The octopus : a story of California

THE OCTOPUS

FRANK NORRIS

University Library
University of California • Berkeley

/o

THE OCTOPUS

A STORY OF CALIFORNIA

SEED
KANCII

Low Grou.'kd.

^«r^| I
Mi&lon
San yuan de
Guadhlalara

l.l.PO*TE9, EKOH.

2. Osterman's Ranch House.
4. Annixter's Ranch House.

8. Derrick's Ranch House.
g. Broderson's Ranch House.

MAP OF THE COUNTRY DESCRIBED IN "THE OCTOPUS."

The Epic of the Wheat

THE OCTOPUS

A STORY OF CALIFORNIA

BY

FRANK NORRIS

NEW YORK
A. WESSELS COMPANY

1906

Copyright, 1901,
by

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & Co.

PRESS OF

BRAUNWORTH & CO.

BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS

BROOKLYN, N. Y-

DEDICATED

TO
MY WIFE

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE NOVEL.

MAGNUS DERRICK (the " Governor "), proprietor of the Los MUERTOS

RANCHO.

ANNIE DERRICK, wife of Magnus Derrick.
LYMAN DERRICK,

sons of Magnus Derrick.
HARRAN DERRICK, )

BRODERSON, )

>• friends and neighbors of Magnus Derrick.

OSTERMAN, )

ANNIXTKR, proprietor of the QUIEN SABE RANCHO.

HILMA TREE, a dairy girl on Annixter's ranch.

GENSLINGER, editor of the Bonneville " Mercury," the railroad organ.

S. BEHRMAN, representative of the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad,

PRESLEY, zprotigJoi Magnus Derrick.

VANAMEE, a sheep herder and range rider.

ANG£LE VARIAN.

FATHER SARRIA, a Mission priest.

DYKE, a black-listed railroad engineer.

MRS. DYKE, Dyke's mother.

SIDNEY DYKE, Dyke's daughter.

CARAHKR, a saloon keeper.

HOOVEN, a tenant of Derrick.

MRS. HOOVEN, his wife.

MINNA HOOVEN, his daughter.

CEDARQUIST, a manufacturer and shipbuilder.

MRS. CEDARQUIST, his wife.

GARNETT,

DABNBY,

• ranchers of the San Toaquin Valley.
KEAST,

CHATTERN, .

The Trilogy of The Epic of the Wheat will include the
following novels:

THE OCTOPUS, a Story of California.
THE PIT, a Story of Chicago.
THE WOLF, a Story of Europe.

These novels, while forming a series, will be in no way
connected with each other save only in their relation to
(i) the production, (2) the distribution, (3) the consump-
tion of American wheat. When complete, they will form
the story of a crop of wheat from the time of its sowing
as seed in California to the time of its consumption as
bread in a village of Western Europe.

The first novel, " The Octopus," deals with the war be-
tween the wheat grower and the Railroad Trust; the
second, " The Pit," will be the fictitious narrative of a
" deal " in the Chicago wheat pit; while the third, " The
Wolf," will probably have for its pivotal episode the re-
lieving of a famine in an Old World community.

F. N.

ROSELLE, NEW JERSEY,
December 15, 1900.

THE OCTOPUS

Booh 1

Just after passing Caraher's saloon, on the County
Road that ran south from Bonneville, and that divided
the Broderson ranch from that of Los Muertos, Presley
was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowing
of a steam whistle that he knew must come from the rail-
road shops near the depot at Bonneville. In starting
out from the ranch house that morning, he had forgotten
his watch, and was now perplexed to know whether the
whistle was blowing for twelve or for one o'clock. He
hoped the former. Early that morning he had decided
to make a long excursion through the neighbouring
country, partly on foot and partly on his bicycle, and now
noon was come already, and as yet he had hardly started.
As he was leaving the house after breakfast, Mrs. Der-
rick had asked him to go for the mail at Bonneville, and
he had not been able to refuse.

He took a firmer hold of the cork grips of his handle-
bars— the road being in a wretched condition after the
recent hauling of the crop — and quickened his pace.
He told himself that, no matter what the time was, he
would not stop for luncheon at the ranch house, but
would push on to Guadalajara and have a Spanish dinner
at Solotari's, as he had originally planned,

4 The Octopus

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

It was the last half of September, the very end of the
dry season, and all Tulare County, all the vast reaches of
the San Joaquin Valley — in fact all South Central Cali-
fornia, was bone dry, parched, and baked and crisped
after four months of cloudless weather, when the day
seemed always at noon, and the sun blazed white hot
over the valley from the Coast Range in the west to the
foothills of the Sierras in the east.

As Presley drew near to the point where what was
known as the Lower Road struck off through the
Rancho de Los Muertos, leading on to Guadalajara, he
came upon one of the county watering-tanks, a great,
iron-hooped tower of wood, straddling clumsily on its
four uprights by the roadside. Since the day of its com-
pletion, the storekeepers and retailers of Bonneville had
painted their advertisements upon it. It was a land-
mark. In that reach of level fields, the white letters upon
it could be read for miles. A watering-trough stood
near by, and, as he was very thirsty, Presley resolved to
stop for a moment to g"et a drink.

He drew abreast of the tank and halted there, leaning
his bicycle against the fence. A couple of men in white
overalls were repainting the surface of the tank, seated
on swinging platforms that hung by hooks from the roof.
They were painting a sign — an advertisement. It was

A Story of California 5

all but finished and read, " S. Behrman, Real Estate,
Mortgages, Main Street, Bonneville, Opposite the Post
Office." On the horse-trough that stood in the shadow
of the tank was another freshly painted inscription:
" S. Behrman Has Something To Say To You."

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

" Hello, Bismarck," said Presley, as Hooven brought
his team to a standstill by the tank, preparatory to re-
filling.

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

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

" Well, you must be quick about it, Bismarck," he an-
swered sharply. " I'm late for dinner, as it is."

" Soh, now. Twp minuten, und I be mit you." He

6 The Octopus

drew down the overhanging spout of the tank to the
vent in the circumference of the cart and pulled the chain
that let out the water. Then he climbed down from the
seat, jumping from the tire of the wheel, and taking Pres-
ley by the arm led him a few steps down the road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

" Well, Harran's your man," answered Presley, pre-
paring to mount his bicycle.

" Say, you hef hear about dose ting? "

A Story of California 7

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

" Und der pipe-line ge-mend," Hooven burst out, sud-
denly remembering a forgotten argument. He waved
an arm. " Ach, der pipe-line bei der Mission Greek,
und der waater-hole for dose cettles. Say, he doand doo
ut himselluf, berhaps, I doand tink."

" Well, talk to Harran about it."

" Say, he doand farm der whole demn rench bei his-
seluf. Me, I gotta stay."

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

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

He climbed back to his seat under the wagon um-
brella, and, as he started his team again with great cracks
of his long whip, turned to the painters still at work
upon the sign and declared with some defiance:

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

Meanwhile Presley had turned into the Lower Road.
He was now on Derrick's land, division No. i, or, as it
was called, the Home ranch, of the great Los Muertos
Rancho. The road was better here, the dust laid after
the passage of Hooven's watering-cart, and, in a few
minutes, he had come to the ranch house itself, with its
white picket fence, its few flower beds, and grove of
eucalyptus trees. On the lawn at the side of the house,
he saw Harran in the act of setting out the automatic
sprinkler. In the shade of the house, by the porch, were
two or three of the greyhounds, part of the pack that

8 The Octopus

were used to hunt down jack-rabbits, and Godfrey, Har-
ran's prize deerhound.

