRailroad, and it looks to me as if the lives of our fellow-citizenshad been sacrificed, not in defending ALL of our ranches, but just indefence 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 seenpushing his way from the back of the stage towards Garnett. He handedthe rancher a note, at the same time whispering in his ear. Garnett readthe note, then came forward to the edge of the stage, holding up hishand. 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 trembledto it, the gas jets in the lighted chandeliers vibrated to it. It was araucous howl of execration, a bellow of rage, inarticulate, deafening. 

A tornado of confusion swept whirling from wall to wall and the madnessof the moment seized irresistibly upon Presley. He forgot himself; he nolonger was master of his emotions or his impulses. All at once he foundhimself 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 oftheir 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 longmust the iron-hearted monster feed on our life's blood? How long mustthis terror of steam and steel ride upon our necks? Will you never besatisfied, will you never relent, you, our masters, you, our lords, you, our kings, you, our task-masters, you, our Pharoahs. Will you neverlisten to that command 'LET MY PEOPLE GO'? Oh, that cry ringing down theages. Hear it, hear it. It is the voice of the Lord God speaking in hisprophets. Hear it, hear it--'Let My people go!' Rameses heard it in hispylons at Thebes, Caesar heard it on the Palatine, the Bourbon Louisheard it at Versailles, Charles Stuart heard it at Whitehall, the whiteCzar heard it in the Kremlin, --'LET MY PEOPLE GO. ' It is the cry of thenations, the great voice of the centuries; everywhere it is raised. Thevoice of God is the voice of the People. The people cry out 'Let us, thePeople, God's people, go. ' You, our masters, you, our kings, you, ourtyrants, don't you hear us? Don't you hear God speaking in us? Will younever let us go? How long at length will you abuse our patience? Howlong will you drive us? How long will you harass us? Will nothing dauntyou? Does nothing check you? Do you not know that to ignore our crytoo long is to wake the Red Terror? Rameses refused to listen to itand perished miserably. Caesar refused to listen and was stabbed inthe Senate House. The Bourbon Louis refused to listen and died on theguillotine; Charles Stuart refused to listen and died on the block; thewhite Czar refused to listen and was blown up in his own capital. Willyou let it come to that? Will you drive us to it? We who boast of ourland of freedom, we who live in the country of liberty? Go on as youhave begun and it WILL come to that. Turn a deaf ear to that cry of 'LetMy people go' too long and another cry will be raised, that you cannotchoose but hear, a cry that you cannot shut out. It will be the cry ofthe man on the street, the 'a la Bastille' that wakes the Red Terror andunleashes Revolution. Harassed, plundered, exasperated, desperate, thepeople 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 caughtyour Samson, you have made his strength your own. You have shornhis head; you have put out his eyes; you have set him to turn yourmillstones, to grind the grist for your mills; you have made him a shameand a mock. Take care, oh, as you love your lives, take care, lest someday calling upon the Lord his God he reach not out his arms for thepillars of your temples. "

The audience, at first bewildered, confused by this unexpectedinvective, suddenly took fire at his last words. There was a roar ofapplause; then, more significant than mere vociferation, Presley'slisteners, as he began to speak again, grew suddenly silent. His nextsentences were uttered in the midst of a profound stillness. 

"They own us, these task-masters of ours; they own our homes, they ownour legislatures. We cannot escape from them. There is no redress. Weare 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 thecourts. We know them for what they are, --ruffians in politics, ruffiansin finance, ruffians in law, ruffians in trade, bribers, swindlers, andtricksters. No outrage too great to daunt them, no petty larceny toosmall to shame them; despoiling a government treasury of a milliondollars, yet picking the pockets of a farm hand of the price of a loafof bread. 

"They swindle a nation of a hundred million and call it Financiering;they levy a blackmail and call it Commerce; they corrupt a legislatureand call it Politics; they bribe a judge and call it Law; they hireblacklegs to carry out their plans and call it Organisation; theyprostitute the honour of a State and call it Competition. 

"And this is America. We fought Lexington to free ourselves; we foughtGettysburg to free others. Yet the yoke remains; we have only shifted itto 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 haveachieved liberty, that we no longer need fight for it. Why, the fight isjust beginning and so long as our conception of liberty remains as it isto-day, it will continue. 

"For we conceive of Liberty in the statues we raise to her as abeautiful 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 ManIn the Street, a terrible figure, rushing through powder smoke, fouledwith the mud and ordure of the gutter, bloody, rampant, brutal, yellingcurses, 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 thegods. She is a child of the People, born in the very height and heat ofbattle, born from death, stained with blood, grimed with powder. And shegrows to be not a goddess, but a Fury, a fearful figure, slaying friendand foe alike, raging, insatiable, merciless, the Red Terror. "

Presley ceased speaking. Weak, shaking, scarcely knowing what he wasabout, he descended from the stage. A prolonged explosion of applausefollowed, the Opera House roaring to the roof, men cheering, stamping, waving their hats. But it was not intelligent applause. Instinctively ashe made his way out, Presley knew that, after all, he had not once heldthe hearts of his audience. He had talked as he would have written; forall his scorn of literature, he had been literary. The men who listenedto him, ranchers, country people, store-keepers, attentive though theywere, were not once sympathetic. Vaguely they had felt that here wassomething which other men--more educated--would possibly considereloquent. They applauded vociferously but perfunctorily, in order toappear to understand. 

Presley, for all his love of the people, saw clearly for one momentthat he was an outsider to their minds. He had not helped them nor theircause in the least; he never would. 

Disappointed, bewildered, ashamed, he made his way slowly from the OperaHouse and stood on the steps outside, thoughtful, his head bent. 

He had failed, thus he told himself. In that moment of crisis, that atthe time he believed had been an inspiration, he had failed. The peoplewould not consider him, would not believe that he could do them service. Then suddenly he seemed to remember. The resolute set of his lipsreturned once more. Pushing his way through the crowded streets, he wenton towards the stable where he had left his pony. 

Meanwhile, in the Opera House, a great commotion had occurred. MagnusDerrick had appeared. 

Only a sense of enormous responsibility, of gravest duty could haveprevailed upon Magnus to have left his house and the dead body of hisson that day. But he was the President of the League, and never sinceits 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 washe who had gathered the handful of Leaguers together. It was he who mustbear the responsibility of the fight. 

When he had entered the Opera House, making his way down the centralaisle towards the stage, a loud disturbance had broken out, partlyapplause, partly a meaningless uproar. Many had pressed forward to shakehis hand, but others were not found wanting who, formerly his staunchsupporters, now scenting opposition in the air, held back, hesitating, afraid to compromise themselves by adhering to the fortunes of a manwhose actions might be discredited by the very organisation of which hewas the head. 

Declining to take the chair of presiding officer which Garnett offeredhim, the Governor withdrew to an angle of the stage, where he was joinedby Keast. 

This one, still unalterably devoted to Magnus, acquainted him brieflywith the tenor of the speeches that had been made. 

"I am ashamed of them, Governor, " he protested indignantly, "to losetheir nerve now! To fail you now! it makes my blood boil. If you hadsucceeded yesterday, if all had gone well, do you think we would haveheard of any talk of 'assumption of authority, ' or 'acting withoutadvice and consent'? As if there was any time to call a meeting of theExecutive Committee. If you hadn't acted as you did, the whole countywould have been grabbed by the Railroad. Get up, Governor, and bring 'emall up standing. Just tear 'em all to pieces, show 'em that you are thehead, the boss. That's what they need. That killing yesterday has shakenthe nerve clean out of them. "

For the instant the Governor was taken all aback. What, his lieutenantswere failing him? What, he was to be questioned, interpolated uponyesterday's "irrepressible conflict"? Had disaffection appeared inthe ranks of the League--at this, of all moments? He put from him histerrible grief. The cause was in danger. At the instant he was thePresident of the League only, the chief, the master. A royal angersurged within him, a wide, towering scorn of opposition. He wouldcrush this disaffection in its incipiency, would vindicate himself andstrengthen the cause at one and the same time. He stepped forward andstood in the speaker's place, turning partly toward the audience, partlytoward 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 wasbroken by a shout. It was as though his words had furnished a signal. Ina certain quarter of the gallery, directly opposite, a man arose, and ina voice partly of derision, partly of defiance, cried out:

"How about the bribery of those two delegates at Sacramento? Tell usabout that. That's what we want to hear about. "

A great confusion broke out. The first cry was repeated not only bythe original speaker, but by a whole group of which he was but a part. Others in the audience, however, seeing in the disturbance only theclamour 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 OperaHouse was in an uproar. 

But the interruption of the Governor's speech was evidently notunpremeditated. It began to look like a deliberate and planned attack. Persistently, doggedly, the group in the gallery vociferated: "Tell ushow you bribed the delegates at Sacramento. Before you throw mud at theRailroad, 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 wherethe recalcitrant group had its place and, shaking his fist, called up atthem:

"You were paid to break up this meeting. If you have anything tosay; you will be afforded the opportunity, but if you do not let thegentleman proceed, the police will be called upon to put you out. "

But at this, the man who had raised the first shout leaned over thebalcony rail, and, his face flaming with wrath, shouted:

"YAH! talk to me of your police. Look out we don't call on them firstto arrest your President for bribery. You and your howl about law andjustice and corruption! Here"--he turned to the audience--"read abouthim, read the story of how the Sacramento convention was bought byMagnus Derrick, President of the San Joaquin League. Here's the factsprinted and proved. "

With the words, he stooped down and from under his seat dragged forth agreat package of extra editions of the "Bonneville Mercury, " not an houroff the presses. Other equally large bundles of the paper appeared inthe hands of the surrounding group. The strings were cut and in handfulsand armfuls the papers were flung out over the heads of the audienceunderneath. 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 theaudience, were passed swiftly from man to man, and within five minutesof the first outbreak every one in the Opera House had read Genslinger'sdetailed and substantiated account of Magnus Derrick's "deal" with thepolitical bosses of the Sacramento convention. 

Genslinger, after pocketing the Governor's hush money, had "sold himout. "

Keast, one quiver of indignation, made his way back upon the stage. TheLeaguers were in wild confusion. Half the assembly of them were on theirfeet, bewildered, shouting vaguely. From proscenium wall to foyer, theOpera 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 todominate the clamour, "liars and slanderers. Your paper is the paidorgan of the corporation. You have not one shadow of proof to back youup. Do you choose this, of all times, to heap your calumny upon the headof an honourable gentleman, already prostrated by your murder of hisson? Proofs--we demand your proofs!"

"We've got the very assemblymen themselves, " came back the answeringshout. "Let Derrick speak. Where is he hiding? If this is a lie, let himdeny it. Let HIM DISPROVE the charge. " "Derrick, Derrick, " thundered theOpera House. 

Keast wheeled about. Where was Magnus? He was not in sight upon thestage. He had disappeared. Crowding through the throng of Leaguers, Keast got from off the stage into the wings. Here the crowd was no lessdense. Nearly every one had a copy of the "Mercury. " It was being readaloud 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 ourbenefit. It elected the Ranchers' Commission. "

"A lot of benefit we got out of the Ranchers' Commission, " retorted theother. 

"And then, " protested a third speaker, "that ain't the way to do--if heDID do it--bribing legislatures. Why, we were bucking against corruptpolitics. We couldn't afford to be corrupt. "

Keast turned away with a gesture of impatience. He pushed his wayfarther on. At last, opening a small door in a hallway back of thestage, he came upon Magnus. 

The room was tiny. It was a dressing-room. Only two nights before ithad been used by the leading actress of a comic opera troupe whichhad played for three nights at Bonneville. A tattered sofa and limpingtoilet table occupied a third of the space. The air was heavy with thesmell of stale grease paint, ointments, and sachet. Faded photographsof 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 apink dress, turned inside out, hung against the wall. 

And in the midst of such environment, surrounded by an excited groupof 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. Thecrowd has gone wild out there. You've got to talk 'em down. Come outthere 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 answerthat. Hey? why don't you give 'em the lie?"

"I--I, " Magnus loosened the collar about his throat "it is a lie. I willnot stoop--I would not--would be--it would be beneath my--my--it wouldbe beneath me. "

Keast stared in amazement. Was this the Great Man the Leader, indomitable, of Roman integrity, of Roman valour, before whose voicewhole conventions had quailed? Was it possible he was AFRAID to facethose hired villifiers?

"Well, how about this?" demanded Garnett suddenly. "It is a lie, isn'tit? That Commission was elected honestly, wasn't it?"

"How dare you, sir!" Magnus burst out. "How dare you question me--callme 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 anymore. 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 ownhand, undermined. Authority was gone. Why keep up this miserable shamany longer? Could they not read the lie in his face, in his voice? Whata folly to maintain the wretched pretence! He had failed. He was ruined. Harran was gone. His ranch would soon go; his money was gone. Lymanwas worse than dead. His own honour had been prostituted. Gone, gone, everything he held dear, gone, lost, and swept away in that fiercestruggle. And suddenly and all in a moment the last remaining shellsof the fabric of his being, the sham that had stood already wonderfullylong, cracked and collapsed. 

"Was the Commission honestly elected?" insisted Garnett. "Were thedelegates--did you bribe the delegates?"

"We were obliged to shut our eyes to means, " faltered Magnus. "Therewas no other way to--" Then suddenly and with the last dregs of hisresolution, he concluded with: "Yes, I gave them two thousand dollarseach. "

"Oh, hell! Oh, my God!" exclaimed Keast, sitting swiftly down upon theragged sofa. 

There was a long silence. A sense of poignant embarrassment descendedupon 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 gohome. "

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 Magnusand shook the Governor's limp hand. 

"Good-bye, Governor, " he said. "I'll see you again pretty soon. Don'tlet this discourage you. They'll come around all right after a while. Solong. "

He went out, shutting the door. 

And seated in the one chair of the room, Magnus Derrick remained a longtime, looking at his face in the cracked mirror that for so many yearshad reflected the painted faces of soubrettes, in this atmosphere ofstale perfume and mouldy rice powder. 

