The Octopus, by Frank NorrisA Story of California (page 9)

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.”