Presley wheeled up the driveway and met Harran by;
the horse-block. Harran was Magnus Derrick's young-
est son, a very well-looking young fellow of twenty-
three or twenty-five. He had the fine carriage that
marked his father, and still further resembled him in that
he had the Derrick nose — hawk-like and prominent, such
as one sees in the later portraits of the Duke of Welling-
ton. He was blond, and incessant exposure to the sun
had, instead of tanning him brown, merely heightened
the colour of his cheeks. His yellow hair had a tendency
to curl in a forward direction, just in front of the ears.

Beside him, Presley made the sharpest of contrasts.
Presley .seemed to have come of a mixed origin; ap-
peared to have a nature more composite, a temperament
more complex. Unlike Harran Derrick, he seemed more
of a character than a type. The sun had browned his
face till it was almost swarthy. His eyes were a dark
brown, and his forehead was the forehead of the intel-
lectual, wide and high, with a certain unmistakable lift
about it that argued education, not only of himself, but
of his people before him. The impression conveyed by
his mouth and chin was that of a delicate and highly sen-
sitive nature, the lips thin and loosely shut together, the
chin small and rather receding. One guessed that
Presley's refinement had been gained only by a certain
loss of strength. One expected to find him nervous,
introspective, to discover that his mental life was not at
all the result of impressions and sensations that came to
him from without, but rather of thoughts and reflections
germinating from within. Though morbidly sensitive
to changes in his physical surroundings, he would be
slow to act upon such sensations, would not prove im-
pulsive, not because he was sluggish, but because he was

A Story of California 9

merely irresolute. It could be foreseen that morally he
was of that sort who avoid evil through good taste, lack
of decision, and want of opportunity. His temperament
was that of the poet; when he told himself he had been
thinking, he deceived himself. He had, on such occa-
sions, been only brooding.

Some eighteen months before this time, he had been
threatened with consumption, and, taking advantage of
a standing invitation on the part of Magnus Derrick, had
come to stay in the dry, even climate of the San Joaquin
for an indefinite length of time. He was thirty years old,
and had graduated and post-graduated with high hon-
ours from an Eastern college, where he had devoted
himself to a passionate study of literature, and, more
especially, of poetry.

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

But whatever he wrote, and in whatever fashion, Pres-
ley was determined that his poem should be of the West,
that world's frontier of Romance, where a new race, a
new people — hardy, brave, and passionate — were build-
ing an empire; where the tumultuous life ran like fire
from dawn to dark, and from dark to dawn again, primi-
tive, brutal, honest, and without fear. Something (to
his idea not much) had been done to catch at that life in
passing, but its poet had not yet arisen. The few spo-
radic attempts, thus he told himself, had only touched
the keynote. He strove for the diapason, the great song
that should embrace in itself a whole epoch, a complete
era, the voice of an entire people, wherein all people

io The Octopus

should be included — they and their legends, their folk
lore, their fightings, their loves and their lusts, their
blunt, grim humour, their stoicism under stress, their
adventures, their treasures found in a day and gambled
in a night, their direct, crude speech, their generosity and
cruelty, their heroism and bestiality, their religion and
profanity, their self-sacrifice and obscenity — a true and
fearless setting forth of a passing phase of history, un-
compromising, sincere ; each group in its proper environ-
ment; the valley, the plain, and the mountain; the ranch,
the range, and the mine — all this, all the traits and types
of every community from the Dakotas to the Mexicos,
from Winnipeg to Guadalupe, gathered together, swept
together, welded and riven together in one single,
mighty song, the Song of the West. That was what he
dreamed, while things without names — thoughts for
which no man had yet invented words, terrible formless
shapes, vague figures, colossal, monstrous, distorted —
whirled at a gallop through his imagination.

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

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

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

Presley shook his head. " No, I'm in a hurry. Per-
haps I shall have something to eat at Guadalajara. I
shall be gone all day."

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

" The Governor is coming home," he exclaimed, " to-
morrow morning on the early train ; wants me to meet

A Story of California 1 1

him with the team at Guadalajara; and," he cried be-
tween his clenched teeth, as he continued to read,
" we've lost the case."

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

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

" Ulsteen gave his decision yesterday," he continued,
reading from his father's letter. " He holds, Ulsteen
does, that ' grain rates as low as the new figure would
amount to confiscation of property, and that, on such a
basis, the railroad could not be operated at a legitimate
profit. As he is powerless to legislate in the matter, he
can only put the rates back at what they originally were
before the commissioners made the cut, and it is so or-
dered.' That's our friend S. Behrman again," added
Harran, grinding his teeth. " He was up in the city the
whole of the time the new schedule was being drawn, and
he and Ulsteen and the Railroad Commission were as
thick as thieves. He has been up there all this last week,
too, doing the railroad's dirty work, and backing Ulsteen
up. ' Legitimate profit, legitimate profit,' " he broke
out. " Can we raise wheat at a legitimate profit with a
tariff of four dollars a ton for moving it two hundred
miles to tide-water, with wheat at eighty-seven cents?
Why not hold us up with a gun in our faces, and say,
* hands up/ and be done with it ? "

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

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

Harran, his mind full of other things, nodded to say
he understood. Presley only waited till he had disap-

12 The Octopus

peared indoors, so that he might not seem too indifferent
to his trouble; then, remounting, struck at once into a
brisk pace, and, turning out from the carriage gate, held
on swiftly down the Lower Road, going in the direction
of Guadalajara. These matters, these eternal fierce
bickerings between the farmers of the San Joaquin and
the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad irritated him and
wearied him. He cared for none of these things. They
did not belong to his world. In the picture of that huge
romantic West that he saw in his imagination, these
dissensions made the one note of harsh colour that re-
fused to enter into the great scheme of harmony. It
was material, sordid, deadly commonplace. But, how-
ever he strove to shut his eyes to it or his ears to it, the
thing persisted and persisted. The romance seemed
complete up to that point. There it broke, there it
failed, there it became realism, grim, unlovely, unyield-
ing. To be true — and it was the first article of his creed
to b« unflinchingly true — he could not ignore it. All the
noble poetry of the ranch — the valley — seemed in his
mind to be marred and disfigured by the presence of
certain immovable facts. Just what he wanted, Presley
hardly knew. On one hand, it was his ambition to
portray life as he saw it — directly, frankly, and through
no medium of personality or temperament. But, on the
other hand, as well, he wished to see everything through
a rose-coloured mist — a mist that dulled all harsh out-
lines, all crude and violent colours. He told himself
that, as a part of the people, he loved the people and
sympathised with their hopes and fears, and joys and
griefs ; and yet Hooven, grimy and perspiring, with his
perpetual grievance and his contracted horizon, only re-
volted him. He had set himself the task of giving true,
absolutely true, poetical expression to the life of the
ranch, and yet, again and again, he brought up against

A Story of California 13

the railroad, that stubborn iron barrier against which
his romance shattered itself to froth and disintegrated,
flying spume. His heart went out to the people, and his
groping hand met that of a slovenly little Dutchman,
whom it was impossible to consider seriously. He
searched for the True Romance, and, in the end, found
grain rates and unjust freight tariffs.

