The Octopus [A California Story]
by Frank Norris
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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"Hello, it's you, is it, Miss Hilma?" he exclaimed, getting down
from the buckskin, and allowing her to drink.

Hilma nodded, scrambling to her feet, dusting her skirt with
nervous pats of both hands.

Annixter sat down on a great rock close by and, the loop of the
bridle over his arm, lit a cigar, and began to talk. He
complained of the heat of the day, the bad condition of the Lower
Road, over which he had come on his way from a committee meeting
of the League at Los Muertos; of the slowness of the work on the
irrigating ditch, and, as a matter of course, of the general hard
times.

"Miss Hilma," he said abruptly, "never you marry a ranchman.
He's never out of trouble."

Hilma gasped, her eyes widening till the full round of the pupil
was disclosed. Instantly, a certain, inexplicable guiltiness
overpowered her with incredible confusion. Her hands trembled as
she pressed the bundle of cresses into a hard ball between her
palms.

Annixter continued to talk. He was disturbed and excited himself
at this unexpected meeting. Never through all the past winter
months of strenuous activity, the fever of political campaigns,
the harrowing delays and ultimate defeat in one law court after
another, had he forgotten the look in Hilma's face as he stood
with one arm around her on the floor of his barn, in peril of his
life from the buster's revolver. That dumb confession of Hilma's
wide-open eyes had been enough for him. Yet, somehow, he never
had had a chance to act upon it. During the short period when he
could be on his ranch Hilma had always managed to 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
end to the situation that troubled him, and vexed him, day after
day, month after month. Beyond question, the moment had come for
something definite, he could not say precisely what. Readjusting
his cigar between his teeth, he resumed his speech. It suited
his humour to take the girl into his confidence, following an
instinct which warned him that this would bring about a certain
closeness of their relations, a certain intimacy.

"What do you think of this row, anyways, Miss Hilma,--this
railroad fuss in general? Think Shelgrim and his rushers are
going to jump Quien Sabe--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
in the Supreme Court--you know we've appealed to the Supreme
Court, at Washington--we'd fight."

"Fight?"

"Yes, fight."

"Fight like--like you and Mr. Delaney that time with--oh, dear--
with guns?"

"I don't know," grumbled Annixter vaguely. "What do YOU think?"

Hilma's low-pitched, almost husky voice trembled a little as she
replied, "Fighting--with guns--that's so terrible. Oh, those
revolvers in the barn! I can hear them yet. Every shot seemed
like the explosion of 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 since you were as big as a minute. You wouldn't like
to have S. Behrman and the 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?" cried
Annixter, his teeth tightening on his cigar. "You stay right
where you are. I'll take care of you, right enough. Look here,"
he demanded abruptly, "you've no use for that roaring lush,
Delaney, have you?"
"I think he is a wicked man," she declared. "I know the Railroad
has pretended to sell him part of the ranch, and he lets Mr. S.
Behrman and Mr. 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 of his mouth.

"Pretty place," he muttered, looking around him. Then he added:
"Miss Hilma, see here, I want to have a kind of talk with you, if
you don't mind. I don't know just how to say these sort of
things, and if I get all balled up as I go along, you just set it
down to the fact that I've never had any experience in dealing
with feemale girls; understand? You see, ever since the barn
dance--yes, and long before then--I've been thinking 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," he declared
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 there
together and Delaney was playing the fool, but, somehow, I got
the idea that you didn't want Delaney to do for me one little
bit; that if he'd got 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 shoot any other girl in the room than
you; yes, or in the whole State. Why, if anything should happen
to you, Miss Hilma--well, I wouldn't care to go on with anything.
S. Behrman could jump Quien Sabe, and welcome. And Delaney 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 any
more. You are the only girl for me in the whole world. I didn't
think so at first. I didn't want to. But seeing you around
every day, and seeing how 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 of anything 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, in any of those
places, and I just rush what I've got to do so as I can get back
here. While you were away that Christmas time, why, I was as
lonesome as--oh, you don't know anything about it. I just
scratched off the 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 you should have a home that's my home, too.
I want to take care of you, and have you all for myself, you
understand. What do you say?"

Hilma, standing up before him, retied a knot in her handkerchief
bundle with elaborate precaution, blinking at it through her
tears.

"What do you say, Miss Hilma?" Annixter repeated. "How about
that? What do 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 crying for?"
"I don't know."

Annixter got up, cast away his cigar, and dropping the buckskin's
bridle, came and stood beside her, putting a hand on her
shoulder. Hilma did not move, and he felt her trembling. She
still plucked at the knot of the handkerchief. "I can't do
without you, little girl," Annixter continued, "and I want you.
I want you bad. I don't get much fun out of life ever. It,
sure, isn't my nature, I guess. I'm a hard man. Everybody is
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 fighting now 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 be sorry for me, sorry with me,--and
that somebody is you. I am dog-tired of going it alone. I want
some one to back me up. I want to feel you alongside of me, to
give me a touch of the shoulder now and then. I'm tired of
fighting for THINGS--land, property, money. I want to fight for
some PERSON--somebody beside myself. Understand? want to feel
that it isn't all selfishness--that there are other interests
than mine in the game--that there's some one dependent on me, and
that's thinking of me as I'm thinking of them--some one I can
come home to at night and put my arm 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 moment of imminent peril, when
he stood with his arm around her, their eyes met,--"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 infinite
tenderness and affection she slid her arms around his neck, still
crying a little.

The sensation of her warm body in his embrace, the feeling of her
smooth, round arm, through the thinness of her sleeve, pressing
against his 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 the delicate amber tint melted into the thick,
sweet smelling mass of her dark brown hair. She shivered a
little, holding him closer, ashamed as yet to look up. Without
speech, they stood there for a long minute, holding each other
close. Then Hilma pulled away from him, mopping her tear-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 velvety
huskiness of her voice never sounded so sweet to him.

"And I thought it was that crockery smashing goat of a lout of a
cow-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 it is good to have you, my girl," he exclaimed, delighted
beyond words that she permitted this freedom. "Since when? Tell
us all about it."

"Oh, since always. It was ever so long before I came to think of
you--to, well, to think about--I mean to remember--oh, you know
what I mean. 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
nervous and trembly now. Oh," she cried suddenly, her face
overcast with a look of earnestness and great seriousness, both
her hands catching at his wrist, "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 a minute, and I can't go
back of it now, and it's for always. I don't know how it
happened or why. Sometimes I think I didn't wish it, but now
it's done, 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, and I am only a servant of yours, a little nobody,
but I've given all I had to you--myself--and you must be so good
to me now. Always remember that. Be good to me and be gentle
and kind to me in LITTLE things,--in everything, or you will
break my heart."

Annixter took her in his arms. He was speechless. No words that
he had at his command seemed adequate. All he could say was:

"That's all right, little girl. Don't you be frightened. I'll
take care of 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 arm from 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 to formulate 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
somewhere where 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 there that know us, and they would begin to cackle first
off. How about San Francisco. We might go up next week and have
a look around. I would find rooms you could take somewheres, and
we would fix 'em up as lovely as how-do-you-do."

"Oh, but why go away from Quien Sabe?" she protested. "And,
then, so soon, 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 after we were married, for a little week, where
mamma's people live, and then come back here to the ranch house
and settle right down where we are and let 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
carefully into the creek. He fell thoughtful. Here was a phase
of the affair he had not planned in the least. He had supposed
all the time that Hilma took his meaning. His old suspicion that
she was trying to get a hold on him stirred again for a moment.
There was no good of such talk as that. Always these feemale
girls seemed crazy to get married, bent on complicating 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
without going 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 would be 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? I don't go anything upon a minister puddling round in my
affairs. What's the 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 his
meaning. She rose to her feet, her eyes wide, her face paling
with terror. He did not look at her, but he could hear the catch
in her throat.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a long, deep breath, and again "Oh!"
the back of her hand against her lips.

It was a quick gasp of a veritable physical anguish. Her eyes
brimmed over. Annixter rose, looking at her.

"Well?" he said, awkwardly, "Well?"

Hilma leaped back from him with an instinctive recoil of her
whole being, throwing out her hands in a gesture of defence,
fearing she knew not what. There was as yet no sense of insult
in her mind, no outraged modesty. She was only terrified. It
was as though searching for wild flowers 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 that served for a foot bridge over the creek, gaining the
opposite bank and disappearing with a brisk rustle of underbrush,
such as might have been made 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 and put it on his head and stood for a moment, looking
vaguely at the ground on both sides of him. He went away without
uttering a word, without change of countenance, his hands in his
pockets, his feet taking great strides along the trail in the
direction of the ranch house.

He had no sight of Hilma again that evening, and the next morning
he was up early and did not breakfast at the ranch house.
Business of the League called him to Bonneville to confer with
Magnus and the firm of lawyers retained by the League to fight
the land-grabbing cases. An appeal was to be taken to the
Supreme Court at Washington, and it was to be settled that day
which of the cases involved should be considered as test cases.

Instead of driving or riding into Bonneville, as he usually did,
Annixter took an early morning train, the Bakersfield-Fresno
local at Guadalajara, and went to Bonneville by rail, arriving
there at twenty minutes after seven and breakfasting by
appointment with Magnus Derrick and Osterman at the Yosemite
House, on Main Street .

The conference of the committee with the lawyers took place in a
front room of the Yosemite, one of the latter bringing with him
his clerk, who made a stenographic report of the proceedings and
took carbon copies of all letters written. The conference was
long and complicated, the business transacted of the utmost
moment, and it was not until two o'clock that Annixter found
himself at liberty.

However, as he and Magnus descended into the lobby of the hotel,
they were aware of an excited and interested group collected
about the swing doors that opened from the lobby of the Yosemite
into the bar of the same name. Dyke was there--even at a
distance they could hear the reverberation of his deep-toned
voice, uplifted in wrath and furious expostulation. Magnus and
Annixter joined the group wondering, and all at once fell full
upon the first scene of a drama.

That same morning Dyke's mother had awakened him according to his
instructions at daybreak. A consignment of his hop poles from
the north had arrived at the freight office of the P. and S. W.
in Bonneville, and he was to drive in on his farm wagon and bring
them out. He would have a busy 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
the stove."

He took her hand and kissed it with great affection. He loved
his mother devotedly, quite as much as he did the little tad. In
their little cottage, 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 who spread an atmosphere
of good-humour wherever he went. In the evenings he played 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 a
great game. The ex-engineer, his boots removed, his huge legs in
the air, hoisted the little tad on the soles of his stockinged
feet like a circus acrobat, dandling her there, pretending he was
about to let her fall. Sidney, choking with delight, held on
nervously, with little screams and chirps of excitement, while he
shifted her gingerly from one foot to another, and thence, the
final act, the great gallery play, to the palm of one great hand.
At this point Mrs. Dyke was called in, both father and daughter,
children both, crying out that she was to come in and look, look.
She arrived out of breath from the kitchen, the potato masher in
her hand.
"Such children," she murmured, shaking her head at them, amused
for all that, tucking the potato masher under her arm and
clapping her hands.
In the end, it was part of the game that Sidney should tumble
down upon Dyke, whereat he invariably vented a great bellow as if
in pain, declaring that his ribs were broken. Gasping, his eyes
shut, he pretended to be in the extreme of dissolution--perhaps
he was dying. Sidney, always a little uncertain, amused but
distressed, shook him nervously, tugging at his beard, pushing
open his eyelid with one 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 his mother's room to look at Sidney fast asleep in her
little iron cot, her arm under her head, her lips parted. With
infinite precaution he kissed her twice, and then finding one
little stocking, hung with its mate very neatly over the back of
a chair, dropped into it a dime, rolled up in a wad of paper. He
winked all to himself and went out again, closing the door with
exaggerated carefulness.

He breakfasted alone, Mrs. Dyke pouring his coffee and handing
him his plate of ham and eggs, and half an hour later took
himself off in his springless, skeleton wagon, humming a tune
behind his beard and cracking the 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 an angle of Quien Sabe, came out upon the Upper Road,
a mile below the Long Trestle. He was in great spirits, looking
about him over the brown fields, ruddy with the dawn. Almost
directly in front of him, but far off, the gilded dome of the
court-house at Bonneville was glinting radiant in the first rays
of the sun, while a few miles distant, toward the north, the
venerable campanile of the Mission San Juan stood silhouetted in
purplish black against the flaming east. As he proceeded, the
great farm horses jogging forward, placid, deliberate, the
country side waked to another day. Crossing the irrigating ditch
further on, he met 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 eucalyptus and cypress trees
set a dark green note, a thin stream of smoke rose straight 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
Magnus Derrick's protege, the one-time shepherd, Vanamee, coming
across Quien Sabe, by a trail from one of Annixter's division
houses. Without knowing exactly why, Dyke received the
impression that the young man had not been in bed all of that
night.

As the two approached each other, Dyke eyed the young fellow. He
was distrustful of Vanamee, having the country-bred suspicion of
any person he could not understand. Vanamee was, beyond doubt,
no part of the life of ranch and country town. He was an alien,
a vagabond, a strange fellow who came and went in mysterious
fashion, making no friends, keeping to 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 the invariable custom?
Why did he not cut his hair? Above all, why did he prowl about
so much at night? As the two passed each other, Dyke, for all
his good-nature, was a little blunt in his greeting and looked
back at the ex-shepherd over his shoulder.

Dyke was right in his suspicion. Vanamee's bed had not been
disturbed for three nights. On the Monday of that week he had
passed the entire night in the garden of the Mission, overlooking
the Seed ranch, in the little valley. Tuesday evening had found
him miles away from that spot, in a deep arroyo in the Sierra
foothills to the eastward, while Wednesday 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
more seized upon Vanamee. Something began tugging at him; the
spur of some unseen rider touched his flank. The instinct of the
wanderer woke and moved. For some time now he had been a part of
the Los Muertos staff. On Quien Sabe, as on the other ranches,
the slack season was at hand. While waiting 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 on horseback, riding
the range, rounding up and watching the cattle in the fourth
division of the ranch. But if the vagabond instinct now roused
itself in the strange fellow's nature, a counter influence had
also set in. More and more Vanamee frequented the Mission garden
after nightfall, sometimes remaining there till the dawn began to
whiten, lying prone on the ground, his chin on his folded arms,
his eyes searching the darkness over the little valley of the
Seed ranch, watching, watching. As the days went by, he became
more reticent than ever. Presley often came to find him on the
stock range, a lonely figure in the great wilderness of bare,
green hillsides, but Vanamee no longer took him into his
confidence. Father Sarria alone heard his strange stories.

Dyke drove on toward Bonneville, thinking over the whole matter.
He knew, as every one did in that part of the country, the legend
of Vanamee and Angele, the romance of the Mission garden, the
mystery of the Other, Vanamee's flight to the deserts of the
southwest, his periodic returns, his strange, reticent, solitary
character, but, like many another of the country people, he
accounted for Vanamee by a short and easy method. No doubt, the
fellow's wits were turned. That was the long and short of it.

The ex-engineer reached the Post Office in Bonneville towards
eleven o'clock, but he did not at once present his notice of the
arrival of his consignment at Ruggles's office. It entertained
him to indulge in an hour's lounging about the streets. It was
seldom he got into town, and when he did he permitted himself the
luxury of enjoying his evident popularity. He met friends
everywhere, in the Post Office, in the drug store, in the barber
shop and around the court-house. With each one he held a
moment's conversation; almost invariably this ended in the same
way:

"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 with punctilious 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 upon a little pane of frosted glass one could
trace with considerable elaboration outline figures of cows,
ploughs, bunches of fruit and even rural water mills that were
printed on slips of paper underneath.

"Now, there's an idea, Jim," he observed to the boy behind the
soda-water fountain; "I know a little tad that would just about
jump out of her skin for that. Think I'll have to take it with
me."

"How's Sidney getting along?" the other asked, while wrapping up
the package.

Dyke's enthusiasm had made of his little girl a celebrity
throughout Bonneville.

The ex-engineer promptly became voluble, assertive, doggedly
emphatic.

"Smartest little tad in all Tulare County, and more fun! A
regular whole show in herself."

"And the hops?" inquired the other.

"Bully," declared Dyke, with the good-natured man's readiness to
talk of his private affairs to any one who would listen. "Bully.
I'm dead sure of a bonanza crop by now. The rain came JUST
right. I actually don't know as I can store the crop in those
barns I built, it's going to be so big. That foreman of mine was
a daisy. Jim, I'm going to make money in that 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 interest to
boot, lovely,--well, and as I was saying, after all expenses are
paid off I'll clear big money, m' son. Yes, sir. I KNEW there
was boodle in hops. You know the crop is contracted for already.
Sure, the foreman managed that. He's a daisy. Chap in San
Francisco will take it all and at the advanced price. I wanted
to hang on, to see if it wouldn't go to six 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 the little tad and mother up and show 'em the city--'Frisco--
until it's time for the schools to open, and then we'll put Sid
in the seminary at Marysville. 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 plenty others going into hops next season. I set 'em the
example. Wouldn't be surprised if it came to be a regular
industry hereabouts. I'm planning ahead for next year already.
I can let the foreman go, now that I've learned the game myself,
and I think I'll buy a piece of land off Quien Sabe and get a
bigger crop, and build a couple more barns, and, by George, in
about five years time I'll have things humming. I'm going to
make 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 was considered 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 had followed no one's lead. He had
struck out unaided for himself, and his success was due solely to
his own intelligence, industry, and foresight. He squared his
great shoulders till the blue gingham of his jumper all but
cracked. Of late, his great blond beard had grown and the work
in the sun had made his face very red. Under the visor of his
cap--relic of his engineering days--his blue eyes twinkled with
vast good-nature. He felt that he made a fine figure as he went
by a group of young girls in lawns and muslins and garden hats on
their way to the Post Office. He wondered if they looked after
him, wondered if they had heard that he was in a fair way to
become a rich man.

But the chronometer in the window of the jewelry store warned him
that time was passing. He turned about, and, crossing the
street, took his way to Ruggles's office, which was the freight
as well as the land office 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 the depot, Dyke was surprised to see a familiar
figure in conference with Ruggles 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 a remark to the clerk, Dyke recognised S. Behrman.
The banker, railroad agent, and political manipulator seemed to
the ex-engineer's eyes to be more gross than ever. His smooth-
shaven jowl stood out big and tremulous on 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
with innumerable interlocked horseshoes, protruded far in
advance, enormous, aggressive. He wore his inevitable round-
topped hat of stiff brown straw, varnished so bright that it
reflected the light of the office windows like a helmet, and even
from where he stood Dyke could hear his loud breathing and the
clink of the hollow links of his watch chain upon the vest
buttons of imitation pearl, as his stomach rose and fell.

Dyke looked at him with attention. There was the enemy, the
representative of the Trust with which Derrick's League was
locking horns. The great struggle had begun to invest the
combatants with interest. Daily, almost hourly, Dyke was in
touch with the ranchers, the wheat-growers. He heard their
denunciations, their growls of exasperation and defiance. Here
was the other side--this placid, fat man, with a stiff straw hat
and linen vest, who never lost his temper, 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 the Machine,
the colossal force, the inexhaustible coffers of a mighty
organisation, vomiting millions to the League's thousands.

The League was clamorous, ubiquitous, its objects known to every
urchin on the streets, but the Trust was silent, its ways
inscrutable, the public saw only results. It worked on in the
dark, calm, disciplined, irresistible. Abruptly Dyke received
the impression of the multitudinous ramifications of the
colossus. Under his feet the ground seemed mined; down there
below him in the dark the huge tentacles went silently twisting
and advancing, spreading out in every direction, sapping the
strength of all opposition, quiet, gradual, biding the time to
reach up and 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 that the other had handed him. He remembered perfectly
well that he had arranged the matter of transporting his crop
some months before, but his role of proprietor amused him and he
liked to busy himself again and again with the details of his
undertaking.

"I suppose," he added, "you'll be able to give 'em to me.
There'll be a big wheat crop to move this year and I don't want
to be caught in any car famine."

"Oh, you'll get your cars," murmured the other.

"I'll be the means of bringing business your way," Dyke went on;
"I've done so well with my hops that there are a lot of others
going into the business next season. Suppose," he continued,
struck with an idea, "suppose we went into some sort of pool, a
sort of shippers' organisation, could you give us special rates,
cheaper rates--say a cent and a half?"

The other looked up.

"A cent and a half! Say FOUR cents and a half and maybe I'll
talk business with you."

"Four cents and a half," returned Dyke, "I don't see it. Why,
the regular 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
Bonneville to 'Frisco is two cents a pound for car load lots.
You told me that yourself last fall."

"That was last fall," observed the clerk. There was a silence.
Dyke shot a 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's right--five cents."

The clerk brought forward a folder of yellow paper and handed it
to Dyke. It was inscribed at the top "Tariff Schedule No. 8,"
and underneath 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 head of "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 a later tariff. Those quoted beyond Stockton are
subject to changes in traffic arrangements with carriers by water
from that point."

In the list that was printed below, Dyke saw that the rate for
hops between Bonneville or Guadalajara and San Francisco was five
cents.

For a moment Dyke was confused. Then swiftly the matter became
clear in his mind. The Railroad had raised the freight on hops
from two cents to five.

All his calculations as to a profit on his little investment he
had based on a freight rate of two cents a pound. He was under
contract to deliver his crop. He could not draw back. The new
rate ate up every cent of his gains. He stood there ruined.

"Why, what do you mean?" he burst out. "You promised me a rate
of two cents and I went ahead with my business with that
understanding. What do you 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 make fifty cents. MAKE! Why, I will OWE,--I'll be--be--
That ruins me, do you understand?"

The other, raised a shoulder.

"We don't force you to ship. You can do as you like. The rate
is five cents."

"Well--but--damn you, I'm under contract to deliver. What am I
going to do? Why, you told me--you promised me a two-cent rate."

"I don't remember it," said the clerk. "I don't know anything
about that. But I know this; I know that hops have gone up. I
know the German crop was a failure and that the crop in New York
wasn't worth the hauling. Hops have gone up to nearly a dollar.
You don't suppose we don'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 sudden
aggressiveness, "that the freight rate has gone up to meet the
price. We're not doing business for our health. My orders are
to raise your rate to five cents, and I think you are getting off
easy."

Dyke stared in blank astonishment. For the moment, the audacity
of the affair was what most appealed to him. He forgot its
personal application.

"Good Lord," he murmured, "good Lord! What will you people do
next? Look here. What's your basis of applying freight rates,
anyhow?" he suddenly vociferated with furious sarcasm. "What's
your rule? What are you guided by?"

But at the words, S. Behrman, who had kept silent during the heat
of the discussion, leaned abruptly forward. For the only time in
his knowledge, Dyke saw his face inflamed with anger and with the
enmity and contempt of all this farming element with whom he was
contending.

"Yes, what's your rule? What's your basis?" demanded Dyke,
turning swiftly to him.

S. Behrman emphasised each word of his reply with a tap of one
forefinger on the counter before him:

"All--the--traffic--will--bear."

The ex-engineer stepped back a pace, his fingers on the ledge of
the counter, to steady himself. He felt himself grow pale, his
heart became a mere leaden weight in his chest, inert, refusing
to beat.

In a second the whole affair, in all its bearings, went speeding
before the eye of his imagination like the rapid unrolling of a
panorama. Every cent of his earnings was sunk in this hop
business of his. More than that, he had borrowed money to carry
it on, certain of success--borrowed of S. Behrman, offering his
crop and his little home as security. Once he failed to meet his
obligations, S. Behrman would foreclose. Not only would the
Railroad devour every morsel of his profits, but also it would
take from him his home; at a blow he would be left penniless and
without a home. What would then become of his mother--and what
would become of the little tad? She, whom he had been planning
to educate like a veritable lady. For all that year he had
talked of his ambition for his little daughter to every one he
met. All Bonneville knew of it. What a 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
little enterprise, disdaining to plunder such small fry. He
should have known better than that. How had he ever imagined the
Road would permit him to make any money?

Anger was not in him yet; no rousing of the blind, white-hot
wrath that leaps to the attack with prehensile fingers, moved
him. The blow merely crushed, staggered, confused.

He stepped aside to give place to a coatless man in a pink shirt,
who entered, 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 a
worn-out railway car to do duty in Ruggles's office. On the back
of a yellow 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
apparatus involved themselves in a long argument, gazing intently
at the top panel of the door. The man who had come to fix the
apparatus was unwilling to guarantee it, unless a sign was put on
the outside of the door, warning incomers that the door was self-
closing. This sign would cost fifteen cents 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 an overcharge."

"You needn't think," observed the clerk, "that just because you
are dealing with the Railroad you are going to work us."

Genslinger came in, accompanied by Delaney. S. Behrman and the
clerk, abruptly dismissing the man with the door-closing machine,
put themselves behind the counter and engaged in conversation
with these two. Genslinger introduced Delaney. The buster had a
string of horses he was shipping southward. No doubt he had come
to make arrangements with the Railroad in the matter of stock
cars. The conference of the four men was amicable in the
extreme.

Dyke, studying the figures on the back of the envelope, came
forward again. Absorbed only in his own distress, he ignored the
editor and the cow-puncher.

"Say," he hazarded, "how about this? I make out----

"We've told you what our rates are, Mr. Dyke," exclaimed the
clerk angrily. "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 see what I'm going to do at all."

Ruggles came in, bringing with him two other men in whom Dyke
recognised dummy buyers of the Los Muertos and Osterman ranchos.
They brushed by him, jostling his elbow, and as he went out of
the door he heard them exchange jovial greetings with Delaney,
Genslinger, and S. Behrman.

Dyke went down the stairs to the street and proceeded onward
aimlessly in the direction of the Yosemite House, fingering the
yellow envelope and looking vacantly at the sidewalk.

There was a stoop to his massive shoulders. His great arms
dangled loosely at his sides, the palms of his hands open.

As he went along, a certain feeling of shame touched him. Surely
his predicament must be apparent to every passer-by. No doubt,
every one recognised the unsuccessful man in the very way he
slouched along. The young girls in lawns, muslins, and garden
hats, returning from the Post Office, their hands full of
letters, must surely see in him the type of the failure, the
bankrupt.

Then brusquely his tardy rage flamed up. By God, NO, it was not
his fault; he had made no mistake. His energy, industry, and
foresight had been sound. He had been merely the object of a
colossal trick, a sordid injustice, a victim of the insatiate
greed of the monster, caught and choked by one of those millions
of tentacles suddenly reaching up from below, from out the dark
beneath his feet, coiling around his throat, throttling him,
strangling him, sucking his blood. For a moment he thought of
the courts, but instantly laughed at the idea. What court was
immune from the power of the monster? Ah, the rage of
helplessness, the fury of impotence! No help, no hope,--ruined
in a brief instant--he a veritable giant, built of great sinews,
powerful, in the full tide of his manhood, having all his health,
all his wits. How could he now face his home? How could he tell
his mother of this catastrophe? And Sidney--the little tad; how
could he explain to her this wretchedness--how soften her
disappointment? How keep the tears from out her eyes--how keep
alive her confidence in him--her faith in his resources?

Bitter, fierce, ominous, his wrath loomed up in his heart. His
fists gripped tight together, his teeth clenched. Oh, for a
moment to have his hand upon the throat of S. Behrman, wringing
the breath from him, wrenching out the red life of him--staining
the street with the blood sucked 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 of Dyke himself, so that by the time he reached
the lobby of the Yosemite House, he found his story awaiting him.
A group formed about him. In his immediate vicinity business for
the instant was suspended. The group swelled. One after another
of his friends added themselves to it. Magnus Derrick joined it,
and Annixter. Again and again, Dyke recounted the matter,
beginning with the time when he was discharged from the same
corporation's service for refusing to accept an unfair wage. His
voice quivered with exasperation; his heavy frame shook with
rage; his eyes were injected, bloodshot; his face flamed
vermilion, while his deep bass rumbled throughout the running
comments of his auditors like the thunderous reverberation of
diapason.

From all points of view, the story was discussed by those who
listened to him, now in the heat of excitement, now calmly,
judicially. One verdict, 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 against the 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 the Lord, 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,
turned the business confusedly over in his mind from end to end.
Advice, suggestion, even offers of financial aid had been
showered upon him from all directions. Friends were not wanting
who heatedly presented to his consideration all manner of
ingenious plans, wonderful devices. They were worthless. The
tentacle held fast. He was stuck.

By degrees, as his wagon carried him farther out into the
country, and open empty fields, his anger lapsed, and the
numbness of bewilderment returned. He could not look one hour
ahead into the future; could formulate no plans even for the next
day. He did not know what to do. He was stuck.

With the limpness and inertia of a sack of sand, the reins
slipping loosely in his dangling fingers, his eyes fixed, staring
between the horses' heads, he allowed himself to be carried
aimlessly along. He resigned himself. What did he care? What
was the use of going on? He was stuck.

The team he was driving had once belonged to the Los Muertos
stables and unguided as the horses were, they took the county
road towards Derrick's ranch house. Dyke, all abroad, was
unaware of the fact till, drawn by the smell of water, the horses
halted by the trough in front of Caraher'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 was as short to go home by this route as to return on
his tracks. Slowly he unchecked 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, and flaming cravat standing sharply out from the shadow of
the doorway. He called 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 the news in town?"

Dyke told him. Caraher's red face suddenly took on a darker
colour. The red glint in his eyes shot from under his eyebrows.
Furious, he vented a rolling explosion of oaths.

"And now it's your turn," he vociferated. "They ain't after only
the big wheat-growers, the rich men. By God, they'll even pick
the poor man's pocket. Oh, they'll get their bellies full some
day. It can't last forever. They'll wake up the wrong kind of
man some morning, the man that's got guts in him, that will hit
back when he's kicked and that will talk to 'em with a torch in
one hand and a stick of dynamite in the other."  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 the people only
knew their strength. Oh, if I could wake 'em up. There's not
only Shelgrim, but there's others. All the magnates, all the
butchers, all the blood-suckers, by the thousands. Their day
will come, by God, it will."

By now, the ex-engineer and the bar-keeper had retired to the
saloon back 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, saying but little, and Caraher as a matter
of course set the whiskey bottle at his elbow.

It happened that at this same moment, Presley, returning to Los
Muertos from Bonneville, his pockets full of mail, stopped in at
the grocery to buy some black lead for his bicycle. In the
saloon, on the other side of the narrow partition, he overheard
the conversation between Dyke and Caraher. 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
crystallised into a certain form. He used the same phrases with
each repetition, the same sentences, the same words. In his mind
it became set. Thus he would tell it to any one who would listen
from now on, week after week, year after year, all the rest of
his life--"And I based my calculations on a two-cent rate. So
soon as they saw I was to make money they doubled the tariff--all
the traffic would bear--and I mortgaged to S. Behrman--ruined me
with a turn of the hand--stuck, cinched, and not one thing to be
done."

As he talked, he drank glass after glass of whiskey, and the
honest rage, the open, above-board fury of his mind coagulated,
thickened, and sunk 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's all 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 property was safe, if your wife had not been murdered if
your children were not starving. Easy enough then to preach law-
abiding methods, legal redress, and all such rot. But how about
US?" he vociferated. "Ah, yes, I'm a loud-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 your wife brought home
to you with the face you used to kiss smashed in by a horse's
hoof--killed by the Trust, as it happened to me. Then talk about
moderation! And you, Dyke, black-listed engineer, discharged
employee, ruined agriculturist, wait till you see your little tad
and your mother turned out of doors when S. Behrman forecloses.
Wait till you see 'em getting thin and white, and till you hear
your little girl ask you why you all don't eat a little more and
that she wants her dinner and you can't give it to her. Wait
till you see--at the same time that your family is dying for lack
of bread--a hundred thousand acres of wheat--millions of bushels
of food--grabbed and gobbled by the Railroad Trust, and then talk
of moderation. That talk is just what the Trust wants to hear.
It ain't frightened of that. There's one thing only it does
listen to, one thing it is frightened of--the people with
dynamite in their hands,--six inches of plugged gaspipe. THAT
talks."

Dyke did not reply. He filled another pony of whiskey and drank
it in two gulps. His frown had lowered to a scowl, his face was
a dark red, his head had sunk, bull-like, between his massive
shoulders; without winking he gazed long and with troubled eyes
at his knotted, muscular hands, lying open on the table before
him, idle, their occupation gone.

Presley forgot his black lead. He listened to Caraher. Through
the open door he caught a glimpse of Dyke's back, broad, muscled,
bowed down, the great shoulders stooping.

The whole drama of the doubled freight rate leaped salient and
distinct in 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 were there, the length and breadth of the
State? Constantly this sort of thing must occur--little
industries choked out in their very beginnings, the air full of
the death rattles of little enterprises, expiring unobserved in
far-off counties, up in canyons and arroyos of the foothills,
forgotten by every one but the monster who was daunted by the
magnitude of no business, however great, who overlooked no
opportunity of plunder, however petty, who with one tentacle
grabbed a hundred thousand acres of wheat, and with another
pilfered a pocketful of growing hops.

He went away without a word, his head bent, his hands clutched
tightly on the cork grips of the handle bars of his bicycle. His
lips were white. In his heart a blind demon of revolt raged
tumultuous, shrieking blasphemies.

At Los Muertos, Presley overtook Annixter. As he guided his
wheel up the driveway to Derrick's ranch house, he saw the master
of Quien Sabe and Harran in conversation on the steps of the
porch. Magnus stood in the doorway, talking to his wife.

Occupied with the press of business and involved in the final
conference with the League's lawyers on the eve of the latter's
departure for Washington, Annixter had missed the train that was
to take him back to Guadalajara and Quien Sabe. Accordingly, he
had accepted the Governor's invitation to return with him on his
buck-board to Los Muertos, and before leaving Bonneville had
telephoned to his ranch to have young Vacca bring the buckskin,
by way of the Lower Road, to meet him at Los 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
outburst of indignation had subsided.

"Nothing," declared Annixter. "He's stuck."

"That eats up every cent of Dyke's earnings," Harran went on.
"He has been ten years saving them. Oh, I told him to make sure
of the Railroad when he first spoke to me about growing hops."

"I've just seen him," said Presley, as he joined the others. "He
was at Caraher's. I only saw his back. He was drinking at a
table and his back was towards me. But the man looked broken--
absolutely crushed. It is terrible, 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 HIS finish."

There was a silence. It seemed as if nothing more was to be
said. They paused, looking thoughtfully on the ground.

In silence, grim, bitter, infinitely sad, the three men as if at
that moment actually standing in the bar-room of Caraher's
roadside saloon, contemplated the slow sinking, the inevitable
collapse and submerging of one of their companions, the wreck of
a career, the ruin of an individual; an honest man, strong,
fearless, upright, struck down by a colossal power, perverted by
an evil influence, go reeling to his ruin.

"I see his finish," repeated Annixter. "Exit Dyke, and score
another tally for S. Behrman, Shelgrim and Co."

He moved away impatiently, loosening the tie-rope with which the
buckskin was fastened. He swung himself up.

"God for us all," he declared as he rode away, "and the devil
take the hindmost. 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, stretching away from him in apparent barrenness on
either hand.

It was late in the day, already his shadow was long upon the
padded dust of the road in front of him. On ahead, a long ways
off, and a little to the north, the venerable campanile of the
Mission San Juan was glinting radiant in the last rays of the
sun, while behind him, towards the north and west, the gilded
dome of the courthouse at Bonneville stood silhouetted in
purplish black against the flaming west. Annixter spurred the
buck-skin forward. He feared he might be late to his supper. He
wondered if it would be brought to him by Hilma.

Hilma! The name struck across in his brain with a pleasant,
glowing tremour. All through that day of activity, of strenuous
business, the minute and cautious planning of the final campaign
in the great war of the League and the Trust, the idea of her and
the recollection of her had been the undercurrent of his
thoughts. At last he was alone. He could put all other things
behind him and occupy himself solely with her.