It had come--his fall, his ruin. After so many years of integrity andhonest battle, his life had ended here--in an actress's dressing-room, deserted by his friends, his son murdered, his dishonesty known, an oldman, broken, discarded, discredited, and abandoned. Before nightfall ofthat 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 littleafter half-past six, as he was sitting down to his supper, a bomb wasthrown through the window of his dining-room, exploding near the doorwayleading into the hall. The room was wrecked and nearly every windowof the house shattered. By a miracle, S. Behrman, himself, remaineduntouched. 

CHAPTER VIII

On a certain afternoon in the early part of July, about a month afterthe fight at the irrigating ditch and the mass meeting at Bonneville, Cedarquist, at the moment opening his mail in his office in SanFrancisco, was genuinely surprised to receive a visit from Presley. 

"Well, upon my word, Pres, " exclaimed the manufacturer, as the young mancame in through the door that the office boy held open for him, "uponmy word, have you been sick? Sit down, my boy. Have a glass of sherry. Ialways keep a bottle here. "

Presley accepted the wine and sank into the depths of a great leatherchair near by. 

"Sick?" he answered. "Yes, I have been sick. I'm sick now. I'm gone topieces, sir. "

His manner was the extreme of listlessness--the listlessness of greatfatigue. "Well, well, " observed the other. "I'm right sorry to hearthat. What's the trouble, Pres?"

"Oh, nerves mostly, I suppose, and my head, and insomnia, andweakness, a general collapse all along the line, the doctor tellsme. 'Over-cerebration, ' he says; 'over-excitement. ' I fancy I rathernarrowly missed brain fever. "

"Well, I can easily suppose it, " answered Cedarquist gravely, "after allyou have been through. "

Presley closed his eyes--they were sunken in circles of dark brownflesh--and pressed a thin hand to the back of his head. 

"It is a nightmare, " he murmured. "A frightful nightmare, and it's notover 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 ideaof it, of the misery caused by the defeat of the ranchers and by thisdecision of the Supreme Court that dispossesses them all. We had gone onhoping to the last that we would win there. We had thought that in theSupreme Court of the United States, at least, we could find justice. Andthe news of its decision was the worst, last blow of all. For Magnus itwas the last--positively the very last. "

"Poor, poor Derrick, " murmured Cedarquist. "Tell me about him, Pres. Howdoes he take it? What is he going to do?"

"It beggars him, sir. He sunk a great deal more than any of us believedin his ranch, when he resolved to turn off most of the tenants and farmthe ranch himself. Then the fight he made against the Railroad in theCourts and the political campaign he went into, to get Lyman onthe Railroad Commission, took more of it. The money that Genslingerblackmailed him of, it seems, was about all he had left. He had beengambling--you know the Governor--on another bonanza crop this year torecoup 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 turningrascal, Harran killed, and now this; and all within so short a time--allat the SAME time, you might almost say. "

"If it had only killed him, " continued Presley; "but that is the worstof 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. Ashambling, stooping, trembling old man, in his dotage already. He sitsall day in the dining-room, turning over papers, sorting them, tyingthem up, opening them again, forgetting them--all fumbling and mumblingand confused. And at table sometimes he forgets to eat. And, listen, you know, from the house we can hear the trains whistling for the LongTrestle. As often as that happens the Governor seems to be--oh, I don'tknow, frightened. He will sink his head between his shoulders, as thoughhe were dodging something, and he won't fetch a long breath again tillthe 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 fewtenants that were still on Los Muertos are leaving. That is one thingthat brings me to the city. The family of one of the men who waskilled--Hooven was his name--have come to the city to find work. Ithink they are liable to be in great distress, unless they have beenwonderfully lucky, and I am trying to find them in order to look afterthem. "

"You need looking after yourself, Pres. "

"Oh, once away from Bonneville and the sight of the ruin there, I'mbetter. But I intend to go away. And that makes me think, I came to askyou if you could help me. If you would let me take passage on one ofyour wheat ships. The Doctor says an ocean voyage would set me up. "

"Why, certainly, Pres, " declared Cedarquist. "But I'm sorry you'll haveto 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 allmy health, I could not bring myself to stay in California just now. Ifyou can introduce me to one of your captains--"

"With pleasure. When do you want to go? You may have to wait a fewweeks. 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 theBonneville farmers, and took the first occasion to ask:

"So, the Railroad are in possession on most of the ranches?" "On allof them, " returned Presley. "The League went all to pieces, so soon asMagnus was forced to resign. The old story--they got quarrelling amongthemselves. Somebody started a compromise party, and upon that issuea new president was elected. Then there were defections. The Railroadoffered to lease the lands in question to the ranchers--the rancherswho owned them, " he exclaimed bitterly, "and because the terms werenominal--almost nothing--plenty of the men took the chance of savingthemselves. And, of course, once signing the lease, they acknowledgedthe Railroad's title. But the road would not lease to Magnus. S. Behrmantakes 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 thecountry Monday of next week, and you probably won't see them again forsome 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 clockwith a broken spring. "

"Not broken, Pres, my boy;" urged the other, "only run down. Try and seeif we can't wind you up a bit. Say that we can expect you. We dine atseven. "

"Thank you, sir. Till Friday at seven, then. "

Regaining the street, Presley sent his valise to his club (where he hadengaged 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 hissteps. 

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 fierceincursions of a spirit of unrest and revolt, reactions, momentaryreturns of the blind, undirected energy that at one time had promptedhim to a vast desire to acquit himself of some terrible deed ofreadjustment, just what, he could not say, some terrifying martyrdom, some awe-inspiring immolation, consummate, incisive, conclusive. Hefancied himself to be fired with the purblind, mistaken heroism of theanarchist, hurling his victim to destruction with full knowledge thatthe 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 thenight, only to abandon them in the morning. 

Once only he had ACTED. And at this moment, as he was carried throughthe windy, squalid streets, he trembled at the remembrance of it. Thehorror of "what might have been" incompatible with the vengeancewhose minister he fancied he was, oppressed him. The scene perpetuallyreconstructed itself in his imagination. He saw himself under the shadeof the encompassing trees and shrubbery, creeping on his belly towardthe house, in the suburbs of Bonneville, watching his chances, seizingopportunities, spying upon the lighted windows where the raised curtainsafforded a view of the interior. Then had come the appearance in theglare of the gas of the figure of the man for whom he waited. He sawhimself rise and run forward. He remembered the feel and weight in hishand of Caraher's bomb--the six inches of plugged gas pipe. His upraisedarm shot forward. There was a shiver of smashed window-panes, then--avoid--a red whirl of confusion, the air rent, the ground rocking, himself flung headlong, flung off the spinning circumference of thingsout into a place of terror and vacancy and darkness. And then after along time the return of reason, the consciousness that his feet were setupon the road to Los Muertos, and that he was fleeing terror-stricken, gasping, all but insane with hysteria. Then the never-to-be-forgottennight that ensued, when he descended into the pit, horrified at whathe supposed he had done, at one moment ridden with remorse, at anotherraging against his own feebleness, his lack of courage, his wretched, vacillating spirit. But morning had come, and with it the knowledge thathe had failed, and the baser assurance that he was not even remotelysuspected. His own escape had been no less miraculous than that of hisenemy, and he had fallen on his knees in inarticulate prayer, weeping, pouring out his thanks to God for the deliverance from the gulf to thevery brink of which his feet had been drawn. 

After this, however, there had come to Presley a deep-rooted suspicionthat he was--of all human beings, the most wretched--a failure. Everything to which he had set his mind failed--his great epic, hisefforts to help the people who surrounded him, even his attempteddestruction of the enemy, all these had come to nothing. Girding hisshattered strength together, he resolved upon one last attempt to liveup to the best that was in him, and to that end had set himself to liftout of the despair into which they had been thrust, the bereaved familyof the German, Hooven. 

After all was over, and Hooven, together with the seven others who hadfallen at the irrigating ditch, was buried in the Bonneville cemetery, Mrs. Hooven, asking no one's aid or advice, and taking with her Minnaand little Hilda, had gone to San Francisco--had gone to find work, abandoning Los Muertos and her home forever. Presley only learned of thedeparture 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 ofcity ways, might easily come to grief in the hard, huge struggle of citylife. This suspicion had swiftly hardened to a conviction, acting atlast upon which Presley had followed them to San Francisco, bent uponfinding and assisting them. 

The house to which Presley was led by the address in his memorandum bookwas a cheap but fairly decent hotel near the power house of the CastroStreet 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'there 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 hadtheir trunk expressed to?"

"Ah, yes, their trunk, " vociferated the woman, clapping her hands to herhips, her face purpling. "Their trunk, ah, sure. I got their trunk, andwhat 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 andperplexity. His suspicions had been only too well founded. So long agoas a week, the Hoovens had exhausted all their little store of money. For seven days now they had been without resources, unless, indeed, workhad been found; "and what, " he asked himself, "what work in God's namecould 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 asboth Minna and her mother were, would they even realise that there wereinstitutions built and generously endowed for just such as they? Heknew them to have their share of pride, the dogged sullen pride of thepeasant; even if they knew of charitable organisations, would they, could they bring themselves to apply there? A poignant anxiety thrustitself sharply into Presley's heart. Where were they now? Where had theyslept last night? Where breakfasted this morning? Had there even beenany breakfast this morning? Had there even been any bed last night?Lost, and forgotten in the plexus of the city's life, what had befallenthem? 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 theold, the world-old, world-wide keynote? How far were the consequencesof that dreadful day's work at the irrigating ditch to reach? To whatlength 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 planfor the finding and aiding of Mrs. Hooven and her daughters. He reachedMontgomery Street, and turned toward his club, his imagination once morereviewing all the causes and circumstances of the great battle of whichfor the last eighteen months he had been witness. 

All at once he paused, his eye caught by a sign affixed to the wall justinside the street entrance of a huge office building, and smitten withan idea, stood for an instant motionless, upon the sidewalk, his eyeswide, his fists shut tight. 

The building contained the General Office of the Pacific andSouthwestern Railroad. Large though it was, it nevertheless, was notpretentious, and during his visits to the city, Presley must have passedit, unheeding, many times. 

But for all that it was the stronghold of the enemy--the centre of allthat vast ramifying system of arteries that drained the life-bloodof the State; the nucleus of the web in which so many lives, so manyfortunes, so many destinies had been enmeshed. From this place--so hetold himself--had emanated that policy of extortion, oppression andinjustice that little by little had shouldered the ranchers from theirrights, till, their backs to the wall, exasperated and despairing theyhad turned and fought and died. From here had come the orders to S. Behrman, to Cyrus Ruggles and to Genslinger, the orders that had broughtDyke to a prison, that had killed Annixter, that had ruined Magnus, thathad corrupted Lyman. Here was the keep of the castle, and here, behindone of those many windows, in one of those many offices, his hand uponthe levers of his mighty engine, sat the master, Shelgrim himself. 

Instantly, upon the realisation of this fact an ungovernable desireseized upon Presley, an inordinate curiosity. Why not see, face to face, the man whose power was so vast, whose will was so resistless, whosepotency for evil so limitless, the man who for so long and sohopelessly they had all been fighting. By reputation he knew him tobe approachable; why should he not then approach him? Presley took hisresolution in both hands. If he failed to act upon this impulse, he knewhe 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 anante-room, his eyes fixed with hypnotic intensity upon the frosted paneof an adjoining door, whereon in gold letters was inscribed the word, "PRESIDENT. "

In the end, Presley had been surprised to find that Shelgrim was stillin. It was already very late, after six o'clock, and the other officesin the building were in the act of closing. Many of them were alreadydeserted. At every instant, through the open door of the ante-room, he caught a glimpse of clerks, office boys, book-keepers, and otheremployees hurrying towards the stairs and elevators, quitting businessfor the day. Shelgrim, it seemed, still remained at his desk, knowing nofatigue, requiring no leisure. 

"What time does Mr. Shelgrim usually go home?" inquired Presley of theyoung man who sat ruling forms at the table in the ante-room. 

"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 ofastonishment. Not only mentally, then, was the President of the P. AndS. W. A giant. Seventy years of age and still at his post, holding therewith the energy, with a concentration of purpose that would have wreckedthe health and impaired the mind of many men in the prime of theirmanhood. 

But the next instant Presley set his teeth. 

"It is an ogre's vitality, " he said to himself. "Just so is theman-eating tiger strong. The man should have energy who has sucked thelife-blood from an entire People. "

A little electric bell on the wall near at hand trilled a warning. Theyoung man who was ruling forms laid down his pen, and opening thedoor of the President's office, thrust in his head, then after a wordexchanged 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. Awell-worn carpet was on the floor, two steel engravings hung against thewall, 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, stiffnapkin. A man, evidently some sort of manager's assistant, stood at theend of the table, leaning on the back of one of the chairs. Shelgrimhimself sat at the table. 

He was large, almost to massiveness. An iron-grey beard and a mustachethat completely hid the mouth covered the lower part of his face. Hiseyes were a pale blue, and a little watery; here and there upon his facewere moth spots. But the enormous breadth of the shoulders was what, atfirst, most vividly forced itself upon Presley's notice. Never hadhe seen a broader man; the neck, however, seemed in a manner to havesettled into the shoulders, and furthermore they were humped androunded, as if to bear great responsibilities, and great abuse. 

At the moment he was wearing a silk skull-cap, pushed to one side anda little awry, a frock coat of broadcloth, with long sleeves, and awaistcoat from the lower buttons of which the cloth was worn and, uponthe edges, rubbed away, showing the metal underneath. At the top thiswaistcoat was unbuttoned and in the shirt front disclosed were two pearlstuds. 

Presley, uninvited, unnoticed apparently, sat down. The assistantmanager 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 theoffice of the auditor of disbursements. It seems he was at most timesthoroughly reliable, hard-working, industrious, ambitious. But at longintervals the vice of drunkenness seized upon the man and for three daysrode him like a hag. Not only during the period of this intemperance, but for the few days immediately following, the man was useless, hiswork untrustworthy. He was a family man and earnestly strove to ridhimself of his habit; he was, when sober, valuable. In consideration ofthese facts, he had been pardoned again and again. 