" But the stuff is here," he muttered, as he sent his
wheel rumbling across the bridge over Broderson
Creek. " The romance, the real romance, is here some-
where. I'll get hold of it yet."

He shot a glance about him as if in search of the in-
spiration. By now he was not quite half way across the
northern and narrowest corner of Los Muertos, at this
point some eight miles wide. He was still on the Home
ranch. A few miles to the south he could just make out
the line of wire fence that separated it from the third di-
vision ; and to the north, seen faint and blue through the
haze and shimmer of the noon sun, a long file of tele-
graph poles showed the line of the railroad and marked
Derrick's northeast boundary. The road over which
Presley was travelling ran almost diametrically straight.
In front of him, but at a great distance, he could make
out the giant live-oak and the red roof of Hooven's barn
that stood near it.

All about him the country was flat. In all directions
he could see for miles. The harvest was just over.
Nothing but stubble remained on the ground. With the
one exception of the live-oak by Hooven's place, there
was nothing green in sight. The wheat stubble was of
a dirty yellow; the ground, parched, cracked, and dry,
of a cheerless brown. By the roadside the dust lay thick
and grey, and, on either hand, stretching on toward the
horizon, losing itself in a mere smudge in the distance,
ran the illimitable parallels of the wire fence. And that

14 The Octopus

was all; that and the burnt-out blue of the sky and the
steady shimmer of the heat.

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

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

Toward two o'clock, Presley reached Hooven's
place, two or three grimy frame buildings, infested with
a swarm of dogs. A hog or two wandered aimlessly
about. Under a shed by the barn, a broken-down seeder
lay rusting to its ruin. But overhead, a mammoth live-
oak, the largest tree in all the country-side, towered
superb and magnificent. Grey bunches of mistletoe and
festoons of trailing moss hung from its bark. From its
lowest branch hung Hooven's meat-safe, a square box,
faced with wire screens.

What gave a special interest to Hooven's was the fact
that here was the intersection of the Lower Road and
Derrick's main irrigating ditch, a vast trench not yet
completed, which he and Annixter, who worked the
Quien Sabe ranch, were jointly constructing. It ran di-
rectly across the road and at right angles to it, and lay a
deep groove in the field between Hooven's and the town
of Guadalajara, some three miles farther on. Besides
this, the ditch was a natural boundary between two di-
visions of the Los Muertos ranch, the first and fourth.

Presley now had the choice of two routes. His ob-
jective point was the spring at the headwaters of Broder-

A Story of California 15

son Creek, in the hills on the eastern side of the Quien
Sabe ranch. The trail afforded him a short cut thither-
ward. As he passed the house, Mrs. Hooven came to
the door, her little daughter Hilda, dressed in a boy's
overalls and clumsy boots, at her skirts. Minna, her
oldest daughter, a very pretty girl, whose love affairs
were continually the talk of all Los Muertos, was visible
through a window of the house, busy at the week's
washing. Mrs. Hooven was a faded, colourless woman,
middle-aged and commonplace, and offering not the
least characteristic that would distinguish her from a
thousand other women of her class and kind. She
nodded to Presley, watching him with a stolid gaze from
under her arm, which she held across her forehead to
shade her eyes.

But now Presley exerted himself in good earnest.
His bicycle flew. He resolved that after all he would go
to Guadalajara. He crossed the bridge over the irrigat-
ing ditch with a brusque spurt of hollow sound, and shot
forward down the last stretch of the Lower Road that
yet intervened between Hooven's and the town. He was
on the fourth division of the ranch now, the only one
whereon the wheat had been successful, no doubt be-
cause of the Little Mission Creek that ran through it.
But he no longer occupied himself with the landscape.
His only concern was to get on as fast as possible. He
had looked forward to spending nearly the whole day on
the crest of the wooded hills in the northern corner of
the Quien Sabe ranch, reading, idling, smoking his pipe.
But now he would do well if he arrived there by the mid-
dle of the afternoon. In a few moments he had reached
the line fence that marked the limits of the ranch. Here
were the railroad tracks, and just beyond — a huddled
mass of roofs, with here and there an adobe house on its
outskirts — the little town of Guadalajara. Nearer at

1 6 The Octopus

hand, and directly in front of Presley, were the freight
and passenger depots of the P. and S. W., painted in the
grey and white, which seemed to be the official colours
of all the buildings owned by the corporation. The sta-
tion was deserted. No trains passed at this hour. From
the direction of the ticket window, Presley heard the
unsteady chittering of the telegraph key. In the shadow
of one of the baggage trucks upon the platform, the
great yellow cat that belonged to the agent dozed com-
placently, her paws tucked under her body. Three flat
cars, loaded with bright-painted farming machines,
were on the siding above the station, while, on the
switch below, a huge freight engine that lacked its cow-
catcher sat back upon its monstrous driving-wheels,
motionless, solid, drawing long breaths that were punc-
tuated by the subdued sound of its steam-pump clicking
at exact intervals.

But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should
be stopped at every point of his ride that day, for, as he
was pushing his bicycle across the tracks, he was sur-
prised to hear his name called. " Hello, there, Mr.
Presley. What's the good word ? "

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

Dyke's home was in Guadalajara. He lived in one of
the remodelled 'dobe cottages, where his mother kept
house for him. His wife had died some five years before

A Story of California 1 7

this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney, to bring
up as best he could. Dyke himself was a heavy built,
well-looking fellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley,
with great shoulders and massive, hairy arms, and a
tremendous, rumbling voice.

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

" We've changed about a bit," answered the other.
" Come up here and sit down, and get out of the sun.
They've held us here to wait orders," he explained, as
Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender,
climbed to the fireman's seat of worn green leather.
" They are changing the run of one of the crack passen-
ger engines down below, and are sending her up to
Fresno. There was a smash of some kind on the Bakers-
field division, and she's to hell and gone behind her time.
I suppose when she comes, she'll come a-humming. It
will be stand clear and an open track all the way to
Fresno. They have held me here to let her go by."

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

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

" And precisely they choose this day to go up to Sac-
ramento," answered Dyke. "Just my luck. Went up
to visit my brother's people. By the way, my brother
may come down here — locate here, I mean — and go into
the hop-raising business. He's got an option on five
hundred acres just back of the town here. He says
there's going to be money in hops. I don't know; may-
be I'll go in with him."

1 8 The Octopus

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

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

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

" Fired ! You ! " exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly
toward him.

" That's what I'm telling you," returned Dyke
grimly.