In that glory of the day's end, in that chaos of sunshine, he saw
her again. Unimaginative, crude, direct, his fancy,
nevertheless, placed her before him, steeped in sunshine,
saturated with glorious light, brilliant, radiant, alluring. He
saw the sweet simplicity of her carriage, the statuesque evenness
of the contours of her figure, the single, deep swell of her
bosom, the solid masses of her hair. He remembered the small
contradictory suggestions of feminine daintiness he had so often
remarked about her, her slim, narrow feet, the little steel
buckles of her low shoes, the knot of black ribbon she had begun
to wear of 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 her chest than from her throat.

The buckskin's hoofs clattered upon the gravelly flats of
Broderson's Creek underneath the Long Trestle. Annixter's mind
went back to the scene 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 been able to understand? What
was the matter with these women, always set upon this marrying
notion? Was it not enough that he wanted her more than any other
girl he knew and that she wanted him? She had said as much. Did
she think she was going to be mistress of Quien Sabe? Ah, that
was it. She was after his property, was for marrying him because
of his money. His unconquerable suspicion of the woman, his
innate distrust of the feminine element would not be done away
with. What fathomless duplicity was hers, that she could appear
so innocent. It was almost unbelievable; in fact, was it
believable?

For the first time doubt assailed him. Suppose Hilma was indeed
all that she appeared to be. Suppose it was not with her a
question of his property, after all; it was a poor time to think
of marrying him for his property 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 be fooled by a feemale girl at
this late date? He, Buck Annixter, crafty, hard-headed, a man of
affairs? Not much. Whatever transpired he would remain 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 he stripped the saddle from the buckskin and led
her to the watering trough by the stable corral, his heart was
beating thick at the very notion of being near Hilma again. It
was growing dark, but covertly he glanced here and there out of
the corners of his eyes to see if she was anywhere about.
Annixter--how, he could not tell--had become possessed of the
idea that Hilma would not inform her parents of what had passed
between them the previous evening under the Long Trestle. He had
no idea that matters were at an end between himself and the young
woman. He must apologise, he saw that clearly enough, must eat
crow, as he told himself. 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 as possible and get this business
straightened out, and begin again from a new starting point.
What he wanted with Hilma, Annixter did not define clearly in his
mind. At one time he had known perfectly well what he wanted.
Now, the goal of his desires had become vague. He could not say
exactly what it was. He preferred that things should go forward
without much idea of consequences; if consequences came, they
would do so naturally enough, and of themselves; all that he
positively knew was that Hilma occupied his thoughts morning,
noon, and night; that he was happy when he was with her, and
miserable when away from her.

The Chinese cook served his supper in silence. Annixter ate and
drank and lighted a cigar, and after his meal sat on the porch of
his house, smoking and enjoying the twilight. The evening was
beautiful, warm, the sky one powder of stars. From the direction
of the stables he heard one of the Portuguese hands picking a
guitar.

But he wanted to see Hilma. The idea of going to bed without at
least a glimpse of her became distasteful to him. Annixter got
up and descending from the porch began to walk aimlessly about
between the ranch buildings, with eye and ear alert. Possibly he
might meet her somewheres.

The Trees' little house, toward which inevitably Annixter
directed his steps, was dark. Had they all gone to bed so soon?
He made a wide circuit about it, listening, but heard no sound.
The door of the dairy-house stood ajar. He pushed it open, and
stepped into the odorous darkness of its interior. The pans and
deep cans of polished metal glowed faintly from the corners and
from the walls. The smell of new cheese was pungent in his
nostrils. Everything was quiet. There was nobody there. He
went out again, closing the door, and stood for a moment in the
space between the dairy-house and the new barn, uncertain as to
what he should do next.

As he waited there, his foreman came out of the men's bunk house,
on the other 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 of him. "I didn't know you were back. By the way," he
added, speaking as though the matter was already known to
Annixter, "I see old man Tree and his family have left us. Are
they going to be gone long? Have they left for good?"

"What's that?" Annixter exclaimed. "When did they go? Did all
of them go, all three?"

"Why, I thought you knew. Sure, they all left on the afternoon
train for San Francisco. Cleared out in a hurry--took all their
trunks. Yes, all three 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 run the dairy on such short
notice. Do you know any one, Mr. Annixter?"

"Well, why in hell did you let them go?" vociferated Annixter.
"Why didn't you keep them here till I got back? Why didn't you
find out if they were going for good? I can't be everywhere.
What do I feed you for if it ain't to look after things I can't
attend to?"

He turned on his heel and strode away straight before him, not
caring where 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 heels digging furiously into the ground. The
minutes passed. He walked on swiftly, muttering to himself from
time to time.

"Gone, by the Lord. Gone, by the Lord. By the Lord Harry, she's
cleared out."

As yet his head was empty of all thought. He could not steady
his wits to 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
ditch tenders that bordered it, and followed it some five
minutes; then struck off at right angles over the rugged surface
of the ranch land, to where a great white stone jutted from the
ground. There he sat down, and leaning forward, rested his
elbows on his knees, and looked out vaguely into the night, his
thoughts swiftly readjusting themselves.

He was alone. The silence of the night, the infinite repose of
the flat, bare earth--two immensities--widened around and above
him like illimitable seas. A grey half-light, mysterious, grave,
flooded downward from the stars.

Annixter was in torment. Now, there could be no longer any
doubt--now it was Hilma or nothing. Once out of his reach, once
lost to him, and the recollection of her assailed him with
unconquerable vehemence. Much as she had occupied his mind, he
had never realised till now how vast had been the place she had
filled in his life. He had told her as much, but even then he
did not believe it.

Suddenly, a bitter rage against himself overwhelmed him as he
thought of the hurt he had given her the previous evening. He
should have managed differently. How, he did not know, but the
sense of the outrage he had put upon her abruptly recoiled
against him with cruel force. Now, he was sorry for it,
infinitely sorry, passionately sorry. He had hurt her. He had
brought the tears to her eyes. He had so flagrantly insulted her
that she could no longer bear to breathe the same air with him.
She had told 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 he was, he had driven her away.

An hour went by; then two, then four, then six. Annixter still
sat in his place, groping and battling in a confusion of spirit,
the like of which he had never felt before. He did not know what
was the matter with him. He could not find his way out of the
dark and out of the turmoil that wheeled around him. He had had
no experience with women. There was no precedent to guide him.
How was he to get out of this? What was the clew that would set
everything straight again?

That he would give Hilma up, never once entered his head. Have
her he would. She had given herself to him. Everything should
have been easy after that, and instead, here he was alone in the
night, wrestling with himself, in deeper trouble than ever, and
Hilma farther than ever away from him.

It was true, he might have Hilma, even now, if he was willing to
marry her. But marriage, to his mind, had been always a vague,
most remote possibility, almost as vague and as remote as his
death,--a thing that happened to some men, but that would surely
never occur to him, or, if it did, it would be after long years
had passed, when he was older, more settled, more mature--an
event that belonged to the period of his middle life, distant as
yet.

He had never faced the question of his marriage. He had kept it
at an immense distance from him. It had never been a part of his
order of things. 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 could consider the idea of marriage, side
by side with the idea of Hilma, measureless distances had to be
traversed, things as disassociated in his mind as fire and water,
had to be fused together; and between the two he was torn as if
upon a rack.

Slowly, by imperceptible degrees, the imagination, unused,
unwilling machine, 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 seed planted, a little seed at first weak,
forgotten, lost in the lower dark places of his character.

But as the intellect moved slower, its functions growing numb,
the idea of self dwindled. Annixter no longer considered
himself; no longer considered the notion of marriage from the
point of view of his own comfort, his own wishes, his own
advantage. He realised that in his newfound desire to make her
happy, he was sincere. There was something in that idea, after
all. To make some one happy--how about that now? It was worth
thinking of.

Far away, low down in the east, a dim belt, a grey light began to
whiten over the horizon. The tower of the Mission stood black
against it. The dawn was coming. The baffling obscurity of the
night was passing. Hidden things were coming into view.

Annixter, his eyes half-closed, his chin upon his fist, allowed
his imagination full play. How would it be if he should take
Hilma into his life, this beautiful young girl, pure as he now
knew her to be; innocent, noble with the inborn nobility of
dawning womanhood? An overwhelming sense of his own unworthiness
suddenly bore down upon him with crushing force, as he thought of
this. He had gone about the whole affair wrongly. He had been
mistaken from the very first. She was infinitely above him. He
did not want--he should not desire to be the master. It was she,
his servant, poor, simple, lowly even, who should condescend to
him.

Abruptly there was presented to his mind's eye a picture of the
years to come, if he now should follow his best, his highest, his
most unselfish impulse. He saw Hilma, his own, for better or for
worse, for richer or for poorer, all barriers down between them,
he giving himself to her as freely, 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 that vast gulf that for a time
had gaped between Hilma and the idea of his marriage. Instantly,
like the swift blending of beautiful colours, like the 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
gentleness of 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 of his soul, up from the deep rugged recesses of
his being, something rose, expanding. He opened his arms wide.
An immense happiness overpowered him. Actual tears came to his
eyes. Without knowing why, he was not ashamed of it. This poor,
crude fellow, harsh, hard, narrow, with his unlovely nature, his
fierce truculency, his selfishness, his obstinacy, abruptly knew
that all the sweetness of life, all the great vivifying eternal
force of humanity had burst into life within him.

The little seed, long since planted, gathering strength quietly,
had at last germinated.

Then as the realisation of this hardened into certainty, in the
growing light of the new day that had just dawned for him,
Annixter uttered a cry. Now at length, he knew the meaning of it
all.

"Why--I--I, I LOVE her," he cried. Never until then had it
occurred to him. Never until then, in all his thoughts of Hilma,
had that great word passed 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 new risen sun.

By now it was almost day. The east glowed opalescent. All about
him Annixter saw the land inundated with light. But there was a
change. Overnight something had occurred. In his perturbation
the change seemed to him, at first, elusive, almost fanciful,
unreal. But now as the light spread, he looked again at the
gigantic scroll of ranch lands unrolled before him from edge to
edge of the horizon. The change was not fanciful. The change
was real. The earth was no longer bare. The land was no longer
barren,--no longer empty, no longer dull brown. All at once
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 had come up. It was there before him,
around him, everywhere, illimitable, immeasurable. The winter
brownness of the ground was overlaid with a little 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 was renewed. Once more the force of the
world was revivified. Once more the Titan, benignant, calm,
stirred and woke, and the morning abruptly blazed into glory upon
the spectacle of a man whose heart leaped exuberant with the love
of a woman, and an exulting earth gleaming transcendent with the
radiant magnificence of an inviolable pledge.

III

Presley's room in the ranch house of Los Muertos was in the
second story of the building. It was a corner room; one of its
windows facing the south, the other the east. Its appointments
were of the simplest. In one angle was the small white painted
iron bed, covered with a white counterpane. The walls were hung
with a white paper figured with knots of pale green leaves, very
gay and bright. There was a straw matting on the floor. White
muslin half-curtains hung in the windows, upon the sills of which
certain plants bearing pink waxen flowers of which Presley did
not know the name, grew in oblong green boxes. The walls were
unadorned, save by two pictures, one a reproduction of the
"Reading from Homer," the other a charcoal drawing of the Mission
of San Juan de Guadalajara, which Presley had made himself. By
the east window stood the plainest of deal tables, innocent of
any cloth or covering, such as might have been used in a kitchen.
It was Presley's work table, and was invariably littered with
papers, half-finished manuscripts, drafts of poems, notebooks,
pens, half-smoked cigarettes, and the like. Near at hand, upon a
shelf, were his books. There were but two chairs in the room--
the straight backed wooden chair, that stood in front of the
table, angular, upright, and in which it was impossible to take
one's ease, and the long comfortable wicker steamer chair,
stretching its length in front of the south window. Presley was
immensely fond of this room. It amused and interested him to
maintain its air of rigorous simplicity and freshness. He
abhorred cluttered bric-a-brac and meaningless objets d'art.
Once in so often he submitted his room to a vigorous inspection;
setting it to rights, removing everything but the essentials, the
few ornaments which, in a way, were part of his life.

His writing had by this time undergone a complete change. The
notes for his great Song of the West, the epic poem he once had
hoped to write he had flung aside, together with all the abortive
attempts at its beginning. Also he had torn up a great quantity
of "fugitive" verses, preserving only a certain half-finished
poem, that he called "The Toilers."  This poem was a comment upon
the social fabric, and had been inspired by the sight of a
painting he had seen in Cedarquist's art gallery. He had written
all but the last verse.

On the day that he had overheard the conversation between Dyke
and Caraher, in the latter's saloon, which had acquainted him
with the monstrous injustice of the increased tariff, Presley had
returned to Los Muertos, white and trembling, roused to a pitch
of exaltation, the like of which he had never known in all his
life. His wrath was little short of even Caraher's. He too "saw
red"; a mighty spirit of revolt heaved tumultuous within him. It
did not seem possible that this outrage could go on much longer.
The oppression was incredible; the plain story of it set down in
truthful statement of fact would not be believed by the outside
world.

He went up to his little room and paced the floor with clenched
fists and burning face, till at last, the repression of his
contending thoughts all but suffocated him, and he flung himself
before his table and began to write. For a time, his pen seemed
to travel of itself; words came to him without searching, shaping
themselves into phrases,--the phrases building themselves up to
great, forcible sentences, full of eloquence, of fire, of
passion. As his prose grew more exalted, it passed easily into
the domain of poetry. Soon the cadence of his paragraphs settled
to an ordered beat and rhythm, and in the end Presley had thrust
aside his journal and was once more writing verse.

He picked up his incomplete poem of "The Toilers," read it
hastily a couple of times to catch its swing, then the Idea of
the last verse--the Idea for which he so long had sought in vain--
abruptly springing to his brain, 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 majestic thought, simple,
noble, dignified, absolutely convincing.

Presley laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair, with the
certainty that for one moment he had touched untrod heights. His
hands were 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
the inspiration for his vast, vague, IMPERSONAL Song of the West.
At the time when he sought for it, his convictions had not been
aroused; he had 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 had been 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 in his poem, as such, than in the cause that had
inspired it. He went over it again, retouching it carefully,
changing a word here and there, and improving its rhythm. For
the moment, he forgot the People, forgot his rage, his agitation
of the previous hour, he remembered only that he had written a
great poem.

Then doubt intruded. After all, was it so great? Did not its
sublimity overpass a little the bounds of the ridiculous? Had he
seen true? Had he failed again? He re-read the poem carefully;
and it seemed all at once to lose force.

By now, Presley could not tell whether what he had written was
true poetry or doggerel. He distrusted profoundly his own
judgment. He must have the opinion of some one else, some one
competent to judge. He could not wait; to-morrow would not do.
He must know to a certainty before he could rest that night.

He made a careful copy of what he had written, and putting on his
hat and laced boots, went down stairs and out upon the lawn,
crossing over to the stables. He found Phelps there, washing
down the buckboard.

"Do you know where Vanamee is to-day?" he asked the latter.
Phelps put his chin in the air.

"Ask me something easy," he responded. "He might be at
Guadalajara, or he might be up at Osterman's, or he might be a
hundred miles away from either place. I know where he ought to
be, Mr. Presley, but that ain't saying where the crazy gesabe is.
He OUGHT to be range-riding over east of Four, at the head waters
of Mission Creek."

"I'll try for him there, at all events," answered Presley. "If
you see Harran 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, and went 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 a slat hammock under the mammoth live oak, her foot in
bandages; and then galloped on over the bridge across the
irrigating ditch, wondering vaguely what would become of such a
pretty girl as Minna, and if in the end she would marry the
Portuguese foreman in charge of the ditching-gang. He told
himself that he hoped she would, and that speedily. There was no
lack of comment as to Minna Hooven about the ranches. Certainly
she was a good girl, but she was seen at all hours here and there
about Bonneville and Guadalajara, skylarking with the Portuguese
farm hands of Quien Sabe and Los Muertos. She was very pretty;
the men made fools of themselves over her. Presley hoped they
would not end by making a fool of her.

Just beyond the irrigating ditch, Presley left the Lower Road,
and following a trail that branched off southeasterly from this
point, held on across the Fourth Division of the ranch, keeping
the Mission Creek on his left. A few miles farther on, he went
through a gate in a barbed wire fence, and at once engaged
himself in a system of little arroyos and low rolling hills, that
steadily lifted and increased in size as he proceeded. This
higher ground was the advance guard of the Sierra foothills, and
served as the stock range for Los Muertos. The hills were huge
rolling hummocks of bare ground, covered only by wild oats. At
long intervals, were isolated live oaks. In the canyons and
arroyos, the chaparral and manzanita grew in dark olive-green
thickets. The ground was honey-combed with gopher-holes, and the
gophers themselves were everywhere. Occasionally a jack rabbit
bounded across the open, from one growth of chaparral to another,
taking long leaps, his ears erect. High overhead, a hawk or two
swung at anchor, and once, with a startling rush of wings, a
covey of quail flushed from the brush at the side of the trail.

On the hillsides, in thinly scattered groups were the cattle,
grazing deliberately, working slowly toward the water-holes for
their evening drink, the horses keeping to themselves, the colts
nuzzling at their mothers' bellies, whisking their tails,
stamping their unshod feet. But once in a remoter field,
solitary, magnificent, enormous, the short hair curling tight
upon his forehead, his small red eyes twinkling, his vast neck
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
distant corner of the range. He had made his simple camp for the
night. His blue-grey army blanket lay spread under a live oak,
his horse grazed near at hand. He himself sat on his heels
before a little fire of dead manzanita roots, cooking his coffee
and bacon. Never had Presley conceived so keen an impression of
loneliness as his crouching figure presented. The bald, bare
landscape widened about him to infinity. Vanamee was a spot in
it all, a tiny dot, a single atom of human organisation, floating
endlessly on the ocean of an illimitable nature.

The two friends ate together, and Vanamee, having snared a brace
of quails, dressed and then roasted them on a sharpened stick.
After eating, they drank great refreshing draughts from the
water-hole. Then, at length, Presley having lit his cigarette,
and Vanamee his pipe, the former said:

"Vanamee, I have been writing again."

Vanamee turned his lean ascetic face toward him, his black eyes
fixed attentively.

"I know," he said, "your journal."

"No, this is a poem. You remember, I told you about it once.
'The Toilers,' I called it."

"Oh, verse! Well, I am glad you have gone back to it. It is
your natural vehicle."

"You remember the poem?" asked Presley. "It was unfinished."

"Yes, I remember it. There was better promise in it than
anything you ever wrote. Now, I suppose, you have finished it."

Without reply, Presley brought it from out the breast pocket of
his shooting coat. The moment seemed propitious. The stillness
of the vast, bare hills was profound. The sun was setting in a
cloudless brazier of red light; a golden dust pervaded all the
landscape. Presley read his poem aloud. When he had finished,
his friend looked at him.

"What have you been doing lately?" he demanded. Presley,
wondering, told of 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. In this poem of yours, you have not been trying to
make a sounding piece of literature. You wrote it under
tremendous stress. Its very imperfections show that. It is
better than a mere rhyme. It is an Utterance--a Message. 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
mistrust myself."

"Now," observed Vanamee, "I presume you will rush it into print.
To have formulated a great thought, simply to have accomplished,
is not enough."

"I think I am sincere," objected Presley. "If it is good it will
do good to others. You said yourself it was a Message. If it
has any value, I do not think it would be right to keep it back
from even a very small and most 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 TO the People--not the literary readers of the
monthly periodicals, the rich, 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, 'The
Toilers,' must be read BY the Toilers. It MUST BE common; it
must be vulgarised. You must not stand upon your dignity with
the People, if you are to reach them."

"That is true, I suppose," Presley admitted, "but I can't get rid
of the idea that it would be throwing my poem away. The great
magazine gives me such--a--background; gives me such weight."

"Gives YOU such weight, gives you such background. Is it
YOURSELF you think of? You helper of the helpless. Is that your
sincerity? You must sink yourself; must forget yourself and your
own desire of fame, of admitted success. It is your POEM, your
MESSAGE, that must prevail,--not YOU, who wrote it. You preach a
doctrine of abnegation, of self-obliteration, and you sign your
name to your words as high on the tablets 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 reformer writes a book on
the iniquity of the possession of land, and out of the proceeds,
buys a corner lot. The economist who laments the hardships of
the 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
will publish my poem, as you say, in the daily press, and I will
accept no money for it."

They talked on for about an hour, while the evening wore away.
Presley very soon noticed that Vanamee was again preoccupied.
More than ever of late, his silence, his brooding had increased.
By and by he rose abruptly, turning his head to the north, in the
direction of the Mission church of San Juan.
"I think," he said to Presley, "that I must be going."

"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 the twilight. Presley was left alone wondering. He found his
horse, and, tightening the girths, mounted and rode home under
the sheen of the stars, thoughtful, his head bowed. Before he
went to bed that night he sent "The Toilers" to the Sunday Editor
of a daily newspaper in San Francisco.

Upon leaving Presley, Vanamee, his thumbs hooked into his empty
cartridge belt, strode swiftly down from the hills of the Los
Muertos stock-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 was bareheaded, 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 live through 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 scene of a vanished happiness, a dead romance, a
perished idyl,--the Mission garden in the shade of the venerable
pear trees.

But, besides this, other influences tugged at his heart. There
was a mystery in the garden. In that spot the night was not
always empty, the darkness not always silent. Something far off
stirred and listened to his cry, at times drawing nearer to him.
At first this presence had been a matter for terror; but of late,
as he felt it gradually drawing nearer, the terror had at long
intervals given place to a feeling of an almost ineffable
sweetness. But distrusting his own senses, unwilling to submit
himself to such torturing, uncertain happiness, averse to the
terrible confusion of spirit that followed upon a night spent in
the garden, Vanamee had tried to keep away from the place.
However, when the sorrow of his life reassailed him, and the
thoughts and recollections of Angele brought the ache into his
heart, and the tears to his eyes, the temptation to return to the
garden invariably gripped him close. There were times when he
could not resist. Of themselves, his footsteps turned in 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, and a 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 the Mission through Quien
Sabe. On either side of him lay the brown earth, silently
nurturing the implanted seed. Two days before it had rained
copiously, and the soil, still moist, disengaged a pungent aroma
of fecundity.

Vanamee, following the road, passed through the collection of
buildings of Annixter's home ranch. Everything slept. At
intervals, the aer-motor on the artesian well creaked audibly, as
it turned in a languid breeze from the northeast. A cat, hunting
field-mice, crept from the shadow of the gigantic barn and paused
uncertainly in the open, the tip of her tail twitching. From
within the barn itself came the sound of the friction of a heavy
body and a stir of hoofs, as one of the dozing cows lay down with
a long breath.

Vanamee left the ranch house behind him and proceeded on his way.
Beyond him, to the right of the road, he could make out the
higher ground in the Mission enclosure, and the watching tower of
the Mission itself. The minutes passed. He went steadily
forward. Then abruptly he paused, his head 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 the impression
of a human being near at hand. He had neither seen nor heard,
but for all that he stopped an instant in his tracks; then, the
sensation confirmed, went on again with slow steps, advancing
warily.

At last, his swiftly roving eyes lighted upon an object, just
darker than the grey-brown of the night-ridden land. It was at
some distance from the roadside. Vanamee approached it
cautiously, leaving the road, treading carefully upon the moist
clods of earth underfoot. Twenty paces distant, he halted.

Annixter was there, seated upon a round, white rock, his back
towards him. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees,
his chin in his hands. 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 his
salvation, struggling with Self from dusk to dawn. At the moment
when Vanamee came upon him, the turmoil within him had only
begun. The heart of the man had not yet wakened. The night was
young, the dawn far distant, and all around him the fields of
upturned clods lay bare and brown, empty of all life, unbroken by
a single green shoot.

For a moment, the life-circles of these two men, of so widely
differing characters, touched each other, there in the silence of
the night under the stars. Then silently Vanamee withdrew, going
on his way, wondering at 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 star at moonrise. Earthly things dissolved and
disappeared, as a strange, unnamed essence flowed in upon him. A
new atmosphere for him pervaded his surroundings. He entered the
world of the Vision, of the Legend, of the Miracle, where all
things were possible. He stood at the gate of the Mission
garden.

Above him rose the ancient tower of the Mission church. Through
the arches at its summit, where swung the Spanish queen's bells,
he saw the slow-burning stars. The silent bats, with flickering
wings, threw their dancing shadows on the pallid surface of the
venerable facade.

Not the faintest chirring of a cricket broke the silence. The
bees were asleep. In the grasses, in the trees, deep in the
calix of punka flower and magnolia bloom, the gnats, the
caterpillars, the beetles, all the microscopic, multitudinous
life of the daytime drowsed and dozed. Not even the minute
scuffling of a lizard over the warm, worn pavement of the
colonnade disturbed the infinite repose, the profound stillness.
Only within the garden, the intermittent trickling of the
fountain made itself heard, flowing steadily, marking off the
lapse of seconds, the progress of hours, the cycle of years, the
inevitable march of centuries.
At one time, the doorway before which Vanamee now stood had been
hermetically closed. But he, himself, had long since changed
that. He stood before it for a moment, steeping himself in the
mystery and romance 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 gigantic in the north. The great nebula in Orion was a
whorl of shimmering star dust. Venus flamed a lambent disk of
pale saffron, low over the horizon. From edge to edge of the
world marched the constellations, like the progress of emperors,
and from the innumerable glory of their courses a mysterious
sheen of diaphanous light disengaged itself, expanding over all
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 leaves of the pear trees winked faintly back the reflected
light as the trees just stirred in the uncertain breeze. A
blurred shield of silver marked the ripples of the fountain.
Under the flood of dull blue lustre, the gravelled walks lay
vague amid the grasses, like webs of white satin on the bed of a
lake. Against the eastern wall the headstones of the graves, an
indistinct procession of grey cowls ranged themselves.

Vanamee crossed the garden, pausing to kiss the turf upon
Angele's grave. Then he approached the line of pear trees, and
laid himself down in their shadow, his chin propped upon his
hands, his eyes wandering over the expanse of the little valley
that stretched away from the foot of the hill upon which the
Mission was built.

Once again he summoned the Vision. Once again he conjured up the
Illusion. Once again, tortured with doubt, racked with a
deathless grief, he craved an Answer of the night. Once again,
mystic that he was, he sent his mind out from him across the
enchanted sea of the Supernatural. 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
senses exalted to a state of pleasing numbness, he called upon
Angele to come to him, his voiceless cry penetrating far out into
that sea of faint, ephemeral light that floated tideless over the
little valley beneath him. Then motionless, prone upon the
ground, he waited.

Months had passed since that first night when, at length, an
Answer had come to Vanamee. At first, startled out of all
composure, troubled and stirred to his lowest depths, because of
the very thing for which he sought, 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 night he 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 spring
advanced and the nights became shorter, it crystallised into
certainty. Would he have her again, his love, long dead? Would
she come to him once more out of the grave, out of the night? He
could not tell; he could only hope. All that he knew was that
his cry found an answer, that his outstretched hands, groping in
the darkness, met the touch of other fingers. Patiently he
waited. The nights became warmer as the spring drew on. The
stars shone clearer. The nights seemed brighter. For nearly a
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 the valley, touched upon some thing again. touched and
held it and this time drew it a single step closer to him. His
heart beating, the blood surging 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 turned towards his? Whose
the footsteps that with such infinite slowness drew nearer to
where he waited? He did not dare to say.

His mind went back many years to that time before the tragedy of
Angele's death, before the mystery of the Other. He waited then
as he waited now. But then he had not waited in vain. Then, as
now, he had seemed to feel her approach, seemed to feel her
drawing nearer and nearer to their rendezvous. Now, what would
happen? He did not know. He waited. 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
began to come to life. Over the five hundred acres whereon the
flowers were planted, the widening growth of vines and bushes
spread like the waves of a green sea. Then, timidly, colours of
the faintest tints began to appear. Under the moonlight, Vanamee
saw them expanding, delicate pink, faint blue, tenderest
variations of lavender and yellow, white shimmering with
reflections of gold, all subdued and pallid in the moonlight.

By degrees, the night became impregnated with the perfume of the
flowers. Illusive at first, evanescent as filaments of gossamer;
then as the buds opened, emphasising itself, breathing deeper,
stronger. An exquisite mingling of many odours passed
continually over the Mission, from the garden of the Seed ranch,
meeting and blending with the aroma of its magnolia buds and
punka blossoms.

As the colours of the flowers of the Seed ranch deepened, and as
their odours penetrated deeper and more distinctly, as the
starlight of each succeeding night grew brighter and the air
became warmer, the illusion defined itself. By imperceptible
degrees, as Vanamee waited under the shadows of the pear trees,
the Answer grew nearer and nearer. He saw nothing but the
distant glimmer of the flowers. He heard nothing but the 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
half a mile away, where the violets grew; shrinking, timid
flowers, hiding close to the ground. Then it passed forward
beyond the violets, and drew nearer and stood amid the
mignonette, hardier blooms that dared look heavenward from out
the leaves. A few nights later it left the mignonette behind,
and advanced into the beds of white iris that pushed more boldly
forth from the earth, their waxen petals claiming the attention.
It advanced then a long step into the proud, challenging beauty
of the carnations and roses; and at last, after many nights,
Vanamee felt that it paused, as if trembling at its hardihood,
full in the superb glory of the royal lilies themselves, that
grew on the extreme border of the Seed ranch nearest to him.
After this, there was a certain long wait. Then, upon a dark
midnight, it advanced again. Vanamee could scarcely repress a
cry. Now, the illusion emerged from the flowers. It stood, not
distant, but unseen, almost at the base of the hill upon whose
crest he waited, in a depression of the ground where the shadows
lay thickest. It was nearly within earshot.

The nights passed. The spring grew warmer. In the daytime
intermittent rains freshened all the earth. The flowers of the
Seed ranch grew rapidly. Bud after bud burst forth, while those
already opened expanded to full maturity. The colour of the Seed
ranch deepened.

One night, after hours of waiting, Vanamee felt upon his cheek
the touch of a prolonged puff of warm wind, breathing across the
little valley from out the east. It reached the Mission garden
and stirred the branches of the pear trees. It seemed veritably
to be compounded of the very essence of the flowers. Never had
the aroma been so sweet, so pervasive. It passed and faded,
leaving in its wake an absolute silence. Then, at length, the
silence of the night, that silence to which Vanamee had so long
appealed, was broken by a tiny sound. Alert, half-risen from the
ground, he listened; for now, at length, he heard something. The
sound repeated itself. It came from near at hand, from the thick
shadow at the foot of the hill. What it was, he could not tell,
but it did not belong to a single one of the infinite similar
noises of the place with which he was so familiar. It was
neither the rustle of a leaf, the snap of a parted twig, the
drone of an insect, the dropping of a magnolia blossom. It was a
vibration merely, faint, elusive, impossible of definition; a
minute notch in the fine, keen edge of stillness.

Again the nights passed. The summer stars became brighter. The
warmth increased. The flowers of the Seed ranch grew still more.
The five hundred acres of the ranch were carpeted with them.

At length, upon a certain midnight, a new light began to spread
in the sky. The thin scimitar of the moon rose, veiled and dim
behind the earth-mists. The light increased. Distant objects,
until now hidden, came into view, and as the radiance brightened,
Vanamee, looking down upon the little valley, saw a spectacle of
incomparable beauty. All the buds of the Seed ranch had opened.
The faint tints of the flowers had deepened, had asserted
themselves. They challenged the eye. Pink became a royal red.
Blue rose into purple. Yellow flamed into orange. Orange glowed
golden and brilliant. The earth disappeared under great bands
and fields of resplendent colour. Then, at length, the moon
abruptly soared zenithward from out the veiling mist, passing
from one filmy haze to another. 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 heart suddenly leap, and then hang
poised, refusing to beat. In that instant of 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 the
moonlight. 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 had not been quick enough to interpret the cipher
message of the eye. Now it was gone. But something had been
there. He had seen it. Was it the lifting of a strand of hair,
the wave of a white hand, the flutter of a garment's edge? He
could not tell, but it did not belong to any of those sights
which he had seen so often in that place. It was neither the
glancing of a moth's wing, the nodding of a wind-touched blossom,
nor the noiseless flitting of a bat. It was a gleam merely,
faint, elusive, impossible of definition, an intangible
agitation, in the vast, dim blur of the darkness.

And that was all. Until now no single real thing had occurred,
nothing that Vanamee could reduce to terms of actuality, nothing
he could put into words. The manifestation, when not
recognisable to that strange sixth sense of his, appealed only to
the most refined, the most delicate perception of eye and ear.
It was all ephemeral, filmy, dreamy, the mystic forming of the
Vision--the invisible developing a concrete nucleus, the
starlight coagulating, the radiance of the flowers thickening to
something actual; perfume, the most delicious fragrance, becoming
a tangible presence.

But into that garden the serpent intruded. Though cradled in the
slow rhythm of the dream, lulled by this beauty of a summer's
night, heavy with the scent of flowers, the silence broken only
by a rippling fountain, the darkness illuminated by a world of
radiant blossoms, Vanamee could not forget the tragedy of the
Other; that terror of many years ago,--that prowler of the night,
that strange, fearful figure with the unseen face, swooping in
there from out the darkness, gone in an instant, yet leaving
behind the trail and trace of death and of pollution.

Never had Vanamee seen this more clearly than when leaving
Presley on the stock range of Los Muertos, he had come across to
the Mission garden by 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,
waited for the Manifestation,--Annixter on the ranch, Vanamee in
the garden.

Prone upon his face, under the pear trees, his forehead buried in
the hollow of his arm, Vanamee lay motionless. For the last
time, raising his head, he sent his voiceless cry out into the
night across the multi-coloured levels of the little valley,
calling upon the miracle, summoning the darkness to give Angele
back to him, resigning himself to the hallucination. He bowed
his head upon his arm again and waited. The minutes passed. The
fountain dripped steadily. Over the hills a haze of saffron
light foretold the rising of the full moon. Nothing stirred.
The silence was profound.

Then, abruptly, Vanamee's right hand shut tight upon his wrist.
There--there it was. It began again, his invocation was
answered. Far off there, the ripple formed again upon the still,
black pool of the night. No sound, no sight; vibration merely,
appreciable by some sublimated 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 of violets, now through the mignonette. A moment later, and
he knew it stood among the white iris. Then it left those
behind. It was in the splendour of the red roses and carnations.
It passed like a moving star into the superb abundance, the
imperial opulence of the royal lilies. It was advancing slowly,
but there was no pause. He held his breath, not daring 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
come farther than this? Here it had always stopped hitherto,
stopped for a moment, and then, in spite of his efforts, had
slipped from his grasp and faded back into the night. But now he
wondered if he had been willing to put forth his utmost strength,
after all. Had there not always been an element of dread in the
thought of beholding the mystery face to face? Had he not even
allowed the Vision to dissolve, the Answer to recede into the
obscurity whence it came?

But never a night had been so beautiful as this. It was the full
period of the spring. The air was a veritable caress. The
infinite repose of the little garden, sleeping under the night,
was delicious beyond expression. 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
million flowers, roses, lilies, hyacinths, carnations, violets,
glowed like incandescence in the golden light of the rising moon.
The air was thick with the perfume, heavy with it, clogged with
it. The sweetness filled the very mouth. The throat choked with
it. Overhead wheeled the illimitable procession of the
constellations. Underfoot, the earth was asleep. The very
flowers were dreaming. A cathedral hush overlay all the land,
and a sense of benediction brooded low,--a divine kindliness
manifesting itself in beauty, in peace, in absolute repose.

It was a time for visions. It was the hour when dreams come
true, and lying deep in the grasses beneath the pear trees,
Vanamee, dizzied with mysticism, reaching up and out toward the
supernatural, felt, as it were, his mind begin to rise upward
from out his body. He passed into a state of being the like of
which he had not known before. He felt that his imagination was
reshaping itself, preparing to receive an impression never
experienced until now. His body felt light to him, then it
dwindled, vanished. He saw with new eyes, heard with new ears,
felt with a new heart.

"Come to me," he murmured.