"You remember, Mr. Shelgrim, " observed the manager, "that you have morethan 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 reformcontinually, but it is the same old story. This last time we saw nothingof him for four days. Honestly, Mr. Shelgrim, I think we ought to letTentell out. We can't afford to keep him. He is really losing us toomuch money. Here's the order ready now, if you care to let it go. "

There was a pause. Presley all attention, listened breathlessly. Theassistant manager laid before his President the typewritten order inquestion. The silence lengthened; in the hall outside, the wrought-irondoor of the elevator cage slid to with a clash. Shelgrim did not look atthe order. He turned his swivel chair about and faced the windows behindhim, 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 thatwill 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 ofview of the President of the P. And S. W. Before the assistant managerhad withdrawn. Shelgrim wrote a few memoranda on his calendar pad, andsigned a couple of letters before turning his attention to Presley. Atlast, 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 andfrom his desk picked up and consulted Presley's card. Presley observedthat he read without the use of glasses. 

"You, " he said, again facing about, "you are the young man who wrote thepoem called 'The Toilers. '"

"Yes, sir. "

"It seems to have made a great deal of talk. I've read it, and I've seenthe 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, butthe great bulk of the man remained immobile in its place, and as theinterview proceeded and this peculiarity emphasised itself, Presleybegan to conceive the odd idea that Shelgrim had, as it were, placed hisbody in the chair to rest, while his head and brain and hands wenton working independently. A saucer of shelled filberts stood near hiselbow, and from time to time he picked up one of these in a great thumband forefinger and put it between his teeth. 

"I've seen the picture called 'The Toilers, '" continued Shelgrim, "andof 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 besaid. You might just as well have kept quiet. There's only one best wayto say anything. And what has made the picture of 'The Toilers' great isthat 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. Hewas confused, all at sea, embarrassed. What he had expected to find inShelgrim, he could not have exactly said. But he had been preparedto come upon an ogre, a brute, a terrible man of blood and iron, andinstead had discovered a sentimentalist and an art critic. No standardsof measurement in his mental equipment would apply to the actual man, and it began to dawn upon him that possibly it was not because thesestandards were different in kind, but that they were lamentablydeficient in size. He began to see that here was the man not only great, but large; many-sided, of vast sympathies, who understood with equalintelligence, the human nature in an habitual drunkard, the ethics ofa masterpiece of painting, and the financiering and operation of tenthousand miles of railroad. 

"I had never looked at it in just that light, " repeated Presley. "Thereis a great deal in what you say. "

"If I am to listen, " continued Shelgrim, "to that kind of talk, I preferto listen to it first hand. I would rather listen to what the greatFrench painter has to say, than to what YOU have to say about what hehas already said. "

His speech, loud and emphatic at first, when the idea of what he had tosay was fresh in his mind, lapsed and lowered itself at the end of hissentences as though he had already abandoned and lost interest in thatthought, so that the concluding words were indistinct, beneath the greybeard and mustache. Also at times there was the faintest suggestion of alisp. 

"I wrote that poem, " hazarded Presley, "at a time when I was terriblyupset. I live, " he concluded, "or did live on the Los Muertos ranch inTulare 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 oldrascal. "

"I believe, " answered Presley, "I am persuaded----" He hesitated, searching for his words. 

"Believe this, young man, " exclaimed Shelgrim, laying a thick powerfulforefinger on the table to emphasise his words, "try to believe this--tobegin with--THAT RAILROADS BUILD THEMSELVES. Where there is a demandsooner or later there will be a supply. Mr. Derrick, does he grow hiswheat? The Wheat grows itself. What does he count for? Does he supplythe force? What do I count for? Do I build the Railroad? You are dealingwith forces, young man, when you speak of Wheat and the Railroads, notwith men. There is the Wheat, the supply. It must be carried to feedthe People. There is the demand. The Wheat is one force, the Railroad, another, and there is the law that governs them--supply and demand. Menhave only little to do in the whole business. Complications may arise, conditions that bear hard on the individual--crush him maybe--BUT THEWHEAT 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 oneperson, 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 cango into bankruptcy if you like. But otherwise if I run my road, as abusiness proposition, I can do nothing. I can not control it. It isa force born out of certain conditions, and I--no man--can stop it orcontrol it. Can your Mr. Derrick stop the Wheat growing? He can burn hiscrop, or he can give it away, or sell it for a cent a bushel--just as Icould go into bankruptcy--but otherwise his Wheat must grow. Can any onestop the Wheat? Well, then no more can I stop the Road. "

Presley regained the street stupefied, his brain in a whirl. This newidea, this new conception dumfounded him. Somehow, he could not denyit. It rang with the clear reverberation of truth. Was no one, then, toblame for the horror at the irrigating ditch? Forces, conditions, laws of supply and demand--were these then the enemies, after all? Notenemies; there was no malevolence in Nature. Colossal indifferenceonly, a vast trend toward appointed goals. Nature was, then, a giganticengine, a vast cyclopean power, huge, terrible, a leviathan with a heartof steel, knowing no compunction, no forgiveness, no tolerance; crushingout the human atom standing in its way, with nirvanic calm, the agony ofdestruction sending never a jar, never the faintest tremour through allthat prodigious mechanism of wheels and cogs. He went to his club andate his supper alone, in gloomy agitation. He was sombre, brooding, lostin a dark maze of gloomy reflections. However, just as he was risingfrom the table an incident occurred that for the moment roused him andsharply diverted his mind. 

His table had been placed near a window and as he was sipping hisafter-dinner coffee, he happened to glance across the street. His eyewas at once caught by the sight of a familiar figure. Was it MinnaHooven? The figure turned the street corner and was lost to sight; butit had been strangely like. On the moment, Presley had risen from thetable and, clapping on his hat, had hurried into the streets, where thelamps were already beginning to shine. 

But search though he would, Presley could not again come upon the youngwoman, in whom he fancied he had seen the daughter of the unfortunateGerman. At last, he gave up the hunt, and returning to his club--at thishour almost deserted--smoked a few cigarettes, vainly attempted toread 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 hadtried to follow had been indeed Minna Hooven. 

When Minna, a week before this time, had returned to the lodging houseon Castro Street, after a day's unsuccessful effort to find employment, and was told that her mother and Hilda had gone, she was struckspeechless with surprise and dismay. She had never before been in anytown larger than Bonneville, and now knew not which way to turn nor howto account for the disappearance of her mother and little Hilda. Thatthe landlady was on the point of turning them out, she understood, butit had been agreed that the family should be allowed to stay yet onemore day, in the hope that Minna would find work. Of this she remindedthe land-lady. But this latter at once launched upon her such a torrentof 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 thevicinity of the house, after her eviction, and threatened with arrest bythe landlady if she persisted in hanging around, had left with thewoman a note scrawled on an old blotter, to be given to Minna whenshe returned. This the landlady had lost. To cover her confusion, sheaffected a vast indignation, and a turbulent, irascible demeanour. 

"I ain't going to be bothered with such cattle as you, " she vociferatedin Minna's face. "I don't know where your folks is. Me, I only havedealings with honest people. I ain't got a word to say so long as therent is paid. But when I'm soldiered out of a week's lodging, then I'mdone. You get right along now. I don't know you. I ain't going to havemy place get a bad name by having any South of Market Street chippieshanging 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 thatonly 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, hadtaught her just what she might expect from this new world upon which shehad been thrown. What was to become of her? What was she to do, wherewas she to go? Unanswerable, grim questions, and now she no longer hadherself to fear for. Her mother and the baby, little Hilda, both of themequally unable to look after themselves, what was to become of them, where were they gone? Lost, lost, all of them, herself as well. But sherallied herself, as she walked along. The idea of her starving, of hermother and Hilda starving, was out of all reason. Of course, it wouldnot 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 fewdays. That was the thing to think of just now. 

The suddenness of it all was what most unnerved her. During all thenineteen years of her life, she had never known what it meant to shiftfor herself. Her father had always sufficed for the family; he had takencare of her, then, all of a sudden, her father had been killed, hermother snatched from her. Then all of a sudden there was no helpanywhere. Then all of a sudden a terrible voice demanded of her, "Nowjust what can you do to keep yourself alive?" Life faced her; she lookedthe huge stone image squarely in the lustreless eyes. 

It was nearly twilight. Minna, for the sake of avoiding observation--forit seemed to her that now a thousand prying glances followedher--assumed a matter-of-fact demeanour, and began to walk brisklytoward the business quarter of the town. 

She was dressed neatly enough, in a blue cloth skirt with a blue plushbelt, fairly decent shoes, once her mother's, a pink shirt waist, andjacket and a straw sailor. She was, in an unusual fashion, pretty. Evenher troubles had not dimmed the bright light of her pale, greenish-blueeyes, nor faded the astonishing redness of her lips, nor hollowed herstrangely white face. Her blue-black hair was trim. She carried herwell-shaped, well-rounded figure erectly. Even in her distress, sheobserved that men looked keenly at her, and sometimes after her as shewent along. But this she noted with a dim sub-conscious faculty. Thereal Minna, harassed, terrified, lashed with a thousand anxieties, keptmurmuring 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 tillthe well-lighted, well-kept neighbourhood of the shopping districtgave place to the vice-crowded saloons and concert halls of the BarbaryCoast. She turned aside in avoidance of this, only to plunge into thepurlieus of Chinatown, whence only she emerged, panic-stricken and outof breath, after a half hour of never-to-be-forgotten terrors, and at atime 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. " Shewas tired out by now, and the idea occurred to her to enter the Catholicchurch in whose shadow she stood, and sit down and rest. This she did. The evening service was just being concluded. But long after the priestsand altar boys had departed from the chancel, Minna still sat in thedim, echoing interior, confronting her desperate situation as best shemight. 

Two or three hours later, the sexton woke her. The church was beingclosed; she must leave. Once more, chilled with the sharp night air, numb with long sitting in the same attitude, still oppressed withdrowsiness, confused, frightened, Minna found herself on the pavement. She began to be hungry, and, at length, yielding to the demand thatevery moment grew more imperious, bought and eagerly devoured afive-cent bag of fruit. Then, once more she took up the round ofwalking. 

At length, in an obscure street that branched from Kearney Street, nearthe corner of the Plaza, she came upon an illuminated sign, bearing theinscription, "Beds for the Night, 15 and 25 cents. "

Fifteen cents! Could she afford it? It would leave her with only thatmuch more, that much between herself and a state of privation of whichshe dared not think; and, besides, the forbidding look of the buildingfrightened her. It was dark, gloomy, dirty, a place suggestive ofobscure 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, weighedlike 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 underthe sign, and found her way up a filthy flight of stairs. At the top, aman in a blue checked "jumper" was filling a lamp behind a high desk. Tohim Minna applied. 

"I should like, " she faltered, "to have a room--a bed for the night. Oneof those for fifteen cents will be good enough, I think. "

"Well, this place is only for men, " said the man, looking up from thelamp. 

"Oh, " said Minna, "oh--I--I didn't know. "

She looked at him stupidly, and he, with equal stupidity, returned thegaze. 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 thestairs, and once more came out upon the streets. 

And upon those streets that, as the hours advanced, grew more and moredeserted, more and more silent, more and more oppressive with thesense of the bitter hardness of life towards those who have no means ofliving, Minna Hooven spent the first night of her struggle to keepher head above the ebb-tide of the city's sea, into which she had beenplunged. 

Morning came, and with it renewed hunger. At this time, she had foundher way uptown again, and towards ten o'clock was sitting upon a benchin a little park full of nurse-maids and children. A group of the maidsdrew their baby-buggies to Minna's bench, and sat down, continuing aconversation they had already begun. Minna listened. A friend of one ofthe maids had suddenly thrown up her position, leaving her "madame" inwhat 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 thatone?"

The group turned and fixed her--so evidently a country girl--with asupercilious 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 theother, "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 thetrain on the other side. No, it ain't very far. Just ask any one downthere. They'll tell you. "

It was a chance; but Minna, after walking down to the ferry slips, foundthat the round trip would cost her twenty cents. If the journeyproved fruitless, only a dime would stand between her and the endof 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 thelocomotives and way-coaches of the local trains, she was reminded ofher father's death, and of the giant power that had reduced her to herpresent straits, by the letters, P. And S. W. R. R. To her mind, theyoccurred everywhere. She seemed to see them in every direction. Shefancied herself surrounded upon every hand by the long arms of themonster. 

Minute after minute, her hunger gnawed at her. She could not keepher mind from it. As she sat on the boat, she found herself curiouslyscanning the faces of the passengers, wondering how long since sucha one had breakfasted, how long before this other should sit down tolunch. 

When Minna descended from the train, at Lorin on the other side of theBay, she found that the place was one of those suburban towns, not yetbecome fashionable, such as may be seen beyond the outskirts of anylarge American city. All along the line of the railroad thereabouts, houses, small villas--contractors' ventures--were scattered, theadvantages of suburban lots and sites for homes being proclaimed inseven-foot letters upon mammoth bill-boards close to the right ofway. Without much trouble, Minna found the house to which she had beendirected, a pretty little cottage, set back from the street and shadedby palms, live oaks, and the inevitable eucalyptus. Her heart warmed atthe 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, withits relentless tooth. How she would work, how strenuously she wouldendeavour 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 babyHilda, her little sister. She knew the wants and needs of children. 

Her heart beating, her breath failing, she rang the bell set squarely inthe middle of the front door. 

The lady of the house herself, an elderly lady, with pleasant, kindlyface, 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 maintainappearances. "Oh--I thought perhaps--" She turned away. 

"I'm sorry, " said the lady. Then she added, "Would you care to lookafter so many as three little children, and help around in lighthousework between whiles?"

"Yes, ma'am. " "Because my sister--she lives in North Berkeley, abovehere--she's looking far a girl. Have you had lots of experience? Gotgood 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 acard. 

"That's where she lives--careful not to BLOT it, child, the ink's wetyet--you had better see her. "

"Is it far? Could I walk there?"

"My, no; you better take the electric cars, about six blocks abovehere. "

When Minna arrived in North Berkeley, she had no money left. By a cruelmistake, she had taken a car going in the wrong direction, and thoughher error was rectified easily enough, it had cost her her lastfive-cent piece. She was now to try her last hope. Promptly it crumbledaway. Like the former, this place had been already filled, and Minnaleft the door of the house with the certainty that her chance hadcome to naught, and that now she entered into the last struggle withlife--the death struggle--shorn of her last pitiful defence, her lastsafeguard, her last penny. 