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

" Now, you tell me what for," growled the other sav-
agely. " Boy and man, I've worked for the P. and S. W.
for over ten years, and never one yelp of a complaint
did I ever hear from them. They know damn well
they've not got a steadier man on the road. And more
than that, more than that, I don't belong to the Brother-
hood. And when the strike came along, I stood by them
— stood by the company. You know that. And you
know, and they know, that at Sacramento that time, I
ran my train according to schedule, with a gun in each
hand, never knowing when I was going over a mined
culvert, and there was talk of giving me a gold watch at
the time. To hell with their gold watches ! I want or-
dinary justice and fair treatment. And now, when hard
times come along, and they are cutting wages, what do
they do ? Do they make any discrimination in my case ?
Do they remember the man that stood by them and
risked his life in their service ? No. They cut my pay
down just as off-hand as they do the pay of any dirty
little wiper in the yard. Cut me along with — listen to
this — cut me along with men that they had black-listed;
strikers that they took back because they were short of
hands." He drew fiercely on his pipe. " I went to them,
yes, I did; I went to the General Office, and ate dirt. I
told them I was a family man, and that I didn't see hovf

A Story of California 19

I was going to get along on the new scale, and I re-
minded them of my service during the strike. The swine
told me that it wouldn't be fair to discriminate in favour
of one man, and that the cut must apply to all their em-
ployees alike. Fair ! " he shouted with laughter. " Fair !
Hear the P. and S. W. talking about fairness and dis-
crimination. That's good, that is. Well, I got furious.
I was a fool, I suppose. I told them that, in justice to
myself, I wouldn't do first-class work for third-class pay.
And they said, ' Well, Mr. Dyke, you know what you
can do/ Well, I did know. I said, ' I'll ask for my time,
if you please/ and they gave it to me just as if they were
glad to be shut of me. So there you are, Presley. That's
the P. & S. W. Railroad Company of California. I am
on my last run now."

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

Dyke smote his knee with his clenched fist.

" Name one."

Presley was silent. Dyke's challenge was unanswer-
able. There was a lapse in their talk, Presley drumming'
on the arm of the seat, meditating on this injustice; Dyke
looking off over the fields beyond the town, his frown
lowering, his teeth rasping upon his pipestem. The
station agent came to the door of the depot, stretching
and yawning. On ahead of the engine, the empty rails
of the track, reaching out toward the horizon, threw
off visible layers of heat. The telegraph key clicked in-
cessantly.

" So I'm going to quit," Dyke remarked after a while,
his anger somewhat subsided. " My brother and I will

20 The Octopus

take up this hop ranch. I've saved a good deal in the
last ten years, and there ought to be money in hops."

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

At Solotari's, the restaurant on the Plaza, diagonally
across from the hotel, Presley ate his long-deferred
Mexican dinner — an omelette in Spanish-Mexican style,
frijoles and tortillas, a salad, and a glass of white wine.
In a corner of the room, during the whole course of his
dinner, two young Mexicans (one of whom was aston-
ishingly handsome, after the melodramatic fashion of his
race) and an old fellow, the centenarian of the town,
decrepit beyond belief, sang an interminable love-song
to the accompaniment of a guitar and an accordion.

These Spanish-Mexicans, decayed, picturesque, vi-
cious, and romantic, never failed to interest Presley.
A few of them still remained in Guadalajara, drifting
from the saloon to the restaurant, and from the restau-
rant to the Plaza, relics of a former generation, standing
for a different order of things, absolutely idle, living God
knew how, happy with their cigarette, their guitar, their
glass of mescal, and their siesta. The centenarian re-
membered Fremont and Governor Alvarado, and the
bandit Jesus Tejeda, and the days when Los Muertos

A Story of California $i

was a Spanish grant, a veritable principality, leagues in
extent, and when there was never a fence from Visalia
to Fresno. Upon this occasion, Presley offered the old
man a drink of mescal, and excited him to talk of the
things he remembered. Their talk was in Spanish, a
language with which Presley was familiar.

" De La Cuesta held the grant of Los Muertos in those
days," the centenarian said ; " a grand man. He had
the power of life and death over his people, and there was
no law but his word. There was no thought of wheat
then, you may believe. It was all cattle in those days,
sheep, horses — steers, not so many — and if money was
scarce, there was always plenty to eat, and clothes
enough for all, and wine, ah, yes, by the vat, and oil too ;
the Mission Fathers had that. Yes, and there was wheat
as well, now that I come to think ; but a very little — in the
field north of the Mission where now it is the Seed ranch ;
wheat fields were there, and also a vineyard, all on Mis-
sion grounds. Wheat, olives, and the vine; the Fathers
planted those, to provide the elements of the Holy Sacra-
ment— bread, oil, and wine, you understand. It was like
that, those industries began in California — from the
Church ; and now," he put his chin in the air, " what
would Father Ullivari have said to such a crop as Senor
Derrick plants these days? Ten thousand acres of
wheat ! Nothing but wheat from the Sierra to the Coast
Range. I remember when De La Cuesta was married.
He had never seen the young lady, only her miniature
portrait, painted " — he raised a shoulder — " I do not
know by whom, small, a little thingto be held in the palm.
But he fell in love with that, and marry her he would.
The affair was arranged between him and the girl's
parents. But when the time came that De La Cuesta
was to go to Monterey to meet and marry the girl, be-
hold, Jesus Tejeda broke in upon the small rancherog

22 The Octopus

near Terrabella. It was no time for De La Cuesta to
be away, so he sent his brother Esteban to Monterey
to marry the girl by proxy for him. I went with Esteban.
We were a company, nearly a hundred men. And De La
Cuesta sent a horse for the girl to ride, white, pure white;
and the saddle was of red leather; the head-stall, the bit,
and buckles, all the metal work, of virgin silver. Well,
there was a ceremony in the Monterey Mission, and Es-
teban, in the name of his brother, was married to the girl.
On our way back, De La Cuesta rode out to meet us.
His company met ours at Agatha dos Palos. Never
will I forget De La Cuesta's face as his eyes fell upon the
girl. It was a look, a glance, come and gone like that"
he snapped his fingers. " No one but I saw it, but I was
close by. There was no mistaking that look. De La
Cuesta was disappointed."

" And the girl ? " demanded Presley.

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

u You may well say that," observed Presley moodily,
discouraged by the other's talk. All his doubts and un-
certainty had returned to him. Never would he grasp
the subject of his great poem. To-day, the life was

A Story of California 23

colourless. Romance was dead. He had lived too late.
To write of the past was not what he desired. Reality
was what he longed for, things that he had seen. Yet
how to make this compatible with romance. He rose,
putting on his hat, offering the old man a cigarette. The
centenarian accepted with the air of a grandee, and ex-
tended his horn snuff-box. Presley shook his head.

" I was born too late for that/' he declared, " for that,
and for many other things. Adios"

" You are travelling to-day, senor ? "

" A little turn through the country, to get the kinks
out of the muscles," Presley answered. " I go up into
the Quien Sabe, into the high country beyond the Mis-
sion."

"Ah, the Quien Sabe rancho. The sheep are graz-
ing there this week."

Solotari, the keeper of the restaurant, explained:

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

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

The Home ranch of the Quien Sabe was in the little
triangle bounded on the south by the railroad, on the
northwest by Broderson Creek, and on the east by the

24 The Octopus

hop fields and the Mission lands. It was traversed in all
directions, now by the trail from Hooven's, now by the
irrigating ditch — the same which Presley had crossed
earlier in the day — and again by the road upon which
Presley then found himself. In its centre were Annixter's
ranch house and barns, topped by the skeleton-like tower
of the artesian well that was to feed the irrigating ditch.
Farther on, the course of Broderson Creek was marked
by a curved line of grey-green willows, while on the
low hills to the north, as Presley advanced, the ancient
Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, with its belfry
tower and red-tiled roof, began to show itself over the
crests of the venerable pear trees that clustered in its
garden.