Then slowly he felt the advance of the Vision. It was
approaching. Every instant it drew gradually nearer. At last,
he was to see. It had left the 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 faint stirring. The
grasses rustled under the touch of a foot. The leaves of the
bushes murmured, as a hand brushed against them; a slender twig
creaked. 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,
at length, paused definitely. The Vision could come no nearer.
He raised his head and looked.
The moon had risen. Its great shield of gold stood over the
eastern horizon. Within six feet of Vanamee, clear and distinct,
against the disk of the moon, stood the figure of a young girl.
She was dressed in a gown of scarlet silk, with flowing sleeves,
such as Japanese wear, embroidered with flowers and figures of
birds worked in gold threads. On either side of her face, making
three-cornered her round, white forehead, hung the soft masses of
her hair of gold. Her hands hung limply at her sides. But from
between her parted lips--lips of almost an Egyptian fulness--her
breath came slow and regular, and her eyes, heavy lidded,
slanting upwards toward the temples, perplexing, oriental, were
closed. She was asleep.

From out this life of flowers, this world of colour, this
atmosphere oppressive with perfume, this darkness clogged and
cloyed, and thickened with sweet odours, she came to him. She
came to him from out of the flowers, the smell of the roses in
her hair of gold, the aroma and the imperial red of the
carnations in her lips, the whiteness of the lilies, the perfume
of the lilies, and the lilies' slender, balancing grace in her
neck. Her hands disengaged the scent of the heliotrope. The
folds of her scarlet gown gave off the enervating smell of
poppies. Her feet were redolent of hyacinth. She stood before
him, a Vision realised--a dream come true. She emerged from out
the invisible. He beheld her, a figure of gold and pale
vermilion, redolent of perfume, poised motionless in the faint
saffron sheen of the new-risen moon. She, a creation of sleep,
was herself asleep. She, a dream, was herself dreaming.

Called forth from out the darkness, from the grip of the earth,
the embrace of the grave, from out the memory of corruption, she
rose into light and life, divinely pure. Across that white
forehead was no smudge, no trace of an earthly pollution--no mark
of a terrestrial dishonour. He saw in her the same beauty of
untainted innocence he had known in his youth. Years had made no
difference with her. She was still young. It was the old purity
that returned, the deathless beauty, the ever-renascent life, the
eternal consecrated and immortal youth. For a few seconds, she
stood there before him, and he, upon the ground at her feet,
looked up at her, spellbound. Then, slowly she withdrew. Still
asleep, her eyelids closed, she turned from him, descending the
slope. She was gone.

Vanamee started up, coming, as it were, to himself, looking
wildly about him. Sarria was there.

"I saw her," said the priest. "It was Angele, the little girl,
your Angele's daughter. She is like her mother."

But Vanamee scarcely heard. He walked as if in a trance, pushing
by Sarria, going forth from the garden. Angele or Angele's
daughter, it was all one with him. It was She. Death was
overcome. The grave vanquished. Life, ever-renewed, alone
existed. Time was naught; change was naught; all things were
immortal but evil; all things eternal but grief.

Suddenly, the dawn came; the east burned roseate toward the
zenith. Vanamee walked on, he knew not where. The dawn grew
brighter. At length, he paused upon the crest of a hill
overlooking the ranchos, and cast his eye below him to the
southward. Then, suddenly flinging up his arms, he uttered a
great cry.

There it was. The Wheat! The Wheat! In the night it had come
up. It was there, everywhere, from margin to margin of the
horizon. The earth, long empty, teemed with green life. Once
more the pendulum of the seasons swung in its mighty arc, from
death back to life. Life out of death, eternity rising from out
dissolution. There was the lesson. Angele was not the symbol,
but the PROOF of immortality. The seed dying, rotting and
corrupting in the earth; rising again in life unconquerable, and
in immaculate purity,--Angele dying as she gave birth to her
little daughter, life springing from her death,--the pure,
unconquerable, coming forth from the defiled. Why had he not had
the knowledge of God? Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not
quickened except it die. So the seed had died. So died Angele.
And that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body that shall
be, but bare grain. It may chance of wheat, or of some other
grain. The wheat called forth from out the darkness, from out
the grip of the earth, of the grave, from out corruption, rose
triumphant into light and life. So Angele, so life, so also the
resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption. It is
raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonour. It is raised
in glory. It is sown in weakness. It is raised in power. Death
was swallowed up in Victory.

The sun rose. The night was over. The glory of the terrestrial
was one, and the glory of the celestial was another. Then, as
the glory of sun banished the lesser glory of moon and stars,
Vanamee, from his mountain top, beholding the eternal green life
of the growing Wheat, bursting its bonds, and in his heart
exulting in his triumph over the grave, flung out his arms with a
mighty shout:

"Oh, Death, where is thy sting? Oh, Grave, where is thy
victory?"

IV

Presley's Socialistic poem, "The Toilers," had an enormous
success. The editor of the Sunday supplement of the San
Francisco paper to which it was sent, printed it in Gothic type,
with a scare-head title so decorative as to be almost illegible,
and furthermore caused the poem to be illustrated by one of the
paper's staff artists in a most impressive fashion. The whole
affair occupied an entire page. Thus advertised, the poem
attracted attention. It was promptly copied in New York, Boston,
and Chicago papers. It was discussed, attacked, defended,
eulogised, ridiculed. It was praised with the most fulsome
adulation; assailed with the most violent condemnation.
Editorials were written upon it. Special articles, in literary
pamphlets, dissected its rhetoric and prosody. The phrases were
quoted,--were used as texts for revolutionary sermons,
reactionary speeches. It was parodied; it was distorted so as to
read as an advertisement for patented cereals and infants' foods.
Finally, the editor of an enterprising monthly magazine reprinted
the poem, supplementing it by a photograph and biography of
Presley himself.

Presley was stunned, bewildered. He began to wonder at himself.
Was he actually the "greatest American poet since Bryant"? He
had had no thought of fame while composing "The Toilers."  He had
only been moved to his heart's foundations,--thoroughly in
earnest, seeing clearly,--and had addressed himself to the poem's
composition in a happy moment when words came easily to him, and
the elaboration of fine sentences was not difficult. Was it thus
fame was achieved? For a while he was tempted to cross the
continent and go to New York and there come unto his own,
enjoying the triumph that awaited him. But soon he denied
himself this cheap reward. Now he was too much in earnest. He
wanted to help his People, the community in which he lived--the
little world of the San Joaquin, at grapples with the Railroad.
The struggle had found its poet. He told himself that his place
was here. Only the words of the manager of a lecture bureau
troubled him for a moment. To range the entire nation, telling
all his countrymen of the drama that was working itself out on
this fringe of the continent, this ignored and distant Pacific
Coast, rousing their interest and stirring them up to action--
appealed to him. It might do great good. To devote himself to
"the Cause," accepting no penny of remuneration; to give his life
to loosing the grip of the iron-hearted monster of steel and
steam would be beyond question heroic. Other States than
California had their grievances. All over the country the family
of cyclops was growing. He would declare himself the champion of
the People in their opposition to the Trust. He would be an
apostle, a prophet, a martyr of Freedom.

But Presley was essentially a dreamer, not a man of affairs. He
hesitated to act at this precise psychological moment, striking
while the iron was yet hot, and while he hesitated, other affairs
near at hand began to absorb his attention.

One night, about an hour after he had gone to bed, he was
awakened by the sound of voices on the porch of the ranch house,
and, descending, found Mrs. Dyke there with Sidney. The ex-
engineer's mother was talking to Magnus and Harran, and crying as
she talked. It seemed that Dyke was missing. He had gone into
town early that afternoon with the wagon and team, and was to
have been home for supper. By now it was ten o'clock and there
was no news of him. Mrs. Dyke told how she first had gone to
Quien Sabe, intending to telephone from there to Bonneville, but
Annixter was in San Francisco, and in his absence the house was
locked up, and the over-seer, who had a duplicate key, was
himself in Bonneville. She had telegraphed three times from
Guadalajara to Bonneville for news of her son, but without
result. Then, at last, tortured with anxiety, she had gone to
Hooven's, taking Sidney with her, and had prevailed upon
"Bismarck" to hitch up and drive her across Los Muertos to the
Governor's, to beg him to telephone into Bonneville, to know what
had become of Dyke.

While Harran rang up Central in town, Mrs. Dyke told Presley and
Magnus of the lamentable change in Dyke.

"They have broken my son's spirit, Mr. Derrick," she said. "If
you were only there to see. Hour after hour, he sits on the
porch with his hands lying open in his lap, looking at them
without a word. He won't look me in the face any more, and he
don't sleep. Night after night, he has walked the floor until
morning. And he will go on that way for days together, very
silent, without a word, and sitting still in his chair, and then,
all of a sudden, he will break out--oh, Mr. Derrick, it is
terrible--into an awful rage, cursing, swearing, grinding his
teeth, his hands clenched over his head, stamping so that the
house shakes, and saying that if S. Behrman don't give him back
his money, he will kill him with his two hands. But that isn't
the worst, Mr. Derrick. He goes to Mr. Caraher's saloon now, and
stays there for hours, and listens to Mr. Caraher. There is
something on my son's mind; I know there is--something that he
and Mr. Caraher have talked over together, and I can't find out
what it is. Mr. Caraher is a bad man, and my son has fallen
under his influence."  The tears filled her eyes. Bravely, she
turned to hide them, turning away to take Sidney in her arms,
putting her head upon the little girl's shoulder.

"I--I haven't broken down before, Mr. Derrick," she said, "but
after we have been so happy in our little house, just us three--
and the future seemed so bright--oh, God will punish the
gentlemen who own the railroad for being so hard and cruel."

Harran came out on the porch, from the telephone, and she
interrupted herself, fixing her eyes eagerly upon him.

"I think it is all right, Mrs. Dyke," he said, reassuringly. "We
know where he is, I believe. You and the little tad stay here,
and Hooven and I will go after him."

About two hours later, Harran brought Dyke back to Los Muertos in
Hooven's wagon. He had found him at Caraher's saloon, very
drunk.

There was nothing maudlin about Dyke's drunkenness. In him the
alcohol merely roused the spirit of evil, vengeful, reckless.

As the wagon passed out from under the eucalyptus trees about the
ranch house, taking Mrs. Dyke, Sidney, and the one-time engineer
back to the hop ranch, Presley leaning from his window heard the
latter remark:

"Caraher is right. There is only one thing they listen to, and
that's dynamite."

The following day Presley drove Magnus over to Guadalajara to
take the train for San Francisco. But after he had said good-bye
to the Governor, he was moved to go on to the hop ranch to see
the condition of affairs in that quarter. He returned to Los
Muertos overwhelmed with sadness and trembling with anger. The
hop ranch that he had last seen in the full tide of prosperity
was almost a ruin. Work had evidently been abandoned long since.
Weeds were already choking the vines. Everywhere the poles
sagged and drooped. Many had even fallen, dragging the vines
with them, spreading them over the ground in an inextricable
tangle of dead leaves, decaying tendrils, and snarled string.
The fence was broken; the unfinished storehouse, which never was
to see completion, was a lamentable spectacle of gaping doors and
windows--a melancholy skeleton. Last of all, Presley had caught
a glimpse of Dyke himself, seated in his rocking chair on the
porch, his beard and hair unkempt, motionless, looking with vague
eyes upon his hands that lay palm upwards and idle in his lap.

Magnus on his way to San Francisco was joined at Bonneville by
Osterman. Upon seating himself in front of the master of Los
Muertos in the smoking-car of the train, this latter, pushing
back his hat and smoothing his bald head, observed:

"Governor, you look all frazeled out. Anything wrong these
days?"

The other answered in the negative, but, for all that, Osterman
was right. The Governor had aged suddenly. His former erectness
was gone, the broad shoulders stooped a little, the strong lines
of his thin-lipped mouth were relaxed, and his hand, as it
clasped over the yellowed ivory knob of his cane, had an unwonted
tremulousness not hitherto noticeable. But the change in Magnus
was more than physical. At last, in the full tide of power,
President of the League, known and talked of in every county of
the State, leader in a great struggle, consulted, deferred to as
the "Prominent Man," at length attaining that position, so long
and vainly sought for, he yet found no pleasure in his triumph,
and little but bitterness in life. His success had come by
devious methods, had been reached by obscure means.

He was a briber. He could never forget that. To further his
ends, disinterested, public-spirited, even philanthropic as those
were, he had connived with knavery, he, the politician of the old
school, of such rigorous integrity, who had abandoned a "career"
rather than compromise with honesty. At this eleventh hour,
involved and entrapped in the fine-spun web of a new order of
things, bewildered by Osterman's dexterity, by his volubility and
glibness, goaded and harassed beyond the point of reason by the
aggression of the Trust he fought, he had at last failed. He had
fallen he had given a bribe. He had thought that, after all,
this would make but little difference with him. The affair was
known only to Osterman, Broderson, and Annixter; they would not
judge him, being themselves involved. He could still preserve a
bold front; could still hold his head high. As time went on the
affair would lose its point.

But this was not so. Some subtle element of his character had
forsaken him. He felt it. He knew it. Some certain stiffness
that had given him all his rigidity, that had lent force to his
authority, weight to his dominance, temper to his fine,
inflexible hardness, was diminishing day by day. In the
decisions which he, as President of the League, was called upon
to make so often, he now hesitated. He could no longer be
arrogant, masterful, acting upon his own judgment, independent of
opinion. He began to consult his lieutenants, asking their
advice, distrusting his own opinions. He made mistakes,
blunders, and when those were brought to his notice, took refuge
in bluster. He knew it to be bluster--knew that sooner or later
his subordinates would recognise it as such. How long could he
maintain his position? So only he could keep his grip upon the
lever of control till the battle was over, all would be well. If
not, he would fall, and, once fallen, he knew that now, briber
that he was, he would never rise again.

He was on his way at this moment to the city to consult with
Lyman as to a certain issue of the contest between the Railroad
and the ranchers, which, of late, had been brought to his notice.

When appeal had been taken to the Supreme Court by the League's
Executive Committee, certain test cases had been chosen, which
should represent all the lands in question. Neither Magnus nor
Annixter had so appealed, believing, of course, that their cases
were covered by the test cases on trial at Washington. Magnus
had here blundered again, and the League's agents in San
Francisco had written to warn him that the Railroad might be able
to take advantage of a technicality, and by pretending that
neither Quien Sabe nor Los Muertos were included in the appeal,
attempt to put its dummy buyers in possession of the two ranches
before the Supreme Court handed down its decision. The ninety
days allowed for taking this appeal were nearly at an end and
after then the Railroad could act. Osterman and Magnus at once
decided to go up to the city, there joining Annixter (who had
been absent from Quien Sabe for the last ten days), and talk the
matter over with Lyman. Lyman, because of his position as
Commissioner, might be cognisant of the Railroad's plans, and, at
the same time, could give sound legal advice as to what was to be
done should the new rumour prove true.

"Say," remarked Osterman, as the train pulled out of the
Bonneville station, and the two men settled themselves for the
long journey, "say Governor, what's all up with Buck Annixter
these days? He's got a bean about something, sure."

"I had not noticed," answered Magnus. "Mr. Annixter has been
away some time lately. I cannot imagine what should keep him so
long in San Francisco."

"That's it," said Osterman, winking. "Have three guesses. Guess
right and you get a cigar. I guess g-i-r-l spells Hilma Tree.
And a little while ago she quit Quien Sabe and hiked out to
'Frisco. So did Buck. Do I draw the cigar? It's up to you."
"I have noticed her," observed Magnus. "A fine figure of a
woman. She would make some man a good wife."

"Hoh! Wife! Buck Annixter marry! Not much. He's gone a-
girling at last, old Buck! It's as funny as twins. Have to josh
him about it when I see him, sure."

But when Osterman and Magnus at last fell in with Annixter in the
vestibule of the Lick House, on Montgomery Street, nothing could
be got out of him. He was in an execrable humour. When Magnus
had broached the subject of business, he had declared that all
business could go to pot, and when Osterman, his tongue in his
cheek, had permitted himself a most distant allusion to a feemale
girl, Annixter had cursed him for a "busy-face" so vociferously
and tersely, that even Osterman was cowed.

"Well," insinuated Osterman, "what are you dallying 'round
'Frisco so much for?"

"Cat fur, to make kitten-breeches," retorted Annixter with
oracular vagueness.

Two weeks before this time, Annixter had come up to the city and
had gone at once to a certain hotel on Bush Street, behind the
First National Bank, that he knew was kept by a family connection
of the Trees. In his conjecture that Hilma and her parents would
stop here, he was right. Their names were on the register.
Ignoring custom, Annixter marched straight up to their rooms, and
before he was well aware of it, was "eating crow" before old man
Tree.

Hilma and her mother were out at the time. Later on, Mrs. Tree
returned alone, leaving Hilma to spend the day with one of her
cousins who lived far out on Stanyan Street in a little house
facing the park.

Between Annixter and Hilma's parents, a reconciliation had been
effected, Annixter convincing them both of his sincerity in
wishing to make Hilma his wife. Hilma, however, refused to see
him. As soon as she knew he had followed her to San Francisco
she had been unwilling to return to the hotel and had arranged
with her cousin to spend an indefinite time at her house.

She was wretchedly unhappy during all this time; would not set
foot out of doors, and cried herself to sleep night after night.
She detested the city. Already she was miserably homesick for
the ranch. She remembered the days she had spent in the little
dairy-house, happy in her work, making butter and cheese;
skimming the great pans of milk, scouring the copper vessels and
vats, plunging her arms, elbow deep, into the white curds; coming
and going in that atmosphere of freshness, cleanliness, and
sunlight, gay, singing, supremely happy just because the sun
shone. She remembered her long walks toward the Mission late in
the afternoons, her excursions for cresses underneath the Long
Trestle, the crowing of the cocks, the distant whistle of the
passing trains, the faint sounding of the Angelus. She recalled
with infinite longing the solitary expanse of the ranches, the
level reaches between the horizons, full of light and silence;
the heat at noon, the cloudless iridescence of the sunrise and
sunset. She had been so happy in that life! Now, all those days
were passed. This crude, raw city, with its crowding houses all
of wood and tin, its blotting fogs, its uproarious trade winds,
disturbed and saddened her. There was no outlook for the future.

At length, one day, about a week after Annixter's arrival in the
city, she was prevailed upon to go for a walk in the park. She
went alone, putting on for the first time the little hat of black
straw with its puff of white silk her mother had bought for her,
a pink shirtwaist, her belt of imitation alligator skin, her new
skirt of brown cloth, and her low shoes, set off with their
little steel buckles.

She found a tiny summer house, built in Japanese fashion, around
a diminutive pond, and sat there for a while, her hands folded in
her lap, amused with watching the goldfish, wishing--she knew not
what.

Without any warning, Annixter sat down beside her. She was too
frightened to move. She looked at him with wide eyes that began
to fill with tears.

"Oh," she said, at last, "oh--I didn't know."

"Well," exclaimed Annixter, "here you are at last. I've been
watching that blamed house till I was afraid the policeman would
move me on. By the Lord," he suddenly cried, "you're pale. You--
you, Hilma, do you feel well?"

"Yes--I am well," she faltered.

"No, you're not," he declared. "I know better. You are coming
back to Quien Sabe with me. This place don't agree with you.
Hilma, what's all the matter? Why haven't you let me see you all
this time? Do you know--how things are with me? Your mother
told you, didn't she? Do you know how sorry I am? Do you know
that I see now that I made the mistake of my life there, that
time, under the Long Trestle? I found it out the night after you
went away. I sat all night on a stone out on the ranch somewhere
and I don't know exactly what happened, but I've been a different
man since then. I see things all different now. Why, I've only
begun to live since then. I know what love means now, and
instead of being ashamed of it, I'm proud of it. If I never was
to see you again I would be glad I'd lived through that night,
just the same. I just woke up that night. I'd been absolutely
and completely selfish up to the moment I realised I really loved
you, and now, whether you'll let me marry you or not, I mean to
live--I don't know, in a different way. I've GOT to live
different. I--well--oh, I can't make you understand, but just
loving you has changed my life all around. It's made it easier
to do the straight, clean thing. I want to do it, it's fun doing
it. Remember, once I said I was proud of being a hard man, a
driver, of being glad that people hated me and were afraid of me?
Well, since I've loved you I'm ashamed of it all. I don't want
to be hard any more, and nobody is going to hate me if I can help
it. I'm happy and I want other people so. I love you," he
suddenly exclaimed; "I love you, and if you will forgive me, and
if you will come down to such a beast as I am, I want to be to
you the best a man can be to a woman, Hilma. Do you understand,
little girl? I want to be your husband."

Hilma looked at the goldfishes through her tears.

"Have you got anything to say to me, Hilma?" he asked, after a
while.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she murmured.

"Yes, you do," he insisted. "I've followed you 'way up here to
hear it. I've waited around in these beastly, draughty picnic
grounds for over a week to hear it. You know what I want to
hear, Hilma."

"Well--I forgive you," she hazarded.

"That will do for a starter," he answered. "But that's not IT."

"Then, I don't know what."

"Shall I say it for you?"

She hesitated a long minute, then:

"You mightn't say it right," she replied.

"Trust me for that. Shall I say it for you, Hilma?"

"I don't know what you'll say."

"I'll say what you are thinking of. Shall I say it?"

There was a very long pause. A goldfish rose to the surface of
the little pond, with a sharp, rippling sound. The fog drifted
overhead. There was nobody about.

"No," said Hilma, at length. "I--I--I can say it for myself. I--"
All at once she turned to him and put her arms around his
neck. "Oh, DO you love me?" she cried. "Is it really true? Do
you mean every word of it? And you are sorry and you WILL be
good to me if I will be your wife? You will be my dear, dear
husband?"

The tears sprang to Annixter's eyes. He took her in his arms and
held her there for a moment. Never in his life had he felt so
unworthy, so undeserving of this clean, pure girl who forgave him
and trusted his spoken word and believed him to be the good man
he could only wish to be. She was so far above him, so exalted,
so noble that he should have bowed his forehead to her feet, and
instead, she took him in her arms, believing him to be good, to
be her equal. He could think of no words to say. The tears
overflowed his eyes and ran down upon his cheeks. She drew away
from him and held him a second at arm's length, looking at him,
and he saw that she, too, had been crying.

"I think," he said, "we are a couple of softies."

"No, no," she insisted. "I want to cry and want you to cry, too.
Oh, dear, I haven't a handkerchief."

"Here, take mine."

They wiped each other's eyes like two children and for a long
time sat in the deserted little Japanese pleasure house, their
arms about each other, talking, talking, talking.

On the following Saturday they were married in an uptown
Presbyterian church, and spent the week of their honeymoon at a
small, family hotel on Sutter Street. As a matter of course,
they saw the sights of the city together. They made the
inevitable bridal trip to the Cliff House and spent an afternoon
in the grewsome and made-to-order beauties of Sutro's Gardens;
they went through Chinatown, the Palace Hotel, the park museum--
where Hilma resolutely refused to believe in the Egyptian mummy--
and they drove out in a hired hack to the Presidio and the Golden
Gate.

On the sixth day of their excursions, Hilma abruptly declared
they had had enough of "playing out," and must be serious and get
to work.

This work was nothing less than the buying of the furniture and
appointments for the rejuvenated ranch house at Quien Sabe, where
they were to live. Annixter had telegraphed to his overseer to
have the building repainted, replastered, and reshingled and to
empty the rooms of everything but the telephone and safe. He
also sent instructions to have the dimensions of each room noted
down and the result forwarded to him. It was the arrival of
these memoranda that had roused Hilma to action.

Then ensued a most delicious week. Armed with formidable lists,
written by Annixter on hotel envelopes, they two descended upon
the department stores of the city, the carpet stores, the
furniture stores. Right and left they bought and bargained,
sending each consignment as soon as purchased to Quien Sabe.
Nearly an entire car load of carpets, curtains, kitchen
furniture, pictures, fixtures, lamps, straw matting, chairs, and
the like were sent down to the ranch, Annixter making a point
that their new home should be entirely equipped by San Francisco
dealers.

The furnishings of the bedroom and sitting-room were left to the
very last. For the former, Hilma bought a "set" of pure white
enamel, three chairs, a washstand and bureau, a marvellous
bargain of thirty dollars, discovered by wonderful accident at a
"Friday Sale."  The bed was a piece by itself, bought elsewhere,
but none the less a wonder. It was of brass, very brave and gay,
and actually boasted a canopy! They bought it complete, just as
it stood in the window of the department store and Hilma was in
an ecstasy over its crisp, clean, muslin curtains, spread, and
shams. Never was there such a bed, the luxury of a princess,
such a bed as she had dreamed about her whole life.

Next the appointments of the sitting-room occupied her--since
Annixter, himself, bewildered by this astonishing display, unable
to offer a single suggestion himself, merely approved of all she
bought. In the sitting-room was to be a beautiful blue and white
paper, cool straw matting, set off with white wool rugs, a stand
of flowers in the window, a globe of goldfish, rocking chairs, a
sewing machine, and a great, round centre table of yellow oak
whereon should stand a lamp covered with a deep shade of crinkly
red tissue paper. On the walls were to hang several pictures--
lovely affairs, photographs from life, all properly tinted--of
choir boys in robes, with beautiful eyes; pensive young girls in
pink gowns, with flowing yellow hair, drooping over golden harps;
a coloured reproduction of "Rouget de Lisle, Singing the
Marseillaise," and two "pieces" of wood carving, representing a
quail and a wild duck, hung by one leg in the midst of game bags
and powder horns,--quite masterpieces, both.

At last everything had been bought, all arrangements made,
Hilma's trunks packed with her new dresses, and the tickets to
Bonneville bought.

"We'll go by the Overland, by Jingo," declared Annixter across
the table to his wife, at their last meal in the hotel where they
had been stopping; "no way trains or locals for us, hey?"

"But we reach Bonneville at SUCH an hour," protested Hilma.
"Five in the morning!"

"Never mind," he declared, "we'll go home in PULLMAN'S, Hilma.
I'm not going to have any of those slobs in Bonneville say I
didn't know how to do the thing in style, and we'll have Vacca
meet us with the team. No, sir, it is Pullman's or nothing.
When it comes to buying furniture, I don't shine, perhaps, but I
know what's due my wife."

He was obdurate, and late one afternoon the couple boarded the
Transcontinental (the crack Overland Flyer of the Pacific and
Southwestern) at the Oakland mole. Only Hilma's parents were
there to say good-bye. Annixter knew that Magnus and Osterman
were in the city, but he had laid his plans to elude them.
Magnus, he could trust to be dignified, but that goat Osterman,
one could never tell what he would do next. He did not propose
to start his journey home in a shower of rice.
Annixter marched down the line of cars, his hands encumbered with
wicker telescope baskets, satchels, and valises, his tickets in
his mouth, his hat on wrong side foremost, Hilma and her parents
hurrying on behind him, trying to keep up. Annixter was in a
turmoil of nerves lest something should go wrong; catching a
train was always for him a little crisis. He rushed ahead so
furiously that when he had found his Pullman he had lost his
party. He set down his valises to mark the place and charged
back along the platform, waving his arms.

"Come on," he cried, when, at length, he espied the others.
"We've no more time."

He shouldered and urged them forward to where he had set his
valises, only to find one of them gone. Instantly he raised an
outcry. Aha, a fine way to treat passengers! There was P. and
S. W. management for you. He would, by the Lord, he would--but
the porter appeared in the vestibule of the car to placate him.
He had already taken his valises inside.

Annixter would not permit Hilma's parents to board the car,
declaring that the train might pull out any moment. So he and
his wife, following the porter down the narrow passage by the
stateroom, took their places and, raising the window, leaned out
to say good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Tree. These latter would not
return to Quien Sabe. Old man Tree had found a business chance
awaiting him in the matter of supplying his relative's hotel with
dairy products. But Bonneville was not too far from San
Francisco; the separation was by no means final.

The porters began taking up the steps that stood by the vestibule
of each sleeping-car.

"Well, have a good time, daughter," observed her father; "and
come up to see us whenever you can."

From beyond the enclosure of the depot's reverberating roof came
the measured clang of a bell.

"I guess we're off," cried Annixter. "Good-bye, Mrs. Tree."

"Remember your promise, Hilma," her mother hastened to exclaim,
"to write every Sunday afternoon."

There came a prolonged creaking and groan of straining wood and
iron work, all along the length of the train. They all began to
cry their good-byes at once. The train stirred, moved forward,
and gathering slow headway, rolled slowly out into the sunlight.
Hilma leaned out of the window and as long as she could keep her
mother in sight waved her handkerchief. Then at length she sat
back in her seat and looked at her husband.

"Well," she said.

"Well," echoed Annixter, "happy?" for the tears rose in her eyes.

She nodded energetically, smiling at him bravely.

"You look a little pale," he declared, frowning uneasily; "feel
well?"

"Pretty well."

Promptly he was seized with uneasiness.
"But not ALL well, hey? Is that it?"

It was true that Hilma had felt a faint tremour of seasickness on
the ferry-boat coming from the city to the Oakland mole. No
doubt a little nausea yet remained with her. But Annixter
refused to accept this explanation. He was distressed beyond
expression.

"Now you're going to be sick," he cried anxiously.

"No, no," she protested, "not a bit."

"But you said you didn't feel very well. Where is it you feel
sick?"

"I don't know. I'm not sick. Oh, dear me, why will you bother?"

"Headache?"

"Not the least."

"You feel tired, then. That's it. No wonder, the way rushed you
'round to-day."

"Dear, I'm NOT tired, and I'm NOT sick, and I'm all RIGHT."

"No, no; I can tell. I think we'd best have the berth made up
and you lie down."

"That would be perfectly ridiculous."

"Well, where is it you feel sick? Show me; put your hand on the
place. Want to eat something?"

With elaborate minuteness, he cross-questioned her, refusing to
let the subject drop, protesting that she had dark circles under
her eyes; that she had grown thinner.

"Wonder if there's a doctor on board," he murmured, looking
uncertainly about the car. "Let me see your tongue. I know--a
little whiskey is what you want, that and some pru----"

"No, no, NO," she exclaimed. "I'm as well as I ever was in all
my life. Look at me. Now, tell me, do l look likee a sick
lady?"

He scrutinised her face distressfully.

"Now, don't I look the picture of health?" she challenged.

"In a way you do," he began, "and then again----"

Hilma beat a tattoo with her heels upon the floor, shutting her
fists, the thumbs tucked inside. She closed her eyes, shaking
her head energetically.

"I won't listen, I won't listen, I won't listen," she  cried.

"But, just the same----"

"Gibble--gibble--gibble," she mocked. "I won't Listen, I won't
listen."  She put a hand over his mouth. "Look, here's the
dining-car waiter, and the first call for supper, and your wife
is hungry."

They went forward and had supper in the diner, while the long
train, now out upon the main line, settled itself to its pace,
the prolonged, even gallop that it would hold for the better part
of the week, spinning out the miles as a cotton spinner spins
thread.

It was already dark when Antioch was left behind. Abruptly the
sunset appeared to wheel in the sky and readjusted itself to the
right of the track behind Mount Diablo, here visible almost to
its base. The train had turned southward. Neroly was passed,
then Brentwood, then Byron. In the gathering dusk, mountains
began to build themselves up on either hand, far off, blocking
the horizon. The train shot forward, roaring. Between the
mountains the land lay level, cut up into farms, ranches. These
continually grew larger; growing wheat began to appear, billowing
in the wind of the train's passage. The mountains grew higher,
the land richer, and by the time the moon rose, the train was
well into the northernmost limits of the valley of the San
Joaquin.

Annixter had engaged an entire section, and after he and his wife
went to bed had the porter close the upper berth. Hilma sat up
in bed to say her prayers, both hands over her face, and then
kissing Annixter good-night, went to sleep with the directness of
a little child, holding his hand in both her own.

Annixter, who never could sleep on the train, dozed and tossed
and fretted for hours, consulting his watch and time-table
whenever there was a stop; twice he rose to get a drink of ice
water, and between whiles was forever sitting up in the narrow
berth, stretching himself and yawning, murmuring with uncertain
relevance:

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

There were some dozen other passengers in the car--a lady with
three children, a group of school-teachers, a couple of drummers,
a stout gentleman with whiskers, and a well-dressed young man in
a plaid travelling cap, whom Annixter had observed before supper
time reading Daudet's "Tartarin" in the French.

But by nine o'clock, all these people were in their berths.
Occasionally, above the rhythmic rumble of the wheels, Annixter
could hear one of the lady's children fidgeting and complaining.
The stout gentleman snored monotonously in two notes, one a
rasping bass, the other a prolonged treble. At intervals, a
brakeman or the passenger conductor pushed down the aisle,
between the curtains, his red and white lamp over his arm.
Looking out into the car Annixter saw in an end section where the
berths had not been made up, the porter, in his white duck coat,
dozing, his mouth wide open, his head on his shoulder.

The hours passed. Midnight came and went. Annixter, checking
off the stations, noted their passage of Modesto, Merced, and
Madeira. Then, after another broken nap, he lost count. He
wondered where they were. Had they reached Fresno yet? Raising
the window curtain, he made a shade with both hands on either
side of his face and looked out. The night was thick, dark,
clouded over. A fine rain was falling, leaving horizontal
streaks on the glass of the outside window. Only the faintest
grey blur indicated the sky. Everything else was impenetrable
blackness.

"I think sure we must have passed Fresno," he muttered. He
looked at his watch. It was about half-past three. "If we have
passed Fresno," he said to himself, "I'd better wake the little
girl pretty soon. She'll need about an hour to dress. Better
find out for sure."

He drew on his trousers and shoes, got into his coat, and stepped
out into the aisle. In the seat that had been occupied by the
porter, the Pullman conductor, his cash box and car-schedules
before him, was checking up his berths, a blue pencil behind his
ear.

"What's the next stop, Captain?" inquired Annixter, coming up.
"Have we reached Fresno yet?"

"Just passed it," the other responded, looking at Annixter over
his spectacles.

"What's the next stop?"

"Goshen. We will be there in about forty-five minutes."

"Fair black night, isn't it?"

"Black as a pocket. Let's see, you're the party in upper and
lower 9."

Annixter caught at the back of the nearest seat, just in time to
prevent a fall, and the conductor's cash box was shunted off the
surface of the plush seat and came clanking to the floor. The
Pintsch lights overhead vibrated with blinding rapidity in the
long, sliding jar that ran through the train from end to end, and
the momentum of its speed suddenly decreasing, all but pitched
the conductor from his seat. A hideous ear-splitting rasp made
itself heard from the clamped-down Westinghouse gear underneath,
and Annixter knew that the wheels had ceased to revolve and that
the train was sliding forward upon the motionless flanges.

"Hello, hello," he exclaimed, "what's all up now?"

"Emergency brakes," declared the conductor, catching up his cash
box and thrusting his papers and tickets into it. "Nothing much;
probably a cow on the track."

He disappeared, carrying his lantern with him.

But the other passengers, all but the stout gentleman, were
awake; heads were thrust from out the curtains, and Annixter,
hurrying back to Hilma, was assailed by all manner of questions.

"What was that?"

"Anything wrong?"

"What's up, anyways?"

Hilma was just waking as Annixter pushed the curtain aside.

"Oh, I was so frightened. What's the matter, dear?" she
exclaimed.

"I don't know," he answered. "Only the emergency brakes. Just a
cow on the track, I guess. Don't get scared. It isn't
anything."

But with a final shriek of the Westinghouse appliance, the train
came to a definite halt.

At once the silence was absolute. The ears, still numb with the
long-continued roar of wheels and clashing iron, at first refused
to register correctly the smaller noises of the surroundings.
Voices came from the other end of the car, strange and
unfamiliar, as though heard at a great distance across the water.
The stillness of the night outside was so profound that the rain,
dripping from the car roof upon the road-bed underneath, was as
distinct as the ticking of a clock.

"Well, we've sure stopped," observed one of the drummers.

"What is it?" asked Hilma again. "Are you sure there's nothing
wrong?"

"Sure," said Annixter.
Outside, underneath their window, they heard the sound of hurried
footsteps crushing into the clinkers by the side of the ties.
They passed on, and Annixter heard some one in the distance
shout:

"Yes, on the other side."