As she once more resumed her interminable walk, she realised shewas weak, faint; and she knew that it was the weakness of completeexhaustion, and the faintness of approaching starvation. Was this theend coming on? Terror of death aroused her. 

"I MUST, I MUST do something, oh, anything. I must have something toeat. "

At this late hour, the idea of pawning her little jacket occurred toher, but now she was far away from the city and its pawnshops, and therewas no getting back. 

She walked on. An hour passed. She lost her sense of direction, becameconfused, knew not where she was going, turned corners and went upby-streets without knowing why, anything to keep moving, for she fanciedthat so soon as she stood still, the rat in the pit of her stomachgnawed more eagerly. 

At last, she entered what seemed to be, if not a park, at leastsome sort of public enclosure. There were many trees; the place wasbeautiful; well-kept roads and walks led sinuously and invitinglyunderneath the shade. Through the trees upon the other side of a wideexpanse of turf, brown and sear under the summer sun, she caught aglimpse of tall buildings and a flagstaff. The whole place had a vaguelypublic, educational appearance, and Minna guessed, from certain noticesaffixed to the trees, warning the public against the picking of flowers, that she had found her way into the grounds of the State University. Shewent 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 sweptthe ground. Here the grass was green, the few flowers in bloom, theshade very thick. A more lovely spot she had seldom seen. Near at handwas 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 whatnext she could do. 

But once seated, the demands of the animal--so she could believe--becamemore clamorous, more insistent. To eat, to rest, to be safely housedagainst 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 tearsran from her eyes, and the sobs rose thick from her breast and struggledand strangled in her aching throat. 

But in a few moments Minna was aware that a woman, apparently of somethirty years of age, had twice passed along the walk in front of thebench where she sat, and now, as she took more notice of her, sheremembered that she had seen her on the ferry-boat coming over from thecity. 

The woman was gowned in silk, tightly corseted, and wore a hat of ratherostentatious smartness. Minna became convinced that the person waswatching her, but before she had a chance to act upon this convictionshe was surprised out of all countenance by the stranger coming up towhere 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. StrangeI should come across you again. I've had you in mind ever since. "

On this nearer view Minna observed that the woman's face borerather more than a trace of enamel and that the atmosphere about wasimpregnated with sachet. She was not otherwise conspicuous, but therewas a certain hardness about her mouth and a certain droop of fatiguein her eyelids which, combined with an indefinite self-confidence ofmanner, held Minna's attention. 

"Do you know, " continued the woman, "I believe you are in trouble. Ithought so when I saw you on the boat, and I think so now. Are you? Areyou 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 fromher 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, exceptBonneville. "

"Well, it IS a coincidence, " said the other. "I know I wasn't drawn toyou for nothing. I am looking for just such a young girl as you. Yousee, 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 Isaw you on the boat. Now shall we talk this over?"

Towards the end of the week, one afternoon, as Presley was returningfrom his club, he came suddenly face to face with Minna upon a streetcorner. 

"Ah, " he cried, coming toward her joyfully. "Upon my word, I had almostgiven you up. I've been looking everywhere for you. I was afraid youmight not be getting along, and I wanted to see if there was anythingI could do. How are your mother and Hilda? Where are you stopping? Haveyou got a good place?"

"I don't know where mamma is, " answered Minna. "We got separated, and Inever have been able to find her again. "

Meanwhile, Presley had been taking in with a quick eye the details ofMinna'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 herhead was a wide hat with a flare to one side, set off with a gilt buckleand 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 orstarvation. "

Presley regained his room at the club, white and trembling. Worse thanthe worst he had feared had happened. He had not been soon enough tohelp. He had failed again. A superstitious fear assailed him that hewas, in a manner, marked; that he was foredoomed to fail. Minna hadcome--had been driven to this; and he, acting too late upon his tardyresolve, had not been able to prevent it. Were the horrors, then, neverto end? Was the grisly spectre of consequence to forever dance in hisvision? Were the results, the far-reaching results of that battle atthe irrigating ditch to cross his path forever? When would the affairbe terminated, the incident closed? Where was that spot to which thetentacle of the monster could not reach?

By now, he was sick with the dread of it all. He wanted to get away, tobe free from that endless misery, so that he might not see what hecould no longer help. Cowardly he now knew himself to be. He thought ofhimself only with loathing. 

Bitterly self-contemptuous that he could bring himself to aparticipation in such trivialities, he began to dress to keep hisengagement to dine with the Cedarquists. 

He arrived at the house nearly half an hour late, but before he couldtake off his overcoat, Mrs. Cedarquist appeared in the doorway of thedrawing-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 bustlingtoward 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 cangive you, and that is just what you are to have. "

"Have I blundered?" Presley hastened to exclaim. "Did not Mr. Cedarquistmention Friday evening?"

"No, no, no, " she cried; "it was he who blundered. YOU blundering ina social amenity! Preposterous! No; Mr. Cedarquist forgot that we weredining out ourselves to-night, and when he told me he had asked youhere 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 droppeda note to our hostess, asking if I could not bring you, and when I toldher 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 Ihear the carriage. Allons! En voiture!"

Once settled in the cool gloom of the coupe, odorous of leather andupholstery, 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 areto dine with the Gerard people, one of the Vice-Presidents of your betenoir, the P. And S. W. Railroad. "

Presley started, his fists clenching so abruptly as to all but split hiswhite 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 shedid not observe his confusion. 

"Their daughter Honora is going to Europe next week; her mother is totake her, and Mrs. Gerard is to have just a few people to dinner--veryinformal, you know--ourselves, you and, oh, I don't know, two or threeothers. Have you ever seen Honora? The prettiest little thing, andwill she be rich? Millions, I would not dare say how many. Tiens. Nousvoici. "

The coupe drew up to the curb, and Presley followed Mrs. Cedarquist upthe 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 adaze he rejoined Mrs. Cedarquist in a room with a glass roof, hung withpictures, the art gallery, no doubt, and in a daze heard their namesannounced at the entrance of another room, the doors of which were hungwith thick, blue curtains. 

He entered, collecting his wits for the introductions and presentationsthat he foresaw impended. 

The room was very large, and of excessive loftiness. Flat, rectagonalpillars of a rose-tinted, variegated marble, rose from the floor almostflush with the walls, finishing off at the top with gilded capitals ofa Corinthian design, which supported the ceiling. The ceiling itself, instead of joining the walls at right angles, curved to meet them, adevice that produced a sort of dome-like effect. This ceiling was a mazeof golden involutions in very high relief, that adjusted themselves toform a massive framing for a great picture, nymphs and goddesses, whitedoves, golden chariots and the like, all wreathed about with clouds andgarlands of roses. Between the pillars around the sides of the roomwere hangings of silk, the design--of a Louis Quinze type--of beautifulsimplicity and faultless taste. The fireplace was a marvel. It reachedfrom floor to ceiling; the lower parts, black marble, carved intocrouching Atlases, with great muscles that upbore the superstructure. The design of this latter, of a kind of purple marble, shot throughwith white veinings, was in the same style as the design of thesilk hangings. In its midst was a bronze escutcheon, bearing anundecipherable monogram and a Latin motto. Andirons of brass, nearly sixfeet high, flanked the hearthstone. 

The windows of the room were heavily draped in sombre brocade and ecrulace, in which the initials of the family were very beautifully worked. But directly opposite the fireplace, an extra window, lighted fromthe adjoining conservatory, threw a wonderful, rich light into theapartment. It was a Gothic window of stained glass, very large, thecentre figures being armed warriors, Parsifal and Lohengrin; the onewith a banner, the other with a swan. The effect was exquisite, thewindow a veritable masterpiece, glowing, flaming, and burning with ahundred 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 werespread upon the floor. A Renaissance cabinet of ebony, many feet tallerthan Presley's head, and inlaid with ivory and silver, occupied onecorner of the room, while in its centre stood a vast table of Flemishoak, black, heavy as iron, massive. A faint odour of sandalwoodpervaded the air. From the conservatory near-by, came the splashing ofa fountain. A row of electric bulbs let into the frieze of the wallsbetween the golden capitals, and burning dimly behind hemispheres ofclouded 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 soproud. I was so afraid you would be unable to come. You have given me areal 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, shehad taken up a position on a neighbouring corner, to wait for Minna'sreappearance. Little Hilda, at this time hardly more than six years ofage, 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 muchinterest in her personal appearance. At the time of her evictionfrom the Castro Street boarding-house, she wore a faded black bonnet, garnished with faded artificial flowers of dirty pink. A plaid shawlwas about her shoulders. But this day of misfortune had set Mrs. Hoovenadrift in even worse condition than her daughter. Her purse, containinga miserable handful of dimes and nickels, was in her trunk, and hertrunk was in the hands of the landlady. Minna had been allowed suchreprieve as her thirty-five cents would purchase. The destitution ofMrs. Hooven and her little girl had begun from the very moment of hereviction. 

While she waited for Minna, watching every street car and everyapproaching 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 ofpoverty, and, above all, the nameless fear of the turbulent, fierce lifeof 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. Sheclung to life, and to the life of her little daughter Hilda, with theblind 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 thenext street-crossing. Then, in a few moments returned, taking up herplace on the corner near the boarding-house, spying upon the approachingcable 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 onthe forbidden spot, he had lost his temper. This time when Mrs. Hoovendeparted, he had followed her, and when, bewildered, persistent, she hadattempted to turn back, he caught her by the shoulder. 

"Do you want to get arrested, hey?" he demanded. "Do you want me to lockyou 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 Jailnipped and bit eagerly at her unwilling heels. She hurried off, thinkingto return to her post after the policeman should have gone away. Butwhen, at length, turning back, she tried to find the boarding-house, shesuddenly discovered that she was on an unfamiliar street. Unwittingly, no doubt, she had turned a corner. She could not retrace her steps. Sheand 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 endlessblocks 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 thingwas left, walk. 

Ah, that via dolorosa of the destitute, that chemin de la croix of thehomeless. Ah, the mile after mile of granite pavement that MUST be, MUSTbe traversed. Walk they must. Move, they must; onward, forward, whitherthey cannot tell; why, they do not know. Walk, walk, walk with bleedingfeet and smarting joints; walk with aching back and trembling knees;walk, though the senses grow giddy with fatigue, though the eyes droopwith sleep, though every nerve, demanding rest, sets in motion its tinyalarm of pain. Death is at the end of that devious, winding maze ofpaths, crossed and re-crossed and crossed again. There is but one goalto the via dolorosa; there is no escape from the central chamber of thatlabyrinth. Fate guides the feet of them that are set therein. Double ontheir steps though they may, weave in and out of the myriad corners ofthe city's streets, return, go forward, back, from side to side, here, there, anywhere, dodge, twist, wind, the central chamber where Deathsits is reached inexorably at the end. 

Sometimes leading and sometimes carrying Hilda, Mrs. Hooven set offupon her objectless journey. Block after block she walked, street afterstreet. She was afraid to stop, because of the policemen. As often asshe so much as slackened her pace, she was sure to see one of theseterrible 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 hemight have an excuse to arrest her. 

Hilda fretted incessantly. 

"Mammy, where're we gowun? Mammy, I'm tired. " Then, at last, for thefirst 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'clockhomeward march, jostled them as they went along. With dumb, dullcuriousness, she looked into one after another of the limitless streamof faces, and she fancied she saw in them every emotion but pity. Thefaces were gay, were anxious, were sorrowful, were mirthful, were linedwith thought, or were merely flat and expressionless, but not one wasturned toward her in compassion. The expressions of the faces might bevarious, but an underlying callousness was discoverable beneath everymask. The people seemed removed from her immeasurably; they wereinfinitely above her. What was she to them, she and her baby, thecrippled 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 manysphinxes. 

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 streetbefore. Somehow, this was distasteful to her; so, striking off at rightangles, 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 thepower-house of a cable line pointed to seven. No doubt, Minna had comelong before this time, had found her mother gone, and had--just what hadshe done, just what COULD she do? Where was her daughter now? Walkingthe streets herself, no doubt. What was to become of Minna, prettygirl that she was, lost, houseless and friendless in the maze of thesestreets? Mrs. Hooven, roused from her lethargy, could not repress anexclamation 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 policemanwould be gone home for the night. She looked about. She was in thedistrict 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 coilof hose over his shoulder. But a few paces distant, he slackened in hiswalk and fumbled in his vest pocket with his fingers. Then he came backto 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 ofwheat land, had been taken for a beggar. A flush of shame shot to herface. She was about to throw the money after its giver. But at themoment, Hilda again exclaimed:

"Mammy, I'm hungry. "

With a movement of infinite lassitude and resigned acceptance of thesituation, Mrs. Hooven put the coin in her pocket. She had no right tobe proud any longer. Hilda must have food. 

That evening, she and her child had supper at a cheap restaurant ina poor quarter of the town, and passed the night on the benches of alittle uptown park. 

Unused to the ways of the town, ignorant as to the customs andpossibilities of eating-houses, she spent the whole of her quarter uponsupper for herself and Hilda, and had nothing left wherewith to buy alodging. 

The night was dreadful; Hilda sobbed herself to sleep on her mother'sshoulder, waking thereafter from hour to hour, to protest, thoughwrapped in her mother's shawl, that she was cold, and to enquire whythey 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 andobscenities. It was not till far along towards daylight that she fellasleep. 

She awoke to find it broad day. Hilda--mercifully--slept. Her mother'slimbs were stiff and lame with cold and damp; her head throbbed. Shemoved to another bench which stood in the rays of the sun, and for along two hours sat there in the thin warmth, till the moisture of thenight that clung to her clothes was evaporated. 

A policeman came into view. She woke Hilda, and carrying her in herarms, 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 wasHilda to be fed? She remembered her experience of the previous day, whenthe 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 thatwas 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 menand women were on their way to work. One after another, she let themgo by, searching their faces, deterred at the very last moment by sometrifling variation of expression, a firm set mouth, a serious, leveleyebrow, an advancing chin. Then, twice, when she had made a choice, andbrought 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 ofan hundred eyes. 

"Mammy, I'm hungry, " protested Hilda again. 

She made up her mind. What, though, was she to say? In what words didbeggars ask for assistance?