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

Annixter — after the two had exchanged greetings — •
complained of terrific colics all the preceding night.
His stomach was out of whack, but you bet he knew
how to take care of himself; the last spell, he had con-
sulted a doctor at Bonneville, a gibbering busy-face who
had filled him up to the neck with a dose of some hog-
wash stuff that had made him worse — a healthy lot the
doctors knew, anyhow. His case was peculiar. He
knew; prunes were what he needed, and by the pound.

Annixter, who worked the Quien Sabe ranch — some
four thousand acres of rich clay and heavy loams — was a
very young man, younger even than Presley, like him
a college graduate. He looked never a year older
than he was. He was smooth-shaven and lean built.
But his youthful appearance was offset by a certain male
cast of countenance, the lower lip thrust out, the chin

A Story of California 25

large and deeply cleft. His university course had hard-
ened rather than polished him. He still remained one
of the people, rough almost to insolence, direct in speech,
intolerant in his opinions, relying upon absolutely no one
but himself ; yet, with all this, of an astonishing degree of
intelligence, and possessed of an executive ability little
short of positive genius. He was a ferocious worker, al-
lowing himself no pleasures, and exacting the same de-
gree of energy from all his subordinates. He was widely
hated, and as widely trusted. Every one spoke of his
crusty temper and bullying disposition, invariably quali-
fying the statement with a commendation of his re-
sources and capabilities. The devil of a driver, a hard
man to get along with, obstinate, contrary, cantankerous ;
but brains! No doubt of that; brains to his boots. One
would like to see the man who could get ahead of him on
a deal. Twice he had been shot at, once from ambush
on Osterman's ranch, and once by one of his own men
whom he had kicked from the sacking platform of his
harvester for gross negligence. At college, he had spe-
cialised on finance, political economy, and scientific ag-
riculture. After his graduation (he stood almost at the
very top of his class) he had returned and obtained the
degree of civil engineer. Then suddenly he had taken a
notion that a practical knowledge of law was indispens-
able to a modern farmer. In eight months he did the
work of three years, studying for his bar examinations.
His method of study was characteristic. He reduced all
the material of his text-books to notes. Tearing out the
leaves of these note-books, he pasted them upon the
walls of his room; then, in his shirt-sleeves, a cheap cigar
in his teeth, his hands in his pockets, he walked around
and around the room, scowling fiercely at his notes,
memorising, devouring, digesting. At intervals, he drank
great cupfuls of unsweetened, black coffee. When the

26 The Octopus

bar examinations were held, he was admitted at the very
head of all the applicants, and was complimented by the
judge. Immediately afterwards, he collapsed with
nervous prostration; his stomach " got out of whack,"
and he all but died in a Sacramento boarding-house, ob-
stinately refusing to have anything to do with doctors,
whom he vituperated as a rabble of quacks, dosing him-
self with a patent medicine and stuffing himself almost
to bursting with liver pills and dried prunes.

He had taken a trip to Europe after this sickness to
put himself completely to rights. He intended to be
gone a year, but returned at the end of six weeks, ful-
minating abuse of European cooking. Nearly his entire
time had been spent in Paris; but of this sojourn he had
brought back but two souvenirs, an electro-plated bill-
hook and an empty bird cage which had tickled his fancy
immensely.

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

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

But Presley's case was a notable exception. On no
occasion was Annixter prepared to accept another man's
opinion without reserve. In conversation with him, it
was almost impossible to make any direct statement,
however trivial, that he would accept without either modi-

A Story of California 27

fication or open contradiction. He had a passion for
violent discussion. He would argue upon every subject
in the range of human knowledge, from astronomy to
the tariff, from the doctrine of predestination to the
height of a horse. Never would he admit himself to be
mistaken; when cornered, he would intrench himself
behind the remark, " Yes, that's all very well. In some
ways, it is, and then, again, in some ways, it isn't"

Singularly enough, he and Presley were the best of
friends. More than once, Presley marvelled at this state
of affairs, telling himself that he and Annixter had noth-
ing in common. In all his circle of acquaintances, Pres-
ley was the one man with whom Annixter had never
quarrelled. The two men were diametrically opposed
in temperament. Presley was easy-going; Annixter,
alert. Presley was a confirmed dreamer, irresolute, in-
active, with a strong tendency to melancholy; the young
farmer was a man of affairs, decisive, combative, whose
only reflection upon his interior economy was a morbid
concern in the vagaries of his stomach. Yet the two
never met without a mutual pleasure, taking a genuine
interest in each other's affairs, and often putting them-
selves to great inconvenience to be of trifling service to
help one another.

As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a
woman-hater, for no other reason than that he was a
very bull-calf of awkwardness in feminine surroundings.
Feemales ! Rot ! There was a fine way for a man to
waste his time and his good money, lally gagging with a
lot of feemales. No, thank you ; none of it in his, if you
please. Once only he had an affair — a timid, little
creature in a glove-cleaning establishment in Sacra-
mento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how.
After his return to his ranch, a correspondence had been
maintained between the two, Annixter taking the pre-

28 The Octopus

caution to typewrite his letters, and never affixing his
signature, in an excess of prudence. He furthermore
made carbon copies of all his letters, filing them away in
a compartment of his safe. Ah, it would be a clever
feemale who would get him into a mess. Then, suddenly
smitten with a panic terror that he had committed him-
self, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had
abruptly sent the little woman about her business. It
was his only love affair. After that, he kept himself free.
No petticoats should ever have a hold on him. Sure not.

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

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

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

" Say/' observed the other, ignoring his question,
" what's this I hear about Derrick giving his tenants
the bounce, and working Los Muertos himself — work-
ing all his land? "

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

" Huh ! " grunted Annixter, spitting out a prune
stone. " You give Magnus Derrick my compliments
and tell him he's a fool."

" What do you mean ? "

" I suppose Derrick thinks he's still running his mine,
and that the same principles will apply to getting grain
out of the earth as to getting gold. Oh, let him go on
and see where he brings up. That's right, there's your
Western farmer," he exclaimed contemptuously. " Get
the guts out of your land ; work it to death ; never give
it a rest. Never alternate your crop, and then when

A Story of California 29

your soil is exhausted, sit down and roar about hard
times."

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

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

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

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

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

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

" You bet," answered Annixter. " In about a fort-
night now she'll be all ready."

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

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

Presley took himself off, but at the gate Annixter
called after him, his mouth full of prunes, " Say, take a
look at that herd of sheep as you go up. They are right
off here to the east of the road, about half a mile from
here. I guess that's the biggest lot of sheep you ever

30 The Octopus

saw. You might write a poem about 'em. Lamb — ram ;
sheep graze — sunny days. Catch on?"