Then the door at the end of their car opened and a brakeman with
a red beard ran down the aisle and out upon the platform in
front. The forward door closed. Everything was quiet again. In
the stillness the fat gentleman's snores made themselves heard
once more.

The minutes passed; nothing stirred. There was no sound but the
dripping rain. The line of cars lay immobilised and inert under
the night. One of the drummers, having stepped outside on the
platform for a look around, returned, saying:

"There sure isn't any station anywheres about and no siding. Bet
you they have had an accident of some kind."

"Ask the porter."

"I did. He don't know."

"Maybe they stopped to take on wood or water, or something."

"Well, they wouldn't use the emergency brakes for that, would
they? Why, this train stopped almost in her own length. Pretty
near slung me out the berth. Those were the emergency brakes. I
heard some one say so."

From far out towards the front of the train, near the locomotive,
came the sharp, incisive report of a revolver; then two more
almost simultaneously; then, after a long interval, a fourth.

"Say, that's SHOOTING. By God, boys, they're shooting. Say,
this is a hold-up."

Instantly a white-hot excitement flared from end to end of the
car. Incredibly sinister, heard thus in the night, and in the
rain, mysterious, fearful, those four pistol shots started
confusion from out the sense of security like a frightened rabbit
hunted from her burrow. Wide-eyed, the passengers of the car
looked into each other's faces. It had come to them at last,
this, they had so often read about. Now they were to see the
real thing, now they were to face actuality, face this danger of
the night, leaping in from out the blackness of the roadside,
masked, armed, ready to kill. They were facing it now. They
were held up.

Hilma said nothing, only catching Annixter's hand, looking
squarely into his eyes.

"Steady, little girl," he said. "They can't hurt you. I won't
leave you. By the Lord," he suddenly exclaimed, his excitement
getting the better of him for a moment. "By the Lord, it's a
hold-up."

The school-teachers were in the aisle of the car, in night gown,
wrapper, and dressing sack, huddled together like sheep, holding
on to each other, looking to the men, silently appealing for
protection. Two of them were weeping, white to the lips.

"Oh, oh, oh, it's terrible. Oh, if they only won't hurt me."

But the lady with the children looked out from her berth, smiled
reassuringly, and said:

"I'm not a bit frightened. They won't do anything to us if we
keep quiet. I've my watch and jewelry all ready for them in my
little black bag, see?"

She exhibited it to the passengers. Her children were all awake.
They were quiet, looking about them with eager faces, interested
and amused at this surprise. In his berth, the fat gentleman
with whiskers snored profoundly.

"Say, I'm going out there," suddenly declared one of the
drummers, flourishing a pocket revolver.

His friend caught his arm.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Max," he said.

"They won't come near us," observed the well-dressed young man;
"they are after the Wells-Fargo box and the registered mail. You
won't do any good out there."

But the other loudly protested. No; he was going out. He didn't
propose to be buncoed without a fight. He wasn't any coward.

"Well, you don't go, that's all," said his friend, angrily.
"There's women and children in this car. You ain't going to draw
the fire here."

"Well, that's to be thought of," said the other, allowing himself
to be pacified, but still holding his pistol.

"Don't let him open that window," cried Annixter sharply from his
place by Hilma's side, for the drummer had made as if to open the
sash in one of the sections that had not been made up.

"Sure, that's right," said the others. "Don't open any windows.
Keep your head in. You'll get us all shot if you aren't
careful."

However, the drummer had got the window up and had leaned out
before the others could interfere and draw him away.

"Say, by jove," he shouted, as he turned back to the car, "our
engine's gone. We're standing on a curve and you can see the end
of the train. She's gone, I tell you. Well, look for yourself."

In spite of their precautions, one after another, his friends
looked out. Sure enough, the train was without a locomotive.

"They've done it so we can't get away," vociferated the drummer
with the pistol. "Now, by jiminy-Christmas, they'll come through
the cars and stand us up. They'll be in here in a minute. LORD!
WHAT WAS THAT?"

From far away up the track, apparently some half-mile ahead of
the train, came the sound of a heavy explosion. The windows of
the car vibrated with it.

"Shooting again."

"That isn't shooting," exclaimed Annixter. "They've pulled the
express and mail car on ahead with the engine and now they are
dynamiting her open."

"That must be it. Yes, sure, that's just what they are doing."

The forward door of the car opened and closed and the school-
teachers shrieked and cowered. The drummer with the revolver
faced about, his eyes bulging. However, it was only the train
conductor, hatless, his lantern in his hand. He was soaked with
rain. He appeared in the aisle.

"Is there a doctor in this car?" he asked.

Promptly the passengers surrounded him, voluble with questions.
But he was in a bad temper.

"I don't know anything more than you," he shouted angrily. "It
was a hold-up. I guess you know that, don't you? Well, what
more do you want to know? I ain't got time to fool around. They
cut off our express car and have cracked it open, and they shot
one of our train crew, that's all, and I want a doctor."

"Did they shoot him--kill him, do you mean?"

"Is he hurt bad?"

"Did the men get away?"

"Oh, shut up, will you all?" exclaimed the conductor.

"What do I know? Is there a DOCTOR in this car, that's what I
want to know?"

The well-dressed young man stepped forward.

"I'm a doctor," he said.
"Well, come along then," returned the conductor, in a surly
voice, "and the passengers in this car," he added, turning back
at the door and nodding his head menacingly, "will go back to bed
and STAY there. It's all over and there's nothing to see."

He went out, followed by the young doctor.

Then ensued an interminable period of silence. The entire train
seemed deserted. Helpless, bereft of its engine, a huge,
decapitated monster it lay, half-way around a curve, rained upon,
abandoned.

There was more fear in this last condition of affairs, more
terror in the idea of this prolonged line of sleepers, with their
nickelled fittings, their plate glass, their upholstery,
vestibules, and the like, loaded down with people, lost and
forgotten in the night and the rain, than there had been when the
actual danger threatened.

What was to become of them now? Who was there to help them?
Their engine was gone; they were helpless. What next was to
happen?

Nobody came near the car. Even the porter had disappeared. The
wait seemed endless, and the persistent snoring of the whiskered
gentleman rasped the nerves like the scrape of a file.

"Well, how long are we going to stick here now?" began one of the
drummers. "Wonder if they hurt the engine with their dynamite?"

"Oh, I know they will come through the car and rob us," wailed
the school-teachers.

The lady with the little children went back to bed, and Annixter,
assured that the trouble was over, did likewise. But nobody
slept. From berth to berth came the sound of suppressed voices
talking it all over, formulating conjectures. Certain points
seemed to be settled upon, no one knew how, as indisputable. The
highwaymen had been four in number and had stopped the train by
pulling the bell cord. A brakeman had attempted to interfere and
had been shot. The robbers had been on the train all the way
from San Francisco. The drummer named Max remembered to have
seen four "suspicious-looking characters" in the smoking-car at
Lathrop, and had intended to speak to the conductor about them.
This drummer had been in a hold-up before, and told the story of
it over and over again.

At last, after what seemed to have been an hour's delay, and when
the dawn had already begun to show in the east, the locomotive
backed on to the train again with a reverberating jar that ran
from car to car. At the jolting, the school-teachers screamed in
chorus, and the whiskered gentleman stopped snoring and thrust
his head from his curtains, blinking at the Pintsch lights. It
appeared that he was an Englishman.

"I say," he asked of the drummer named Max, "I say, my friend,
what place is this?"

The others roared with derision.

"We were HELD UP, sir, that's what we were. We were held up and
you slept through it all. You missed the show of your life."

The gentleman fixed the group with a prolonged gaze. He said
never a word, but little by little he was convinced that the
drummers told the truth. All at once he grew wrathful, his face
purpling. He withdrew his head angrily, buttoning his curtains
together in a fury. The cause of his rage was inexplicable, but
they could hear him resettling himself upon his pillows with
exasperated movements of his head and shoulders. In a few
moments the deep bass and shrill treble of his snoring once more
sounded through the car.

At last the train got under way again, with useless warning
blasts of the engine's whistle. In a few moments it was tearing
away through the dawn at a wonderful speed, rocking around
curves, roaring across culverts, making up time.

And all the rest of that strange night the passengers, sitting up
in their unmade beds, in the swaying car, lighted by a strange
mingling of pallid dawn and trembling Pintsch lights, rushing at
break-neck speed through the misty rain, were oppressed by a
vision of figures of terror, far behind them in the night they
had left, masked, armed, galloping toward the mountains pistol in
hand, the booty bound to the saddle bow, galloping, galloping on,
sending a thrill of fear through all the country side.

The young doctor returned. He sat down in the smoking-room,
lighting a cigarette, and Annixter and the drummers pressed
around him to know the story of the whole affair.

"The man is dead," he declared, "the brakeman. He was shot
through the lungs twice. They think the fellow got away with
about five thousand in gold coin."

"The fellow? Wasn't there four of them?"

"No; only one. And say, let me tell you, he had his nerve with
him. It seems he was on the roof of the express car all the
time, and going as fast as we were, he jumped from the roof of
the car down on to the coal on the engine's tender, and crawled
over that and held up the men in the cab with his gun, took their
guns from 'em and made 'em stop the train. Even ordered 'em to
use the emergency gear, seems he knew all about it. Then he went
back and uncoupled the express car himself.

While he was doing this, a brakeman--you remember that brakeman
that came through here once or twice--had a red mustache."

"THAT chap?"
"Sure. Well, as soon as the train stopped, this brakeman guessed
something was wrong and ran up, saw the fellow cutting off the
express car and took a couple of shots at him, and the fireman
says the fellow didn't even take his hand off the coupling-pin;
just turned around as cool as how-do-you-do and NAILED the
brakeman right there. They weren't five feet apart when they
began shooting. The brakeman had come on him unexpected, had no
idea he was so close."

"And the express messenger, all this time?"

"Well, he did his best. Jumped out with his repeating shot-gun,
but the fellow had him covered before he could turn round. Held
him up and took his gun away from him. Say, you know I call that
nerve, just the same. One man standing up a whole train-load,
like that. Then, as soon as he'd cut the express car off, he
made the engineer run her up the track about half a mile to a
road crossing, WHERE HE HAD A HORSE TIED. What do you think of
that? Didn't he have it all figured out close? And when he got
there, he dynamited the safe and got the Wells-Fargo box. He
took five thousand in gold coin; the messenger says it was
railroad money that the company were sending down to Bakersfield
to pay off with. It was in a bag. He never touched the
registered mail, nor a whole wad of greenbacks that were in the
safe, but just took the coin, got on his horse, and lit out. The
engineer says he went to the east'ard."

"He got away, did he?"

"Yes, but they think they'll get him. He wore a kind of mask,
but the brakeman recognised him positively. We got his ante-
mortem statement. The brakeman said the fellow had a grudge
against the road. He was a discharged employee, and lives near
Bonneville."

"Dyke, by the Lord!" exclaimed Annixter.

"That's the name," said the young doctor.

When the train arrived at Bonneville, forty minutes behind time,
it landed Annixter and Hilma in the midst of the very thing they
most wished to avoid--an enormous crowd. The news that the
Overland had been held up thirty miles south of Fresno, a
brakeman killed and the safe looted, and that Dyke alone was
responsible for the night's work, had been wired on ahead from
Fowler, the train conductor throwing the despatch to the station
agent from the flying train.

Before the train had come to a standstill under the arched roof
of the Bonneville depot, it was all but taken by assault.
Annixter, with Hilma on his arm, had almost to fight his way out
of the car. The depot was black with people. S. Behrman was
there, Delaney, Cyrus Ruggles, the town marshal, the mayor.
Genslinger, his hat on the back of his head, ranged the train
from cab to rear-lights, note-book in hand, interviewing,
questioning, collecting facts for his extra. As Annixter
descended finally to the platform, the editor, alert as a black-
and-tan terrier, his thin, osseous hands quivering with
eagerness, his brown, dry face working with excitement, caught
his elbow.

"Can I have your version of the affair, Mr. Annixter?"

Annixter turned on him abruptly.

"Yes!" he exclaimed fiercely. "You and your gang drove Dyke from
his job because he wouldn't work for starvation wages. Then you
raised freight rates on him and robbed him of all he had. You
ruined him and drove him to fill himself up with Caraher's
whiskey. He's only taken back what you plundered him of, and now
you're going to hound him over the State, hunt him down like a
wild animal, and bring him to the gallows at San Quentin. That's
my version of the affair, Mister Genslinger, but it's worth your
subsidy from the P. and S. W. to print it."

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd that stood around,
and Genslinger, with an angry shrug of one shoulder, took himself
away.

At length, Annixter brought Hilma through the crowd to where
young Vacca was waiting with the team. However, they could not
at once start for the ranch, Annixter wishing to ask some
questions at the freight office about a final consignment of
chairs. It was nearly eleven o'clock before they could start
home. But to gain the Upper Road to Quien Sabe, it was necessary
to traverse all of Main Street, running through the heart of
Bonneville.

The entire town seemed to be upon the sidewalks. By now the rain
was over and the sun shining. The story of the hold-up--the work
of a man whom every one knew and liked--was in every mouth. How
had Dyke come to do it? Who would have believed it of him?
Think of his poor mother and the little tad. Well, after all, he
was not so much to blame; the railroad people had brought it on
themselves. But he had shot a man to death. Ah, that was a
serious business. Good-natured, big, broad-shouldered, jovial
Dyke, the man they knew, with whom they had shaken hands only
yesterday, yes, and drank with him. He had shot a man, killed
him, had stood there in the dark and in the rain while they were
asleep in their beds, and had killed a man. Now where was he?
Instinctively eyes were turned eastward, over the tops of the
houses, or down vistas of side streets to where the foot-hills of
the mountains rose dim and vast over the edge of the valley. He
was in amongst them; somewhere, in all that pile of blue crests
and purple canyons he was hidden away. Now for weeks of
searching, false alarms, clews, trailings, watchings, all the
thrill and heart-bursting excitement of a man-hunt. Would he get
away? Hardly a man on the sidewalks of the town that day who did
not hope for it.

As Annixter's team trotted through the central portion of the
town, young Vacca pointed to a denser and larger crowd around the
rear entrance of the City Hall. Fully twenty saddle horses were
tied to the iron rail underneath the scant, half-grown trees near
by, and as Annixter and Hilma drove by, the crowd parted and a
dozen men with revolvers on their hips pushed their way to the
curbstone, and, mounting their horses, rode away at a gallop.

"It's the posse," said young Vacca.

Outside the town limits the ground was level. There was nothing
to obstruct the view, and to the north, in the direction of
Osterman's ranch, Vacca made out another party of horsemen,
galloping eastward, and beyond these still another.

"There're the other posses," he announced. "That further one is
Archie Moore's. He's the sheriff. He came down from Visalia on
a special engine this morning."

When the team turned into the driveway to the ranch house, Hilma
uttered a little cry, clasping her hands joyfully. The house was
one glitter of new white paint, the driveway had been freshly
gravelled, the flower-beds replenished. Mrs. Vacca and her
daughter, who had been busy putting on the finishing touches,
came to the door to welcome them.

"What's this case here?" asked Annixter, when, after helping his
wife from the carry-all, his eye fell upon a wooden box of some
three by five feet that stood on the porch and bore the red
Wells-Fargo label.

"It came here last night, addressed to you, sir," exclaimed Mrs.
Vacca. "We were sure it wasn't any of your furniture, so we
didn't open it."

"Oh, maybe it's a wedding present," exclaimed Hilma, her eyes
sparkling.

"Well, maybe it is," returned her husband. "Here, m' son, help
me in with this."

Annixter and young Vacca bore the case into the sitting-room of
the house, and Annixter, hammer in hand, attacked it vigorously.
Vacca discreetly withdrew on signal from his mother, closing the
door after him. Annixter and his wife were left alone.

"Oh, hurry, hurry," cried Hilma, dancing around him.

"I want to see what it is. Who do you suppose could have sent it
to us? And so heavy, too. What do you think it can be?"

Annixter put the claw of the hammer underneath the edge of the
board top and wrenched with all his might. The boards had been
clamped together by a transverse bar and the whole top of the box
came away in one piece. A layer of excelsior was disclosed, and
on it a letter addressed by typewriter to Annixter. It bore the
trade-mark of a business firm of Los Angeles. Annixter glanced
at this and promptly caught it up before Hilma could see, with an
exclamation of intelligence.

"Oh, I know what this is," he observed, carelessly trying to
restrain her busy hands. "It isn't anything. Just some
machinery. Let it go."
But already she had pulled away the excelsior. Underneath, in
temporary racks, were two dozen Winchester repeating rifles.

"Why--what--what--" murmured Hilma blankly.

"Well, I told you not to mind," said Annixter. "It isn't
anything. Let's look through the rooms."

"But you said you knew what it was," she protested, bewildered.
"You wanted to make believe it was machinery. Are you keeping
anything from me? Tell me what it all means. Oh, why are you
getting--these?"

She caught his arm, looking with intense eagerness into his face.
She half understood already. Annixter saw that.

"Well," he said, lamely, "YOU know--it may not come to anything
at all, but you know--well, this League of ours--suppose the
Railroad tries to jump Quien Sabe or Los Muertos or any of the
other ranches--we made up our minds--the Leaguers have--that we
wouldn't let it. That's all."

"And I thought," cried Hilma, drawing back fearfully from the
case of rifles, "and I thought it was a wedding present."

And that was their home-coming, the end of their bridal trip.
Through the terror of the night, echoing with pistol shots,
through that scene of robbery and murder, into this atmosphere of
alarms, a man-hunt organising, armed horsemen silhouetted against
the horizons, cases of rifles where wedding presents should have
been, Annixter brought his young wife to be mistress of a home he
might at any moment be called upon to defend with his life.

The days passed. Soon a week had gone by. Magnus Derrick and
Osterman returned from the city without any definite idea as to
the Corporation's plans. Lyman had been reticent. He knew
nothing as to the progress of the land cases in Washington.
There was no news. The Executive Committee of the League held a
perfunctory meeting at Los Muertos at which nothing but routine
business was transacted. A scheme put forward by Osterman for a
conference with the railroad managers fell through because of the
refusal of the company to treat with the ranchers upon any other
basis than that of the new grading. It was impossible to learn
whether or not the company considered Los Muertos, Quien Sabe,
and the ranches around Bonneville covered by the test cases then
on appeal.

Meanwhile there was no decrease in the excitement that Dyke's
hold-up had set loose over all the county. Day after day it was
the one topic of conversation, at street corners, at cross-roads,
over dinner tables, in office, bank, and store. S. Behrman
placarded the town with a notice of $500.00 reward for the ex-
engineer's capture, dead or alive, and the express company
supplemented this by another offer of an equal amount. The
country was thick with parties of horsemen, armed with rifles and
revolvers, recruited from Visalia, Goshen, and the few railroad
sympathisers around Bonneville and Guadlajara. One after another
of these returned, empty-handed, covered with dust and mud, their
horses exhausted, to be met and passed by fresh posses starting
out to continue the pursuit. The sheriff of Santa Clara County
sent down his bloodhounds from San Jose--small, harmless-looking
dogs, with a terrific bay--to help in the chase. Reporters from
the San Francisco papers appeared, interviewing every one,
sometimes even accompanying the searching bands. Horse hoofs
clattered over the roads at night; bells were rung, the "Mercury"
issued extra after extra; the bloodhounds bayed, gun butts
clashed on the asphalt pavements of Bonneville; accidental
discharges of revolvers brought the whole town into the street;
farm hands called to each other across the fences of ranch-
divisions--in a word, the country-side was in an uproar.

And all to no effect. The hoof-marks of Dyke's horse had been
traced in the mud of the road to within a quarter of a mile of
the foot-hills and there irretrievably lost. Three days after
the hold-up, a sheep-herder was found who had seen the highwayman
on a ridge in the higher mountains, to the northeast of Taurusa.
And that was absolutely all. Rumours were thick, promising clews
were discovered, new trails taken up, but nothing transpired to
bring the pursuers and pursued any closer together. Then, after
ten days of strain, public interest began to flag. It was
believed that Dyke had succeeded in getting away. If this was
true, he had gone to the southward, after gaining the mountains,
and it would be his intention to work out of the range somewhere
near the southern part of the San Joaquin, near Bakersfield.
Thus, the sheriffs, marshals, and deputies decided. They had
hunted too many criminals in these mountains before not to know
the usual courses taken. In time, Dyke MUST come out of the
mountains to get water and provisions. But this time passed, and
from not one of the watched points came any word of his
appearance. At last the posses began to disband. Little by
little the pursuit was given up.

Only S. Behrman persisted. He had made up his mind to bring Dyke
in. He succeeded in arousing the same degree of determination in
Delaney--by now, a trusted aide of the Railroad--and of his own
cousin, a real estate broker, named Christian, who knew the
mountains and had once been marshal of Visalia in the old stock-
raising days. These two went into the Sierras, accompanied by
two hired deputies, and carrying with them a month's provisions
and two of the bloodhounds loaned by the Santa Clara sheriff.

On a certain Sunday, a few days after the departure of Christian
and Delaney, Annixter, who had been reading "David Copperfield"
in his hammock on the porch of the ranch house, put down the book
and went to find Hilma, who was helping Louisa Vacca set the
table for dinner. He found her in the dining-room, her hands
full of the gold-bordered china plates, only used on special
occasions and which Louisa was forbidden to touch.

His wife was more than ordinarily pretty that day. She wore a
dress of flowered organdie over pink sateen with pink ribbons
about her waist and neck, and on her slim feet the low shoes she
always affected, with their smart, bright buckles. Her thick,
brown, sweet-smelling hair was heaped high upon her head and set
off with a bow of black velvet, and underneath the shadow of its
coils, her wide-open eyes, rimmed with the thin, black line of
her lashes, shone continually, reflecting the sunlight. Marriage
had only accentuated the beautiful maturity of Hilma's figure--
now no longer precocious--defining the single, deep swell from
her throat to her waist, the strong, fine amplitude of her hips,
the sweet feminine undulation of her neck and shoulders. Her
cheeks were pink with health, and her large round arms carried
the piled-up dishes with never a tremour. Annixter, observant
enough where his wife was concerned noted how the reflection of
the white china set a glow of pale light underneath her chin.

"Hilma," he said, "I've been wondering lately about things.
We're so blamed happy ourselves it won't do for us to forget
about other people who are down, will it? Might change our luck.
And I'm just likely to forget that way, too. It's my nature."

His wife looked up at him joyfully. Here was the new Annixter,
certainly.

"In all this hullabaloo about Dyke," he went on "there's some one
nobody ain't thought about at all. That's MRS. Dyke--and the
little tad. I wouldn't be surprised if they were in a hole over
there. What do you say we drive over to the hop ranch after
dinner and see if she wants anything?"

Hilma put down the plates and came around the table and kissed
him without a word.

As soon as their dinner was over, Annixter had the carry-all
hitched up, and, dispensing with young Vacca, drove over to the
hop ranch with Hilma.

Hilma could not keep back the tears as they passed through the
lamentable desolation of the withered, brown vines, symbols of
perished hopes and abandoned effort, and Annixter swore between
his teeth.

Though the wheels of the carry-all grated loudly on the roadway
in front of the house, nobody came to the door nor looked from
the windows. The place seemed tenantless, infinitely lonely,
infinitely sad.
Annixter tied the team, and with Hilma approached the wide-open
door, scuffling and tramping on the porch to attract attention.
Nobody stirred. A Sunday stillness pervaded the place. Outside,
the withered hop-leaves rustled like dry paper in the breeze.
The quiet was ominous. They peered into the front room from the
doorway, Hilma holding her husband's hand. Mrs. Dyke was there.
She sat at the table in the middle of the room, her head, with
its white hair, down upon her arm. A clutter of unwashed dishes
were strewed over the red and white tablecloth. The unkempt
room, once a marvel of neatness, had not been cleaned for days.
Newspapers, Genslinger's extras and copies of San Francisco and
Los Angeles dailies were scattered all over the room. On the
table itself were crumpled yellow telegrams, a dozen of them, a
score of them, blowing about in the draught from the door. And
in the midst of all this disarray, surrounded by the published
accounts of her son's crime, the telegraphed answers to her
pitiful appeals for tidings fluttering about her head, the
highwayman's mother, worn out, abandoned and forgotten, slept
through the stillness of the Sunday afternoon.

Neither Hilma nor Annixter ever forgot their interview with Mrs.
Dyke that day. Suddenly waking, she had caught sight of
Annixter, and at once exclaimed eagerly:

"Is there any news?"

For a long time afterwards nothing could be got from her. She
was numb to all other issues than the one question of Dyke's
capture. She did not answer their questions nor reply to their
offers of assistance. Hilma and Annixter conferred together
without lowering their voices, at her very elbow, while she
looked vacantly at the floor, drawing one hand over the other in
a persistent, maniacal gesture. From time to time she would
start suddenly from her chair, her eyes wide, and as if all at
once realising Annixter's presence, would cry out:

"Is there any news?"

"Where is Sidney, Mrs. Dyke?" asked Hilma for the fourth time.
"Is she well? Is she taken care of?"

"Here's the last telegram," said Mrs. Dyke, in a loud, monotonous
voice. "See, it says there is no news. He didn't do it," she
moaned, rocking herself back and forth, drawing one hand over the
other, "he didn't do it, he didn't do it, he didn't do it. I
don't know where he is."

When at last she came to herself, it was with a flood of tears.
Hilma put her arms around the poor, old woman, as she bowed
herself again upon the table, sobbing and weeping.

"Oh, my son, my son," she cried, "my own boy, my only son! If I
could have died for you to have prevented this. I remember him
when he was little. Such a splendid little fellow, so brave, so
loving, with never an unkind thought, never a mean action. So it
was all his life. We were never apart. It was always 'dear
little son,' and 'dear mammy' between us--never once was he
unkind, and he loved me and was the gentlest son to me. And he
was a GOOD man. He is now, he is now. They don't understand
him. They are not even sure that he did this. He never meant
it. They don't know my son. Why, he wouldn't have hurt a
kitten. Everybody loved him. He was driven to it. They hounded
him down, they wouldn't let him alone. He was not right in his
mind. They hounded him to it," she cried fiercely, "they hounded
him to it. They drove him and goaded him till he couldn't stand
it any longer, and now they mean to kill him for turning on them.
They are hunting him with dogs; night after night I have stood on
the porch and heard the dogs baying far off. They are tracking
my boy with dogs like a wild animal. May God never forgive
them."  She rose to her feet, terrible, her white hair unbound.
"May God punish them as they deserve, may they never prosper--on
my knees I shall pray for it every night--may their money be a
curse to them, may their sons, their first-born, only sons, be
taken from them in their youth."

But Hilma interrupted, begging her to be silent, to be quiet.
The tears came again then and the choking sobs. Hilma took her
in her arms.

"Oh, my little boy, my little boy," she cried. "My only son, all
that I had, to have come to this! He was not right in his mind
or he would have known it would break my heart. Oh, my son, my
son, if I could have died for you."

Sidney came in, clinging to her dress, weeping, imploring her not
to cry, protesting that they never could catch her papa, that he
would come back soon. Hilma took them both, the little child and
the broken-down old woman, in the great embrace of her strong
arms, and they all three sobbed together.

Annixter stood on the porch outside, his back turned, looking
straight before him into the wilderness of dead vines, his teeth
shut hard, his lower lip thrust out.

"I hope S. Behrman is satisfied with all this," he muttered. "I
hope he is satisfied now, damn his soul!"

All at once an idea occurred to him. He turned about and
reentered the room.

"Mrs Dyke," he began, "I want you and Sidney to come over and
live at Quien Sabe. I know--you can't make me believe that the
reporters and officers and officious busy-faces that pretend to
offer help just so as they can satisfy their curiosity aren't
nagging you to death. I want you to let me take care of you and
the little tad till all this trouble of yours is over with.
There's plenty of place for you. You can have the house my
wife's people used to live in. You've got to look these things
in the face. What are you going to do to get along? You must be
very short of money. S. Behrman will foreclose on you and take
the whole place in a little while, now. I want you to let me
help you, let Hilma and me be good friends to you. It would be a
privilege."

Mrs. Dyke tried bravely to assume her pride, insisting that she
could manage, but her spirit was broken. The whole affair ended
unexpectedly, with Annixter and Hilma bringing Dyke's mother and
little girl back to Quien Sabe in the carry-all.

Mrs. Dyke would not take with her a stick of furniture nor a
single ornament. It would only serve to remind her of a vanished
happiness. She packed a few clothes of her own and Sidney's in a
little trunk, Hilma helping her, and Annixter stowed the trunk
under the carry-all's back seat. Mrs. Dyke turned the key in the
door of the house and Annixter helped her to her seat beside his
wife. They drove through the sear, brown hop vines. At the
angle of the road Mrs. Dyke turned around and looked back at the
ruin of the hop ranch, the roof of the house just showing above
the trees. She never saw it again.

As soon as Annixter and Hilma were alone, after their return to
Quien Sabe--Mrs. Dyke and Sidney having been installed in the
Trees' old house--Hilma threw her arms around her husband's neck.

"Fine," she exclaimed, "oh, it was fine of you, dear to think of
them and to be so good to them. My husband is such a GOOD man.
So unselfish. You wouldn't have thought of being kind to Mrs.
Dyke and Sidney a little while ago. You wouldn't have thought of
them at all. But you did now, and it's just because you love me
true, isn't it? Isn't it? And because it's made you a better
man. I'm so proud and glad to think it's so. It is so, isn't
it? Just because you love me true."

"You bet it is, Hilma," he told her.

As Hilma and Annixter were sitting down to the supper which they
found waiting for them, Louisa Vacca came to the door of the
dining-room to say that Harran Derrick had telephoned over from
Los Muertos for Annixter, and had left word for him to ring up
Los Muertos as soon as he came in.

"He said it was important," added Louisa Vacca.

"Maybe they have news from Washington," suggested Hilma.

Annixter would not wait to have supper, but telephoned to Los
Muertos at once. Magnus answered the call. There was a special
meeting of the Executive Committee of the League summoned for the
next day, he told Annixter. It was for the purpose of
considering the new grain tariff prepared by the Railroad
Commissioners. Lyman had written that the schedule of this
tariff had just been issued, that he had not been able to
construct it precisely according to the wheat-growers' wishes,
and that he, himself, would come down to Los Muertos and explain
its apparent discrepancies. Magnus said Lyman would be present
at the session.

Annixter, curious for details, forbore, nevertheless, to
question. The connection from Los Muertos to Quien Sabe was made
through Bonneville, and in those troublesome times no one could
be trusted. It could not be known who would overhear
conversations carried on over the lines. He assured Magnus that
he would be on hand.
The time for the Committee meeting had been set for seven o'clock
in the evening, in order to accommodate Lyman, who wrote that he
would be down on the evening train, but would be compelled, by
pressure of business, to return to the city early the next
morning.

At the time appointed, the men composing the Committee gathered
about the table in the dining-room of the Los Muertos ranch
house. It was almost a reproduction of the scene of the famous
evening when Osterman had proposed the plan of the Ranchers'
Railroad Commission. Magnus Derrick sat at the head of the
table, in his buttoned frock coat. Whiskey bottles and siphons
of soda-water were within easy reach. Presley, who by now was
considered the confidential friend of every member of the
Committee, lounged as before on the sofa, smoking cigarettes, the
cat Nathalie on his knee. Besides Magnus and Annixter, Osterman
was present, and old Broderson and Harran; Garnet from the Ruby
Rancho and Gethings of the San Pablo, who were also members of
the Executive Committee, were on hand, preoccupied, bearded men,
smoking black cigars, and, last of all, Dabney, the silent old
man, of whom little was known but his name, and who had been made
a member of the Committee, nobody could tell why.

"My son Lyman should be here, gentlemen, within at least ten
minutes. I have sent my team to meet him at Bonneville,"
explained Magnus, as he called the meeting to order. "The
Secretary will call the roll."

Osterman called the roll, and, to fill in the time, read over the
minutes of the previous meeting. The treasurer was making his
report as to the funds at the disposal of the League when Lyman
arrived.

Magnus and Harran went forward to meet him, and the Committee
rather awkwardly rose and remained standing while the three
exchanged greetings, the members, some of whom had never seen
their commissioner, eyeing him out of the corners of their eyes.

Lyman was dressed with his usual correctness. His cravat was of
the latest fashion, his clothes of careful design and
unimpeachable fit. His shoes, of patent leather, reflected the
lamplight, and he carried a drab overcoat over his arm. Before
being introduced to the Committee, he excused himself a moment
and ran to see his mother, who waited for him in the adjoining
sitting-room. But in a few moments he returned, asking pardon
for the delay.

He was all affability; his protruding eyes, that gave such an
unusual, foreign appearance to his very dark face, radiated
geniality. He was evidently anxious to please, to produce a good
impression upon the grave, clumsy farmers before whom he stood.
But at the same time, Presley, watching him from his place on the
sofa, could imagine that he was rather nervous. He was too
nimble in his cordiality, and the little gestures he made in
bringing his cuffs into view and in touching the ends of his
tight, black mustache with the ball of his thumb were repeated
with unnecessary frequency.

"Mr. Broderson, my son, Lyman, my eldest son. Mr. Annixter, my
son, Lyman."

The Governor introduced him to the ranchers, proud of Lyman's
good looks, his correct dress, his ease of manner. Lyman shook
hands all around, keeping up a flow of small talk, finding a new
phrase for each member, complimenting Osterman, whom he already
knew, upon his talent for organisation, recalling a mutual
acquaintance to the mind of old Broderson. At length, however,
he sat down at the end of the table, opposite his brother. There
was a silence.

Magnus rose to recapitulate the reasons for the extra session of
the Committee, stating again that the Board of Railway
Commissioners which they--the ranchers--had succeeded in seating
had at length issued the new schedule of reduced rates, and that
Mr. Derrick had been obliging enough to offer to come down to Los
Muertos in person to acquaint the wheat-growers of the San
Joaquin with the new rates for the carriage of their grain.

But Lyman very politely protested, addressing his father
punctiliously as "Mr. Chairman," and the other ranchers as
"Gentlemen of the Executive Committee of the League."  He had no
wish, he said, to disarrange the regular proceedings of the
Committee. Would it not be preferable to defer the reading of
his report till "new business" was called for? In the meanwhile,
let the Committee proceed with its usual work. He understood the
necessarily delicate nature of this work, and would be pleased to
withdraw till the proper time arrived for him to speak.

"Good deal of backing and filling about the reading of a column
of figures," muttered Annixter to the man at his elbow.

Lyman "awaited the Committee's decision."  He sat down, touching
the ends of his mustache.

"Oh, play ball," growled Annixter.

Gethings rose to say that as the meeting had been called solely
for the purpose of hearing and considering the new grain tariff,
he was of the opinion that routine business could be dispensed
with and the schedule read at once. It was so ordered.

Lyman rose and made a long speech. Voluble as Osterman himself,
he, nevertheless, had at his command a vast number of ready-made
phrases, the staples of a political speaker, the stock in trade
of the commercial lawyer, which rolled off his tongue with the
most persuasive fluency. By degrees, in the course of his
speech, he began to insinuate the idea that the wheat-growers had
never expected to settle their difficulties with the Railroad by
the work of a single commission; that they had counted upon a
long, continued campaign of many years, railway commission
succeeding railway commission, before the desired low rates
should be secured; that the present Board of Commissioners was
only the beginning and that too great results were not expected
from them. All this he contrived to mention casually, in the
talk, as if it were a foregone conclusion, a matter understood by
all.

As the speech continued, the eyes of the ranchers around the
table were fixed with growing attention upon this well-dressed,
city-bred young man, who spoke so fluently and who told them of
their own intentions. A feeling of perplexity began to spread,
and the first taint of distrust invaded their minds.