She tried to remember how tramps who had appeared at her back dooron Los Muertos had addressed her; how and with what formula certainmendicants of Bonneville had appealed to her. Then, having settled upona 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 purseextracted a yellow ticket which she gave to Mrs. Hooven with volubleexplanations. But Mrs. Hooven was confused, she did not understand. Whatcould 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 herlittle pocketbook. "I think I have--I think--I have just ten cents heresomewhere, " 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 becameeasy. All day long, Mrs. Hooven and Hilda followed the streets, begging, begging. Here it was a nickel, there a dime, here a nickel again. Butshe was not expert in the art, nor did she know where to buy food thecheapest; and the entire day's work resulted only in barely enough fortwo meals of bread, milk, and a wretchedly cooked stew. Tuesday nightfound the pair once more shelterless. 

Once more, Mrs. Hooven and her baby passed the night on the parkbenches. But early on Wednesday morning, Mrs. Hooven found herselfassailed by sharp pains and cramps in her stomach. What was thecause she could not say; but as the day went on, the pains increased, alternating with hot flushes over all her body, and a certain weaknessand 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 greatestdifficulty. Here was fresh misfortune. To beg, she must walk. Draggingherself forward a half-block at a time, she regained the street oncemore. She succeeded in begging a couple of nickels, bought a bag ofapples from a vender, and, returning to the park, sank exhausted upon abench. 

Here she remained all day until evening, Hilda alternately whimperingfor her bread and milk, or playing languidly in the gravel walk at herfeet. In the evening, she started out again. This time, it was bitterhard. Nobody seemed inclined to give. Twice she was "moved on" bypolicemen. Two hours' begging elicited but a single dime. With this, shebought Hilda's bread and milk, and refusing herself to eat, returned tothe bench--the only home she knew--and spent the night shivering withcold, burning with fever. 

From Wednesday morning till Friday evening, with the exception of thefew apples she had bought, and a quarter of a loaf of hard bread thatshe found in a greasy newspaper--scraps of a workman's dinner--Mrs. Hooven had nothing to eat. In her weakened condition, begging becamehourly more difficult, and such little money as was given her, sheresolutely 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 toher curious figures, huge crystal goblets of the most graceful shapes, floating and swaying in the air in front of her, almost within arm'sreach. Vases of elegant forms, made of shimmering glass, bowed andcourtesied toward her. Glass bulbs took graceful and varying shapesbefore her vision, now rounding into globes, now evolving intohour-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 streetlamps 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 thelocality where she had begged the previous days. She had had no successthere of late. She would try some other quarter of the town. After aweary walk, she came out upon Van Ness Avenue, near its junction withMarket Street. She turned into the avenue, and went on toward the Bay, painfully traversing block after block, begging of all whom she met (forshe 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 avenuewas already dark. A sea fog was scudding overhead, and by degreesdescending lower. The warmth was of the meagerest, and the street lamps, birds of fire in cages of glass, fluttered and danced in the prolongedgusts of the trade wind that threshed and weltered in the city streetsfrom off the ocean. 

*****

Presley entered the dining-room of the Gerard mansion with little MissGerard on his arm. The other guests had preceded them--Cedarquist withMrs. Gerard; a pale-faced, languid young man (introduced to Presleyas Julian Lambert) with Presley's cousin Beatrice, one of the twindaughters of Mr. And Mrs. Cedarquist; his brother Stephen, whosehair was straight as an Indian's, but of a pallid straw color, withBeatrice's sister; Gerard himself, taciturn, bearded, rotund, loud ofbreath, escorted Mrs. Cedarquist. Besides these, there were one or twoother couples, whose names Presley did not remember. 

The dining-room was superb in its appointments. On three sides of theroom, to the height of some ten feet, ran a continuous picture, an oilpainting, divided into long sections by narrow panels of black oak. Thepainting represented the personages in the Romaunt de la Rose, andwas conceived in an atmosphere of the most delicate, most ephemeralallegory. One saw young chevaliers, blue-eyed, of elemental beautyand purity; women with crowns, gold girdles, and cloudy wimples; younggirls, entrancing in their loveliness, wearing snow-white kerchiefs, their golden hair unbound and flowing, dressed in white samite, bearingarmfuls of flowers; the whole procession defiling against a backgroundof forest glades, venerable oaks, half-hidden fountains, and fields ofasphodel and roses. 

Otherwise, the room was simple. Against the side of the wall unoccupiedby the picture stood a sideboard of gigantic size, that once had adornedthe banquet hall of an Italian palace of the late Renaissance. It wasblack with age, and against its sombre surfaces glittered an array ofheavy 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 oncebegan filling the glasses of the guests with cool Haut Sauterne. 

Mrs. Gerard, who was very proud of her dinners, and never able to resistthe temptation of commenting upon them to her guests, leaned across toPresley and Mrs. Cedarquist, murmuring, "Mr. Presley, do you find thatSauterne too cold? I always believe it is so bourgeois to keep sucha delicate wine as Sauterne on the ice, and to ice Bordeaux orBurgundy--oh, it is nothing short of a crime. "

"This is from your own vineyard, is it not?" asked Julian Lambert. "Ithink I recognise the bouquet. "

He strove to maintain an attitude of fin gourmet, unable to refrain fromcomment upon the courses as they succeeded one another. 

Little Honora Gerard turned to Presley:

"You know, " she explained, "Papa has his own vineyards in southernFrance. He is so particular about his wines; turns up his nose atCalifornia wines. And I am to go there next summer. Ferrieres is thename of the place where our vineyards are, the dearest village!" She wasa beautiful little girl of a dainty porcelain type, her colouring lowin tone. She wore no jewels, but her little, undeveloped neck andshoulders, of an exquisite immaturity, rose from the tulle bodice of herfirst decollete gown. 

"Yes, " she continued; "I'm to go to Europe for the first time. Won't itbe gay? And I am to have my own bonne, and Mamma and I are to travel--somany 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 elaboratetoilets, its deft, correct servants; its array of tableware--cut glass, chased silver, and Dresden crockery. It was Wealth, in all its outwardand visible forms, the signs of an opulence so great that it need neverbe 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 turnedthe screw, tightened the vise. It was for this that Dyke had been drivento outlawry and a jail. It was for this that Lyman Derrick had beenbought, the Governor ruined and broken, Annixter shot down, Hoovenkilled. 

The soup, puree a la Derby, was served, and at the same time, as horsd'oeuvres, ortolan patties, together with a tiny sandwich made ofbrowned toast and thin slices of ham, sprinkled over with Parmesancheese. 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 knowingit, she had come to a part of the city that experienced beggars shunned. There was nobody about. Block after block of residences stretchedaway on either hand, lighted, full of people. But the sidewalks weredeserted. 

"Mammy, " whimpered Hilda. "I'm tired, carry me. "

Using all her strength, Mrs. Hooven picked her up and moved onaimlessly. 

Then again that terrible cry, the cry of the hungry child appealing tothe helpless mother:

"Mammy, I'm hungry. "

"Ach, Gott, leedle girl, " exclaimed Mrs. Hooven, holding her close toher shoulder, the tears starting from her eyes. "Ach, leedle tochter. Doand, doand, doand. You praik my hairt. I cen't vind any subber. We gotnoddings 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 shemight, one hand steadying herself against the fence railings along thesidewalk. At last, a solitary pedestrian came into view, a young manin a top hat and overcoat, walking rapidly. Mrs. Hooven held out aquivering 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 latterstuffed, 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 youngman. I felt that I ought at once to 'sell all that I have and give tothe poor. ' Positively, it did stir me up. You may congratulate yourselfupon making at least one convert. Just because of that poem Mrs. Cedarquist and I have started a movement to send a whole shipload ofwheat 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 reachesIndia the famine may be all over. "

"One need never be afraid of being 'too late' in the matter of helpingthe destitute, " answered Presley. "Unfortunately, they are always afixed 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 inconversation 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 toher breast. Famine gnawed incessantly at her stomach; walk though shemight, turn upon her tracks up and down the streets, back to the avenueagain, incessantly and relentlessly the torture dug into her vitals. She was hungry, hungry, and if the want of food harassed and rendedher, full-grown woman that she was, what must it be in the poor, starvedstomach of her little girl? Oh, for some helping hand now, oh, for onelittle mouthful, one little nibble! Food, food, all her wrecked bodyclamoured for nourishment; anything to numb those gnawing teeth--anabandoned loaf, hard, mouldered; a half-eaten fruit, yes, even therefuse 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 straydogs. But she was growing weaker; the pains and cramps in her stomachreturned. Hilda's weight bore her to the pavement. More than once agreat giddiness, a certain wheeling faintness all but overcame her. Hilda, however, was asleep. To wake her would only mean to revive her tothe consciousness of hunger; yet how to carry her further? Mrs. Hoovenbegan to fear that she would fall with her child in her arms. The terrorof a collapse upon those cold pavements glistening with fog-damp rousedher; she must make an effort to get through the night. She rallied allher strength, and pausing a moment to shift the weight of her baby tothe other arm, once more set off through the night. A little while latershe found on the edge of the sidewalk the peeling of a banana. It hadbeen trodden upon and it was muddy, but joyfully she caught it up. 

"Hilda, " she cried, "wake oop, leedle girl. See, loog den, dere'ssomedings 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 stomachturned 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--Londonderrypheasants, escallops of duck, and rissolettes a la pompadour. The winewas Chateau Latour. 

All around the table conversations were going forward gayly. The goodwines had broken up the slight restraint of the early part of theevening and a spirit of good humour and good fellowship prevailed. YoungLambert and Mr. Gerard were deep in reminiscences of certain mutualduck-shooting expeditions. Mrs. Gerard and Mrs. Cedarquist discusseda novel--a strange mingling of psychology, degeneracy, and analysisof erotic conditions--which had just been translated from the Italian. Stephen Lambert and Beatrice disputed over the merits of a Scotch colliejust given to the young lady. The scene was gay, the electric bulbssparkled, the wine flashing back the light. The entire table was a vagueglow of white napery, delicate china, and glass as brilliant as crystal. Behind the guests the serving-men came and went, filling the glassescontinually, changing the covers, serving the entrees, managing thedinner without interruption, confusion, or the slightest unnecessarynoise. 

But Presley could find no enjoyment in the occasion. From that pictureof feasting, that scene of luxury, that atmosphere of decorous, well-bred refinement, his thoughts went back to Los Muertos and QuienSabe and the irrigating ditch at Hooven's. He saw them fall, one by one, Harran, Annixter, Osterman, Broderson, Hooven. The clink of the wineglasses was drowned in the explosion of revolvers. The Railroad mightindeed be a force only, which no man could control and for which no manwas responsible, but his friends had been killed, but years of extortionand oppression had wrung money from all the San Joaquin, money that hadmade possible this very scene in which he found himself. Because Magnushad been beggared, Gerard had become Railroad King; because the farmersof 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, theseothers, Gerard and his family, fed full. They fattened on the blood ofthe 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 unspeakablecannibalism. Harran, Annixter, and Hooven were being devoured thereunder his eyes. These dainty women, his cousin Beatrice and little MissGerard, frail, delicate; all these fine ladies with their small fingersand slender necks, suddenly were transfigured in his tortured mind intoharpies tearing human flesh. His head swam with the horror of it, theterror of it. Yes, the People WOULD turn some day, and turning, rendthose who now preyed upon them. It would be "dog eat dog" again, withpositions reversed, and he saw for one instant of time that splendidhouse sacked to its foundations, the tables overturned, the picturestorn, the hangings blazing, and Liberty, the red-handed Man in theStreet, 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 littlegirl was not hurt. In vain had Mrs. Hooven, hour after hour, walked thestreets. After a while she no longer made any attempt to beg; nobody wasstirring, nor did she even try to hunt for food with the stray dogs andcats. She had made up her mind to return to the park in order tosit upon the benches there, but she had mistaken the direction, andfollowing up Sacramento Street, had come out at length, not upon thepark, but upon a great vacant lot at the very top of the Clay Streethill. The ground was unfenced and rose above her to form the cap of thehill, all overgrown with bushes and a few stunted live oaks. It was intrying to cross this piece of ground that she fell. She got upon herfeet 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 utegen, you. My Gott, you kill me yet. "

But quick upon this came the reaction. The mother caught her littlegirl 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 utegen, 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 crazybretty soon, I guess. I cen't hellup you. I cen't ged you noddings toeat, noddings, noddings. Hilda, we gowun to die togedder. Put der armsroundt me, soh, tighd, leedle babby. We gowun to die, we gowun to vindPopper. 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 shawlabout her. The infinite, vast night expanded gigantic all around them. At this elevation they were far above the city. It was still. Closeoverhead whirled the chariots of the fog, galloping landward, smotheringlights, blurring outlines. Soon all sight of the town was shut out; eventhe solitary house on the hilltop vanished. There was nothing left butgrey, wheeling fog, and the mother and child, alone, shivering in alittle strip of damp ground, an island drifting aimlessly in emptyspace. 

Hilda's fingers touched a leaf from the bush and instinctively closedupon 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 overher, a pleasing semi-insensibility. She no longer felt the pain andcramps of her stomach, even the hunger was ceasing to bite. 

*****

"These stuffed artichokes are delicious, Mrs. Gerard, " murmured youngLambert, wiping his lips with a corner of his napkin. "Pardon me formentioning 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. Howdo you manage?"