Beyond Broderson Creek, as Presley advanced,
tramping along on foot now, the land opened out again
into the same vast spaces of dull brown earth,
sprinkled with stubble, such as had been characteristic
of Derrick's ranch. To the east the reach seemed in-
finite, flat, cheerless, heat-ridden, unrolling like a gigantic
scroll toward the faint shimmer of the distant horizons,
with here and there an isolated live-oak to break the
sombre monotony. But bordering the road to the west-
ward, the surface roughened and raised, clambering up
to the higher ground, on the crest of which the old Mis-
sion and its surrounding pear trees were now plainly
visible.

Just beyond the Mission, the road bent abruptly east-
ward, striking off across the Seed ranch. But Presley
left the road at this point, going on across the open
fields. There was no longer any trail. It was toward
three o'clock. The sun still spun, a silent, blazing disc,
high in the heavens, and tramping through the clods of
uneven, broken plough was fatiguing work. The slope
of the lowest foothills begun, the surface of the country
became rolling, and, suddenly, as he topped a higher
ridge, Presley came upon the sheep.

Already he had passed the larger part of the herd — an
intervening rise of ground having hidden it from sight.
Now, as he turned half way about, looking down into the
shallow hollow between him and the curve of the creek,
he saw them very plainly. The fringe of the herd was
some two hundred yards distant, but its farther side, in
that illusive shimmer of hot surface air, seemed miles
away. The sheep were spread out roughly in the shape
of a figure eight, two larger herds connected by a
smaller, and were headed to the southward, moving

A Story of California 31

slowly, grazing on the wheat stubble as they proceeded.
But the number seemed incalculable. Hundreds upon
hundreds upon hundreds of grey, rounded backs, all ex-
actly alike, huddled, close-packed, alive, hid the earth
from sight. It was no longer an aggregate of individuals.
It was a mass — a compact, solid, slowly moving mass,
huge, without form, like a thick-pressed growth of mush-
rooms, spreading out in all directions over the earth.
From it there arose a vague murmur, confused, inartic-
ulate, like the sound of very distant surf, while all the air
in the vicinity was heavy with the warm, ammoniacal
odour of the thousands of crowding bodies.

All the colours of the scene were sombre — the brown
of the earth, the faded yellow of the dead stubble, the
grey of the myriad of undulating backs. Only on the far
side of the herd, erect, motionless — a single note of
black, a speck, a dot — the shepherd stood, leaning upon
an empty water-trough, solitary, grave, impressive.

For a few moments, Presley stood, watching. Then,
as he started to move on, a curious thing occurred. At
first, he thought he had heard some one call his name.
He paused, listening; there was no sound but the vague
noise of the moving sheep. Then, as this first impression
passed, it seemed to him that he had been beckoned to.
Yet nothing stirred ; except for the lonely figure beyond
the herd there was no one in sight. He started on again,
and in half a dozen steps found himself looking over his
shoulder. Without knowing why, he looked toward the
shepherd; then halted and looked a second time and a
third. Had the shepherd called to him? Presley knew
that he had heard no voice. Brusquely, all his attention
seemed riveted upon this distant figure. He put one
forearm over his eyes, to keep off the sun, gazing across
the intervening herd. Surely, the shepherd had called
him. But at the next instant he started, uttering an ex-

32 The Octopus

clamation under his breath. The far-away speck of
black became animated. Presley remarked a sweeping
gesture. Though the man had not beckoned to him be-
fore, there was no doubt that he was beckoning now.
Without any hesitation, and singularly interested in the
incident, Presley turned sharply aside and hurried on
toward the shepherd, skirting the herd, wondering all
the time that he should answer the call with so little
question, so little hesitation.

But the shepherd came forward to meet Presley, fol-
lowed by one of his dogs. As the two men approached
each other, Presley, closely studying the other, began to
wonder where he had seen him before. It must have
been a very long time ago, upon one of his previous visits
to the ranch. Certainly, however, there was something
familiar in the shepherd's face and figure. When they
-came closer to each other, and Presley could see him
more distinctly, this sense of a previous acquaintance
"was increased and sharpened.

The shepherd was a man of about thirty-five. He was
very lean and spare. His brown canvas overalls were
thrust into laced boots. A cartridge belt without any
•cartridges encircled his waist. A grey flannel shirt, open
at the throat, showed his breast, tanned and ruddy. He
wore no hat. His hair was very black and rather long.
A pointed beard covered his chin, growing straight and
fine from the hollow cheeks. The absence of any cover-
ing for his head was, no doubt, habitual with him, for his
•face was as brown as an Indian's — a ruddy brown — quite
different from Presley's dark olive. To Presley's mor-
bidly keen observation, the general impression of the
shepherd's face was intensely interesting. It was un-
common to an astonishing degree. Presley's vivid imag-
ination chose to see in it the face of an ascetic, of a
recluse, almost that of a young seer. So must have

A Story of California 3£

appeared the half-inspired shepherds of the Hebraic
legends, the younger prophets of Israel, dwellers in the
wilderness, beholders of visions, having their existence
in a continual dream, talkers with God, gifted with
strange powers.

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

" Vanamee ! " he exclaimed.

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

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

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

"With the sheep?"

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

It was more than that. It was six years since Presley
and Vanamee had met, and then it had been for a short
time only, during one of the shepherd's periodical brief
returns to that part of the country. During a week he
and Presley had been much together, for the two were
devoted friends. Then, as abruptly, as mysteriously as
he had come, Vanamee disappeared. Presley awoke one
morning to find him gone. Thus, it had been with Van-
amee for a period of sixteen years, He lived his life ir*
3

34 The Octopus

the unknown, one could not tell where — in the desert, in
the mountains, throughout all the vast and vague South-
west, solitary, strange. Three, four, five years passed.
The shepherd would be almost forgotten. Never the
most trivial scrap of information as to his whereabouts
reached Los Muertos. He had melted off into the
surface-shimmer of the desert, into the mirage ; he sank
below the horizons ; he was swallowed up in the waste of
sand and sage. Then, without warning, he would reap-
pear, coming in from the wilderness, emerging from the
unknown. No one knew him well. In all that country-
side he had but three friends, Presley, Magnus Derrick,
and the priest at the Mission of San Juan de Guadala-
jara, Father Sarria. He remained always a mystery,
living a life half-real, half-legendary. In all those years
he did not seem to have grown older by a single day.
At this time, Presley knew him to be thirty-six years of
age. But since the first day the two had met, the shep-
herd's face and bearing had, to his eyes, remained the
same. At this moment, Presley was looking into the
same face he had first seen many, many years ago. It
was a face stamped with an unspeakable sadness, a death-
less grief, the permanent imprint of a tragedy long past,
but yet a living issue. Presley told himself that it was
impossible to look long into Vanamee's eyes without
knowing that here was a man whose whole being had
been at one time shattered and riven to its lowest depths,
whose life had suddenly stopped at a certain moment of
its development.

The two friends sat down upon the ledge of the water-
ing-trough, their eyes wandering incessantly toward the
slow moving herd, grazing on the wheat stubble, moving
southward as they grazed.