"But the good work has been most auspiciously inaugurated,"
continued Lyman. "Reforms so sweeping as the one contemplated
cannot be accomplished in a single night. Great things grow
slowly, benefits to be permanent must accrue gradually. Yet, in
spite of all this, your commissioners have done much. Already
the phalanx of the enemy is pierced, already his armour is
dinted. Pledged as were your commissioners to an average ten per
cent. reduction in rates for the carriage of grain by the Pacific
and Southwestern Railroad, we have rigidly adhered to the demands
of our constituency, we have obeyed the People. The main problem
has not yet been completely solved; that is for later, when we
shall have gathered sufficient strength to attack the enemy in
his very stronghold; BUT AN AVERAGE TEN PER CENT. CUT HAS BEEN
MADE ALL OVER THE STATE. We have made a great advance, have
taken a great step forward, and if the work is carried ahead,
upon the lines laid down by the present commissioners and their
constituents, there is every reason to believe that within a very
few years equitable and stable rates for the shipment of grain
from the San Joaquin Valley to Stockton, Port Costa, and
tidewater will be permanently imposed."

"Well, hold on," exclaimed Annixter, out of order and ignoring
the Governor's reproof, "hasn't your commission reduced grain
rates in the San Joaquin?"

"We have reduced grain rates by ten per cent. all over the
State," rejoined Lyman. "Here are copies of the new schedule."

He drew them from his valise and passed them around the table.

"You see," he observed, "the rate between Mayfield and Oakland,
for instance, has been reduced by twenty-five cents a ton."

"Yes--but--but--" said old Broderson, "it is rather unusual,
isn't it, for wheat in that district to be sent to Oakland?"
"Why, look here," exclaimed Annixter, looking up from the
schedule, "where is there any reduction in rates in the San
Joaquin--from Bonneville and Guadalajara, for instance? I don't
see as you've made any reduction at all. Is this right? Did you
give me the right schedule?"

"Of course, ALL the points in the State could not be covered at
once," returned Lyman. "We never expected, you know, that we
could cut rates in the San Joaquin the very first move; that is
for later. But you will see we made very material reductions on
shipments from the upper Sacramento Valley; also the rate from
Ione to Marysville has been reduced eighty cents a ton."

"Why, rot," cried Annixter, "no one ever ships wheat that way."

"The Salinas rate," continued Lyman, "has been lowered seventy-
five cents; the St. Helena rate fifty cents, and please notice
the very drastic cut from Red Bluff, north, along the Oregon
route, to the Oregon State Line."

"Where not a carload of wheat is shipped in a year," commented
Gethings of the San Pablo.

"Oh, you will find yourself mistaken there, Mr. Gethings,"
returned Lyman courteously. "And for the matter of that, a low
rate would stimulate wheat-production in that district."

The order of the meeting was broken up, neglected; Magnus did not
even pretend to preside. In the growing excitement over the
inexplicable schedule, routine was not thought of. Every one
spoke at will.

"Why, Lyman," demanded Magnus, looking across the table to his
son, "is this schedule correct? You have not cut rates in the
San Joaquin at all. We--these gentlemen here and myself, we are
no better off than we were before we secured your election as
commissioner."

"We were pledged to make an average ten per cent. cut, sir----"
"It IS an average ten per cent. cut," cried Osterman. "Oh, yes,
that's plain. It's an average ten per cent. cut all right, but
you've made it by cutting grain rates between points where
practically no grain is shipped. We, the wheat-growers in the
San Joaquin, where all the wheat is grown, are right where we
were before. The Railroad won't lose a nickel. By Jingo, boys,"
he glanced around the table, "I'd like to know what this means."

"The Railroad, if you come to that," returned Lyman, "has already
lodged a protest against the new rate."

Annixter uttered a derisive shout.

"A protest! That's good, that is. When the P. and S. W. objects
to rates it don't 'protest,' m' son. The first you hear from Mr.
Shelgrim is an injunction from the courts preventing the order
for new rates from taking effect. By the Lord," he cried
angrily, leaping to his feet, "I would like to know what all this
means, too. Why didn't you reduce our grain rates? What did we
elect you for?"

"Yes, what did we elect you for?" demanded Osterman and Gethings,
also getting to their feet.

"Order, order, gentlemen," cried Magnus, remembering the duties
of his office and rapping his knuckles on the table. "This
meeting has been allowed to degenerate too far already."

"You elected us," declared Lyman doggedly, "to make an average
ten per cent. cut on grain rates. We have done it. Only because
you don't benefit at once, you object. It makes a difference
whose ox is gored, it seems."

"Lyman!"

It was Magnus who spoke. He had drawn himself to his full six
feet. His eyes were flashing direct into his son's. His voice
rang with severity.

"Lyman, what does this mean?"

The other spread out his hands.

"As you see, sir. We have done our best. I warned you not to
expect too much. I told you that this question of transportation
was difficult. You would not wish to put rates so low that the
action would amount to confiscation of property."

"Why did you not lower rates in the valley of the San Joaquin?"

"That was not a PROMINENT issue in the affair," responded Lyman,
carefully emphasising his words. "I understand, of course, it
was to be approached IN TIME. The main point was AN AVERAGE TEN
PER CENT. REDUCTION. Rates WILL be lowered in the San Joaquin.
The ranchers around Bonneville will be able to ship to Port Costa
at equitable rates, but so radical a measure as that cannot be
put through in a turn of the hand. We must study----"

"You KNEW the San Joaquin rate was an issue," shouted Annixter,
shaking his finger across the table. "What do we men who backed
you care about rates up in Del Norte and Siskiyou Counties? Not
a whoop in hell. It was the San Joaquin rate we were fighting
for, and we elected you to reduce that. You didn't do it and you
don't intend to, and, by the Lord Harry, I want to know why."

"You'll know, sir--" began Lyman.

"Well, I'll tell you why," vociferated Osterman. "I'll tell you
why. It's because we have been sold out. It's because the P.
and S. W. have had their spoon in this boiling. It's because our
commissioners have betrayed us. It's because we're a set of damn
fool farmers and have been cinched again."

Lyman paled under his dark skin at the direct attack. He
evidently had not expected this so soon. For the fraction of one
instant he lost his poise. He strove to speak, but caught his
breath, stammering.

"What have you to say, then?" cried Harran, who, until now, had
not spoken.

"I have this to say," answered Lyman, making head as best he
might, "that this is no proper spirit in which to discuss
business. The Commission has fulfilled its obligations. It has
adjusted rates to the best of its ability. We have been at work
for two months on the preparation of this schedule----"

"That's a lie," shouted Annixter, his face scarlet; "that's a
lie. That schedule was drawn in the offices of the Pacific and
Southwestern and you know it. It's a scheme of rates made for
the Railroad and by the Railroad and you were bought over to put
your name to it."

There was a concerted outburst at the words. All the men in the
room were on their feet, gesticulating and vociferating.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Magnus, "are we schoolboys, are we
ruffians of the street?"

"We're a set of fool farmers and we've been betrayed," cried
Osterman.

"Well, what have you to say? What have you to say?" persisted
Harran, leaning across the table toward his brother. "For God's
sake, Lyman, you've got SOME explanation."

"You've misunderstood," protested Lyman, white and trembling.
"You've misunderstood. You've expected too much. Next year,--
next year,--soon now, the Commission will take up the--the
Commission will consider the San Joaquin rate. We've done our
best, that is all."

"Have you, sir?" demanded Magnus.

The Governor's head was in a whirl; a sensation, almost of
faintness, had seized upon him. Was it possible? Was it
possible?

"Have you done your best?" For a second he compelled Lyman's eye.
The glances of father and son met, and, in spite of his best
efforts, Lyman's eyes wavered. He began to protest once more,
explaining the matter over again from the beginning. But Magnus
did not listen. In that brief lapse of time he was convinced
that the terrible thing had happened, that the unbelievable had
come to pass. It was in the air. Between father and son, in
some subtle fashion, the truth that was a lie stood suddenly
revealed. But even then Magnus would not receive it. Lyman do
this! His son, his eldest son, descend to this! Once more and
for the last time he turned to him and in his voice there was
that ring that compelled silence.

"Lyman," he said, "I adjure you--I--I demand of you as you are my
son and an honourable man, explain yourself. What is there
behind all this? It is no longer as Chairman of the Committee I
speak to you, you a member of the Railroad Commission. It is
your father who speaks, and I address you as my son. Do you
understand the gravity of this crisis; do you realise the
responsibility of your position; do you not see the importance of
this moment? Explain yourself."

"There is nothing to explain."

"You have not reduced rates in the San Joaquin? You have not
reduced rates between Bonneville and tidewater?"

"I repeat, sir, what I said before. An average ten per cent.
cut----"

"Lyman, answer me, yes or no. Have you reduced the Bonneville
rate?"

"It could not be done so soon. Give us time. We----"

"Yes or no! By God, sir, do you dare equivocate with me? Yes or
no; have you reduced the Bonneville rate?"

"No."

"And answer ME," shouted Harran, leaning far across the table,
"answer ME. Were you paid by the Railroad to leave the San
Joaquin rate untouched?"

Lyman, whiter than ever, turned furious upon his brother.

"Don't you dare put that question to me again."

"No, I won't," cried Harran, "because I'll TELL you to your
villain's face that you WERE paid to do it."

On the instant the clamour burst forth afresh. Still on their
feet, the ranchers had, little by little, worked around the
table, Magnus alone keeping his place. The others were in a
group before Lyman, crowding him, as it were, to the wall,
shouting into his face with menacing gestures. The truth that
was a lie, the certainty of a trust betrayed, a pledge ruthlessly
broken, was plain to every one of them.

"By the Lord! men have been shot for less than this," cried
Osterman. "You've sold us out, you, and if you ever bring that
dago face of yours on a level with mine again, I'll slap it."

"Keep your hands off," exclaimed Lyman quickly, the
aggressiveness of the cornered rat flaming up within him. "No
violence. Don't you go too far."

"How much were you paid? How much were you paid?" vociferated
Harran.

"Yes, yes, what was your price?" cried the others. They were
beside themselves with anger; their words came harsh from between
their set teeth; their gestures were made with their fists
clenched.

"You know the Commission acted in good faith," retorted Lyman.
"You know that all was fair and above board."

"Liar," shouted Annixter; "liar, bribe-eater. You were bought
and paid for," and with the words his arm seemed almost of itself
to leap out from his shoulder. Lyman received the blow squarely
in the face and the force of it sent him staggering backwards
toward the wall. He tripped over his valise and fell half way,
his back supported against the closed door of the room. Magnus
sprang forward. His son had been struck, and the instincts of a
father rose up in instant protest; rose for a moment, then
forever died away in his heart. He checked the words that
flashed to his mind. He lowered his upraised arm. No, he had
but one son. The poor, staggering creature with the fine
clothes, white face, and blood-streaked lips was no longer his.
A blow could not dishonour him more than he had dishonoured
himself.

But Gethings, the older man, intervened, pulling Annixter back,
crying:

"Stop, this won't do. Not before his father."

"I am no father to this man, gentlemen," exclaimed Magnus. "From
now on, I have but one son. You, sir," he turned to Lyman, "you,
sir, leave my house."

Lyman, his handkerchief to his lips, his smart cravat in
disarray, caught up his hat and coat. He was shaking with fury,
his protruding eyes were blood-shot. He swung open the door.

"Ruffians," he shouted from the threshold, "ruffians, bullies.
Do your own dirty business yourselves after this. I'm done with
you. How is it, all of a sudden you talk about honour? How is
it that all at once you're so clean and straight? You weren't so
particular at Sacramento just before the nominations. How was
the Board elected? I'm a bribe-eater, am I? Is it any worse
than GIVING a bribe? Ask Magnus Derrick what he thinks about
that. Ask him how much he paid the Democratic bosses at
Sacramento to swing the convention."

He went out, slamming the door.

Presley followed. The whole affair made him sick at heart,
filled him with infinite disgust, infinite weariness. He wished
to get away from it all. He left the dining-room and the
excited, clamouring men behind him and stepped out on the porch
of the ranch house, closing the door behind him. Lyman was
nowhere in sight. Presley was alone. It was late, and after the
lamp-heated air of the dining-room, the coolness of the night was
delicious, and its vast silence, after the noise and fury of the
committee meeting, descended from the stars like a benediction.
Presley stepped to the edge of the porch, looking off to
southward.

And there before him, mile after mile, illimitable, covering the
earth from horizon to horizon, lay the Wheat. The growth, now
many days old, was already high from the ground. There it lay, a
vast, silent ocean, shimmering a pallid green under the moon and
under the stars; a mighty force, the strength of nations, the
life of the world. There in the night, under the dome of the
sky, it was growing steadily. To Presley's mind, the scene in
the room he had just left dwindled to paltry insignificance
before this sight. Ah, yes, the Wheat--it was over this that the
Railroad, the ranchers, the traitor false to his trust, all the
members of an obscure conspiracy, were wrangling. As if human
agency could affect this colossal power! What were these heated,
tiny squabbles, this feverish, small bustle of mankind, this
minute swarming of the human insect, to the great, majestic,
silent ocean of the Wheat itself! Indifferent, gigantic,
resistless, it moved in its appointed grooves. Men, Liliputians,
gnats in the sunshine, buzzed impudently in their tiny battles,
were born, lived through their little day, died, and were
forgotten; while the Wheat, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, grew
steadily under the night, alone with the stars and with God.

V.

Jack-rabbits were a pest that year and Presley occasionally found
amusement in hunting them with Harran's half-dozen greyhounds,
following the chase on horseback. One day, between two and three
months after Lyman s visit to Los Muertos, as he was returning
toward the ranch house from a distant and lonely quarter of Los
Muertos, he came unexpectedly upon a strange sight.

Some twenty men, Annixter's and Osterman's tenants, and small
ranchers from east of Guadalajara--all members of the League--
were going through the manual of arms under Harran Derrick's
supervision. They were all equipped with new Winchester rifles.
Harran carried one of these himself and with it he illustrated
the various commands he gave. As soon as one of the men under
his supervision became more than usually proficient, he was told
off to instruct a file of the more backward. After the manual of
arms, Harran gave the command to take distance as skirmishers,
and when the line had opened out so that some half-dozen feet
intervened between each man, an advance was made across the
field, the men stooping low and snapping the hammers of their
rifles at an imaginary enemy.

The League had its agents in San Francisco, who watched the
movements of the Railroad as closely as was possible, and some
time before this, Annixter had received word that the Marshal and
his deputies were coming down to Bonneville to put the dummy
buyers of his ranch in possession. The report proved to be but
the first of many false alarms, but it had stimulated the League
to unusual activity, and some three or four hundred men were
furnished with arms and from time to time were drilled in secret.

Among themselves, the ranchers said that if the Railroad managers
did not believe they were terribly in earnest in the stand they
had taken, they were making a fatal mistake.

Harran reasserted this statement to Presley on the way home to
the ranch house that same day. Harran had caught up with him by
the time he reached the Lower Road, and the two jogged homeward
through the miles of standing wheat.

"They may jump the ranch, Pres," he said, "if they try hard
enough, but they will never do it while I am alive. By the way,"
he added, "you know we served notices yesterday upon S. Behrman
and Cy. Ruggles to quit the country. Of course, they won't do
it, but they won't be able to say they didn't have warning."

About an hour later, the two reached the ranch house, but as
Harran rode up the driveway, he uttered an exclamation.

"Hello," he said, "something is up. That's Genslinger's
buckboard."

In fact, the editor's team was tied underneath the shade of a
giant eucalyptus tree near by. Harran, uneasy under this
unexpected visit of the enemy's friend, dismounted without
stabling his horse, and went at once to the dining-room, where
visitors were invariably received. But the dining-room was
empty, and his mother told him that Magnus and the editor were in
the "office."  Magnus had said they were not to be disturbed.

Earlier in the afternoon, the editor had driven up to the porch
and had asked Mrs. Derrick, whom he found reading a book of poems
on the porch, if he could see Magnus. At the time, the Governor
had gone with Phelps to inspect the condition of the young wheat
on Hooven's holding, but within half an hour he returned, and
Genslinger had asked him for a "few moments' talk in private."

The two went into the "office," Magnus locking the door behind
him.
"Very complete you are here, Governor," observed the editor in
his alert, jerky manner, his black, bead-like eyes twinkling
around the room from behind his glasses. "Telephone, safe,
ticker, account-books--well, that's progress, isn't it? Only way
to manage a big ranch these days. But the day of the big ranch
is over. As the land appreciates in value, the temptation to
sell off small holdings will be too strong. And then the small
holding can be cultivated to better advantage. I shall have an
editorial on that some day."

"The cost of maintaining a number of small holdings," said
Magnus, indifferently, "is, of course, greater than if they were
all under one management."

"That may be, that may be," rejoined the other.

There was a long pause. Genslinger leaned back in his chair and
rubbed a knee. Magnus, standing erect in front of the safe,
waited for him to speak.

"This is an unfortunate business, Governor," began the editor,
"this misunderstanding between the ranchers and the Railroad. I
wish it could be adjusted. HERE are two industries that MUST be
in harmony with one another, or we all go to pot."

"I should prefer not to be interviewed on the subject, Mr.
Genslinger," said Magnus.

"Oh, no, oh, no. Lord love you, Governor, I don't want to
interview you. We all know how you stand."

Again there was a long silence. Magnus wondered what this little
man, usually so garrulous, could want of him. At length,
Genslinger began again. He did not look at Magnus, except at
long intervals.

"About the present Railroad Commission," he remarked. "That was
an interesting campaign you conducted in Sacramento and San
Francisco."

Magnus held his peace, his hands shut tight. Did Genslinger know
of Lyman's disgrace? Was it for this he had come? Would the
story of it be the leading article in to-morrow's Mercury?

"An interesting campaign," repeated Genslinger, slowly; "a very
interesting campaign. I watched it with every degree of
interest. I saw its every phase, Mr. Derrick."

"The campaign was not without its interest," admitted Magnus.

"Yes," said Genslinger, still more deliberately, "and some phases
of it were--more interesting than others, as, for instance, let
us say the way in which you--personally--secured the votes of
certain chairmen of delegations--NEED I particularise further?
Yes, those men--the way you got their votes. Now, THAT I should
say, Mr. Derrick, was the most interesting move in the whole
game--to you. Hm, curious," he murmured, musingly. "Let's see.
You deposited two one-thousand dollar bills and four five-hundred
dollar bills in a box--three hundred and eight was the number--in
a box in the Safety Deposit Vaults in San Francisco, and then--
let's see, you gave a key to this box to each of the gentlemen in
question, and after the election the box was empty. Now, I call
that interesting--curious, because it's a new, safe, and highly
ingenious method of bribery. How did you happen to think of it,
Governor?"

"Do you know what you are doing, sir?" Magnus burst forth. "Do
you know what you are insinuating, here, in my own house?"

"Why, Governor," returned the editor, blandly, "I'm not
INSINUATING anything. I'm talking about what I KNOW."

"It's a lie."

Genslinger rubbed his chin reflectively.

"Well," he answered, "you can have a chance to prove it before
the Grand Jury, if you want to."

"My character is known all over the State," blustered Magnus.
"My politics are pure politics. My----"

"No one needs a better reputation for pure politics than the man
who sets out to be a briber," interrupted Genslinger, "and I
might as well tell you, Governor, that you can't shout me down.
I can put my hand on the two chairmen you bought before it's dark
to-day. I've had their depositions in my safe for the last six
weeks. We could make the arrests to-morrow, if we wanted.
Governor, you sure did a risky thing when you went into that
Sacramento fight, an awful risky thing. Some men can afford to
have bribery charges preferred against them, and it don't hurt
one little bit, but YOU--Lord, it would BUST you, Governor, bust
you dead. I know all about the whole shananigan business from A
to Z, and if you don't believe it--here," he drew a long strip of
paper from his pocket, "here's a galley proof of the story."

Magnus took it in his hands. There, under his eyes, scare-
headed, double-leaded, the more important clauses printed in bold
type, was the detailed account of the "deal" Magnus had made with
the two delegates. It was pitiless, remorseless, bald. Every
statement was substantiated, every statistic verified with
Genslinger's meticulous love for exactness. Besides all that, it
had the ring of truth. It was exposure, ruin, absolute
annihilation.

"That's about correct, isn't it?" commented Genslinger, as
Derrick finished reading. Magnus did not reply. "I think it is
correct enough," the editor continued. "But I thought it would
only be fair to you to let you see it before it was published."

The one thought uppermost in Derrick's mind, his one impulse of
the moment was, at whatever cost, to preserve his dignity, not to
allow this man to exult in the sight of one quiver of weakness,
one trace of defeat, one suggestion of humiliation. By an effort
that put all his iron rigidity to the test, he forced himself to
look straight into Genslinger's eyes.

"I congratulate you," he observed, handing back the proof, "upon
your journalistic enterprise. Your paper will sell to-morrow."
"Oh, I don't know as I want to publish this story," remarked the
editor, indifferently, putting away the galley. "I'm just like
that. The fun for me is running a good story to earth, but once
I've got it, I lose interest. And, then, I wouldn't like to see
you--holding the position you do, President of the League and a
leading man of the county--I wouldn't like to see a story like
this smash you over. It's worth more to you to keep it out of
print than for me to put it in. I've got nothing much to gain
but a few extra editions, but you--Lord, you would lose
everything. Your committee was in the deal right enough. But
your League, all the San Joaquin Valley, everybody in the State
believes the commissioners were fairly elected."

"Your story," suddenly exclaimed Magnus, struck with an idea,
"will be thoroughly discredited just so soon as the new grain
tariff is published. I have means of knowing that the San
Joaquin rate--the issue upon which the board was elected--is not
to be touched. Is it likely the ranchers would secure the
election of a board that plays them false?"

"Oh, we know all about that," answered Genslinger, smiling. "You
thought you were electing Lyman easily. You thought you had got
the Railroad to walk right into your trap. You didn't understand
how you could pull off your deal so easily. Why, Governor, LYMAN
WAS PLEDGED TO THE RAILROAD TWO YEARS AGO. He was THE ONE
PARTICULAR man the corporation wanted for commissioner. And your
people elected him--saved the Railroad all the trouble of
campaigning for him. And you can't make any counter charge of
bribery there. No, sir, the corporation don't use such
amateurish methods as that. Confidentially and between us two,
all that the Railroad has done for Lyman, in order to attach him
to their interests, is to promise to back him politically in the
next campaign for Governor. It's too bad," he continued,
dropping his voice, and changing his position. "It really is too
bad to see good men trying to bunt a stone wall over with their
bare heads. You couldn't have won at any stage of the game. I
wish I could have talked to you and your friends before you went
into that Sacramento fight. I could have told you then how
little chance you had. When will you people realise that you
can't buck against the Railroad? Why, Magnus, it's like me going
out in a paper boat and shooting peas at a battleship."

"Is that all you wished to see me about, Mr. Genslinger?"
remarked Magnus, bestirring himself. "I am rather occupied to-
day."
"Well," returned the other, "you know what the publication of
this article would mean for you."  He paused again, took off his
glasses, breathed on them, polished the lenses with his
handkerchief and readjusted them on his nose. "I've been
thinking, Governor," he began again, with renewed alertness, and
quite irrelevantly, "of enlarging the scope of the ' Mercury.'
You see, I'm midway between the two big centres of the State, San
Francisco and Los Angeles, and I want to extend the 'Mercury's'
sphere of influence as far up and down the valley as I can. I
want to illustrate the paper. You see, if I had a photo-
engraving plant of my own, I could do a good deal of outside
jobbing as well, and the investment would pay ten per cent. But
it takes money to make money. I wouldn't want to put in any
dinky, one-horse affair. I want a good plant. I've been
figuring out the business. Besides the plant, there would be the
expense of a high grade paper. Can't print half-tones on
anything but coated paper, and that COSTS. Well, what with this
and with that and running expenses till the thing began to pay,
it would cost me about ten thousand dollars, and I was wondering
if, perhaps, you couldn't see your way clear to accommodating
me."

"Ten thousand?"

"Yes. Say five thousand down, and the balance within sixty
days."

Magnus, for the moment blind to what Genslinger had in mind,
turned on him in astonishment.

"Why, man, what security could you give me for such an amount?"

"Well, to tell the truth," answered the editor, "I hadn't thought
much about securities. In fact, I believed you would see how
greatly it was to your advantage to talk business with me. You
see, I'm not going to print this article about you, Governor, and
I'm not going to let it get out so as any one else can print it,
and it seems to me that one good turn deserves another. You
understand?"

Magnus understood. An overwhelming desire suddenly took
possession of him to grip this blackmailer by the throat, to
strangle him where he stood; or, if not, at least to turn upon
him with that old-time terrible anger, before which whole
conventions had once cowered. But in the same moment the
Governor realised this was not to be. Only its righteousness had
made his wrath terrible; only the justice of his anger had made
him feared. Now the foundation was gone from under his feet; he
had knocked it away himself. Three times feeble was he whose
quarrel was unjust. Before this country editor, this paid
speaker of the Railroad, he stood, convicted. The man had him at
his mercy. The detected briber could not resent an insult.
Genslinger rose, smoothing his hat.

"Well," he said, "of course, you want time to think it over, and
you can't raise money like that on short notice. I'll wait till
Friday noon of this week. We begin to set Saturday's paper at
about four, Friday afternoon, and the forms are locked about two
in the morning. I hope," he added, turning back at the door of
the room, "that you won't find anything disagreeable in your
Saturday morning 'Mercury,' Mr. Derrick."

He went out, closing the door behind him, and in a moment, Magnus
heard the wheels of his buckboard grating on the driveway.

The following morning brought a letter to Magnus from Gethings,
of the San Pueblo ranch, which was situated very close to
Visalia. The letter was to the effect that all around Visalia,
upon the ranches affected by the regrade of the Railroad, men
were arming and drilling, and that the strength of the League in
that quarter was undoubted. "But to refer," continued the
letter, "to a most painful recollection. You will, no doubt,
remember that, at the close of our last committee meeting,
specific charges were made as to fraud in the nomination and
election of one of our commissioners, emanating, most
unfortunately, from the commissioner himself. These charges, my
dear Mr. Derrick, were directed at yourself. How the secrets of
the committee have been noised about, I cannot understand. You
may be, of course, assured of my own unquestioning confidence and
loyalty. However, I regret exceedingly to state not only that
the rumour of the charges referred to above is spreading in this
district, but that also they are made use of by the enemies of
the League. It is to be deplored that some of the Leaguers
themselves--you know, we number in our ranks many small farmers,
ignorant Portuguese and foreigners--have listened to these
stories and have permitted a feeling of uneasiness to develop
among them. Even though it were admitted that fraudulent means
had been employed in the elections, which, of course, I
personally do not admit, I do not think it would make very much
difference in the confidence which the vast majority of the
Leaguers repose in their chiefs. Yet we have so insisted upon
the probity of our position as opposed to Railroad chicanery,
that I believe it advisable to quell this distant suspicion at
once; to publish a denial of these rumoured charges would only be
to give them too much importance. However, can you not write me
a letter, stating exactly how the campaign was conducted, and the
commission nominated and elected? I could show this to some of
the more disaffected, and it would serve to allay all suspicion
on the instant. I think it would be well to write as though the
initiative came, not from me, but from yourself, ignoring this
present letter. I offer this only as a suggestion, and will
confidently endorse any decision you may arrive at."

The letter closed with renewed protestations of confidence.

Magnus was alone when he read this. He put it carefully away in
the filing cabinet in his office, and wiped the sweat from his
forehead and face. He stood for one moment, his hands rigid at
his sides, his fists clinched.

"This is piling up," he muttered, looking blankly at the opposite
wall. "My God, this is piling up. What am I to do?"

Ah, the bitterness of unavailing regret, the anguish of
compromise with conscience, the remorse of a bad deed done in a
moment of excitement. Ah, the humiliation of detection, the
degradation of being caught, caught like a schoolboy pilfering
his fellows' desks, and, worse than all, worse than all, the
consciousness of lost self-respect, the knowledge of a prestige
vanishing, a dignity impaired, knowledge that the grip which held
a multitude in check was trembling, that control was wavering,
that command was being weakened. Then the little tricks to
deceive the crowd, the little subterfuges, the little pretences
that kept up appearances, the lies, the bluster, the pose, the
strut, the gasconade, where once was iron authority; the turning
of the head so as not to see that which could not be prevented;
the suspicion of suspicion, the haunting fear of the Man on the
Street, the uneasiness of the direct glance, the questioning as
to motives--why had this been said, what was meant by that word,
that gesture, that glance?

Wednesday passed, and Thursday. Magnus kept to himself, seeing
no visitors, avoiding even his family. How to break through the
mesh of the net, how to regain the old position, how to prevent
discovery? If there were only some way, some vast, superhuman
effort by which he could rise in his old strength once more,
crushing Lyman with one hand, Genslinger with the other, and for
one more moment, the last, to stand supreme again, indomitable,
the leader; then go to his death, triumphant at the end, his
memory untarnished, his fame undimmed. But the plague-spot was
in himself, knitted forever into the fabric of his being. Though
Genslinger should be silenced, though Lyman should be crushed,
though even the League should overcome the Railroad, though he
should be the acknowledged leader of a resplendent victory, yet
the plague-spot would remain. There was no success for him now.
However conspicuous the outward achievement, he, he himself,
Magnus Derrick, had failed, miserably and irredeemably.

Petty, material complications intruded, sordid considerations.
Even if Genslinger was to be paid, where was the money to come
from? His legal battles with the Railroad, extending now over a
period of many years, had cost him dear; his plan of sowing all
of Los Muertos to wheat, discharging the tenants, had proved
expensive, the campaign resulting in Lyman's election had drawn
heavily upon his account. All along he had been relying upon a
"bonanza crop" to reimburse him. It was not believable that the
Railroad would "jump" Los Muertos, but if this should happen, he
would be left without resources. Ten thousand dollars! Could he
raise the amount? Possibly. But to pay it out to a blackmailer!
To be held up thus in road-agent fashion, without a single means
of redress! Would it not cripple him financially? Genslinger
could do his worst. He, Magnus, would brave it out. Was not his
character above suspicion?

Was it? This letter of Gethings's. Already the murmur of
uneasiness made itself heard. Was this not the thin edge of the
wedge? How the publication of Genslinger's story would drive it
home! How the spark of suspicion would flare into the blaze of
open accusation! There would be investigations. Investigation!
There was terror in the word. He could not stand investigation.
Magnus groaned aloud, covering his head with his clasped hands.
Briber, corrupter of government, ballot-box stuffer, descending
to the level of back-room politicians, of bar-room heelers, he,
Magnus Derrick, statesman of the old school, Roman in his iron
integrity, abandoning a career rather than enter the "new
politics," had, in one moment of weakness. hazarding all, even
honour, on a single stake, taking great chances to achieve great
results, swept away the work of a lifetime.

Gambler that he was, he had at last chanced his highest stake,
his personal honour, in the greatest game of his life, and had
lost.

It was Presley's morbidly keen observation that first noticed the
evidence of a new trouble in the Governor's face and manner.
Presley was sure that Lyman's defection had not so upset him.
The morning after the committee meeting, Magnus had called Harran
and Annie Derrick into the office, and, after telling his wife of
Lyman's betrayal, had forbidden either of them to mention his
name again. His attitude towards his prodigal son was that of
stern, unrelenting resentment. But now, Presley could not fail
to detect traces of a more deep-seated travail. Something was in
the wind. the times were troublous. What next was about to
happen? What fresh calamity impended?

One morning, toward the very end of the week, Presley woke early
in his small, white-painted iron bed. He hastened to get up and
dress. There was much to be done that day. Until late the night
before, he had been at work on a collection of some of his
verses, gathered from the magazines in which they had first
appeared. Presley had received a liberal offer for the
publication of these verses in book form. "The Toilers" was to
be included in this book, and, indeed, was to give it its name--
"The Toilers and Other Poems."  Thus it was that, until the
previous midnight, he had been preparing the collection for
publication, revising, annotating, arranging. The book was to be
sent off that morning.

But also Presley had received a typewritten note from Annixter,
inviting him to Quien Sabe that same day. Annixter explained
that it was Hilma's birthday, and that he had planned a picnic on
the high ground of his ranch, at the headwaters of Broderson
Creek. They were to go in the carry-all, Hilma, Presley, Mrs.
Dyke, Sidney, and himself, and were to make a day of it. They
would leave Quien Sabe at ten in the morning. Presley had at
once resolved to go. He was immensely fond of Annixter--more so
than ever since his marriage with Hilma and the astonishing
transformation of his character. Hilma, as well, was delightful
as Mrs. Annixter; and Mrs. Dyke and the little tad had always
been his friends. He would have a good time.

But nobody was to go into Bonneville that morning with the mail,
and if he wished to send his manuscript, he would have to take it
in himself. He had resolved to do this, getting an early start,
and going on horseback to Quien Sabe, by way of Bonneville.

It was barely six o'clock when Presley sat down to his coffee and
eggs in the dining-room of Los Muertos. The day promised to be
hot, and for the first time, Presley had put on a new khaki
riding suit, very English-looking, though in place of the
regulation top-boots, he wore his laced knee-boots, with a great
spur on the left heel. Harran joined him at breakfast, in his
working clothes of blue canvas. He was bound for the irrigating
ditch to see how the work was getting on there.

"How is the wheat looking?" asked Presley.

"Bully," answered the other, stirring his coffee. "The Governor
has had his usual luck. Practically, every acre of the ranch was
sown to wheat, and everywhere the stand is good. I was over on
Two, day before yesterday, and if nothing happens, I believe it
will go thirty sacks to the acre there. Cutter reports that
there are spots on Four where we will get forty-two or three.
Hooven, too, brought up some wonderful fine ears for me to look
at. The grains were just beginning to show. Some of the ears
carried twenty grains. That means nearly forty bushels of wheat
to every acre. I call it a bonanza year."

"Have you got any mail?" said Presley, rising. "I'm going into
town."

Harran shook his head, and took himself away, and Presley went
down to the stable-corral to get his pony.

As he rode out of the stable-yard and passed by the ranch house,
on the driveway, he was surprised to see Magnus on the lowest
step of the porch.

"Good morning, Governor," called Presley. "Aren't you up pretty
early?"

"Good morning, Pres, my boy."  The Governor came forward and,
putting his hand on the pony's withers, walked along by his side.

"Going to town, Pres?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Can I do anything for you, Governor?"

Magnus drew a sealed envelope from his pocket.

"I wish you would drop in at the office of the Mercury for me,"
he said, "and see Mr. Genslinger personally, and give him this
envelope. It is a package of papers, but they involve a
considerable sum of money, and you must be careful of them. A
few years ago, when our enmity was not so strong, Mr. Genslinger
and I had some business dealings with each other. I thought it
as well just now, considering that we are so openly opposed, to
terminate the whole affair, and break off relations. We came to
a settlement a few days ago. These are the final papers. They
must be given to him in person, Presley. You understand."

Presley cantered on, turning into the county road and holding
northward by the mammoth watering tank and Broderson's popular
windbreak. As he passed Caraher's, he saw the saloon-keeper in
the doorway of his place, and waved him a salutation which the
other returned.

By degrees, Presley had come to consider Caraher in a more
favourable light. He found, to his immense astonishment, that
Caraher knew something of Mill and Bakounin, not, however, from
their books, but from extracts and quotations from their
writings, reprinted in the anarchistic journals to which he
subscribed. More than once, the two had held long conversations,
and from Caraher's own lips, Presley heard the terrible story of
the death of his wife, who had been accidentally killed by
Pinkertons during a "demonstration" of strikers. It invested the
saloon-keeper, in Presley's imagination, with all the dignity of
the tragedy. He could not blame Caraher for being a "red."  He
even wondered how it was the saloon-keeper had not put his
theories into practice, and adjusted his ancient wrong with his
"six inches of plugged gas-pipe."  Presley began to conceive of
the man as a "character."

"You wait, Mr. Presley," the saloon-keeper had once said, when
Presley had protested against his radical ideas. "You don't know
the Railroad yet. Watch it and its doings long enough, and
you'll come over to my way of thinking, too."