"We get all our asparagus from the southern part of the State, from oneparticular ranch, " explained Mrs. Gerard. "We order it by wire and getit only twenty hours after cutting. My husband sees to it that it isput on a special train. It stops at this ranch just to take on ourasparagus. Extravagant, isn't it, but I simply cannot eat asparagus thathas been cut more than a day. "

"Nor I, " exclaimed Julian Lambert, who posed as an epicure. "I can tellto an hour just how long asparagus has been picked. "

"Fancy eating ordinary market asparagus, " said Mrs. Gerard, "that hasbeen fingered by Heaven knows how many hands. "

*****

"Mammy, mammy, wake up, " cried Hilda, trying to push open Mrs. Hooven'seyelids, at last closed. "Mammy, don't. You're just trying to frightenme. "

Feebly Hilda shook her by the shoulder. At last Mrs. Hooven's lipsstirred. 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 biscuitglaces, 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 havenever 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 inerteyelids with the point of her finger. But her mother no longer stirred. The gaunt, lean body, with its bony face and sunken eye-sockets, layback, prone upon the ground, the feet upturned and showing the ragged, worn soles of the shoes, the forehead and grey hair beaded with fog, thepoor, faded bonnet awry, the poor, faded dress soiled and torn. Hildadrew close to her mother, kissing her face, twining her arms aroundher neck. For a long time, she lay that way, alternately sobbing andsleeping. Then, after a long time, there was a stir. She woke from adoze to find a police officer and two or three other men bending overher. Some one carried a lantern. Terrified, smitten dumb, she was unableto answer the questions put to her. Then a woman, evidently a mistressof the house on the top of the hill, arrived and took Hilda in her armsand 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 ofMadeira. 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 fromstarvation. "

CHAPTER IX

On Division Number Three of the Los Muertos ranch the wheat had alreadybeen cut, and S. Behrman on a certain morning in the first week ofAugust drove across the open expanse of stubble toward the southwest, his eyes searching the horizon for the feather of smoke that wouldmark the location of the steam harvester. However, he saw nothing. Thestubble extended onward apparently to the very margin of the world. 

At length, S. Behrman halted his buggy and brought out his field glassesfrom beneath the seat. He stood up in his place and, adjusting thelenses, swept the prospect to the south and west. It was the same asthough the sea of land were, in reality, the ocean, and he, lost in anopen boat, were scanning the waste through his glasses, looking for thesmoke 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 intothe white sheen of sky, immediately over the horizon, he made out afaint smudge--the harvester beyond doubt. 

Thither S. Behrman turned his horse's head. It was all of an hour'sdrive over the uneven ground and through the crackling stubble, but atlength he reached the harvester. He found, however, that it had beenhalted. The sack sewers, together with the header-man, were stretchedon the ground in the shade of the machine, while the engineer andseparator-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 speedof 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 alonghere; 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 theminute. "

"That's good, that's good. "

It was more than good; it was "bonanza, " and all that division of thegreat ranch was thick with just such wonderful wheat. Never had LosMuertos been more generous, never a season more successful. S. Behrmandrew a long breath of satisfaction. He knew just how great was his sharein the lands which had just been absorbed by the corporation he served, just how many thousands of bushels of this marvellous crop were hisproperty. Through all these years of confusion, bickerings, openhostility and, at last, actual warfare he had waited, nursing hispatience, calm with the firm assurance of ultimate success. The end, atlength, had come; he had entered into his reward and saw himself at lastinstalled in the place he had so long, so silently coveted; saw himselfchief of a principality, the Master of the Wheat. 

The sprocket adjusted, the engineer called up the gang and the men tooktheir places. The fireman stoked vigorously, the two sack sewers resumedtheir posts on the sacking platform, putting on the goggles that keptthe chaff from their eyes. The separator-man and header-man grippedtheir 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 headerknives, cutting a thirty-six foot swath, gnashed like teeth; beltingsslid and moved like smooth flowing streams; the separator whirred, the agitator jarred and crashed; cylinders, augers, fans, seeders andelevators, drapers and chaff-carriers clattered, rumbled, buzzed, andclanged. The steam hissed and rasped; the ground reverberated a hollownote, and the thousands upon thousands of wheat stalks sliced andslashed in the clashing shears of the header, rattled like dry rushes ina 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 fieldsof standing wheat; devouring always, never glutted, never satiated, swallowing an entire harvest, snarling and slobbering in a welter ofwarm vapour, acrid smoke, and blinding, pungent clouds of chaff. Itmoved belly-deep in the standing grain, a hippopotamus, half-mired inriver ooze, gorging rushes, snorting, sweating; a dinosaur wallowingthrough thick, hot grasses, floundering there, crouching, grovellingthere as its vast jaws crushed and tore, and its enormous gulletswallowed, incessant, ravenous, and inordinate. 

S. Behrman, very much amused, changed places with one of the sacksewers, allowing him to hold his horse while he mounted the sackingplatform and took his place. The trepidation and jostling of the machineshook him till his teeth chattered in his head. His ears were shockedand assaulted by a myriad-tongued clamour, clashing steel, strainingbelts, jarring woodwork, while the impalpable chaff powder from theseparators settled like dust in his hair, his ears, eyes, and mouth. 

Directly in front of where he sat on the platform was the chute fromthe cleaner, and from this into the mouth of a half-full sack spouted anunending gush of grain, winnowed, cleaned, threshed, ready for the mill. 

The pour from the chute of the cleaner had for S. Behrman an immensesatisfaction. Without an instant's pause, a thick rivulet of wheatrolled and dashed tumultuous into the sack. In half a minute--sometimesin twenty seconds--the sack was full, was passed over to the secondsewer, the mouth reeved up, and the sack dumped out upon the ground, tobe picked up by the wagons and hauled to the railroad. 

S. Behrman, hypnotised, sat watching that river of grain. All thatshrieking, bellowing machinery, all that gigantic organism, all themonths of labour, the ploughing, the planting, the prayers for rain, theyears of preparation, the heartaches, the anxiety, the foresight, allthe whole business of the ranch, the work of horses, of steam, of menand boys, looked to this spot--the grain chute from the harvester intothe sacks. Its volume was the index of failure or success, of riches orpoverty. And at this point, the labour of the rancher ended. Here, atthe lip of the chute, he parted company with his grain, and from herethe wheat streamed forth to feed the world. The yawning mouths of thesacks might well stand for the unnumbered mouths of the People, allagape for food; and here, into these sacks, at first so lean, soflaccid, attenuated like starved stomachs, rushed the living streamof food, insistent, interminable, filling the empty, fattening theshrivelled, making it sleek and heavy and solid. 

Half an hour later, the harvester stopped again. The men on the sackingplatform had used up all the sacks. But S. Behrman's foreman, a newman on Los Muertos, put in an appearance with the report that the wagonbringing 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 inbulk in a great elevator at the tide-water port, where the grain shipsfor Liverpool and the East took on their cargoes. To this end, he hadbought and greatly enlarged a building at Port Costa, that was alreadyin use for that purpose, and to this elevator all the crop of LosMuertos was to be carried. The P. And S. W. Made S. Behrman a specialrate. 

"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 andfor 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 ReliefCommittee--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 disengagedshipping in San Francisco Bay right now, and ships are fighting forcharters. I wired McKissick and got a long distance telephone from himthis morning. He got me a barque, the 'Swanhilda. ' She'll dock day afterto-morrow, and begin loading. "

"Hadn't I better take a run up, " observed the superintendent, "and keepan eye on things?"

"No, " answered S. Behrman, "I want you to stop down here, and see thatthose carpenters hustle the work in the ranch house. Derrick will beout by then. You see this deal is peculiar. I'm not selling to anymiddle-man--not to Fallon's buyer. He only put me on to the thing. I'macting direct with these women people, and I've got to have some hand inshipping this stuff myself. But I made my selling figure cover the priceof 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 thathis harvesting was going forward favourably, he reentered his buggyand driving to the County Road turned southward towards the Los Muertosranch house. He had not gone far, however, before he became aware ofa familiar figure on horse-back, jogging slowly along ahead of him. Herecognised Presley; he shook the reins over his horse's back and verysoon ranging up by the side of the young man passed the time of day withhim. 

"Well, what brings you down here again, Mr. Presley?" he observed. "Ithought 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, "Isuppose you've heard the news?"

Presley shrank a little. Of late the reports of disasters had followedso swiftly upon one another that he had begun to tremble and to quail atevery 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 bythe County Road, Presley repeated these words to himself till the fulleffect of them burst at last upon him. 

Jailed for life! No outlook. No hope for the future. Day after day, yearafter year, to tread the rounds of the same gloomy monotony. He saw thegrey stone walls, the iron doors; the flagging of the "yard" bare ofgrass or trees--the cell, narrow, bald, cheerless; the prison garb, theprison fare, and round all the grim granite of insuperable barriers, shutting out the world, shutting in the man with outcasts, with thepariah dogs of society, thieves, murderers, men below the beasts, lostto all decency, drugged with opium, utter reprobates. To this, Dykehad been brought, Dyke, than whom no man had been more honest, morecourageous, more jovial. This was the end of him, a prison; this was hisfinal 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 longsince begun to cool, and dispassionately, he saw things in their truelight. For all the tragedy of his wife's death, Caraher was none theless an evil influence among the ranchers, an influence that worked onlyto the inciting of crime. Unwilling to venture himself, to risk his ownlife, the anarchist saloon-keeper had goaded Dyke and Presley both tomurder; a bad man, a plague spot in the world of the ranchers, poisoningthe farmers' bodies with alcohol and their minds with discontent. 

At last, Presley arrived at the ranch house of Los Muertos. The placewas 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 tiedhis horse to a ring in the trunk of one of the larger eucalyptus treesand 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 inthem instead, the expression of one to whom a contingency, longdreaded, has arrived and passed. The stolidity of a settled grief, of anirreparable calamity, of a despair from which there was no escape was inher look, her manner, her voice. She was listless, apathetic, calm withthe calmness of a woman who knows she can suffer no further. 

"We are going away, " she told Presley, as the two sat down at oppositeends of the dining table. "Just Magnus and myself--all there is leftof us. There is very little money left; Magnus can hardly take care ofhimself, to say nothing of me. I must look after him now. We are goingto Marysville. "

"Why there?"

"You see, " she explained, "it happens that my old place is vacant inthe Seminary there. I am going back to teach--literature. " She smiledwearily. "It is beginning all over again, isn't it? Only there isnothing to look forward to now. Magnus is an old man already, and I musttake care of him. "

"He will go with you, then, " Presley said, "that will be some comfort toyou 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 liketo see her before I go. " "Go in and see Magnus, " said Mrs. Derrick. "Iwill 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 andentered. 

Magnus sat in the chair before the desk and did not look up as Presleyentered. He had the appearance of a man nearer eighty than sixty. Allthe old-time erectness was broken and bent. It was as though the musclesthat once had held the back rigid, the chin high, had softened andstretched. A certain fatness, the obesity of inertia, hung heavy aroundthe hips and abdomen, the eye was watery and vague, the cheeks and chinunshaven and unkempt, the grey hair had lost its forward curl towardsthe temples and hung thin and ragged around the ears. The hawk-likenose seemed hooked to meet the chin; the lips were slack, the mouthhalf-opened. 

Where once the Governor had been a model of neatness in his dress, thefrock coat buttoned, the linen clean, he now sat in his shirt sleeves, the waistcoat open and showing the soiled shirt. His hands were stainedwith ink, and these, the only members of his body that yet appeared toretain their activity, were busy with a great pile of papers, --oblong, legal documents, that littered the table before him. Without a moment'scessation, 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 selecteda document, opened it, glanced over it, then tied it carefully, and laidit away upon a second pile on his right hand. When all the papers werein one pile, he reversed the process, taking from his right hand toplace upon his left, then back from left to right again, then once morefrom right to left. He spoke no word, he sat absolutely still, evenhis eyes did not move, only his hands, swift, nervous, agitated, seemedalive. 

"Why, how are you, Governor?" said Presley, coming forward. Magnusturned slowly about and looked at him and at the hand in which he shookhis 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 goingaway. "

"Going away. .. Yes, why it's Presley. Good-day, Presley. "

"Good-day, Governor. I'm going away. I've come to say good-bye. "

"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 seemedlost in thought. There was a long silence. Then, at length, Presleysaid:

"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'vecome to say good-bye. No--" He interrupted himself with a deprecatorysmile, "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 ofthis place?"

"Los Muertos, " put in Presley. 

"No, it isn't. Yes, it is, too, that's right, Los Muertos. I don't knowwhere 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 theGovernor sprang up with unexpected agility and stood against the wall, drawing one long breath after another, watching the railroad agent withintent eyes. 

S. Behrman saluted both men affably and sat down near the desk, drawingthe links of his heavy watch chain through his fat fingers. 

"There wasn't anybody outside when I knocked, but I heard your voice inhere, Governor, so I came right in. I wanted to ask you, Governor, ifmy carpenters can begin work in here day after to-morrow. I want to takedown that partition there, and throw this room and the next into one. Iguess that will be O. K. , won't it? You'll be out of here by then, won'tyou?"

There was no vagueness about Magnus's speech or manner now. There wasthat same alertness in his demeanour that one sees in a tamed lion inthe presence of its trainer. 

"Yes, yes, " he said quickly, "you can send your men here. I will be goneby to-morrow. "

"I don't want to seem to hurry you, Governor. " "No, you will not hurryme. 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 isover we ought to be good friends. I think I can do something for you. Westill want an assistant in the local freight manager's office. Now, whatdo you say to having a try at it? There's a salary of fifty a month goeswith it. I guess you must be in need of money now, and there's alwaysthe wife to support; what do you say? Will you try the place?"

Presley could only stare at the man in speechless wonder. What was hedriving at? What reason was there back of this new move, and why shouldit be made thus openly and in his hearing? An explanation occurred tohim. Was this merely a pleasantry on the part of S. Behrman, a way ofenjoying to the full his triumph; was he testing the completeness ofhis victory, trying to see just how far he could go, how far beneath hisfeet 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 youa 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 beganagain to sort his papers. 

"Well, Presley, " said the railroad agent: "I guess I won't see youagain. "

"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 withhis handkerchief. Of late, he had grown fatter than ever, and the linenvest, stamped with a multitude of interlocked horseshoes, strained tightits 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 thefarmers without a gust of blind rage blowing tempestuous through all hisbones. Now, however, he found to his surprise that his fury hadlapsed to a profound contempt, in which there was bitterness, but notruculence. He was tired, tired to death of the whole business. 

"Yes, " he answered deliberately, "I am going away. You have ruined thisplace for me. I couldn't live here where I should have to see you, orthe 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 understandhow you feel. I guess it was you, wasn't it, who threw that bomb into myhouse?"