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

A Story of California 35

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

" Off there, down to the south, very far off. So many
places that I can't remember. I went the Long Trail
this time; a long, long ways. Arizona, The Mexico's,
and, then, afterwards, Utah and Nevada, following the
horizon, travelling at hazard. Into Arizona first, going
in by Monument Pass, and then on to the south, through
the country of the Navajos, down by the Aga Thia
Needle — a great blade of red rock jutting from out the
desert, like a knife thrust. Then on and on through The
Mexicos, all through the Southwest, then back again
in a great circle by Chihuahua and Aldama to Laredo,
to Torreon, and Albuquerque. From there across the
Uncompahgre plateau into the Uintah country; then at
last due west through Nevada to California and to the
valley of the San Joaquin."

His voice lapsed to a monotone, his eyes becoming
fixed; he continued to speak as though half awake,
his thoughts elsewhere, seeing again in the eye of his
mind the reach of desert and red hill, the purple moun-
tain, the level stretch of alkali, leper white, all the savage,
gorgeous desolation of the Long Trail.

He ignored Presley for the moment, but, on the other
hand, Presley himself gave him but half his attention.
The return of Vanamee had stimulated the poet's mem-
ory. He recalled the incidents of Vanamee's life, re-
viewing again that terrible drama which had uprooted
his soul, which had driven him forth a wanderer, a shun-
ner of men, a sojourner in waste places. He was,
strangely enough, a college graduate and a man of wide
reading and great intelligence, but he had chosen to
lead his own life, which was that of a recluse.

Of a temperament similar in many ways to Presley's,
there were capabilities in Vanamee that were not ordi-

3 6 The Octopus

narily to be found in the rank and file of men. Living
close to nature, a poet by instinct, where Presley was
but a poet by training, there developed in him a great
•sensitiveness to beauty and an almost abnormal capacity
for great happiness and great sorrow; he felt things
intensely, deeply. He never forgot. It was when he
was eighteen or nineteen, at the formative and most
impressionable period of his life, that he had met An-
gele Varian. Presley barely remembered her as a girl
of sixteen, beautiful almost beyond expression, who lived
with an aged aunt on the Seed ranch back of the Mission.
At this moment he was trying to recall how she looked,
with her hair of gold hanging in two straight plaits on
either side of her face, making three-cornered her round,
white forehead; her wonderful eyes, violet blue, heavy
lidded, with their astonishing upward slant toward the
temples, the slant that gave a strange, oriental cast to
her face, perplexing, enchanting. He remembered the
Egyptian fulness of the lips, the strange balancing
movement of her head upon her slender neck, the same
movement that one sees in a snake at poise. Never
had he seen a girl more radiantly beautiful, never a
beauty so strange, so troublous, so out of all accepted
standards. It was small wonder that Vanamee had loved
her, and less wonder, still, that his love had been so in-
tense, so passionate, so part of himself. Angele had
loved him with a love no less than his own. It was one
of those legendary passions that sometimes occur, idyl-
lic, untouched by civilisation, spontaneous as the growth
of trees, natural as dew-fall, strong as the firm-seated
mountains.

At the time of his meeting with Angele, Vanamee was
living on the Los Muertos ranch. It was there he had
chosen to spend one of his college vacations. But he pre-
ierred to pass it in out-of-door work, sometimes herding

A Story of California 37

cattle, sometimes pitching hay, sometimes working with
pick and dynamite-stick on the ditches in the fourth divi-
sion of the ranch, riding the range, mending breaks in
the wire fences, making himself generally useful. Col-
lege bred though he was, the life pleased him. He was,
as he desired, close to nature, living the full measure
of life, a worker among workers, taking enjoyment in
simple pleasures, healthy in mind and body. He be-
lieved in an existence passed in this fashion in the coun-
try, working hard, eating full, drinking deep, sleeping
dreamlessly.

But every night, after supper, he saddled his pony and.
rode over to the garden of the old Mission. The 'dobe
dividing wall on that side, which once had separated the
Mission garden and the Seed ranch, had long since
crumbled away, and the boundary between the two pieces
of ground was marked only by a line of venerable pear
trees. Here, under these trees, he found Angele await-
ing him, and there the two would sit through the hot,,
still evening, their arms about each other, watching the
moon rise over the foothills, listening to the trickle of
the water in the moss-encrusted fountain in the garden,
and the steady croak of the great frogs that lived in the
damp north corner of the enclosure. Through all one
summer the enchantment of that new-found, wonderful
love, pure and untainted, rilled the lives of each of them
with its sweetness. The summer passed, the harvest
moon came and went. The nights were very dark. In
the deep shade of the pear trees they could no longer
see each other. When they met at the rendezvous,
Vanamee found her only with his groping hands. They
did not speak, mere words were useless between them.
Silently as his reaching hands touched her warm
body, he took her in his arms, searching for her lips
with his. Then one night the tragedy had suddenly

38 The Octopus

leaped from out the shadow with the abruptness of an
explosion.

It was impossible afterwards to reconstruct the man-
ner of its occurrence. To Angele's mind — what there
was left of it — the matter always remained a hideous
blur, a blot, a vague, terrible confusion. No doubt they
two had been watched; the plan succeeded too well for
any other supposition. One moonless night, Angele,
arriving under the black shadow of the pear trees a little
earlier than usual, found the apparently familiar figure
waiting for her. All unsuspecting she gave herself to
the embrace of a strange pair of arms, and Vanamee ar-
riving but a score of moments later, stumbled over her
prostrate body, inert and unconscious, in the shadow of
the overspiring trees.

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

The little babe was taken by Angele's parents, and
Angele was buried in the Mission garden near to the
aged, grey sun dial. Vanamee stood by during the cere-
mony, but half conscious of what was going forward.

A Story of California 39

At the last moment he had stepped forward, looked long
into the dead face framed in its plaits of gold hair, the
hair that made three-cornered the round, white fore-
head ; looked again at the closed eyes, with their perplex-
ing upward slant toward the temples, oriental, bizarre ;
at the lips with their Egyptian fulness ; at the sweet,
slender neck ; the long, slim hands ; then abruptly turned
about. The last clods were rilling the grave at a time
when he was already far away, his horse's head turned
toward the desert.

For two years no syllable was heard of him. It was
believed that he had killed himself. But Vanamee had
no thought of that. For two years he wandered through
Arizona, living in the desert, in the wilderness, a recluse,
a nomad, an ascetic. But, doubtless, all his heart was
in the little coffin in the Mission garden. Once in so
often he must come back thither. One day he was seen
again in the San Joaquin. The priest, Father Sarria,
returning from a visit to the sick at Bonneville, met him
on the Upper Road.

Eighteen years had passed since Angele had died, but
the thread of Vanamee's life had been snapped. Noth-
ing remained now but the tangled ends. He had never
forgotten. The long, dull ache, the poignant grief had
now become a part of him. Presley knew this to be so.