It was about half-past seven when Presley reached Bonneville.
The business part of the town was as yet hardly astir; he
despatched his manuscript, and then hurried to the office of the
"Mercury."  Genslinger, as he feared, had not yet put in
appearance, but the janitor of the building gave Presley the
address of the editor's residence, and it was there he found him
in the act of sitting down to breakfast. Presley was hardly
courteous to the little man, and abruptly refused his offer of a
drink. He delivered Magnus's envelope to him and departed.

It had occurred to him that it would not do to present himself at
Quien Sabe on Hilma's birthday, empty-handed, and, on leaving
Genslinger's house, he turned his pony's head toward the business
part of the town again pulling up in front of the jeweller's,
just as the clerk was taking down the shutters.

At the jeweller's, he purchased a little brooch for Hilma and at
the cigar stand in the lobby of the Yosemite House, a box of
superfine cigars, which, when it was too late, he realised that
the master of Quien Sabe would never smoke, holding, as he did,
with defiant inconsistency, to miserable weeds, black, bitter,
and flagrantly doctored, which he bought, three for a nickel, at
Guadalajara.

Presley arrived at Quien Sabe nearly half an hour behind the
appointed time; but, as he had expected, the party were in no way
ready to start. The carry-all, its horses covered with white
fly-nets, stood under a tree near the house, young Vacca dozing
on the seat. Hilma and Sidney, the latter exuberant with a
gayety that all but brought the tears to Presley's eyes, were
making sandwiches on the back porch. Mrs. Dyke was nowhere to be
seen, and Annixter was shaving himself in his bedroom.

This latter put a half-lathered face out of the window as Presley
cantered through the gate, and waved his razor with a beckoning
motion.

"Come on in, Pres," he cried. "Nobody's ready yet. You're hours
ahead of time."

Presley came into the bedroom, his huge spur clinking on the
straw matting. Annixter was without coat, vest or collar, his
blue silk suspenders hung in loops over either hip, his hair was
disordered, the crown lock stiffer than ever.

"Glad to see you, old boy," he announced, as Presley came in.
"No, don't shake hands, I'm all lather. Here, find a chair, will
you? I won't be long."

"I thought you said ten o'clock," observed Presley, sitting down
on the edge of the bed.

"Well, I did, but----"

"But, then again, in a way, you didn't, hey?" his friend
interrupted.

Annixter grunted good-humouredly, and turned to strop his razor.
Presley looked with suspicious disfavour at his suspenders.

"Why is it," he observed, "that as soon as a man is about to get
married, he buys himself pale blue suspenders, silk ones? Think
of it. You, Buck Annixter, with sky-blue, silk suspenders. It
ought to be a strap and a nail."

"Old fool," observed Annixter, whose repartee was the heaving of
brick bats. "Say," he continued, holding the razor from his
face, and jerking his head over his shoulder, while he looked at
Presley's reflection in his mirror; "say, look around. Isn't
this a nifty little room? We refitted the whole house, you know.
Notice she's all painted?"

"I have been looking around," answered Presley, sweeping the room
with a series of glances. He forebore criticism. Annixter was
so boyishly proud of the effect that it would have been unkind to
have undeceived him. Presley looked at the marvellous,
department-store bed of brass, with its brave, gay canopy; the
mill-made wash-stand, with its pitcher and bowl of blinding red
and green china, the straw-framed lithographs of symbolic female
figures against the multi-coloured, new wall-paper; the
inadequate spindle chairs of white and gold; the sphere of tissue
paper hanging from the gas fixture, and the plumes of pampas
grass tacked to the wall at artistic angles, and overhanging two
astonishing oil paintings, in dazzling golden frames.

"Say, how about those paintings, Pres?" inquired Annixter a
little uneasily. "I don't know whether they're good or not.
They were painted by a three-fingered Chinaman in Monterey, and I
got the lot for thirty dollars, frames thrown in. Why, I think
the frames alone are worth thirty dollars."

"Well, so do I," declared Presley. He hastened to change the
subject.

"Buck," he said, "I hear you've brought Mrs. Dyke and Sidney to
live with you. You know, I think that's rather white of you."

"Oh, rot, Pres," muttered Annixter, turning abruptly to his
shaving.

"And you can't fool me, either, old man," Presley continued.
"You're giving this picnic as much for Mrs. Dyke and the little
tad as you are for your wife, just to cheer them up a bit."

"Oh, pshaw, you make me sick."

"Well, that's the right thing to do, Buck, and I'm as glad for
your sake as I am for theirs. There was a time when you would
have let them all go to grass, and never so much as thought of
them. I don't want to seem to be officious, but you've changed
for the better, old man, and I guess I know why. She--" Presley
caught his friend's eye, and added gravely, "She's a good woman,
Buck."

Annixter turned around abruptly, his face flushing under its
lather.

"Pres," he exclaimed, "she's made a man of me. I was a machine
before, and if another man, or woman, or child got in my way, I
rode 'em down, and I never DREAMED of anybody else but myself.
But as soon as I woke up to the fact that I really loved her,
why, it was glory hallelujah all in a minute, and, in a way, I
kind of loved everybody then, and wanted to be everybody's
friend. And I began to see that a fellow can't live FOR himself
any more than he can live BY himself. He's got to think of
others. If he's got brains, he's got to think for the poor ducks
that haven't 'em, and not give 'em a boot in the backsides
because they happen to be stupid; and if he's got money, he's got
to help those that are busted, and if he's got a house, he's got
to think of those that ain't got anywhere to go. I've got a
whole lot of ideas since I began to love Hilma, and just as soon
as I can, I'm going to get in and HELP people, and I'm going to
keep to that idea the rest of my natural life. That ain't much
of a religion, but it's the best I've got, and Henry Ward Beecher
couldn't do any more than that. And it's all come about because
of Hilma, and because we cared for each other."

Presley jumped up, and caught Annixter about the shoulders with
one arm, gripping his hand hard. This absurd figure, with
dangling silk suspenders, lathered chin, and tearful eyes, seemed
to be suddenly invested with true nobility. Beside this
blundering struggle to do right, to help his fellows, Presley's
own vague schemes, glittering systems of reconstruction,
collapsed to ruin, and he himself, with all his refinement, with
all his poetry, culture, and education, stood, a bungler at the
world's workbench.

"You're all RIGHT, old man," he exclaimed, unable to think of
anything adequate. "You're all right. That's the way to talk,
and here, by the way, I brought you a box of cigars."

Annixter stared as Presley laid the box on the edge of the
washstand.

"Old fool," he remarked, "what in hell did you do that for?"

"Oh, just for fun."

"I suppose they're rotten stinkodoras, or you wouldn't give 'em
away."

"This cringing gratitude--" Presley began.

"Shut up," shouted Annixter, and the incident was closed.

Annixter resumed his shaving, and Presley lit a cigarette.

"Any news from Washington?" he queried.

"Nothing that's any good," grunted Annixter. "Hello," he added,
raising his head, "there's somebody in a hurry for sure."

The noise of a horse galloping so fast that the hoof-beats
sounded in one uninterrupted rattle, abruptly made itself heard.
The noise was coming from the direction of the road that led from
the Mission to Quien Sabe. With incredible swiftness, the hoof-
beats drew nearer. There was that in their sound which brought
Presley to his feet. Annixter threw open the window.

"Runaway," exclaimed Presley.

Annixter, with thoughts of the Railroad, and the "Jumping" of the
ranch, flung his hand to his hip pocket.

"What is it, Vacca?" he cried.

Young Vacca, turning in his seat in the carryall, was looking up
the road. All at once, he jumped from his place, and dashed
towards the window.
"Dyke," he shouted. "Dyke, it's Dyke."

While the words were yet in his mouth, the sound of the hoof-
beats rose to a roar, and a great, bell-toned voice shouted:

"Annixter, Annixter, Annixter!"

It was Dyke's voice, and the next instant he shot into view in
the open square in front of the house.

"Oh, my God!" cried Presley.

The ex-engineer threw the horse on its haunches, springing from
the saddle; and, as he did so, the beast collapsed, shuddering,
to the ground. Annixter sprang from the window, and ran forward,
Presley following.

There was Dyke, hatless, his pistol in his hand, a gaunt terrible
figure the beard immeasurably long, the cheeks fallen in, the
eyes sunken. His clothes ripped and torn by weeks of flight and
hiding in the chaparral, were ragged beyond words, the boots were
shreds of leather, bloody to the ankle with furious spurring.

"Annixter," he shouted, and again, rolling his sunken eyes,
"Annixter, Annixter!"

"Here, here," cried Annixter.

The other turned, levelling his pistol.

"Give me a horse, give me a horse, quick, do you hear? Give me a
horse, or I'll shoot."

"Steady, steady. That won't do. You know me, Dyke. We're
friends here."

The other lowered his weapon.

"I know, I know," he panted. "I'd forgotten. I'm unstrung, Mr.
Annixter, and I'm running for my life. They're not ten minutes
behind me."

"Come on, come on," shouted Annixter, dashing stablewards, his
suspenders flying.

"Here's a horse."

"Mine?" exclaimed Presley. "He wouldn't carry you a mile."

Annixter was already far ahead, trumpeting orders.

"The buckskin," he yelled. "Get her out, Billy. Where's the
stable-man? Get out that buckskin. Get out that saddle."

Then followed minutes of furious haste, Presley, Annixter, Billy
the stable-man, and Dyke himself, darting hither and thither
about the yellow mare, buckling, strapping, cinching, their lips
pale, their fingers trembling with excitement.

"Want anything to eat?" Annixter's head was under the saddle flap
as he tore at the cinch. "Want anything to eat? Want any money?
Want a gun?"

"Water," returned Dyke. "They've watched every spring. I'm
killed with thirst."

"There's the hydrant. Quick now."

"I got as far as the Kern River, but they turned me back," he
said between breaths as he drank.

"Don't stop to talk."

"My mother, and the little tad----"

"I'm taking care of them. They're stopping with me."

Here?

"You won't see 'em; by the Lord, you won't. You'll get away.
Where's that back cinch strap, BILLY? God damn it, are you going
to let him be shot before he can get away? Now, Dyke, up you go.
She'll kill herself running before they can catch you."

"God bless you, Annixter. Where's the little tad? Is she well,
Annixter, and the mother? Tell them----"

"Yes, yes, yes. All clear, Pres? Let her have her own gait,
Dyke. You're on the best horse in the county now. Let go her
head, Billy. Now, Dyke,--shake hands? You bet I will. That's
all right. Yes, God bless you. Let her go. You're OFF."

Answering the goad of the spur, and already quivering with the
excitement of the men who surrounded her, the buckskin cleared
the stable-corral in two leaps; then, gathering her legs under
her, her head low, her neck stretched out, swung into the road
from out the driveway disappearing in a blur of dust.

With the agility of a monkey, young Vacca swung himself into the
framework of the artesian well, clambering aloft to its very top.
He swept the country with a glance.

"Well?" demanded Annixter from the ground. The others cocked
their heads to listen.

"I see him; I see him!" shouted Vacca. "He's going like the
devil. He's headed for Guadalajara."

"Look back, up the road, toward the Mission. Anything there?"

The answer came down in a shout of apprehension.

"There's a party of men. Three or four--on horse-back. There's
dogs with 'em. They're coming this way. Oh, I can hear the
dogs. And, say, oh, say, there's another party coming down the
Lower Road, going towards Guadalajara, too. They got guns. I
can see the shine of the barrels. And, oh, Lord, say, there's
three more men on horses coming down on the jump from the hills
on the Los Muertos stock range. They're making towards
Guadalajara. And I can hear the courthouse bell in Bonneville
ringing. Say, the whole county is up."

As young Vacca slid down to the ground, two small black-and-tan
hounds, with flapping ears and lolling tongues, loped into view
on the road in front of the house. They were grey with dust,
their noses were to the ground. At the gate where Dyke had
turned into the ranch house grounds, they halted in confusion a
moment. One started to follow the highwayman's trail towards the
stable corral, but the other, quartering over the road with
lightning swiftness, suddenly picked up the new scent leading on
towards Guadalajara. He tossed his head in the air, and Presley
abruptly shut his hands over his ears.

Ah, that terrible cry! deep-toned, reverberating like the
bourdon of a great bell. It was the trackers exulting on the
trail of the pursued, the prolonged, raucous howl, eager,
ominous, vibrating with the alarm of the tocsin, sullen with the
heavy muffling note of death. But close upon the bay of the
hounds, came the gallop of horses. Five men, their eyes upon the
hounds, their rifles across their pommels, their horses reeking
and black with sweat, swept by in a storm of dust, glinting
hoofs, and streaming manes.

"That was Delaney's gang," exclaimed Annixter. "I saw him."

"The other was that chap Christian," said Vacca, "S. Behrman's
cousin. He had two deputies with him; and the chap in the white
slouch hat was the sheriff from Visalia."

"By the Lord, they aren't far behind," declared Annixter.

As the men turned towards the house again they saw Hilma and Mrs.
Dyke in the doorway of the little house where the latter lived.
They were looking out, bewildered, ignorant of what had happened.
But on the porch of the Ranch house itself, alone, forgotten in
the excitement, Sidney--the little tad--stood, with pale face and
serious, wide-open eyes. She had seen everything, and had
understood. She said nothing. Her head inclined towards the
roadway, she listened to the faint and distant baying of the
dogs.

Dyke thundered across the railway tracks by the depot at
Guadalajara not five minutes ahead of his pursuers. Luck seemed
to have deserted him. The station, usually so quiet, was now
occupied by the crew of a freight train that lay on the down
track; while on the up line, near at hand and headed in the same
direction, was a detached locomotive, whose engineer and fireman
recognized him, he was sure, as the buckskin leaped across the
rails.

He had had no time to formulate a plan since that morning, when,
tortured with thirst, he had ventured near the spring at the
headwaters of Broderson Creek, on Quien Sabe, and had all but
fallen into the hands of the posse that had been watching for
that very move. It was useless now to regret that he had tried
to foil pursuit by turning back on his tracks to regain the
mountains east of Bonneville. Now Delaney was almost on him. To
distance that posse, was the only thing to be thought of now. It
was no longer a question of hiding till pursuit should flag; they
had driven him out from the shelter of the mountains, down into
this populous countryside, where an enemy might be met with at
every turn of the road. Now it was life or death. He would
either escape or be killed. He knew very well that he would
never allow himself to be taken alive. But he had no mind to be
killed--to turn and fight--till escape was blocked. His one
thought was to leave pursuit behind.

Weeks of flight had sharpened Dyke's every sense. As he turned
into the Upper Road beyond Guadalajara, he saw the three men
galloping down from Derrick's stock range, making for the road
ahead of him. They would cut him off there. He swung the
buckskin about. He must take the Lower Road across Los Muertos
from Guadalajara, and he must reach it before Delaney's dogs and
posse. Back he galloped, the buckskin measuring her length with
every leap. Once more the station came in sight. Rising in his
stirrups, he looked across the fields in the direction of the
Lower Road. There was a cloud of dust there. From a wagon? No,
horses on the run, and their riders were armed! He could catch
the flash of gun barrels. They were all closing in on him,
converging on Guadalajara by every available road. The Upper
Road west of Guadalajara led straight to Bonneville. That way
was impossible. Was he in a trap? Had the time for fighting
come at last?

But as Dyke neared the depot at Guadalajara, his eye fell upon
the detached locomotive that lay quietly steaming on the up line,
and with a thrill of exultation, he remembered that he was an
engineer born and bred. Delaney's dogs were already to be heard,
and the roll of hoofs on the Lower Road was dinning in his ears,
as he leaped from the buckskin before the depot. The train crew
scattered like frightened sheep before him, but Dyke ignored
them. His pistol was in his hand as, once more on foot, he
sprang toward the lone engine.

"Out of the cab," he shouted. "Both of you. Quick, or I'll kill
you both."

The two men tumbled from the iron apron of the tender as Dyke
swung himself up, dropping his pistol on the floor of the cab and
reaching with the old instinct for the familiar levers.
The great compound hissed and trembled as the steam was released,
and the huge drivers stirred, turning slowly on the tracks. But
there was a shout. Delaney's posse, dogs and men, swung into
view at the turn of the road, their figures leaning over as they
took the curve at full speed. Dyke threw everything wide open
and caught up his revolver. From behind came the challenge of a
Winchester. The party on the Lower Road were even closer than
Delaney. They had seen his manoeuvre, and the first shot of the
fight shivered the cab windows above the engineer's head.

But spinning futilely at first, the drivers of the engine at last
caught the rails. The engine moved, advanced, travelled past the
depot and the freight train, and gathering speed, rolled out on
the track beyond. Smoke, black and boiling, shot skyward from
the stack; not a joint that did not shudder with the mighty
strain of the steam; hut the great iron brute--one of Baldwin's
newest and best--came to call, obedient and docile as soon as
ever the great pulsing heart of it felt a master hand upon its
levers. It gathered its speed, bracing its steel muscles, its
thews of iron, and roared out upon the open track, filling the
air with the rasp of its tempest-breath, blotting the sunshine
with the belch of its hot, thick smoke. Already it was lessening
in the distance, when Delaney, Christian, and the sheriff of
Visalia dashed up to the station.

The posse had seen everything.

"Stuck. Curse the luck!" vociferated the cow-Puncher.

But the sheriff was already out of the saddle and into the
telegraph office.

"There's a derailing switch between here and Pixley, isn't
there?" he cried.

"Yes."

"Wire ahead to open it. We'll derail him there. Come on;" he
turned to Delaney and the others. They sprang into the cab of
the locomotive that was attached to the freight train.

"Name of the State of California," shouted the sheriff to the
bewildered engineer. "Cut off from your train."

The sheriff was a man to be obeyed without hesitating. Time was
not allowed the crew of the freight train for debating as to the
right or the wrong of requisitioning the engine, and before
anyone thought of the safety or danger of the affair, the freight
engine was already flying out upon the down line, hot in pursuit
of Dyke, now far ahead upon the up track.

"I remember perfectly well there's a derailing switch between
here and Pixley," shouted the sheriff above the roar of the
locomotive. "They use it in case they have to derail runaway
engines. It runs right off into the country. We'll pile him up
there. Ready with your guns, boys."

"If we should meet another train coming up on this track----"
protested the frightened engineer.

"Then we'd jump or be smashed. Hi! look! There he is."  As the
freight engine rounded a curve, Dyke's engine came into view,
shooting on some quarter of a mile ahead of them, wreathed in
whirling smoke.

"The switch ain't much further on," clamoured the engineer. "You
can see Pixley now."

Dyke, his hand on the grip of the valve that controlled the
steam, his head out of the cab window, thundered on. He was back
in his old place again; once more he was the engineer; once more
he felt the engine quiver under him; the familiar noises were in
his ears; the familiar buffeting of the wind surged, roaring at
his face; the familiar odours of hot steam and smoke reeked in
his nostrils, and on either side of him, parallel panoramas, the
two halves of the landscape sliced, as it were, in two by the
clashing wheels of his engine, streamed by in green and brown
blurs.

He found himself settling to the old position on the cab seat,
leaning on his elbow from the window, one hand on the controller.
All at once, the instinct of the pursuit that of late had become
so strong within him, prompted him to shoot a glance behind. He
saw the other engine on the down line, plunging after him,
rocking from side to side with the fury of its gallop. Not yet
had he shaken the trackers from his heels; not yet was he out of
the reach of danger. He set his teeth and, throwing open the
fire-door, stoked vigorously for a few moments. The indicator of
the steam gauge rose; his speed increased; a glance at the
telegraph poles told him he was doing his fifty miles an hour.
The freight engine behind him was never built for that pace.
Barring the terrible risk of accident, his chances were good.

But suddenly--the engineer dominating the highway-man--he shut
off his steam and threw back his brake to the extreme notch.
Directly ahead of him rose a semaphore, placed at a point where
evidently a derailing switch branched from the line. The
semaphore's arm was dropped over the track, setting the danger
signal that showed the switch was open.

In an instant, Dyke saw the trick. They had meant to smash him
here; had been clever enough, quick-witted enough to open the
switch, but had forgotten the automatic semaphore that worked
simultaneously with the movement of the rails. To go forward was
certain destruction. Dyke reversed. There was nothing for it
but to go back. With a wrench and a spasm of all its metal
fibres, the great compound braced itself, sliding with rigid
wheels along the rails. Then, as Dyke applied the reverse, it
drew back from the greater danger, returning towards the less.
Inevitably now the two engines, one on the up, the other on the
down line, must meet and pass each other.

Dyke released the levers, reaching for his revolver. The
engineer once more became the highwayman, in peril of his life.
Now, beyond all doubt, the time for fighting was at hand.

The party in the heavy freight engine, that lumbered after in
pursuit, their eyes fixed on the smudge of smoke on ahead that
marked the path of the fugitive, suddenly raised a shout.

"He's stopped. He's broke down. Watch, now, and see if he jumps
off."

"Broke NOTHING. HE'S COMING BACK. Ready, now, he's got to pass
us."

The engineer applied the brakes, but the heavy freight
locomotive, far less mobile than Dyke's flyer, was slow to obey.
The smudge on the rails ahead grew swiftly larger.

"He's coming. He's coming--look out, there's a shot. He's
shooting already."

A bright, white sliver of wood leaped into the air from the sooty
window sill of the cab.

"Fire on him! Fire on him!"

While the engines were yet two hundred yards apart, the duel
began, shot answering shot, the sharp staccato reports
punctuating the thunder of wheels and the clamour of steam.

Then the ground trembled and rocked; a roar as of heavy ordnance
developed with the abruptness of an explosion. The two engines
passed each other, the men firing the while, emptying their
revolvers, shattering wood, shivering glass, the bullets clanging
against the metal work as they struck and struck and struck. The
men leaned from the cabs towards each other, frantic with
excitement, shouting curses, the engines rocking, the steam
roaring; confusion whirling in the scene like the whirl of a
witch's dance, the white clouds of steam, the black eddies from
the smokestack, the blue wreaths from the hot mouths of
revolvers, swirling together in a blinding maze of vapour,
spinning around them, dazing them, dizzying them, while the head
rang with hideous clamour and the body twitched and trembled with
the leap and jar of the tumult of machinery.

Roaring, clamouring, reeking with the smell of powder and hot
oil, spitting death, resistless, huge, furious, an abrupt vision
of chaos, faces, rage-distorted, peering through smoke, hands
gripping outward from sudden darkness, prehensile, malevolent;
terrible as thunder, swift as lightning, the two engines met and
passed.

"He's hit," cried Delaney. "I know I hit him. He can't go far
now. After him again. He won't dare go through Bonneville."

It was true. Dyke had stood between cab and tender throughout
all the duel, exposed, reckless, thinking only of attack and not
of defence, and a bullet from one of the pistols had grazed his
hip. How serious was the wound he did not know, but he had no
thought of giving up. He tore back through the depot at
Guadalajara in a storm of bullets, and, clinging to the broken
window ledge of his cab, was carried towards Bonneville, on over
the Long Trestle and Broderson Creek and through the open country
between the two ranches of Los Muertos and Quien Sabe.

But to go on to Bonneville meant certain death. Before, as well
as behind him, the roads were now blocked. Once more he thought
of the mountains. He resolved to abandon the engine and make
another final attempt to get into the shelter of the hills in the
northernmost corner of Quien Sabe. He set his teeth. He would
not give in. There was one more fight left in him yet. Now to
try the final hope.

He slowed the engine down, and, reloading his revolver, jumped
from the platform to the road. He looked about him, listening.
All around him widened an ocean of wheat. There was no one in
sight.

The released engine, alone, unattended, drew slowly away from
him, jolting ponderously over the rail joints. As he watched it
go, a certain indefinite sense of abandonment, even in that
moment, came over Dyke. His last friend, that also had been his
first, was leaving him. He remembered that day, long ago, when
he had opened the throttle of his first machine. To-day, it was
leaving him alone, his last friend turning against him. Slowly
it was going back towards Bonneville, to the shops of the
Railroad, the camp of the enemy, that enemy that had ruined him
and wrecked him. For the last time in his life, he had been the
engineer. Now, once more, he became the highwayman, the outlaw
against whom all hands were raised, the fugitive skulking in the
mountains, listening for the cry of dogs.

But he would not give in. They had not broken him yet. Never,
while he could fight, would he allow S. Behrman the triumph of
his capture.

He found his wound was not bad. He plunged into the wheat on
Quien Sabe, making northward for a division house that rose with
its surrounding trees out of the wheat like an island. He
reached it, the blood squelching in his shoes. But the sight of
two men, Portuguese farm-hands, staring at him from an angle of
the barn, abruptly roused him to action. He sprang forward with
peremptory commands, demanding a horse.

At Guadalajara, Delaney and the sheriff descended from the
freight engine.

"Horses now," declared the sheriff. "He won't go into
Bonneville, that's certain. He'll leave the engine between here
and there, and strike off into the country. We'll follow after
him now in the saddle. Soon as he leaves his engine, HE'S on
foot. We've as good as got him now."

Their horses, including even the buckskin mare that Dyke had
ridden, were still at the station. The party swung themselves
up, Delaney exclaiming, "Here's MY mount," as he bestrode the
buckskin.

At Guadalajara, the two bloodhounds were picked up again. Urging
the jaded horses to a gallop, the party set off along the Upper
Road, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left for traces of
Dyke's abandonment of the engine.

Three miles beyond the Long Trestle, they found S. Behrman
holding his saddle horse by the bridle, and looking attentively
at a trail that had been broken through the standing wheat on
Quien Sabe. The party drew rein.

"The engine passed me on the tracks further up, and empty," said
S. Behrman. "Boys, I think he left her here."

But before anyone could answer, the bloodhounds gave tongue
again, as they picked up the scent.

"That's him," cried S. Behrman. "Get on, boys."

They dashed forward, following the hounds. S. Behrman
laboriously climbed to his saddle, panting, perspiring, mopping
the roll of fat over his coat collar, and turned in after them,
trotting along far in the rear, his great stomach and tremulous
jowl shaking with the horse's gait.

"What a day," he murmured. "What a day."

Dyke's trail was fresh, and was followed as easily as if made on
new-fallen snow. In a short time, the posse swept into the open
space around the division house. The two Portuguese were still
there, wide-eyed, terribly excited.

Yes, yes, Dyke had been there not half an hour since, had held
them up, taken a horse and galloped to the northeast, towards the
foothills at the headwaters of Broderson Creek.

On again, at full gallop, through the young wheat, trampling it
under the flying hoofs; the hounds hot on the scent, baying
continually; the men, on fresh mounts, secured at the division
house, bending forward in their saddles, spurring relentlessly.
S. Behrman jolted along far in the rear.

And even then, harried through an open country, where there was
no place to hide, it was a matter of amazement how long a chase
the highwayman led them. Fences were passed; fences whose barbed
wire had been slashed apart by the fugitive's knife. The ground
rose under foot; the hills were at hand; still the pursuit held
on. The sun, long past the meridian, began to turn earthward.
Would night come on before they were up with him?

"Look! Look! There he is! Quick, there he goes!"

High on the bare slope of the nearest hill, all the posse,
looking in the direction of Delaney's gesture, saw the figure of
a horseman emerge from an arroyo, filled with chaparral, and
struggle at a labouring gallop straight up the slope. Suddenly,
every member of the party shouted aloud. The horse had fallen,
pitching the rider from the saddle. The man rose to his feet,
caught at the bridle, missed it and the horse dashed on alone.
The man, pausing for a second looked around, saw the chase
drawing nearer, then, turning back, disappeared in the chaparral.
Delaney raised a great whoop.

"We've got you now."
Into the slopes and valleys of the hills dashed the band of
horsemen, the trail now so fresh that it could be easily
discerned by all. On and on it led them, a furious, wild
scramble straight up the slopes. The minutes went by. The dry
bed of a rivulet was passed; then another fence; then a tangle of
manzanita; a meadow of wild oats, full of agitated cattle; then
an arroyo, thick with chaparral and scrub oaks, and then, without
warning, the pistol shots ripped out and ran from rider to rider
with the rapidity of a gatling discharge, and one of the deputies
bent forward in the saddle, both hands to his face, the blood
jetting from between his fingers.

Dyke was there, at bay at last, his back against a bank of rock,
the roots of a fallen tree serving him as a rampart, his revolver
smoking in his hand.

"You're under arrest, Dyke," cried the sheriff. "It's not the
least use to fight. The whole country is up."

Dyke fired again, the shot splintering the foreleg of the horse
the sheriff rode.

The posse, four men all told--the wounded deputy having crawled
out of the fight after Dyke's first shot--fell back after the
preliminary fusillade, dismounted, and took shelter behind rocks
and trees. On that rugged ground, fighting from the saddle was
impracticable. Dyke, in the meanwhile, held his fire, for he
knew that, once his pistol was empty, he would never be allowed
time to reload.

"Dyke," called the sheriff again, "for the last time, I summon
you to surrender."

Dyke did not reply. The sheriff, Delaney, and the man named
Christian conferred together in a low voice. Then Delaney and
Christian left the others, making a wide detour up the sides of
the arroyo, to gain a position to the left and somewhat to the
rear of Dyke.

But it was at this moment that S. Behrman arrived. It could not
be said whether it was courage or carelessness that brought the
Railroad's agent within reach of Dyke's revolver. Possibly he
was really a brave man; possibly occupied with keeping an
uncertain seat upon the back of his labouring, scrambling horse,
he had not noticed that he was so close upon that scene of
battle. He certainly did not observe the posse lying upon the
ground behind sheltering rocks and trees, and before anyone could
call a warning, he had ridden out into the open, within thirty
paces of Dyke's intrenchment.

Dyke saw. There was the arch-enemy; the man of all men whom he
most hated; the man who had ruined him, who had exasperated him
and driven him to crime, and who had instigated tireless pursuit
through all those past terrible weeks. Suddenly, inviting death,
he leaped up and forward; he had forgotten all else, all other
considerations, at the sight of this man. He would die, gladly,
so only that S. Behrman died before him.

"I've got YOU, anyway," he shouted, as he ran forward.

The muzzle of the weapon was not ten feet from S. Behrman's huge
stomach as Dyke drew the trigger. Had the cartridge exploded,
death, certain and swift, would have followed, but at this, of
all moments, the revolver missed fire.

S. Behrman, with an unexpected agility, leaped from the saddle,
and, keeping his horse between him and Dyke, ran, dodging and
ducking, from tree to tree. His first shot a failure, Dyke fired
again and again at his enemy, emptying his revolver, reckless of
consequences. His every shot went wild, and before he could draw
his knife, the whole posse was upon him.

Without concerted plans, obeying no signal but the promptings of
the impulse that snatched, unerring, at opportunity--the men,
Delaney and Christian from one side, the sheriff and the deputy
from the other, rushed in. They did not fire. It was Dyke alive
they wanted. One of them had a riata snatched from a saddle-
pommel, and with this they tried to bind him.

The fight was four to one--four men with law on their side, to
one wounded freebooter, half-starved, exhausted by days and
nights of pursuit, worn down with loss of sleep, thirst,
privation, and the grinding, nerve-racking consciousness of an
ever-present peril.

They swarmed upon him from all sides, gripping at his legs, at
his arms, his throat, his head, striking, clutching, kicking,
falling to the ground, rolling over and over, now under, now
above, now staggering forward, now toppling back.
Still Dyke fought. Through that scrambling, struggling group,
through that maze of twisting bodies, twining arms, straining
legs, S. Behrman saw him from moment to moment, his face flaming,
his eyes bloodshot, his hair matted with sweat. Now he was down,
pinned under, two men across his legs, and now half-way up again,
struggling to one knee. Then upright again, with half his
enemies hanging on his back. His colossal strength seemed
doubled; when his arms were held, he fought bull-like with his
head. A score of times, it seemed as if they were about to
secure him finally and irrevocably, and then he would free an
arm, a leg, a shoulder, and the group that, for the fraction of
an instant, had settled, locked and rigid, on its prey, would
break up again as he flung a man from him, reeling and bloody,
and he himself twisting, squirming, dodging, his great fists
working like pistons, backed away, dragging and carrying the
others with him.

More than once, he loosened almost every grip, and for an instant
stood nearly free, panting, rolling his eyes, his clothes torn
from his body, bleeding, dripping with sweat, a terrible figure,
nearly free. The sheriff, under his breath, uttered an
exclamation:

"By God, he'll get away yet."

S. Behrman watched the fight complacently.

"That all may show obstinacy," he commented, "but it don't show
common sense."

Yet, however Dyke might throw off the clutches and fettering
embraces that encircled him, however he might disintegrate and
scatter the band of foes that heaped themselves upon him, however
he might gain one instant of comparative liberty, some one of his
assailants always hung, doggedly, blindly to an arm, a leg, or a
foot, and the others, drawing a second's breath, closed in again,
implacable, unconquerable, ferocious, like hounds upon a wolf.

At length, two of the men managed to bring Dyke's wrists close
enough together to allow the sheriff to snap the handcuffs on.
Even then, Dyke, clasping his hands, and using the handcuffs
themselves as a weapon, knocked down Delaney by the crushing
impact of the steel bracelets upon the cow-puncher's forehead.
But he could no longer protect himself from attacks from behind,
and the riata was finally passed around his body, pinioning his
arms to his sides. After this it was useless to resist.

The wounded deputy sat with his back to a rock, holding his
broken jaw in both hands. The sheriff's horse, with its
splintered foreleg, would have to be shot. Delaney's head was
cut from temple to cheekbone. The right wrist of the sheriff was
all but dislocated. The other deputy was so exhausted he had to
be helped to his horse. But Dyke was taken.

He himself had suddenly lapsed into semi-unconsciousness, unable
to walk. They sat him on the buckskin, S. Behrman supporting
him, the sheriff, on foot, leading the horse by the bridle. The
little procession formed, and descended from the hills, turning
in the direction of Bonneville. A special train, one car and an
engine, would be made up there, and the highwayman would sleep in
the Visalia jail that night.

Delaney and S. Behrman found themselves in the rear of the
cavalcade as it moved off. The cow-puncher turned to his chief:

"Well, captain," he said, still panting, as he bound up his
forehead; "well--we GOT him."

VI

Osterman cut his wheat that summer before any of the other
ranchers, and as soon as his harvest was over organized a jack-
rabbit drive. Like Annixter's barn-dance, it was to be an event
in which all the country-side should take part. The drive was to
begin on the most western division of the Osterman ranch, whence
it would proceed towards the southeast, crossing into the
northern part of Quien Sabe--on which Annixter had sown no wheat--
and ending in the hills at the headwaters of Broderson Creek,
where a barbecue was to be held.

Early on the morning of the day of the drive, as Harran and
Presley were saddling their horses before the stables on Los
Muertos, the foreman, Phelps, remarked:

"I was into town last night, and I hear that Christian has been
after Ruggles early and late to have him put him in possession
here on Los Muertos, and Delaney is doing the same for Quien
Sabe."

It was this man Christian, the real estate broker, and cousin of
S. Behrman, one of the main actors in the drama of Dyke's
capture, who had come forward as a purchaser of Los Muertos when
the Railroad had regraded its holdings on the ranches around
Bonneville.

"He claims, of course," Phelps went on, "that when he bought Los
Muertos of the Railroad he was guaranteed possession, and he
wants the place in time for the harvest."

"That's almost as thin," muttered Harran as he thrust the bit
into his horse's mouth. "as Delaney buying Annixter's Home
ranch. That slice of Quien Sabe, according to the Railroad's
grading, is worth about ten thousand dollars; yes, even fifteen,
and I don't believe Delaney is worth the price of a good horse.
Why, those people don't even try to preserve appearances. Where
would Christian find the money to buy Los Muertos? There's no
one man in all Bonneville rich enough to do it. Damned rascals!
as if we didn't see that Christian and Delaney are S. Behrman's
right and left hands. Well, he'll get 'em cut off," he cried
with sudden fierceness, "if he comes too near the machine."

"How is it, Harran," asked Presley as the two young men rode out
of the stable yard, "how is it the Railroad gang can do anything
before the Supreme Court hands down a decision?"