"It was. "

"Well, that don't show any common sense, Presley, " returned S. Behrmanwith 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 thistalk, 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, byanybody, or by any means, does it? They can't get at you through thecourts, --the law can't get you, Dyke's pistol missed fire for just yourbenefit, 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 thereain't anything can touch me. Well, Magnus, " he said, turning once moreto the Governor. "Well, I'll think over what you say, and let you knowif 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 thedepths into which Magnus had fallen. What other scenes of degradationwere enacted in that room, how much further S. Behrman carried thehumiliation, he did not know. He suddenly felt that the air of theoffice was choking him. 

He hurried up to what once had been his own room. On his way he couldnot but note that much of the house was in disarray, a great packing-upwas in progress; trunks, half-full, stood in the hallways, crates andcases in a litter of straw encumbered the rooms. The servants came andwent with armfuls of books, ornaments, articles of clothing. 

Presley took from his room only a few manuscripts and note-books, and asmall 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 avery 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 thefireplace, looking about the room, remembering the scenes that he hadwitnessed there--the conference when Osterman had first suggested thefight for Railroad Commissioner and then later the attack on LymanDerrick and the sudden revelation of that inconceivable treachery. Butas he stood considering these things a door to his right opened andHilma entered the room. 

Presley came forward, holding out his hand, all unable to believe hiseyes. It was a woman, grave, dignified, composed, who advanced to meethim. Hilma was dressed in black, the cut and fashion of the gown severe, almost monastic. All the little feminine and contradictory daintinesseswere nowhere to be seen. Her statuesque calm evenness of contouryet remained, but it was the calmness of great sorrow, of infiniteresignation. Beautiful she still remained, but she was older. Theseriousness of one who has gained the knowledge of the world--knowledgeof its evil--seemed to envelope her. The calm gravity of a greatsuffering past, but not forgotten, sat upon her. Not yet twenty-one, sheexhibited 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 grownthinner and, in consequence, seemed unusually, almost unnaturally tall. Her neck was slender, the outline of her full lips and round chin was alittle sharp; her arms, those wonderful, beautiful arms of hers, werea little shrunken. But her eyes were as wide open as always, rimmedas ever by the thin, intensely black line of the lashes and her brown, fragrant hair was still thick, still, at times, glittered and coruscatedin the sun. When she spoke, it was with the old-time velvety huskinessof voice that Annixter had learned to love so well. 

"Oh, it is you, " she said, giving him her hand. "You were good to wantto 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 Icould not stay--down here any longer. I am going to take a long oceanvoyage. My ship sails in a few days. But you, Mrs. Annixter, what areyou going to do? Is there any way I can serve you?"

"No, " she answered, "nothing. Papa is doing well. We are living herenow. "

"You are well?"

She made a little helpless gesture with both her hands, smiling verysadly. 

"As you see, " she answered. 

As he talked, Presley was looking at her intently. Her dignity was a newelement in her character and the certain slender effect of her figure, emphasised now by the long folds of the black gown she wore, carried italmost superbly. She conveyed something of the impression of a queen inexile. But she had lost none of her womanliness; rather, the contrary. Adversity had softened her, as well as deepened her. Presley saw thatvery clearly. Hilma had arrived now at her perfect maturity; she hadknown great love and she had known great grief, and the woman that hadawakened in her with her affection for Annixter had been strengthenedand infinitely ennobled by his death. What if things had been different?Thus, as he conversed with her, Presley found himself wondering. Hersweetness, her beautiful gentleness, and tenderness were almost likepalpable presences. It was almost as if a caress had been laid softlyupon his cheek, as if a gentle hand closed upon his. Here, he knew, wassympathy; here, he knew, was an infinite capacity for love. 

Then suddenly all the tired heart of him went out towards her. A longingto give the best that was in him to the memory of her, to be strong andnoble because of her, to reshape his purposeless, half-wasted life withher nobility and purity and gentleness for his inspiration leaped all atonce within him, leaped and stood firm, hardening to a resolve strongerthan any he had ever known. 

For an instant he told himself that the suddenness of this new emotionmust be evidence of its insincerity. He was perfectly well aware thathis impulses were abrupt and of short duration. But he knew that thiswas not sudden. Without realising it, he had been from the first drawnto Hilma, and all through these last terrible days, since the time hehad seen her at Los Muertos, just after the battle at the ditch, she hadobtruded continually upon his thoughts. The sight of her to-day, morebeautiful than ever, quiet, strong, reserved, had only brought mattersto a culmination. 

"Are you, " he asked her, "are you so unhappy, Hilma, that you can lookforward to no more brightness in your life?"

"Unless I could forget--forget my husband, " she answered, "how can Ibe happy? I would rather be unhappy in remembering him than happy inforgetting him. He was my whole world, literally and truly. Nothingseemed 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 bedisloyal to him. But you will find after a while--years from now--thatit need not be so. The part of you that belonged to your husband canalways 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 neednot be a burden to you. If you consider it as you should--as you WILLsome day, believe me--it will only be a great help to you. It will makeyou more noble, a truer woman, more generous. "

"I think I see, " she answered, "and I never thought about it in thatlight before. "

"I want to help you, " he answered, "as you have helped me. I want to beyour 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--youwill 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 wouldonly serve to make her very unhappy. Will you explain that to her? Ithink she will understand. "

"Yes, " answered Hilma. "Yes, I will. "

There was a pause. There seemed to be nothing more for either of them tosay. 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 makinghis way out of the house, hoping to get to his horse unobserved, he camesuddenly upon Mrs. Dyke and Sidney on the porch of the house. He hadforgotten that since the affair at the ditch, Los Muertos had been ahome to the engineer's mother and daughter. 

"And you, Mrs. Dyke, " he asked as he took her hand, "in this break-up ofeverything, where do you go?"

"To the city, " she answered, "to San Francisco. I have a sister therewho 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 Ishould live any longer. My son is in prison for life, everything is overfor 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 tobe cheerful. But he knew his words lacked the ring of conviction. Deathalready overshadowed the face of the engineer's mother. He felt thatshe spoke the truth, and as he stood there speaking to her for the lasttime, his arm about little Sidney's shoulder, he knew that he was seeingthe beginnings of the wreck of another family and that, like HildaHooven, another baby girl was to be started in life, through no fault ofhers, fearfully handicapped, weighed down at the threshold of existencewith a load of disgrace. Hilda Hooven and Sidney Dyke, what was to betheir histories? the one, sister of an outcast; the other, daughter ofa convict. And he thought of that other young girl, the little HonoraGerard, the heiress of millions, petted, loved, receiving adulation fromall who came near to her, whose only care was to choose from amongthe multitude of pleasures that the world hastened to present to herconsideration. 

"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 withwhich it was provided, left the house, and mounting his horse rode awayfrom Los Muertos never to return. 

Presley came out upon the County Road. At a little distance to his lefthe could see the group of buildings where once Broderson had lived. These were being remodelled, at length, to suit the larger demands ofthe New Agriculture. A strange man came out by the road gate; no doubt, the new proprietor. Presley turned away, hurrying northwards along theCounty Road by the mammoth watering-tank and the long wind-break ofpoplars. 

He came to Caraher's place. There was no change here. The saloon hadweathered the storm, indispensable to the new as well as to the oldregime. The same dusty buggies and buckboards were tied under the shed, and as Presley hurried by he could distinguish Caraher's voice, loud asever, still proclaiming his creed of annihilation. 

Bonneville Presley avoided. He had no associations with the town. Heturned aside from the road, and crossing the northwest corner of LosMuertos and the line of the railroad, turned back along the Upper Roadtill he came to the Long Trestle and Annixter's, --Silence, desolation, abandonment. 

A vast stillness, profound, unbroken, brooded low over all the place. Noliving thing stirred. The rusted wind-mill on the skeleton-like tower ofthe artesian well was motionless; the great barn empty; the windows ofthe ranch house, cook house, and dairy boarded up. Nailed upon a treenear the broken gateway was a board, white painted, with stencilledletters, bearing the inscription:

"Warning. ALL PERSONS FOUND TRESPASSING ON THESE PREMISES WILL BEPROSECUTED 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 ofBroderson's Creek late in the afternoon. Toilfully he climbed them, reached the highest crest, and turning about, looked long and for thelast time at all the reach of the valley unrolled beneath him. The landof the ranches opened out forever and forever under the stimulus of thatmeasureless range of vision. The whole gigantic sweep of the San Joaquinexpanded Titanic before the eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering and shimmering under the sun's red eye. It was the seasonafter the harvest, and the great earth, the mother, after its period ofreproduction, 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 anentire world. 

And as Presley looked there came to him strong and true the sense andthe significance of all the enigma of growth. He seemed for oneinstant to touch the explanation of existence. Men were nothings, mereanimalculae, mere ephemerides that fluttered and fell and were forgottenbetween dawn and dusk. Vanamee had said there was no death. But for onesecond Presley could go one step further. Men were naught, death wasnaught, life was naught; FORCE only existed--FORCE that brought meninto the world, FORCE that crowded them out of it to make way forthe succeeding generation, FORCE that made the wheat grow, FORCE thatgarnered 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 thestars keeping time as the eternal symphony of reproduction swung inits tremendous cadences like the colossal pendulum of an almightymachine--primordial energy flung out from the hand of the Lord Godhimself, immortal, calm, infinitely strong. 

But as he stood thus looking down upon the great valley he was aware ofthe figure of a man, far in the distance, moving steadily towards theMission of San Juan. The man was hardly more than a dot, but there wassomething unmistakably familiar in his gait; and besides this, Presleycould fancy that he was hatless. He touched his pony with his spur. Theman was Vanamee beyond all doubt, and a little later Presley, descendingthe maze of cow-paths and cattle-trails that led down towards theBroderson Creek, overtook his friend. 

Instantly Presley was aware of an immense change. Vanamee's face wasstill that of an ascetic, still glowed with the rarefied intelligence ofa young seer, a half-inspired shepherd-prophet of Hebraic legends; butthe shadow of that great sadness which for so long had brooded overhim was gone; the grief that once he had fancied deathless was, indeed, dead, or rather swallowed up in a victorious joy that radiated likesunlight at dawn from the deep-set eyes, and the hollow, swarthy cheeks. They talked together till nearly sundown, but to Presley's questionsas 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 suchthings 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 ofday, and if this is so, there is no such thing as death. There is onlylife, 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 inthe dark, but is that death, extinction, annihilation? I take it, thankGod, that it is not. Does the grain of wheat, hidden for certain seasonsin the dark, die? The grain we think is dead RESUMES AGAIN; but how? Notas one grain, but as twenty. So all life. Death is only real for all thedetritus 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, butsacrifice, but generosity, but truth, thank God for it, small as theyare, difficult as it is to discover them--these live forever, these areeternal. You are all broken, all cast down by what you have seen in thisvalley, this hopeless struggle, this apparently hopeless despair. Well, the end is not yet. What is it that remains after all is over, after thedead are buried and the hearts are broken? Look at it all from the vastheight of humanity--'the greatest good to the greatest numbers. ' Whatremains? Men perish, men are corrupted, hearts are rent asunder, butwhat remains untouched, unassailable, undefiled? Try to find that, notonly in this, but in every crisis of the world's life, and you willfind, if your view be large enough, that it is not evil, but good, thatin the end remains. "

There was a long pause. Presley, his mind full of new thoughts, held hispeace, and Vanamee added at length:

"I believed Angele dead. I wept over her grave; mourned for her as deadin corruption. She has come back to me, more beautiful than ever. Do notask me any further. To put this story, this idyl, into words, would, forme, 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 arethe last words I ever speak to you, listen to them, and remember them, because I know I speak the truth. Evil is short-lived. Never judge ofthe 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--hereteeming with ripened wheat--his face set from them forever. 

Not so Vanamee. For hours he roamed the countryside, now through thedeserted cluster of buildings that had once been Annixter's home;now through the rustling and, as yet, uncut wheat of Quien Sabe! nowtreading the slopes of the hills far to the north, and again followingthe 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 crystalsunlight as the dawn expanded roseate, and at length flamed dazzling tothe zenith when the sun moved over the edge of the world and looked downupon all the earth like the eye of God the Father. 

At the moment, Vanamee stood breast-deep in the wheat in a solitarycorner of the Quien Sabe rancho. He turned eastward, facing thecelestial glory of the day and sent his voiceless call far from himacross the golden grain out towards the little valley of flowers. 

Swiftly the answer came. It advanced to meet him. The flowers of theSeed ranch were gone, dried and parched by the summer's sun, sheddingtheir 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 onceit had exhaled the most delicious perfume, it was now odourless. Underthe blinding light of the day it stretched to its hillsides, bare, brown, unlovely. The romance of the place had vanished, but with it hadvanished the Vision. 

It was no longer a figment of his imagination, a creature of dreams thatadvanced to meet Vanamee. It was Reality--it was Angele in the flesh, vital, sane, material, who at last issued forth from the entrance of thelittle valley. Romance had vanished, but better than romance was here. Not a manifestation, not a dream, but her very self. The night wasgone, 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 simplydressed. No fanciful wreath of tube-roses was about her head now, nostrange garment of red and gold enveloped her now. It was no longeran ephemeral illusion of the night, evanescent, mystic, but a simplecountry girl coming to meet her lover. The vision of the night had beenbeautiful, but what was it compared to this? Reality was better thanRomance. The simple honesty of a loving, trusting heart was better thana 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 twostraight plaits on either side of her face, saw the enchanting fulnessof her lips, the strange, balancing movement of her head upon herslender neck. But now she was no longer asleep. The wonderful eyes, violet blue, heavy-lidded, with their perplexing, oriental slant towardsthe 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 withperfume, she had at last come to him. The moonlight, the flowers, andthe dream were all vanished away. Angele was realised in the Wheat. Shestood 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 caughther 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 bedirected 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 demandhis presence and attention. Now, however, he was to see the concreteevidence of his success for the first time. 

He picked his way across the railroad tracks to the line of warehousesthat bordered the docks, numbered with enormous Roman numerals and fullof grain in bags. The sight of these bags of grain put him in mind ofthe fact that among all the other shippers he was practically alonein his way of handling his wheat. They handled the grain in bags;he, however, preferred it in the bulk. Bags were sometimes four centsapiece, and he had decided to build his elevator and bulk his graintherein, rather than to incur this expense. Only a small part of hiswheat--that on Number Three division--had been sacked. All the rest, practically two-thirds of the entire harvest of Los Muertos, now founditself warehoused in his enormous elevator at Port Costa. 