"Well, you know how they talk," growled Harran. "They have
claimed that the cases taken up to the Supreme Court were not
test cases as WE claim they ARE, and that because neither
Annixter nor the Governor appealed, they've lost their cases by
default. It's the rottenest kind of sharp practice, but it won't
do any good. The League is too strong. They won't dare move on
us yet awhile. Why, Pres, the moment they'd try to jump any of
these ranches around here, they would have six hundred rifles
cracking at them as quick as how-do-you-do. Why, it would take a
regiment of U. S. soldiers to put any one of us off our land.
No, sir; they know the League means business this time."

As Presley and Harran trotted on along the county road they
continually passed or overtook other horsemen, or buggies, carry-
alls, buck-boards or even farm wagons, going in the same
direction. These were full of the farming people from all the
country round about Bonneville, on their way to the rabbit drive--
the same people seen at the barn-dance--in their Sunday finest,
the girls in muslin frocks and garden hats, the men with linen
dusters over their black clothes; the older women in prints and
dotted calicoes. Many of these latter had already taken off
their bonnets--the day was very hot--and pinning them in
newspapers, stowed them under the seats. They tucked their
handkerchiefs into the collars of their dresses, or knotted them
about their fat necks, to keep out the dust. From the axle trees
of the vehicles swung carefully covered buckets of galvanised
iron, in which the lunch was packed. The younger children, the
boys with great frilled collars, the girls with ill-fitting shoes
cramping their feet, leaned from the sides of buggy and carry-
all, eating bananas and "macaroons," staring about with ox-like
stolidity. Tied to the axles, the dogs followed the horses'
hoofs with lolling tongues coated with dust.

The California summer lay blanket-wise and smothering over all
the land. The hills, bone-dry, were browned and parched. The
grasses and wild-oats, sear and yellow, snapped like glass
filaments under foot. The roads, the bordering fences, even the
lower leaves and branches of the trees, were thick and grey with
dust. All colour had been burned from the landscape, except in
the irrigated patches, that in the waste of brown and dull yellow
glowed like oases.

The wheat, now close to its maturity, had turned from pale yellow
to golden yellow, and from that to brown. Like a gigantic
carpet, it spread itself over all the land. There was nothing
else to be seen but the limitless sea of wheat as far as the eye
could reach, dry, rustling, crisp and harsh in the rare breaths
of hot wind out of the southeast.
As Harran and Presley went along the county road, the number of
vehicles and riders increased. They overtook and passed Hooven
and his family in the former's farm wagon, a saddled horse tied
to the back board. The little Dutchman, wearing the old frock
coat of Magnus Derrick, and a new broad-brimmed straw hat, sat on
the front seat with Mrs. Hooven. The little girl Hilda, and the
older daughter Minna, were behind them on a board laid across the
sides of the wagon. Presley and Harran stopped to shake hands.
"Say," cried Hooven, exhibiting an old, but extremely well kept,
rifle, "say, bei Gott, me, I tek some schatz at dose rebbit, you
bedt. Ven he hef shtop to run und sit oop soh, bei der hind
laigs on, I oop mit der guhn und--bing! I cetch um."

"The marshals won't allow you to shoot, Bismarck," observed
Presley, looking at Minna.

Hooven doubled up with merriment.

"Ho! dot's hell of some fine joak. Me, I'M ONE OAF DOSE
MAIRSCHELL MINE-SELLUF," he roared with delight, beating his
knee. To his notion, the joke was irresistible. All day long,
he could be heard repeating it. "Und Mist'r Praicelie, he say,
'Dose mairschell woand led you schoot, Bismarck,' und ME, ach
Gott, ME, aindt I mine-selluf one oaf dose mairschell?"

As the two friends rode on, Presley had in his mind the image of
Minna Hooven, very pretty in a clean gown of pink gingham, a
cheap straw sailor hat from a Bonneville store on her blue black
hair. He remembered her very pale face, very red lips and eyes
of greenish blue,--a pretty girl certainly, always trailing a
group of men behind her. Her love affairs were the talk of all
Los Muertos.

"I hope that Hooven girl won't go to the bad," Presley said to
Harran.

"Oh, she's all right," the other answered. "There's nothing
vicious about Minna, and I guess she'll marry that foreman on the
ditch gang, right enough."

"Well, as a matter of course, she's a good girl," Presley
hastened to reply, "only she's too pretty for a poor girl, and
too sure of her prettiness besides. That's the kind," he
continued, "who would find it pretty easy to go wrong if they
lived in a city."

Around Caraher's was a veritable throng. Saddle horses and
buggies by the score were clustered underneath the shed or
hitched to the railings in front of the watering trough. Three
of Broderson's Portuguese tenants and a couple of workmen from
the railroad shops in Bonneville were on the porch, already very
drunk.

Continually, young men, singly or in groups, came from the door-
way, wiping their lips with sidelong gestures of the hand. The
whole place exhaled the febrile bustle of the saloon on a holiday
morning.

The procession of teams streamed on through Bonneville,
reenforced at every street corner. Along the Upper Road from
Quien Sabe and Guadalajara came fresh auxiliaries, Spanish-
Mexicans from the town itself,--swarthy young men on capering
horses, dark-eyed girls and matrons, in red and black and yellow,
more Portuguese in brand-new overalls, smoking long thin cigars.
Even Father Sarria appeared.

"Look," said Presley, "there goes Annixter and Hilma. He's got
his buckskin back."  The master of Quien Sabe, in top laced boots
and campaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, followed along beside the
carry-all. Hilma and Mrs. Derrick were on the back seat, young
Vacca driving. Harran and Presley bowed, taking off their hats.

"Hello, hello, Pres," cried Annixter, over the heads of the
intervening crowd, standing up in his stirrups and waving a hand,
"Great day! What a mob, hey? Say when this thing is over and
everybody starts to walk into the barbecue, come and have lunch
with us. I'll look for you, you and Harran. Hello, Harran,
where's the Governor?"

"He didn't come to-day," Harran shouted back, as the crowd
carried him further away from Annixter. "Left him and old
Broderson at Los Muertos."

The throng emerged into the open country again, spreading out
upon the Osterman ranch. From all directions could be seen
horses and buggies driving across the stubble, converging upon
the rendezvous. Osterman's Ranch house was left to the eastward;
the army of the guests hurrying forward--for it began to be late--
to where around a flag pole, flying a red flag, a vast crowd of
buggies and horses was already forming. The marshals began to
appear. Hooven, descending from the farm wagon, pinned his white
badge to his hat brim and mounted his horse. Osterman, in
marvellous riding clothes of English pattern, galloped up and
down upon his best thoroughbred, cracking jokes with everybody,
chaffing, joshing, his great mouth distended in a perpetual grin
of amiability.

"Stop here, stop here," he vociferated, dashing along in front of
Presley and Harran, waving his crop. The procession came to a
halt, the horses' heads pointing eastward. The line began to be
formed. The marshals perspiring, shouting, fretting, galloping
about, urging this one forward, ordering this one back, ranged
the thousands of conveyances and cavaliers in a long line, shaped
like a wide open crescent. Its wings, under the command of
lieutenants, were slightly advanced. Far out before its centre
Osterman took his place, delighted beyond expression at his
conspicuousness, posing for the gallery, making his horse dance.

"Wail, aindt dey gowun to gommence den bretty soohn," exclaimed
Mrs. Hooven, who had taken her husband's place on the forward
seat of the wagon.

"I never was so warm," murmured Minna, fanning herself with her
hat. All seemed in readiness. For miles over the flat expanse
of stubble, curved the interminable lines of horses and vehicles.
At a guess, nearly five thousand people were present. The drive
was one of the largest ever held. But no start was made;
immobilized, the vast crescent stuck motionless under the blazing
sun. Here and there could be heard voices uplifted in jocular
remonstrance.

"Oh, I say, get a move on, somebody."

"ALL aboard."

"Say, I'll take root here pretty soon."

Some took malicious pleasure in starting false alarms.

"Ah, HERE we go."

"Off, at last."

"We're off."

Invariably these jokes fooled some one in the line. An old man,
or some old woman, nervous, hard of hearing, always gathered up
the reins and started off, only to be hustled and ordered back
into the line by the nearest marshal. This manoeuvre never
failed to produce its effect of hilarity upon those near at hand.
Everybody laughed at the blunderer, the joker jeering audibly.

"Hey, come back here."

"Oh, he's easy."

"Don't be in a hurry, Grandpa."

"Say, you want to drive all the rabbits yourself."

Later on, a certain group of these fellows started a huge "josh."

"Say, that's what we're waiting for, the 'do-funny.'"

"The do-funny?"

"Sure, you can't drive rabbits without the 'do-funny.'"

"What's the do-funny?"

"Oh, say, she don't know what the do-funny is. We can't start
without it, sure. Pete went back to get it."

"Oh, you're joking me, there's no such thing."

"Well, aren't we WAITING for it?"

"Oh, look, look," cried some women in a covered rig. "See, they
are starting already 'way over there."

In fact, it did appear as if the far extremity of the line was in
motion. Dust rose in the air above it.

"They ARE starting. Why don't we start?"

"No, they've stopped. False alarm."

"They've not, either. Why don't we move?"

But as one or two began to move off, the nearest marshal shouted
wrathfully:

"Get back there, get back there."

"Well, they've started over there."

"Get back, I tell you."

"Where's the 'do-funny?'"

"Say, we're going to miss it all. They've all started over
there."

A lieutenant came galloping along in front of the line, shouting:

"Here, what's the matter here? Why don't you start?"

There was a great shout. Everybody simultaneously uttered a
prolonged "Oh-h."

"We're off."

"Here we go for sure this time."

"Remember to keep the alignment," roared the lieutenant. "Don't
go too fast."

And the marshals, rushing here and there on their sweating horses
to points where the line bulged forward, shouted, waving their
arms: "Not too fast, not too fast....Keep back here....Here, keep
closer together here. Do you want to let all the rabbits run
back between you?"

A great confused sound rose into the air,--the creaking of axles,
the jolt of iron tires over the dry clods, the click of brittle
stubble under the horses' hoofs, the barking of dogs, the shouts
of conversation and laughter.

The entire line, horses, buggies, wagons, gigs, dogs, men and
boys on foot, and armed with clubs, moved slowly across the
fields, sending up a cloud of white dust, that hung above the
scene like smoke. A brisk gaiety was in the air. Everyone was
in the best of humor, calling from team to team, laughing,
skylarking, joshing. Garnett, of the Ruby Rancho, and Gethings,
of the San Pablo, both on horseback, found themselves side by
side. Ignoring the drive and the spirit of the occasion, they
kept up a prolonged and serious conversation on an expected rise
in the price of wheat. Dabney, also on horseback, followed them,
listening attentively to every word, but hazarding no remark.

Mrs. Derrick and Hilma sat in the back seat of the carry-all,
behind young Vacca. Mrs. Derrick, a little disturbed by such a
great concourse of people, frightened at the idea of the killing
of so many rabbits, drew back in her place, her young-girl eyes
troubled and filled with a vague distress. Hilma, very much
excited, leaned from the carry-all, anxious to see everything,
watching for rabbits, asking innumerable questions of Annixter,
who rode at her side.

The change that had been progressing in Hilma, ever since the
night of the famous barn-dance, now seemed to be approaching its
climax; first the girl, then the woman, last of all the Mother.
Conscious dignity, a new element in her character, developed.
The shrinking, the timidity of the girl just awakening to the
consciousness of sex, passed away from her. The confusion, the
troublous complexity of the woman, a mystery even to herself,
disappeared. Motherhood dawned, the old simplicity of her maiden
days came back to her. It was no longer a simplicity of
ignorance, but of supreme knowledge, the simplicity of the
perfect, the simplicity of greatness. She looked the world
fearlessly in the eyes. At last, the confusion of her ideas,
like frightened birds, re-settling, adjusted itself, and she
emerged from the trouble calm, serene, entering into her divine
right, like a queen into the rule of a realm of perpetual peace.

And with this, with the knowledge that the crown hung poised
above her head, there came upon Hilma a gentleness infinitely
beautiful, infinitely pathetic; a sweetness that touched all who
came near her with the softness of a caress. She moved
surrounded by an invisible atmosphere of Love. Love was in her
wide-opened brown eyes, Love--the dim reflection of that
descending crown poised over her head--radiated in a faint lustre
from her dark, thick hair. Around her beautiful neck, sloping to
her shoulders with full, graceful curves, Love lay encircled like
a necklace--Love that was beyond words, sweet, breathed from her
parted lips. From her white, large arms downward to her pink
finger-tips--Love, an invisible electric fluid, disengaged
itself, subtle, alluring. In the velvety huskiness of her voice,
Love vibrated like a note of unknown music.

Annixter, her uncouth, rugged husband, living in this influence
of a wife, who was also a mother, at all hours touched to the
quick by this sense of nobility, of gentleness and of love, the
instincts of a father already clutching and tugging at his heart,
was trembling on the verge of a mighty transformation. The
hardness and inhumanity of the man was fast breaking up. One
night, returning late to the Ranch house, after a compulsory
visit to the city, he had come upon Hilma asleep. He had never
forgotten that night. A realization of his boundless happiness
in this love he gave and received, the thought that Hilma TRUSTED
him, a knowledge of his own unworthiness, a vast and humble
thankfulness that his God had chosen him of all men for this
great joy, had brought him to his knees for the first time in all
his troubled, restless life of combat and aggression. He prayed,
he knew not what,--vague words, wordless thoughts, resolving
fiercely to do right, to make some return for God's gift thus
placed within his hands.

Where once Annixter had thought only of himself, he now thought
only of Hilma. The time when this thought of another should
broaden and widen into thought of OTHERS, was yet to come; but
already it had expanded to include the unborn child--already, as
in the case of Mrs. Dyke, it had broadened to enfold another
child and another mother bound to him by no ties other than those
of humanity and pity. In time, starting from this point it would
reach out more and more till it should take in all men and all
women, and the intolerant selfish man, while retaining all of his
native strength, should become tolerant and generous, kind and
forgiving.

For the moment, however, the two natures struggled within him. A
fight was to be fought, one more, the last, the fiercest, the
attack of the enemy who menaced his very home and hearth, was to
be resisted. Then, peace attained, arrested development would
once more proceed.

Hilma looked from the carry-all, scanning the open plain in front
of the advancing line of the drive.

"Where are the rabbits?" she asked of Annixter. "I don't see any
at all."

"They are way ahead of us yet," he said. "Here, take the
glasses."

He passed her his field glasses, and she adjusted them.

"Oh, yes," she cried, "I see. I can see five or six, but oh, so
far off."

"The beggars run 'way ahead, at first."

"I should say so. See them run,--little specks. Every now and
then they sit up, their ears straight up, in the air."

"Here, look, Hilma, there goes one close by."

From out of the ground apparently, some twenty yards distant, a
great jack sprang into view, bounding away with tremendous leaps,
his black-tipped ears erect. He disappeared, his grey body
losing itself against the grey of the ground.

"Oh, a big fellow."

"Hi, yonder's another."

"Yes, yes, oh, look at him run."
From off the surface of the ground, at first apparently empty of
all life, and seemingly unable to afford hiding place for so much
as a field-mouse, jack-rabbits started up at every moment as the
line went forward. At first, they appeared singly and at long
intervals; then in twos and threes, as the drive continued to
advance. They leaped across the plain, and stopped in the
distance, sitting up with straight ears, then ran on again, were
joined by others; sank down flush to the soil--their ears
flattened; started up again, ran to the side, turned back once
more, darted away with incredible swiftness, and were lost to
view only to be replaced by a score of others.

Gradually, the number of jacks to be seen over the expanse of
stubble in front of the line of teams increased. Their antics
were infinite. No two acted precisely alike. Some lay
stubbornly close in a little depression between two clods, till
the horses' hoofs were all but upon them, then sprang out from
their hiding-place at the last second. Others ran forward but a
few yards at a time, refusing to take flight, scenting a greater
danger before them than behind. Still others, forced up at the
last moment, doubled with lightning alacrity in their tracks,
turning back to scuttle between the teams, taking desperate
chances. As often as this occurred, it was the signal for a
great uproar.

"Don't let him get through; don t let him get through."

"Look out for him, there he goes."

Horns were blown, bells rung, tin pans clamorously beaten.
Either the jack escaped, or confused by the noise, darted back
again, fleeing away as if his life depended on the issue of the
instant. Once even, a bewildered rabbit jumped fair into Mrs.
Derrick's lap as she sat in the carry-all, and was out again like
a flash.

"Poor frightened thing," she exclaimed; and for a long time
afterward, she retained upon her knees the sensation of the four
little paws quivering with excitement, and the feel of the
trembling furry body, with its wildly beating heart, pressed
against her own.

By noon the number of rabbits discernible by Annixter's field
glasses on ahead was far into the thousands. What seemed to be
ground resolved itself, when seen through the glasses, into a
maze of small, moving bodies, leaping, ducking, doubling, running
back and forth--a wilderness of agitated ears, white tails and
twinkling legs. The outside wings of the curved line of vehicles
began to draw in a little; Osterman's ranch was left behind, the
drive continued on over Quien Sabe.

As the day advanced, the rabbits, singularly enough, became less
wild. When flushed, they no longer ran so far nor so fast,
limping off instead a few feet at a time, and crouching down,
their ears close upon their backs. Thus it was, that by degrees
the teams began to close up on the main herd. At every instant
the numbers increased. It was no longer thousands, it was tens
of thousands. The earth was alive with rabbits.

Denser and denser grew the throng. In all directions nothing was
to be seen but the loose mass of the moving jacks. The horns of
the crescent of teams began to contract. Far off the corral came
into sight. The disintegrated mass of rabbits commenced, as it
were, to solidify, to coagulate. At first, each jack was some
three feet distant from his nearest neighbor, but this space
diminished to two feet, then to one, then to but a few inches.
The rabbits began leaping over one another.

Then the strange scene defined itself. It was no longer a herd
covering the earth. It was a sea, whipped into confusion,
tossing incessantly, leaping, falling, agitated by unseen forces.
At times the unexpected tameness of the rabbits all at once
vanished. Throughout certain portions of the herd eddies of
terror abruptly burst forth. A panic spread; then there would
ensue a blind, wild rushing together of thousands of crowded
bodies, and a furious scrambling over backs, till the scuffing
thud of innumerable feet over the earth rose to a reverberating
murmur as of distant thunder, here and there pierced by the
strange, wild cry of the rabbit in distress.

The line of vehicles was halted. To go forward now meant to
trample the rabbits under foot. The drive came to a standstill
while the herd entered the corral. This took time, for the
rabbits were by now too crowded to run. However, like an opened
sluice-gate, the extending flanks of the entrance of the corral
slowly engulfed the herd. The mass, packed tight as ever, by
degrees diminished, precisely as a pool of water when a dam is
opened. The last stragglers went in with a rush, and the gate
was dropped.

"Come, just have a lock in here," called Annixter.

Hilma, descending from the carry-all and joined by Presley and
Harran, approached and looked over the high board fence.

"Oh, did you ever see anything like that?" she exclaimed.

The corral, a really large enclosure, had proved all too small
for the number of rabbits collected by the drive. Inside it was
a living, moving, leaping, breathing, twisting mass. The rabbits
were packed two, three, and four feet deep. They were in
constant movement; those beneath struggling to the top, those on
top sinking and disappearing below their fellows. All wildness,
all fear of man, seemed to have entirely disappeared. Men and
boys reaching over the sides of the corral, picked up a jack in
each hand, holding them by the ears, while two reporters from San
Francisco papers took photographs of the scene. The noise made
by the tens of thousands of moving bodies was as the noise of
wind in a forest, while from the hot and sweating mass there rose
a strange odor, penetrating, ammoniacal, savouring of wild life.

On signal, the killing began. Dogs that had been brought there
for that purpose when let into the corral refused, as had been
half expected, to do the work. They snuffed curiously at the
pile, then backed off, disturbed, perplexed. But the men and
boys--Portuguese for the most part--were more eager. Annixter
drew Hilma away, and, indeed, most of the people set about the
barbecue at once.

In the corral, however, the killing went forward. Armed with a
club in each hand, the young fellows from Guadalajara and
Bonneville, and the farm boys from the ranches, leaped over the
rails of the corral. They walked unsteadily upon the myriad of
crowding bodies underfoot, or, as space was cleared, sank almost
waist deep into the mass that leaped and squirmed about them.
Blindly, furiously, they struck and struck. The Anglo-Saxon
spectators round about drew back in disgust, but the hot,
degenerated blood of Portuguese, Mexican, and mixed Spaniard
boiled up in excitement at this wholesale slaughter.

But only a few of the participants of the drive cared to look on.
All the guests betook themselves some quarter of a mile farther
on into the hills.

The picnic and barbecue were to be held around the spring where
Broderson Creek took its rise. Already two entire beeves were
roasting there; teams were hitched, saddles removed, and men,
women, and children, a great throng, spread out under the shade
of the live oaks. A vast confused clamour rose in the air, a
babel of talk, a clatter of tin plates, of knives and forks.
Bottles were uncorked, napkins and oil-cloths spread over the
ground. The men lit pipes and cigars, the women seized the
occasion to nurse their babies.

Osterman, ubiquitous as ever, resplendent in his boots and
English riding breeches, moved about between the groups, keeping
up an endless flow of talk, cracking jokes, winking, nudging,
gesturing, putting his tongue in his cheek, never at a loss for a
reply, playing the goat.

"That josher, Osterman, always at his monkey-shines, but a good
fellow for all that; brainy too. Nothing stuck up about him
either, like Magnus Derrick."

"Everything all right, Buck?" inquired Osterman, coming up to
where Annixter, Hilma and Mrs. Derrick were sitting down to their
lunch.

"Yes, yes, everything right. But we've no cork-screw."

"No screw-cork--no scare-crow? Here you are," and he drew from
his pocket a silver-plated jack-knife with a cork-screw
attachment.
Harran and Presley came up, bearing between them a great smoking,
roasted portion of beef just off the fire. Hilma hastened to put
forward a huge china platter.

Osterman had a joke to crack with the two boys, a joke that was
rather broad, but as he turned about, the words almost on his
lips, his glance fell upon Hilma herself, whom he had not seen
for more than two months.

She had handed Presley the platter, and was now sitting with her
back against the tree, between two boles of the roots. The
position was a little elevated and the supporting roots on either
side of her were like the arms of a great chair--a chair of
state. She sat thus, as on a throne, raised above the rest, the
radiance of the unseen crown of motherhood glowing from her
forehead, the beauty of the perfect woman surrounding her like a
glory.

And the josh died away on Osterman's lips, and unconsciously and
swiftly he bared his head. Something was passing there in the
air about him that he did not understand, something, however,
that imposed reverence and profound respect. For the first time
in his life, embarrassment seized upon him, upon this joker, this
wearer of clothes, this teller of funny stories, with his large,
red ears, bald head and comic actor's face. He stammered
confusedly and took himself away, for the moment abstracted,
serious, lost in thought.

By now everyone was eating. It was the feeding of the People,
elemental, gross, a great appeasing of appetite, an enormous
quenching of thirst. Quarters of beef, roasts, ribs, shoulders,
haunches were consumed, loaves of bread by the thousands
disappeared, whole barrels of wine went down the dry and dusty
throats of the multitude. Conversation lagged while the People
ate, while hunger was appeased. Everybody had their fill. One
ate for the sake of eating, resolved that there should be nothing
left, considering it a matter of pride to exhibit a clean plate.

After dinner, preparations were made for games. On a flat
plateau at the top of one of the hills the contestants were to
strive. There was to be a footrace of young girls under
seventeen, a fat men's race, the younger fellows were to put the
shot, to compete in the running broad jump, and the standing high
jump, in the hop, skip, and step and in wrestling.

Presley was delighted with it all. It was Homeric, this
feasting, this vast consuming of meat and bread and wine,
followed now by games of strength. An epic simplicity and
directness, an honest Anglo-Saxon mirth and innocence, commended
it. Crude it was; coarse it was, but no taint of viciousness was
here. These people were good people, kindly, benignant even,
always readier to give than to receive, always more willing to
help than to be helped. They were good stock. Of such was the
backbone of the nation--sturdy Americans everyone of them. Where
else in the world round were such strong, honest men, such
strong, beautiful women?

Annixter, Harran, and Presley climbed to the level plateau where
the games were to be held, to lay out the courses, and mark the
distances. It was the very place where once Presley had loved to
lounge entire afternoons, reading his books of poems, smoking and
dozing. From this high point one dominated the entire valley to
the south and west. The view was superb. The three men paused
for a moment on the crest of the hill to consider it.

Young Vacca came running and panting up the hill after them,
calling for Annixter.

"Well, well, what is it?"

"Mr. Osterman's looking for you, sir, you and Mr. Harran.
Vanamee, that cow-boy over at Derrick's, has just come from the
Governor with a message. I guess it's important."

"Hello, what's up now?" muttered Annixter, as they turned back.

They found Osterman saddling his horse in furious haste. Near-by
him was Vanamee holding by the bridle an animal that was one
lather of sweat. A few of the picnickers were turning their
heads curiously in that direction. Evidently something of moment
was in the wind.

"What's all up?" demanded Annixter, as he and Harran, followed by
Presley, drew near.

"There's hell to pay," exclaimed Osterman under his breath.
"Read that. Vanamee just brought it."

He handed Annixter a sheet of note paper, and turned again to the
cinching of his saddle.

"We've got to be quick," he cried. "They've stolen a march on
us."

Annixter read the note, Harran and Presley looking over his
shoulder.

"Ah, it's them, is it," exclaimed Annixter.

Harran set his teeth. "Now for it," he exclaimed.
"They've been to your place already, Mr. Annixter," said Vanamee.
"I passed by it on my way up. They have put Delaney in
possession, and have set all your furniture out in the road."

Annixter turned about, his lips white. Already Presley and
Harran had run to their horses.

"Vacca," cried Annixter, "where's Vacca? Put the saddle on the
buckskin, QUICK. Osterman, get as many of the League as are here
together at THIS spot, understand. I'll be back in a minute. I
must tell Hilma this."

Hooven ran up as Annixter disappeared. His little eyes were
blazing, he was dragging his horse with him.

"Say, dose fellers come, hey? Me, I'm alretty, see I hev der
guhn."

"They've jumped the ranch, little girl," said Annixter, putting
one arm around Hilma. "They're in our house now. I'm off. Go
to Derrick's and wait for me there."

She put her arms around his neck.

"You're going?" she demanded.

"I must. Don't be frightened. It will be all right. Go to
Derrick's and--good-bye."

She said never a word. She looked once long into his eyes, then
kissed him on the mouth.

Meanwhile, the news had spread. The multitude rose to its feet.
Women and men, with pale faces, looked at each other speechless,
or broke forth into inarticulate exclamations. A strange,
unfamiliar murmur took the place of the tumultuous gaiety of the
previous moments. A sense of dread, of confusion, of impending
terror weighed heavily in the air. What was now to happen?

When Annixter got back to Osterman, he found a number of the
Leaguers already assembled. They were all mounted. Hooven was
there and Harran, and besides these, Garnett of the Ruby ranch
and Gethings of the San Pablo, Phelps the foreman of Los Muertos,
and, last of all, Dabney, silent as ever, speaking to no one.
Presley came riding up.

"Best keep out of this, Pres," cried Annixter.

"Are we ready?" exclaimed Gethings.

"Ready, ready, we're all here."

"ALL. Is this all of us?" cried Annixter. "Where are the six
hundred men who were going to rise when this happened?"

They had wavered, these other Leaguers. Now, when the actual
crisis impended, they were smitten with confusion. Ah, no, they
were not going to stand up and be shot at just to save Derrick's
land. They were not armed. What did Annixter and Osterman take
them for? No, sir; the Railroad had stolen a march on them.
After all his big talk Derrick had allowed them to be taken by
surprise. The only thing to do was to call a meeting of the
Executive Committee. That was the only thing. As for going down
there with no weapons in their hands, NO, sir. That was asking a
little TOO much.
"Come on, then, boys," shouted Osterman, turning his back on the
others. "The Governor says to meet him at Hooven's. We'll make
for the Long Trestle and strike the trail to Hooven's there."

They set off. It was a terrible ride. Twice during the
scrambling descent from the hills, Presley's pony fell beneath
him. Annixter, on his buckskin, and Osterman, on his
thoroughbred, good horsemen both, led the others, setting a
terrific pace. The hills were left behind. Broderson Creek was
crossed and on the levels of Quien Sabe, straight through the
standing wheat, the nine horses, flogged and spurred, stretched
out to their utmost. Their passage through the wheat sounded
like the rip and tear of a gigantic web of cloth. The landscape
on either hand resolved itself into a long blur. Tears came to
the eyes, flying pebbles, clods of earth, grains of wheat flung
up in the flight, stung the face like shot. Osterman's
thoroughbred took the second crossing of Broderson's Creek in a
single leap. Down under the Long Trestle tore the cavalcade in a
shower of mud and gravel; up again on the further bank, the
horses blowing like steam engines; on into the trail to Hooven's,
single file now, Presley's pony lagging, Hooven's horse bleeding
at the eyes, the buckskin, game as a fighting cock, catching her
second wind, far in the lead now, distancing even the English
thoroughbred that Osterman rode.

At last Hooven's unpainted house, beneath the enormous live oak
tree, came in sight. Across the Lower Road, breaking through
fences and into the yard around the house, thundered the
Leaguers. Magnus was waiting for them.

The riders dismounted, hardly less exhausted than their horses.

"Why, where's all the men?" Annixter demanded of Magnus.

"Broderson is here and Cutter," replied the Governor, "no one
else. I thought YOU would bring more men with you."

"There are only nine of us."

"And the six hundred Leaguers who were going to rise when this
happened!" exclaimed Garnett, bitterly.

"Rot the League," cried Annixter. "It's gone to pot--went to
pieces at the first touch."

"We have been taken by surprise, gentlemen, after all," said
Magnus. "Totally off our guard. But there are eleven of us. It
is enough."

"Well, what's the game? Has the marshal come? How many men are
with him?"

"The United States marshal from San Francisco," explained Magnus,
"came down early this morning and stopped at Guadalajara. We
learned it all through our friends in Bonneville about an hour
ago. They telephoned me and Mr. Broderson. S. Behrman met him
and provided about a dozen deputies. Delaney, Ruggles, and
Christian joined them at Guadalajara. They left Guadalajara,
going towards Mr. Annixter's ranch house on Quien Sabe. They are
serving the writs in ejectment and putting the dummy buyers in
possession. They are armed. S. Behrman is with them."

"Where are they now?"

"Cutter is watching them from the Long Trestle. They returned to
Guadalajara. They are there now."

"Well," observed Gethings, "From Guadalajara they can only go to
two places. Either they will take the Upper Road and go on to
Osterman's next, or they will take the Lower Road to Mr.
Derrick's."

"That is as I supposed," said Magnus. "That is why I wanted you
to come here. From Hooven's, here, we can watch both roads
simultaneously."

"Is anybody on the lookout on the Upper Road?"

"Cutter. He is on the Long Trestle."

"Say," observed Hooven, the instincts of the old-time soldier
stirring him, "say, dose feller pretty demn schmart, I tink. We
got to put some picket way oudt bei der Lower Roadt alzoh, und he
tek dose glassus Mist'r Ennixt'r got bei um. Say, look at dose
irregation ditsch. Dot ditsch he run righd across BOTH dose
road, hey? Dat's some fine entrenchment, you bedt. We fighd um
from dose ditsch."

In fact, the dry irrigating ditch was a natural trench, admirably
suited to the purpose, crossing both roads as Hooven pointed out
and barring approach from Guadalajara to all the ranches save
Annixter's--which had already been seized.

Gethings departed to join Cutter on the Long Trestle, while
Phelps and Harran, taking Annixter's field glasses with them, and
mounting their horses, went out towards Guadalajara on the Lower
Road to watch for the marshal's approach from that direction.

After the outposts had left them, the party in Hooven's cottage
looked to their weapons. Long since, every member of the League
had been in the habit of carrying his revolver with him. They
were all armed and, in addition, Hooven had his rifle. Presley
alone carried no weapon.

The main room of Hooven's house, in which the Leaguers were now
assembled, was barren, poverty-stricken, but tolerably clean. An
old clock ticked vociferously on a shelf. In one corner was a
bed, with a patched, faded quilt. In the centre of the room,
straddling over the bare floor, stood a pine table. Around this
the men gathered, two or three occupying chairs, Annixter sitting
sideways on the table, the rest standing.

"I believe, gentlemen," said Magnus, "that we can go through this
day without bloodshed. I believe not one shot need be fired.
The Railroad will not force the issue, will not bring about
actual fighting. When the marshal realises that we are
thoroughly in earnest, thoroughly determined, I am convinced that
he will withdraw."

There were murmurs of assent.

"Look here," said Annixter, "if this thing can by any means be
settled peaceably, I say let's do it, so long as we don't give
in."

The others stared. Was this Annixter who spoke--the Hotspur of
the League, the quarrelsome, irascible fellow who loved and
sought a quarrel? Was it Annixter, who now had been the first
and only one of them all to suffer, whose ranch had been seized,
whose household possessions had been flung out into the road?

"When you come right down to it," he continued, "killing a man,
no matter what he's done to you, is a serious business. I
propose we make one more attempt to stave this thing off. Let's
see if we can't get to talk with the marshal himself; at any
rate, warn him of the danger of going any further. Boys, let's
not fire the first shot. What do you say?"

The others agreed unanimously and promptly; and old Broderson,
tugging uneasily at his long beard, added:

"No--no--no violence, no UNNECESSARY violence, that is. I should
hate to have innocent blood on my hands--that is, if it IS
innocent. I don't know, that S. Behrman--ah, he is a--a--surely
he had innocent blood on HIS head. That Dyke affair, terrible,
terrible; but then Dyke WAS in the wrong--driven to it, though;
the Railroad did drive him to it. I want to be fair and just to
everybody"

"There's a team coming up the road from Los Muertos," announced
Presley from the door.

"Fair and just to everybody," murmured old Broderson, wagging his
head, frowning perplexedly. "I don't want to--to--to harm
anybody unless they harm me."

"Is the team going towards Guadalajara?" enquired Garnett,
getting up and coming to the door.

"Yes, it's a Portuguese, one of the garden truck men."

"We must turn him back," declared Osterman. "He can't go through
here. We don't want him to take any news on to the marshal and
S. Behrman."

"I'll turn him back," said Presley.

He rode out towards the market cart, and the others, watching
from the road in front of Hooven's, saw him halt it. An excited
interview followed. They could hear the Portuguese expostulating
volubly, but in the end he turned back.

"Martial law on Los Muertos, isn't it?" observed Osterman.
"Steady all," he exclaimed as he turned about, "here comes
Harran."

Harran rode up at a gallop. The others surrounded him.

"I saw them," he cried. "They are coming this way. S. Behrman
and Ruggles are in a two-horse buggy. All the others are on
horseback. There are eleven of them. Christian and Delaney are
with them. Those two have rifles. I left Hooven watching them."

"Better call in Gethings and Cutter right away," said Annixter.
"We'll need all our men."

"I'll call them in," Presley volunteered at once. "Can I have
the buckskin? My pony is about done up."

He departed at a brisk gallop, but on the way met Gethings and
Cutter returning. They, too, from their elevated position, had
observed the marshal's party leaving Guadalajara by the Lower
Road. Presley told them of the decision of the Leaguers not to
fire until fired upon.

"All right," said Gethings. "But if it comes to a gun-fight,
that means it's all up with at least one of us. Delaney never
misses his man."

When they reached Hooven's again, they found that the Leaguers
had already taken their position in the ditch. The plank bridge
across it had been torn up. Magnus, two long revolvers lying on
the embankment in front of him, was in the middle, Harran at his
side. On either side, some five feet intervening between each
man, stood the other Leaguers, their revolvers ready. Dabney,
the silent old man, had taken off his coat.

"Take your places between Mr. Osterman and Mr. Broderson," said
Magnus, as the three men rode up. "Presley," he added, "I forbid
you to take any part in this affair."

"Yes, keep him out of it," cried Annixter from his position at
the extreme end of the line. "Go back to Hooven's house, Pres,
and look after the horses," he added. "This is no business of
yours. And keep the road behind us clear. Don't let ANY ONE
come near, not ANY ONE, understand?"

Presley withdrew, leading the buckskin and the horses that
Gethings and Cutter had ridden. He fastened them under the great
live oak and then came out and stood in the road in front of the
house to watch what was going on.

In the ditch, shoulder deep, the Leaguers, ready, watchful,
waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the white shimmer of the
road leading to Guadalajara.

"Where's Hooven?" enquired Cutter.

"I don't know," Osterman replied. "He was out watching the Lower
Road with Harran Derrick. Oh, Harran," he called, "isn't Hooven
coming in?"

"I don't know what he is waiting for," answered Harran. "He was
to have come in just after me. He thought maybe the marshal's
party might make a feint in this direction, then go around by the
Upper Road, after all. He wanted to watch them a little longer.
But he ought to be here now."

"Think he'll take a shot at them on his own account?"

"Oh, no, he wouldn't do that."

"Maybe they took him prisoner."

"Well, that's to be thought of, too."

Suddenly there was a cry. Around the bend of the road in front
of them came a cloud of dust. From it emerged a horse's head.

"Hello, hello, there's something."

"Remember, we are not to fire first."

"Perhaps that's Hooven; I can't see. Is it? There only seems to
be one horse."

"Too much dust for one horse."

Annixter, who had taken his field glasses from Harran, adjusted
them to his eyes.

"That's not them," he announced presently, "nor Hooven either.
That's a cart."  Then after another moment, he added, "The
butcher's cart from Guadalajara."

The tension was relaxed. The men drew long breaths, settling
back in their places.

"Do we let him go on, Governor?"

"The bridge is down. He can't go by and we must not let him go
back. We shall have to detain him and question him. I wonder
the marshal let him pass."

The cart approached at a lively trot.

"Anybody else in that cart, Mr. Annixter?" asked Magnus. "Look
carefully. It may be a ruse. It is strange the marshal should
have let him pass."

The Leaguers roused themselves again. Osterman laid his hand on
his revolver.

"No," called Annixter, in another instant, "no, there's only one
man in it."

The cart came up, and Cutter and Phelps, clambering from the
ditch, stopped it as it arrived in front of the party.

"Hey--what--what?" exclaimed the young butcher, pulling up. "Is
that bridge broke?"

But at the idea of being held, the boy protested at top voice,
badly frightened, bewildered, not knowing what was to happen
next.

"No, no, I got my meat to deliver. Say, you let me go. Say, I
ain't got nothing to do with you."

He tugged at the reins, trying to turn the cart about. Cutter,
with his jack-knife, parted the reins just back of the bit.

"You'll stay where you are, m' son, for a while. We're not going
to hurt you. But you are not going back to town till we say so.
Did you pass anybody on the road out of town?"

In reply to the Leaguers' questions, the young butcher at last
told them he had passed a two-horse buggy and a lot of men on
horseback just beyond the railroad tracks. They were headed for
Los Muertos.

"That's them, all right," muttered Annixter. "They're coming by
this road, sure."

The butcher's horse and cart were led to one side of the road,
and the horse tied to the fence with one of the severed lines.
The butcher, himself, was passed over to Presley, who locked him
in Hooven's barn.

"Well, what the devil," demanded Osterman, "has become of
Bismarck?"

In fact, the butcher had seen nothing of Hooven. The minutes
were passing, and still he failed to appear.

"What's he up to, anyways?"

"Bet you what you like, they caught him. Just like that crazy
Dutchman to get excited and go too near. You can always depend
on Hooven to lose his head."

Five minutes passed, then ten. The road towards Guadalajara lay
empty, baking and white under the sun.

"Well, the marshal and S. Behrman don't seem to be in any hurry,
either."

"Shall I go forward and reconnoitre, Governor?" asked Harran.

But Dabney, who stood next to Annixter, touched him on the
shoulder and, without speaking, pointed down the road. Annixter
looked, then suddenly cried out:

"Here comes Hooven."

The German galloped into sight, around the turn of the road, his
rifle laid across his saddle. He came on rapidly, pulled up, and
dismounted at the ditch.

"Dey're commen," he cried, trembling with excitement. "I watch
um long dime bei der side oaf der roadt in der busches. Dey
shtop bei der gate oder side der relroadt trecks and talk long
dime mit one n'udder. Den dey gome on. Dey're gowun sure do zum
monkey-doodle pizeness. Me, I see Gritschun put der kertridges
in his guhn. I tink dey gowun to gome MY blace first. Dey gowun
to try put me off, tek my home, bei Gott."

"All right, get down in here and keep quiet, Hooven. Don't fire
unless----"

"Here they are."

A half-dozen voices uttered the cry at once.

There could be no mistake this time. A buggy, drawn by two
horses, came into view around the curve of the road. Three
riders accompanied it, and behind these, seen at intervals in a
cloud of dust were two--three--five--six others.

This, then, was S. Behrman with the United States marshal and his
posse. The event that had been so long in preparation, the event
which it had been said would never come to pass, the last trial
of strength, the last fight between the Trust and the People, the
direct, brutal grapple of armed men, the law defied, the
Government ignored, behold, here it was close at hand.

Osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound silence that
had fallen upon the scene, the click was plainly audible from end
to end of the line.

"Remember our agreement, gentlemen," cried Magnus, in a warning
voice. "Mr. Osterman, I must ask you to let down the hammer of
your weapon."

No one answered. In absolute quiet, standing motionless in their
places, the Leaguers watched the approach of the marshal.

Five minutes passed. The riders came on steadily. They drew
nearer. The grind of the buggy wheels in the grit and dust of
the road, and the prolonged clatter of the horses' feet began to
make itself heard. The Leaguers could distinguish the faces of
their enemies.

In the buggy were S. Behrman and Cyrus Ruggles, the latter
driving. A tall man in a frock coat and slouched hat--the
marshal, beyond question--rode at the left of the buggy; Delaney,
carrying a Winchester, at the right. Christian, the real estate
broker, S. Behrman's cousin, also with a rifle, could be made out
just behind the marshal. Back of these, riding well up, was a
group of horsemen, indistinguishable in the dust raised by the
buggy's wheels.

Steadily the distance between the Leaguers and the posse
diminished.

"Don't let them get too close, Governor," whispered Harran.

When S. Behrman's buggy was about one hundred yards distant from
the irrigating ditch, Magnus sprang out upon the road, leaving
his revolvers behind him. He beckoned Garnett and Gethings to
follow, and the three ranchers, who, with the exception of
Broderson, were the oldest men present, advanced, without arms,
to meet the marshal.

Magnus cried aloud:

"Halt where you are."

From their places in the ditch, Annixter, Osterman, Dabney,
Harran, Hooven, Broderson, Cutter, and Phelps, their hands laid
upon their revolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for
anything.

At the Governor's words, they saw Ruggles pull sharply on the
reins. The buggy came to a standstill, the riders doing
likewise. Magnus approached the marshal, still followed by
Garnett and Gethings, and began to speak. His voice was audible
to the men in the ditch, but his words could not be made out.
They heard the marshal reply quietly enough and the two shook
hands. Delaney came around from the side of the buggy, his horse
standing before the team across the road. He leaned from the
saddle, listening to what was being said, but made no remark.
From time to time, S. Behrman and Ruggles, from their seats in
the buggy, interposed a sentence or two into the conversation,
but at first, so far as the Leaguers could discern, neither
Magnus nor the marshal paid them any attention. They saw,
however, that the latter repeatedly shook his head and once they
heard him exclaim in a loud voice:

"I only know my duty, Mr. Derrick."

Then Gethings turned about, and seeing Delaney close at hand,
addressed an unheard remark to him. The cow-puncher replied
curtly and the words seemed to anger Gethings. He made a
gesture, pointing back to the ditch, showing the intrenched
Leaguers to the posse. Delaney appeared to communicate the news
that the Leaguers were on hand and prepared to resist, to the
other members of the party. They all looked toward the ditch and
plainly saw the ranchers there, standing to their arms.

But meanwhile Ruggles had addressed himself more directly to
Magnus, and between the two an angry discussion was going
forward. Once even Harran heard his father exclaim:

"The statement is a lie and no one knows it better than
yourself."

"Here," growled Annixter to Dabney, who stood next him in the
ditch, "those fellows are getting too close. Look at them edging
up. Don't Magnus see that?"

The other members of the marshal's force had come forward from
their places behind the buggy and were spread out across the
road. Some of them were gathered about Magnus, Garnett, and
Gethings; and some were talking together, looking and pointing
towards the ditch. Whether acting upon signal or not, the
Leaguers in the ditch could not tell, but it was certain that one
or two of the posse had moved considerably forward. Besides
this, Delaney had now placed his horse between Magnus and the
ditch, and two others riding up from the rear had followed his
example. The posse surrounded the three ranchers, and by now,
everybody was talking at once.

"Look here," Harran called to Annixter, "this won't do. I don't
like the looks of this thing. They all seem to be edging up, and
before we know it they may take the Governor and the other men
prisoners."

"They ought to come back," declared Annixter.

"Somebody ought to tell them that those fellows are creeping up."

By now, the angry argument between the Governor and Ruggles had
become more heated than ever. Their voices were raised; now and
then they made furious gestures.

"They ought to come back," cried Osterman. "We couldn't shoot
now if anything should happen, for fear of hitting them."

"Well, it sounds as though something were going to happen pretty
soon."

They could hear Gethings and Delaney wrangling furiously; another
deputy joined in.

"I'm going to call the Governor back," exclaimed Annixter,
suddenly clambering out of the ditch.
"No, no," cried Osterman, "keep in the ditch. They can't drive
us out if we keep here."

Hooven and Harran, who had instinctively followed Annixter,
hesitated at Osterman's words and the three halted irresolutely
on the road before the ditch, their weapons in their hands.

"Governor," shouted Harran, "come on back. You can't do
anything."

Still the wrangle continued, and one of the deputies, advancing a
little from out the group, cried out:

"Keep back there! Keep back there, you!"

"Go to hell, will you?" shouted Harran on the instant. "You're
on my land."

"Oh, come back here, Harran," called Osterman. "That ain't going
to do any good."

"There--listen," suddenly exclaimed Harran. "The Governor is
calling us. Come on; I'm going."

Osterman got out of the ditch and came forward, catching Harran
by the arm and pulling him back.

"He didn't call. Don't get excited. You'll ruin everything.
Get back into the ditch again."

But Cutter, Phelps, and the old man Dabney, misunderstanding what
was happening, and seeing Osterman leave the ditch, had followed
his example. All the Leaguers were now out of the ditch, and a
little way down the road, Hooven, Osterman, Annixter, and Harran
in front, Dabney, Phelps, and Cutter coming up from behind.

"Keep back, you," cried the deputy again.

In the group around S. Behrman's buggy, Gethings and Delaney were
yet quarrelling, and the angry debate between Magnus, Garnett,
and the marshal still continued.

Till this moment, the real estate broker, Christian, had taken no
part in the argument, but had kept himself in the rear of the
buggy. Now, however, he pushed forward. There was but little
room for him to pass, and, as he rode by the buggy, his horse
scraped his flank against the hub of the wheel. The animal
recoiled sharply, and, striking against Garnett, threw him to the
ground. Delaney's horse stood between the buggy and the Leaguers
gathered on the road in front of the ditch; the incident,
indistinctly seen by them, was misinterpreted.

Garnett had not yet risen when Hooven raised a great shout:

"HOCH, DER KAISER! HOCH, DER VATERLAND!"

With the words, he dropped to one knee, and sighting his rifle
carefully, fired into the group of men around the buggy.

Instantly the revolvers and rifles seemed to go off of
themselves. Both sides, deputies and Leaguers, opened fire
simultaneously. At first, it was nothing but a confused roar of
explosions; then the roar lapsed to an irregular, quick
succession of reports, shot leaping after shot; then a moment's
silence, and, last of all, regular as clock-ticks, three shots at
exact intervals. Then stillness.

Delaney, shot through the stomach, slid down from his horse, and,
on his hands and knees, crawled from the road into the standing
wheat. Christian fell backward from the saddle toward the buggy,
and hung suspended in that position, his head and shoulders on
the wheel, one stiff leg still across his saddle. Hooven, in
attempting to rise from his kneeling position, received a rifle
ball squarely in the throat, and rolled forward upon his face.
Old Broderson, crying out, "Oh, they've shot me, boys," staggered
sideways, his head bent, his hands rigid at his sides, and fell
into the ditch. Osterman, blood running from his mouth and nose,
turned about and walked back. Presley helped him across the
irrigating ditch and Osterman laid himself down, his head on his
folded arms. Harran Derrick dropped where he stood, turning over
on his face, and lay motionless, groaning terribly, a pool of
blood forming under his stomach. The old man Dabney, silent as
ever, received his death, speechless. He fell to his knees, got
up again, fell once more, and died without a word. Annixter,
instantly killed, fell his length to the ground, and lay without
movement, just as he had fallen, one arm across his face.

VII

On their way to Derrick's ranch house, Hilma and Mrs. Derrick
heard the sounds of distant firing.

"Stop!" cried Hilma, laying her hand upon young Vacca's arm.
"Stop the horses. Listen, what was that?"

The carry-all came to a halt and from far away across the
rustling wheat came the faint rattle of rifles and revolvers.

"Say," cried Vacca, rolling his eyes, "oh, say, they're fighting
over there."

Mrs. Derrick put her hands over her face.

"Fighting," she cried, "oh, oh, it's terrible. Magnus is there--
and Harran."

"Where do you think it is?" demanded Hilma.
"That's over toward Hooven's."

"I'm going. Turn back. Drive to Hooven's, quick."

"Better not, Mrs. Annixter," protested the young man. "Mr.
Annixter said we were to go to Derrick's. Better keep away from
Hooven's if there's trouble there. We wouldn't get there till
it's all over, anyhow."

"Yes, yes, let's go home," cried Mrs. Derrick, "I'm afraid. Oh,
Hilma, I'm afraid."

"Come with me to Hooven's then."

"There, where they are fighting? Oh, I couldn't. I--I can't.
It would be all over before we got there as Vacca says."

"Sure," repeated young Vacca.

"Drive to Hooven's," commanded Hilma. "If you won't, I'll walk
there."  She threw off the lap-robes, preparing to descend. "And
you," she exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Derrick, "how CAN you--when
Harran and your husband may be--may--are in danger."

Grumbling, Vacca turned the carry-all about and drove across the
open fields till he reached the road to Guadalajara, just below
the Mission.

"Hurry!" cried Hilma.

The horses started forward under the touch of the whip. The
ranch houses of Quien Sabe came in sight.

"Do you want to stop at the house?" inquired Vacca over his
shoulder.

"No, no; oh, go faster--make the horses run."

They dashed through the houses of the Home ranch.

"Oh, oh," cried Hilma suddenly, "look, look there. Look what
they have done."

Vacca pulled the horses up, for the road in front of Annixter's
house was blocked.

A vast, confused heap of household effects was there--chairs,
sofas, pictures, fixtures, lamps. Hilma's little home had been
gutted; everything had been taken from it and ruthlessly flung
out upon the road, everything that she and her husband had bought
during that wonderful week after their marriage. Here was the
white enamelled "set" of the bedroom furniture, the three chairs,
wash-stand and bureau,--the bureau drawers falling out, spilling
their contents into the dust; there were the white wool rugs of
the sitting-room, the flower stand, with its pots all broken, its
flowers wilting; the cracked goldfish globe, the fishes already
dead; the rocking chair, the sewing machine, the great round
table of yellow oak, the lamp with its deep shade of crinkly red
tissue paper, the pretty tinted photographs that had hung on the
wall--the choir boys with beautiful eyes, the pensive young girls
in pink gowns--the pieces of wood carving that represented quails
and ducks, and, last of all, its curtains of crisp, clean muslin,
cruelly torn and crushed--the bed, the wonderful canopied bed so
brave and gay, of which Hilma had been so proud, thrust out there
into the common road, torn from its place, from the discreet
intimacy of her bridal chamber, violated, profaned, flung out
into the dust and garish sunshine for all men to stare at, a
mockery and a shame.

To Hilma it was as though something of herself, of her person,
had been thus exposed and degraded; all that she held sacred
pilloried, gibbeted, and exhibited to the world's derision.
Tears of anguish sprang to her eyes, a red flame of outraged
modesty overspread her face.

"Oh," she cried, a sob catching her throat, "oh, how could they
do it?" But other fears intruded; other greater terrors impended.

"Go on," she cried to Vacca, "go on quickly."

But Vacca would go no further. He had seen what had escaped
Hilma's attention, two men, deputies, no doubt, on the porch of
the ranch house. They held possession there, and the evidence of
the presence of the enemy in this raid upon Quien Sabe had
daunted him.

"No, SIR," he declared, getting out of the carry-all, "I ain't
going to take you anywhere where you're liable to get hurt.
Besides, the road's blocked by all this stuff. You can't get the
team by."

Hilma sprang from the carry-all.

"Come," she said to Mrs. Derrick.

The older woman, trembling, hesitating, faint with dread, obeyed,
and Hilma, picking her way through and around the wreck of her
home, set off by the trail towards the Long Trestle and Hooven's.

When she arrived, she found the road in front of the German's
house, and, indeed, all the surrounding yard, crowded with
people. An overturned buggy lay on the side of the road in the
distance, its horses in a tangle of harness, held by two or three
men. She saw Caraher's buckboard under the live oak and near it
a second buggy which she recognised as belonging to a doctor in
Guadalajara.

"Oh, what has happened; oh, what has happened?" moaned Mrs.
Derrick.

"Come," repeated Hilma. The young girl took her by the hand and
together they pushed their way through the crowd of men and women
and entered the yard.

The throng gave way before the two women, parting to right and
left without a word.

"Presley," cried Mrs. Derrick, as she caught sight of him in the
doorway of the house, "oh, Presley, what has happened? Is Harran
safe? Is Magnus safe? Where are they?"

"Don't go in, Mrs. Derrick," said Presley, coming forward, "don't
go in."

"Where is my husband?" demanded Hilma.

Presley turned away and steadied himself against the jamb of the
door.

Hilma, leaving Mrs. Derrick, entered the house. The front room
was full of men. She was dimly conscious of Cyrus Ruggles and S.
Behrman, both deadly pale, talking earnestly and in whispers to
Cutter and Phelps. There was a strange, acrid odour of an
unfamiliar drug in the air. On the table before her was a
satchel, surgical instruments, rolls of bandages, and a blue,
oblong paper box full of cotton. But above the hushed noises of
voices and footsteps, one terrible sound made itself heard--the
prolonged, rasping sound of breathing, half choked, laboured,
agonised.

"Where is my husband?" she cried. She pushed the men aside. She
saw Magnus, bareheaded, three or four men lying on the floor, one
half naked, his body swathed in white bandages; the doctor in
shirt sleeves, on one knee beside a figure of a man stretched out
beside him.

Garnett turned a white face to her.

"Where is my husband?"

The other did not reply, but stepped aside and Hilma saw the dead
body of her husband lying upon the bed. She did not cry out.
She said no word. She went to the bed, and sitting upon it, took
Annixter's head in her lap, holding it gently between her hands.
Thereafter she did not move, but sat holding her dead husband's
head in her lap, looking vaguely about from face to face of those
in the room, while, without a sob, without a cry, the great tears
filled her wide-opened eyes and rolled slowly down upon her
cheeks.

On hearing that his wife was outside, Magnus came quickly
forward. She threw herself into his arms.

"Tell me, tell me," she cried, "is Harran--is----"

"We don't know yet," he answered. "Oh, Annie----"

Then suddenly the Governor checked himself. He, the indomitable,
could not break down now.

"The doctor is with him," he said; "we are doing all we can. Try
and be brave, Annie. There is always hope. This is a terrible
day's work. God forgive us all."

She pressed forward, but he held her back.

"No, don't see him now. Go into the next room. Garnett, take
care of her."

But she would not be denied. She pushed by Magnus, and, breaking
through the group that surrounded her son, sank on her knees
beside him, moaning, in compassion and terror.

Harran lay straight and rigid upon the floor, his head propped by
a pillow, his coat that had been taken off spread over his chest.
One leg of his trousers was soaked through and through with
blood. His eyes were half-closed, and with the regularity of a
machine, the eyeballs twitched and twitched. His face was so
white that it made his yellow hair look brown, while from his
opened mouth, there issued that loud and terrible sound of
guttering, rasping, laboured breathing that gagged and choked and
gurgled with every inhalation.

"Oh, Harrie, Harrie," called Mrs. Derrick, catching at one of his
hands.

The doctor shook his head.

"He is unconscious, Mrs. Derrick."

"Where was he--where is--the--the----"

"Through the lungs."

"Will he get well? Tell me the truth."

"I don't know. Mrs. Derrick."

She had all but fainted, and the old rancher, Garnett, half-
carrying, half-leading her, took her to the one adjoining room--
Minna Hooven's bedchamber. Dazed, numb with fear, she sat down
on the edge of the bed, rocking herself back and forth,
murmuring:

"Harrie, Harrie, oh, my son, my little boy."

In the outside room, Presley came and went, doing what he could
to be of service, sick with horror, trembling from head to foot.

The surviving members of both Leaguers and deputies--the warring
factions of the Railroad and the People--mingled together now
with no thought of hostility. Presley helped the doctor to cover
Christian's body. S. Behrman and Ruggles held bowls of water
while Osterman was attended to. The horror of that dreadful
business had driven all other considerations from the mind. The
sworn foes of the last hour had no thought of anything but to
care for those whom, in their fury, they had shot down. The
marshal, abandoning for that day the attempt to serve the writs,
departed for San Francisco.

The bodies had been brought in from the road where they fell.
Annixter's corpse had been laid upon the bed; those of Dabney and
Hooven, whose wounds had all been in the face and head, were
covered with a tablecloth. Upon the floor, places were made for
the others. Cutter and Ruggles rode into Guadalajara to bring
out the doctor there, and to telephone to Bonneville for others.

Osterman had not at any time since the shooting, lost
consciousness. He lay upon the floor of Hooven's house, bare to
the waist, bandages of adhesive tape reeved about his abdomen and
shoulder. His eyes were half-closed. Presley, who looked after
him, pending the arrival of a hack from Bonneville that was to
take him home, knew that he was in agony.

But this poser, this silly fellow, this cracker of jokes, whom no
one had ever taken very seriously, at the last redeemed himself.
When at length, the doctor had arrived, he had, for the first
time, opened his eyes.

"I can wait," he said. "Take Harran first."
And when at length, his turn had come, and while the sweat rolled
from his forehead as the doctor began probing for the bullet, he
had reached out his free arm and taken Presley's hand in his,
gripping it harder and harder, as the probe entered the wound.
His breath came short through his nostrils; his face, the face of
a comic actor, with its high cheek bones, bald forehead, and
salient ears, grew paler and paler, his great slit of a mouth
shut tight, but he uttered no groan.

When the worst anguish was over and he could find breath to
speak, his first words had been:

"Were any of the others badly hurt?"

As Presley stood by the door of the house after bringing in a
pail of water for the doctor, he was aware of a party of men who
had struck off from the road on the other side of the irrigating
ditch and were advancing cautiously into the field of wheat. He
wondered what it meant and Cutter, coming up at that moment,
Presley asked him if he knew.

"It's Delaney," said Cutter. "It seems that when he was shot he
crawled off into the wheat. They are looking for him there."

Presley had forgotten all about the buster and had only a vague
recollection of seeing him slide from his horse at the beginning
of the fight. Anxious to know what had become of him, he hurried
up and joined the party of searchers.

"We better look out," said one of the young men, "how we go
fooling around in here. If he's alive yet he's just as liable as
not to think we're after him and take a shot at us."

"I guess there ain't much fight left in him," another answered.
"Look at the wheat here."

"Lord! He's bled like a stuck pig."

"Here's his hat," abruptly exclaimed the leader of the party.
"He can't be far off. Let's call him."

They called repeatedly without getting any answer, then proceeded
cautiously. All at once the men in advance stopped so suddenly
that those following carromed against them. There was an
outburst of exclamation.

"Here he is!"

"Good Lord! Sure, that's him."

"Poor fellow, poor fellow."

The cow-puncher lay on his back, deep in the wheat, his knees
drawn up, his eyes wide open, his lips brown. Rigidly gripped in
one hand was his empty revolver.

The men, farm hands from the neighbouring ranches, young fellows
from Guadalajara, drew back in instinctive repulsion. One at
length ventured near, peering down into the face.

"Is he dead?" inquired those in the rear.

"I don't know."

"Well, put your hand on his heart."
"No! I--I don't want to."

"What you afraid of?"

"Well, I just don't want to touch him, that's all. It's bad
luck. YOU feel his heart."

"You can't always tell by that."

"How can you tell, then? Pshaw, you fellows make me sick. Here,
let me get there. I'll do it."

There was a long pause, as the other bent down and laid his hand
on the cow-puncher's breast.

"Well?"

"I can't tell. Sometimes I think I feel it beat and sometimes I
don't. I never saw a dead man before."

"Well, you can't tell by the heart."

"What's the good of talking so blame much. Dead or not, let's
carry him back to the house."

Two or three ran back to the road for planks from the broken
bridge. When they returned with these a litter was improvised,
and throwing their coats over the body, the party carried it back
to the road. The doctor was summoned and declared the cow-
puncher to have been dead over half an hour.

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed one of the group.

"Well, I never said he wasn't dead," protested the other. "I
only said you couldn't always tell by whether his heart beat or
not."

But all at once there was a commotion. The wagon containing Mrs.
Hooven, Minna, and little Hilda drove up.

"Eh, den, my men," cried Mrs. Hooven, wildly interrogating the
faces of the crowd. "Whadt has happun? Sey, den, dose vellers,
hev dey hurdt my men, eh, whadt?"

She sprang from the wagon, followed by Minna with Hilda in her
arms. The crowd bore back as they advanced, staring at them in
silence.

"Eh, whadt has happun, whadt has happun?" wailed Mrs. Hooven, as
she hurried on, her two hands out before her, the fingers spread
wide. "Eh, Hooven, eh, my men, are you alle righdt?"

She burst into the house. Hooven's body had been removed to an
adjoining room, the bedroom of the house, and to this room Mrs.
Hooven--Minna still at her heels--proceeded, guided by an
instinct born of the occasion. Those in the outside room, saying
no word, made way for them. They entered, closing the door
behind them, and through all the rest of that terrible day, no
sound nor sight of them was had by those who crowded into and
about that house of death. Of all the main actors of the tragedy
of the fight in the ditch, they remained the least noted,
obtruded themselves the least upon the world's observation. They
were, for the moment, forgotten.

But by now Hooven's house was the centre of an enormous crowd. A
vast concourse of people from Bonneville, from Guadalajara, from
the ranches, swelled by the thousands who had that morning
participated in the rabbit drive, surged about the place; men and
women, young boys, young girls, farm hands, villagers,
townspeople, ranchers, railroad employees, Mexicans, Spaniards,
Portuguese. Presley, returning from the search for Delaney's
body, had to fight his way to the house again.

And from all this multitude there rose an indefinable murmur. As
yet, there was no menace in it, no anger. It was confusion
merely, bewilderment, the first long-drawn "oh!" that greets the
news of some great tragedy. The people had taken no thought as
yet. Curiosity was their dominant impulse. Every one wanted to
see what had been done; failing that, to hear of it, and failing
that, to be near the scene of the affair. The crowd of people
packed the road in front of the house for nearly a quarter of a
mile in either direction. They balanced themselves upon the
lower strands of the barbed wire fence in their effort to see
over each others' shoulders; they stood on the seats of their
carts, buggies, and farm wagons, a few even upon the saddles of
their riding horses. They crowded, pushed, struggled, surged
forward and back without knowing why, converging incessantly upon
Hooven's house.

When, at length, Presley got to the gate, he found a carry-all
drawn up before it. Between the gate and the door of the house a
lane had been formed, and as he paused there a moment, a group of
Leaguers, among whom were Garnett and Gethings, came slowly from
the door carrying old Broderson in their arms. The doctor,
bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, squinting in the sunlight,
attended them, repeating at every step:

"Slow, slow, take it easy, gentlemen."

Old Broderson was unconscious. His face was not pale, no
bandages could be seen. With infinite precautions, the men bore
him to the carry-all and deposited him on the back seat; the rain
flaps were let down on one side to shut off the gaze of the
multitude.

But at this point a moment of confusion ensued. Presley, because
of half a dozen people who stood in his way, could not see what
was going on. There were exclamations, hurried movements. The
doctor uttered a sharp command and a man ran back to the house
returning on the instant with the doctor's satchel. By this
time, Presley was close to the wheels of the carry-all and could
see the doctor inside the vehicle bending over old Broderson.

"Here it is, here it is," exclaimed the man who had been sent to
the house.

"I won't need it," answered the doctor, "he's dying now."

At the words a great hush widened throughout the throng near at
hand. Some men took off their hats.

"Stand back," protested the doctor quietly, "stand back, good
people, please."

The crowd bore back a little. In the silence, a woman began to
sob. The seconds passed, then a minute. The horses of the
carry-all shifted their feet and whisked their tails, driving off
the flies. At length, the doctor got down from the carry-all,
letting down the rain-flaps on that side as well.

"Will somebody go home with the body?" he asked. Gethings
stepped forward and took his place by the driver. The carry-all
drove away.

Presley reentered the house. During his absence it had been
cleared of all but one or two of the Leaguers, who had taken part
in the fight. Hilma still sat on the bed with Annixter's head in
her lap. S. Behrman, Ruggles, and all the railroad party had
gone. Osterman had been taken away in a hack and the tablecloth
over Dabney's body replaced with a sheet. But still unabated,
agonised, raucous, came the sounds of Harran's breathing.
Everything possible had already been done. For the moment it was
out of the question to attempt to move him. His mother and
father were at his side, Magnus, with a face of stone, his look
fixed on those persistently twitching eyes, Annie Derrick
crouching at her son's side, one of his hands in hers, fanning
his face continually with the crumpled sheet of an old newspaper.

Presley on tip-toes joined the group, looking on attentively.
One of the surgeons who had been called from Bonneville stood
close by, watching Harran's face, his arms folded.

"How is he?" Presley whispered.

"He won't live," the other responded.

By degrees the choke and gurgle of the breathing became more
irregular and the lids closed over the twitching eyes. All at
once the breath ceased. Magnus shot an inquiring glance at the
surgeon.

"He is dead, Mr. Derrick," the surgeon replied.

Annie Derrick, with a cry that rang through all the house,
stretched herself over the body of her son, her head upon his
breast, and the Governor's great shoulders bowed never to rise
again.

"God help me and forgive me," he groaned.

Presley rushed from the house, beside himself with grief, with
horror, with pity, and with mad, insensate rage. On the porch
outside Caraher met him.

"Is he--is he--" began the saloon-keeper.

"Yes, he's dead," cried Presley. "They're all dead, murdered,
shot down, dead, dead, all of them. Whose turn is next?"

"That's the way they killed my wife, Presley."

"Caraher," cried Presley, "give me your hand. I've been wrong
all the time. The League is wrong. All the world is wrong. You
are the only one of us all who is right. I'm with you from now
on. BY GOD, I TOO, I'M A RED!"

In course of time, a farm wagon from Bonneville arrived at
Hooven's. The bodies of Annixter and Harran were placed in it,
and it drove down the Lower Road towards the Los Muertos ranch
houses.

The bodies of Delaney and Christian had already been carried to
Guadalajara and thence taken by train to Bonneville .

Hilma followed the farm wagon in the Derricks' carry-all, with
Magnus and his wife. During all that ride none of them spoke a
word. It had been arranged that, since Quien Sabe was in the
hands of the Railroad, Hilma should come to Los Muertos. To that
place also Annixter's body was carried.

Later on in the day, when it was almost evening, the undertaker's
black wagon passed the Derricks' Home ranch on its way from
Hooven's and turned into the county road towards Bonneville. The
initial excitement of the affair of the irrigating ditch had died
down; the crowd long since had dispersed. By the time the wagon
passed Caraher's saloon, the sun had set. Night was coming on.

And the black wagon went on through the darkness, unattended,
ignored, solitary, carrying the dead body of Dabney, the silent
old man of whom nothing was known but his name, who made no
friends, whom nobody knew or spoke to, who had come from no one
knew whence and who went no one knew whither.

Towards midnight of that same day, Mrs. Dyke was awakened by the
sounds of groaning in the room next to hers. Magnus Derrick was
not so occupied by Harran's death that he could not think of
others who were in distress, and when he had heard that Mrs. Dyke
and Sidney, like Hilma, had been turned out of Quien Sabe, he had
thrown open Los Muertos to them.

"Though," he warned them, "it is precarious hospitality at the
best."

Until late, Mrs. Dyke had sat up with Hilma, comforting her as
best she could, rocking her to and fro in her arms, crying with
her, trying to quiet her, for once having given way to her grief,
Hilma wept with a terrible anguish and a violence that racked her
from head to foot, and at last, worn out, a little child again,
had sobbed herself to sleep in the older woman's arms, and as a
little child, Mrs. Dyke had put her to bed and had retired
herself.

Aroused a few hours later by the sounds of a distress that was
physical, as well as mental, Mrs. Dyke hurried into Hilma's room,
carrying the lamp with her.
Mrs. Dyke needed no enlightenment. She woke Presley and besought
him to telephone to Bonneville at once, summoning a doctor. That
night Hilma in great pain suffered a miscarriage.

Presley did not close his eyes once during the night; he did not
even remove his clothes. Long after the doctor had departed and
that house of tragedy had quieted down, he still remained in his
place by the open window of his little room, looking off across
the leagues of growing wheat, watching the slow kindling of the
dawn. Horror weighed intolerably upon him. Monstrous things,
huge, terrible, whose names he knew only too well, whirled at a
gallop through his imagination, or rose spectral and grisly
before the eyes of his mind. Harran dead, Annixter dead,
Broderson dead, Osterman, perhaps, even at that moment dying.
Why, these men had made up his world. Annixter had been his best
friend, Harran, his almost daily companion; Broderson and
Osterman were familiar to him as brothers. They were all his
associates, his good friends, the group was his environment,
belonging to his daily life. And he, standing there in the dust
of the road by the irrigating ditch, had seen them shot. He
found himself suddenly at his table, the candle burning at his
elbow, his journal before him, writing swiftly, the desire for
expression, the craving for outlet to the thoughts that clamoured
tumultuous at his brain, never more insistent, more imperious.
Thus he wrote:

"Dabney dead, Hooven dead, Harran dead, Annixter dead, Broderson
dead, Osterman dying, S. Behrman alive, successful; the Railroad
in possession of Quien Sabe. I saw them shot. Not twelve hours
since I stood there at the irrigating ditch. Ah, that terrible
moment of horror and confusion! powder smoke--flashing pistol
barrels--blood stains--rearing horses--men staggering to their
death--Christian in a horrible posture, one rigid leg high in the
air across his saddle--Broderson falling sideways into the ditch--
Osterman laying himself down, his head on his arms, as if tired,
tired out. These things, I have seen them. The picture of this
day's work is from henceforth part of my mind, part of ME. They
have done it, S. Behrman and the owners of the railroad have done
it, while all the world looked on, while the people of these
United States looked on. Oh, come now and try your theories upon
us, us of the ranchos, us, who have suffered, us, who KNOW. Oh,
talk to US now of the 'rights of Capital,' talk to US of the
Trust, talk to US of the 'equilibrium between the classes.' Try
your ingenious ideas upon us. WE KNOW. I cannot tell whether or
not your theories are excellent. I do not know if your ideas are
plausible. I do not know how practical is your scheme of
society. I do not know if the Railroad has a right to our lands,
but I DO know that Harran is dead, that Annixter is dead, that
Broderson is dead, that Hooven is dead, that Osterman is dying,
and that S. Behrman is alive, successful, triumphant; that he has
ridden into possession of a principality over the dead bodies of
five men shot down by his hired associates.