To a certain degree it had been the desire of observing the working ofhis system of handling the wheat in bulk that had drawn S. Behrman toPort Costa. But the more powerful motive had been curiosity, not to saydownright 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, hewished to enjoy it to its fullest extent, wished to miss no feature ofthe disposal of the crop. He had watched it harvested, he had watched ithauled to the railway, and now would watch it as it poured into the holdof 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 ranparallel with the shore of the bay. A great quantity of shipping was inview, barques for the most part, Cape Horners, great, deep sea tramps, whose iron-shod forefeet had parted every ocean the world round fromRangoon to Rio Janeiro, and from Melbourne to Christiania. Some werestill in the stream, loaded with wheat to the Plimsoll mark, readyto depart with the next tide. But many others laid their great flanksalongside the docks and at that moment were being filled by derrickand crane with thousands upon thousands of bags of wheat. The scene wasbrisk; the cranes creaked and swung incessantly with a rattle ofchains; stevedores and wharfingers toiled and perspired; boatswainsand dock-masters shouted orders, drays rumbled, the water lapped atthe piles; a group of sailors, painting the flanks of one of the greatships, raised an occasional chanty; the trade wind sang aeolian in thecordages, filling the air with the nimble taint of salt. All around werethe noises of ships and the feel and flavor of the sea. 

S. Behrman soon discovered his elevator. It was the largest structurediscernible, and upon its red roof, in enormous white letters, was hisown name. Thither, between piles of grain bags, halted drays, cratesand boxes of merchandise, with an occasional pyramid of salmon cases, S. Behrman took his way. Cabled to the dock, close under his elevator, laya great ship with lofty masts and great spars. Her stern was toward himas he approached, and upon it, in raised golden letters, he could readthe words "Swanhilda--Liverpool. "

He went aboard by a very steep gangway and found the mate on the quarterdeck. S. Behrman introduced himself. 

"Well, " he added, "how are you getting on?"

"Very fairly, sir, " returned the mate, who was an Englishman. "We'llhave her all snugged down tight by this time, day after to-morrow. It'sa great saving of time shunting the stuff in her like that, and threemen 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 holdof 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 downthe confines of the chute to plunge into the roomy, gloomy interiorof the hold with an incessant, metallic roar, persistent, steady, inevitable. No men were in sight. The place was deserted. No humanagency seemed to be back of the movement of the wheat. Rather, thegrain 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 hardgrains against the metallic lining of the chute. He put his hand onceinto the rushing tide, and the contact rasped the flesh of his fingersand like an undertow drew his hand after it in its impetuous dash. 

Cautiously he peered down into the hold. A musty odour rose to hisnostrils, the vigorous, pungent aroma of the raw cereal. It was dark. Hecould see nothing; but all about and over the opening of the hatch theair was full of a fine, impalpable dust that blinded the eyes and chokedthe throat and nostrils. 

As his eyes became used to the shadows of the cavern below him, hebegan to distinguish the grey mass of the wheat, a great expanse, almostliquid in its texture, which, as the cataract from above plunged intoit, moved and shifted in long, slow eddies. As he stood there, thiscataract on a sudden increased in volume. He turned about, casting hiseyes upward toward the elevator to discover the cause. His foot caughtin 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 withthe sodden impact of a bundle of damp clothes. For the moment he wasstunned. All the breath was driven from his body. He could neithermove nor cry out. But, by degrees, his wits steadied themselves and hisbreath returned to him. He looked about and above him. The daylight inthe hold was dimmed and clouded by the thick, chaff-dust thrown off bythe pour of grain, and even this dimness dwindled to twilight at a shortdistance from the opening of the hatch, while the remotest quarters werelost in impenetrable blackness. He got upon his feet only to find thathe 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 itselfin a conical mound, but from the sides of this mound it shuntedaway incessantly in thick layers, flowing in all directions with thenimbleness of water. Even as S. Behrman spoke, a wave of grain pouredaround his legs and rose rapidly to the level of his knees. He steppedquickly 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 ladderthat led up to the deck. He scuffled and waded across the wheat, gropingin the dark with outstretched hands. With every inhalation he choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with dust than with air. At times hecould not breathe at all, but gagged and gasped, his lips distended. Butsearch as he would he could find no outlet to the hold, no stairway, no companion ladder. Again and again, staggering along in the blackdarkness, he bruised his knuckles and forehead against the iron sidesof the ship. He gave up the attempt to find any interior means of escapeand returned laboriously to the space under the open hatchway. Alreadyhe could see that the level of the wheat was raised. 

"God, " he said, "this isn't going to do at all. " He uttered a greatshout. "Hello, on deck there, somebody. For God's sake. "

The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat drowned out his voice. Hecould scarcely hear it himself above the rush of the cataract. Besidesthis, he found it impossible to stay under the hatch. The flying grainsof wheat, spattering as they fell, stung his face like wind-drivenparticles 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 anddashing against his legs and knees, mounting swiftly higher, carryinghim off his feet. 

Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath the hatch. He stoodstill for a moment and shouted again. It was in vain. His voice returnedupon him, unable to penetrate the thunder of the chute, and horrified, he discovered that so soon as he stood motionless upon the wheat, hesank into it. Before he knew it, he was knee-deep again, and a longswirl of grain sweeping outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reformingpyramid below the chute, poured around his thighs, immobolising him. 

A frenzy of terror suddenly leaped to life within him. The horror ofdeath, the Fear of The Trap, shook him like a dry reed. Shouting, hetore himself free of the wheat and once more scrambled and struggledtowards the hatchway. He stumbled as he reached it and fell directlybeneath the pour. Like a storm of small shot, mercilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered multitude of hurtling grains flagellated and beat andtore his flesh. Blood streamed from his forehead and, thickening withthe powder-like chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled to his feetonce 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 mouthwas 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, asif 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 backagainst the iron hull of the ship and tried to collect his thoughts, tocalm himself. Surely there must be some way of escape; surely he was notto die like this, die in this dreadful substance that was neither solidnor fluid. What was he to do? How make himself heard?

But even as he thought about this, the cone under the chute broke againand sent a great layer of grain rippling and tumbling toward him. Itreached 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 deeperabout him. Once more he retreated. Once more he crawled staggering tothe foot of the cataract, screaming till his ears sang and his eyeballsstrained in their sockets, and once more the relentless tide drove himback. 

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 nookand cranny. It reached his middle. Furious and with bleeding hands andbroken nails, he dug his way out to fall backward, all but exhausted, gasping for breath in the dust-thickened air. Roused again by the slowadvance of the tide, he leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with theagony in his eyes, only to crash against the metal hull of the vessel. He turned about, the blood streaming from his face, and paused tocollect his senses, and with a rush, another wave swirled about hisankles and knees. Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still meant tosink; to lie or sit meant to be buried the quicker; and all this in thedark, all this in an air that could scarcely be breathed, all this whilehe fought an enemy that could not be gripped, toiling in a sea thatcould not be stayed. 

Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman crawled on handsand knees toward the hatchway. Once more he raised his voice in a shoutfor help. His bleeding throat and raw, parched lips refused to utterbut a wheezing moan. Once more he tried to look toward the one patch offaint light above him. His eye-lids, clogged with chaff, could no longeropen. The Wheat poured about his waist as he raised himself upon hisknees. 

Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain, blinded and made dumbwith its chaff, he threw himself forward with clutching fingers, rollingupon his back, and lay there, moving feebly, the head rolling from sideto side. The Wheat, leaping continuously from the chute, poured aroundhim. It filled the pockets of the coat, it crept up the sleeves andtrouser legs, it covered the great, protuberant stomach, it ran at lastin rivulets into the distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face. Uponthe surface of the Wheat, under the chute, nothing moved but the Wheatitself. There was no sign of life. Then, for an instant, the surfacestirred. 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 wideningripples that spread flowing from the ever-breaking, ever-reformingcone; no sound, but the rushing of the Wheat that continued to plungeincessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable. 

CONCLUSION

The "Swanhilda" cast off from the docks at Port Costa two days afterPresley had left Bonneville and the ranches and made her way up to SanFrancisco, anchoring in the stream off the City front. A few hours afterher arrival, Presley, waiting at his club, received a despatch fromCedarquist to the effect that she would clear early the next morning andthat he must be aboard of her before midnight. 

He sent his trunks aboard and at once hurried to Cedarquist's office tosay good-bye. He found the manufacturer in excellent spirits. 

"What do you think of Lyman Derrick now, Presley?" he said, when Presleyhad sat down. "He's in the new politics with a vengeance, isn't he? Andour own dear Railroad openly acknowledges him as their candidate. You'veheard of his canvass. "

"Yes, yes, " answered Presley. "Well, he knows his business best. "

But Cedarquist was full of another idea: his new venture--the organizingof a line of clipper wheat ships for Pacific and Oriental trade--wasprospering. 

"The 'Swanhilda' is the mother of the fleet, Pres. I had to buy HER, butthe keel of her sister ship will be laid by the time she discharges atCalcutta. We'll carry our wheat into Asia yet. The Anglo-Saxon startedfrom there at the beginning of everything and it's manifest destiny thathe must circle the globe and fetch up where he began his march. You areup with procession, Pres, going to India this way in a wheat ship thatflies American colours. By the way, do you know where the money is tocome from to build the sister ship of the 'Swanhilda'? From the saleof the plant and scrap iron of the Atlas Works. Yes, I've given it updefinitely, that business. The people here would not back me up. But I'mworking 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. Thereis, " he added with a wink, "a Midway Pleasance in connection with thething. 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 workof 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 hungryHindoo. Tell him 'we're coming, Father Abraham, a hundred thousandmore. ' Tell the men of the East to look out for the men of the West. Theirrepressible Yank is knocking at the doors of their temples and he willwant to sell 'em carpet-sweepers for their harems and electric lightplants for their temple shrines. Good-bye to you. "

"Good-bye, sir. "

"Get fat yourself while you're about it, Presley, " he observed, as thetwo 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, insideof which a bass drum was being furiously beaten. On the cloth, in greatletters, were the words:

"Vote for Lyman Derrick, Regular Republican Nominee for Governor ofCalifornia. "

*****

The "Swanhilda" lifted and rolled slowly, majestically on the groundswell 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 acigarette, and paused long enough to remark:

"The land yonder, if you can make it out, is Point Gordo, and if youwere to draw a line from our position now through that point and carryit on about a hundred miles further, it would just about cross TulareCounty 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, lookedlong and earnestly at the faint line of mountains that showed vague andbluish above the waste of tumbling water. 

Those were the mountains of the Coast range and beyond them was whatonce had been his home. Bonneville was there, and Guadalajara andLos 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 hadlived. Already it was far distant from him; but once again it rose inhis memory, portentous, sombre, ineffaceable. He passed it all in reviewfrom the day of his first meeting with Vanamee to the day of his partingwith Hilma. He saw it all--the great sweep of country opening to viewfrom 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 furiousmen; the quiet garden of the Mission; Dyke's house, his flight upon theengine, his brave fight in the chaparral; Lyman Derrick at bay in thedining-room of the ranch house; the rabbit drive; the fight at theirrigating ditch, the shouting mob in the Bonneville Opera House. Thedrama was over. The fight of Ranch and Railroad had been wrought outto its dreadful close. It was true, as Shelgrim had said, that forcesrather than men had locked horns in that struggle, but for all that themen of the Ranch and not the men of the Railroad had suffered. Into theprosperous valley, into the quiet community of farmers, that gallopingmonster, that terror of steel and steam had burst, shooting athwart thehorizons, flinging the echo of its thunder over all the ranches of thevalley, leaving blood and destruction in its path. 

Yes, the Railroad had prevailed. The ranches had been seized in thetentacles of the octopus; the iniquitous burden of extortionate freightrates had been imposed like a yoke of iron. The monster had killedHarran, had killed Osterman, had killed Broderson, had killed Hooven. Ithad beggared Magnus and had driven him to a state of semi-insanity afterhe had wrecked his honour in the vain attempt to do evil that good mightcome. It had enticed Lyman into its toils to pluck from him his manhoodand his honesty, corrupting him and poisoning him beyond redemption; ithad hounded Dyke from his legitimate employment and had made of hima highwayman and criminal. It had cast forth Mrs. Hooven to starve todeath upon the City streets. It had driven Minna to prostitution. It hadslain Annixter at the very moment when painfully and manfully he had atlast achieved his own salvation and stood forth resolved to do right, toact unselfishly and to live for others. It had widowed Hilma in the verydawn of her happiness. It had killed the very babe within the mother'swomb, strangling life ere yet it had been born, stamping out the sparkordained by God to burn through all eternity. 

What then was left? Was there no hope, no outlook for the future, norift in the black curtain, no glimmer through the night? Was good to bethus overthrown? Was evil thus to be strong and to prevail? Was nothingleft?

Then suddenly Vanamee's words came back to his mind. What was the largerview, what contributed the greatest good to the greatest numbers? Whatwas the full round of the circle whose segment only he beheld? In theend, the ultimate, final end of all, what was left? Yes, good issuedfrom this crisis, untouched, unassailable, undefiled. 

Men--motes in the sunshine--perished, were shot down in the very noonof life, hearts were broken, little children started in life lamentablyhandicapped; young girls were brought to a life of shame; old women diedin the heart of life for lack of food. In that little, isolated group ofhuman insects, misery, death, and anguish spun like a wheel of fire. 

BUT THE WHEAT REMAINED. Untouched, unassailable, undefiled, that mightyworld-force, that nourisher of nations, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, indifferent to the human swarm, gigantic, resistless, moved onward inits appointed grooves. Through the welter of blood at the irrigationditch, through the sham charity and shallow philanthropy of faminerelief committees, the great harvest of Los Muertos rolled like aflood from the Sierras to the Himalayas to feed thousands of starvingscarecrows on the barren plains of India. 

Falseness dies; injustice and oppression in the end of everythingfade and vanish away. Greed, cruelty, selfishness, and inhumanity areshort-lived; the individual suffers, but the race goes on. Annixterdies, but in a far distant corner of the world a thousand lives aresaved. 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.