While Presley had been reflecting upon all this, Vana-
mee had continued to speak. Presley, however, had
not been wholly inattentive. While his memory was
busy reconstructing the details of the drama of the
shepherd's life, another part of his brain had been swiftly
registering picture after picture that Vanamee's monoto-
nous flow of words struck off, as it were, upon a stead-
ily moving scroll. The music of the unfamiliar names
that occurred in his recital was a stimulant to the poet's
imagination. Presley had the poet's passion for expres-

40 The Octopus

sive, sonorous names. As these came and went in
Vanamee's monotonous undertones, like little notes of
harmony in a musical progression, he listened, delighted
with their resonance. Navajo, Quijotoa, Uintah, So-
nora, Laredo, Uncompahgre — to him they were so many
symbols. It was his West that passed, unrolling there
before the eye of his mind: the open, heat-scourged
round of desert ; the mesa, like a vast altar, shimmering
purple in the royal sunset ; the still, gigantic mountains,
heaving into the sky from out the canons ; the strenuous,
fierce life of isolated towns, lost and forgotten, down
there, far off, below the horizon. Abruptly his great
poem, his Song of the West, leaped up again in his
imagination. For the moment, he all but held it. It
was there, close at hand. In another instant he would
grasp it.

" Yes, yes/' he exclaimed, " I can see it all. The des-
ert, the mountains, all wild, primordial, untamed. How
I should have loved to have been with you. Then, per-
haps, I should have got hold of my idea."

"Your idea?"

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

Vanamee understood him perfectly. He nodded
gravely.

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

Presley caught at the word. It had never before oc-
curred to him.

" Epic, yes, that's it. It is the epic I'm searching for.
And how I search for it. You don't know. It is some-
times almost an agony. Often and often I can feel it

A Story of California 41

right there, there, at my finger-tips, but I never quite
catch it. It always eludes me. I was born too late.
Ah, to get back to that first clear-eyed view of things, to
see as Homer saw, as Beowulf saw, as the Nibelungen
poets saw. The life is here, the same as then; the Poem
is here; my West is here; the primeval, epic life is here,
here under our hands, in the desert, in the mountain, on
the ranch, all over here, from Winnipeg to Guadalupe.
It is the man who is lacking, the poet; we have been
educated away from it all. We are out of touch. We
are out of tune."

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

" I am going over to the Mission," he said, " to see
Father Sarria. I have not seen him yet."

" How about the sheep? "

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

Presley wondered at the heedlessness of leaving the
sheep so slightly guarded, but made no comment, and
the two started off across the field in the direction of the
Mission church.

" Well, yes, it is there — your epic," observed Vana-
mee, as they went along. " But why write? Why not
live in it? Steep oneself in the heat of the desert, the
glory of the sunset, the blue haze of the mesa and the
canon."

" As you have done, for instance? "

Vanamee nodded.

" No, I could not do that," declared Presley; " I want
to go back, but not so far as you. I feel that I must
compromise. I must find expression. I could not lose
myself like that in your desert. When its vastness over-

42 The Octopus

whelmed me, or its beauty dazzled me, or its loneliness
weighed down upon me, I should have to record my
impressions. Otherwise, I should suffocate."

" Each to his own life," observed Yanamee.

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

Presley and Vanamee went down the long colonnade
to the last door next the belfry tower, and Vanamee
pulled the leather thong that hung from a hole in the
door, setting a little bell jangling somewhere in the in-
terior. The place, but for this noise, was shrouded in
a Sunday stillness, an absolute repose. Only at inter-
vals, one heard the trickle of the unseen fountain, and the
liquid cooing of doves in the garden.

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

But instantly he recognised Vanamee. His face went
all alight with pleasure and astonishment. It seemed as
if he would never have finished shaking both his hands;

A Story of California 43

and, as it was, he released but one of them, patting him
affectionately on the shoulder with the other. He was
voluble in his welcome, talking partly in Spanish, partly
in English.

So he had come back again, this great fellow, tanned
as an Indian, lean as an Indian, with an Indian's long,
black hair. But he had not changed, not in the very
least. His beard had not grown an inch. Aha! The
rascal, never to give warning, to drop down, as it werey
from out the sky. Such a hermit ! To live in the desert!
A veritable Saint Jerome. Did a lion feed him down
there in Arizona, or was it a raven, like Elijah? The
good God had not fattened him, at any rate, and, apro-
pos, he was just about to dine himself. He had made
a salad from his own lettuce. The two would dine with
him, eh? For this, my son, that was lost is found again.

But Presley excused himself. Instinctively, he felt
that Sarria and Vanamee wanted to talk of things con-
cerning which he was an outsider. It was not at all un-
likely that Vanamee would spend half the night before
the high altar in the church.

He took himself away, his mind still busy with Van-
amee's extraordinary life and character. But, as he
descended the hill, he was startled by a prolonged and
raucous cry, discordant, very harsh, thrice repeated at
exact intervals, and, looking up, he saw one of Father
Sarria's peacocks balancing himself upon the topmost
wire of the fence, his long tail trailing, his neck out-
stretched, filling the air with his stupid outcry, for no
reason than the desire to make a noise.

About an hour later, toward four in the afternoon,
Presley reached the spring at the head of the little canon
in the northeast corner of the Quien Sabe ranch, the
point toward which he had been travelling since early in
the forenoon. The place was not without its charm.

44 The Octopus

Innumerable live-oaks overhung the canon, and Broder-
son Creek — there a mere rivulet, running down from
the spring — gave a certain coolness to the air. It was
one of the few spots thereabouts that had survived the
•dry season of the last year. Nearly all the other springs
had dried completely, while Mission Creek on Derrick's
ranch was nothing better than a dusty cutting in the
ground, filled with brittle, concave flakes of dried and
sun-cracked mud.

Presley climbed to the summit of one of the hills — the
highest — that rose out of the canon, from the crest of
which he could see for thirty, fifty, sixty miles down the
valley, and, filling his pipe, smoked lazily for upwards of
an hour, his head empty of thought, allowing himself to
succumb to a pleasant, gentle inanition, a little drowsy,
comfortable in his place, prone upon the ground, wanned
just enough by such sunlight as filtered through the live-
oaks, soothed by the good tobacco and the prolonged
murmur of the spring and creek. By degrees, the sense
of his own personality became blunted, the little wheels
and cogs of thought moved slower and slower; con-
sciousness dwindled to a point, the animal in him
stretched itself, purring. A delightful numbness in-
vaded his mind and his body. He was not asleep, he was
not awake, stupefied merely, lapsing back to the state
of the faun, the satyr.

After a while, rousing himself a little, he shifted his
position and, drawing from the pocket of his shooting
coat his little tree-calf edition of the Odyssey, read far
into the twenty-first book, where, after the failure of all
the suitors to bend Ulysses's bow, it is finally put, with
mockery, into his own hands. Abruptly the drama of
the story roused him from all his languor. In an instant,
he was the poet again, his nerves tingling, alive to every
sensation, responsive to every impression. The desire

A Story of California 45

of creation, of composition, grew big within him. Hexa-
meters of his own clamoured, tumultuous, in his brain.
Not for a long time had he " felt his poem," as he called
this sensation, so poignantly. For an instant he told
himself that he actually held it.

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

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

First, close at hand, it was the Seed ranch, carpeting
the little hollow behind the Mission with a spread of
greens, some dark, some vivid, some pale almost to yel-
lowness. Beyond that was the Mission itself, its vener-
able campanile, in whose arches hung the Spanish King's
bells, already glowing ruddy in the sunset. Farther on,
he could make out Annixter's ranch house, marked by
the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well, and, a little
farther to the east, the huddled, tiled roofs of Guadala-
jara. Far to the west and north, he saw Bonneville very
plain, and the dome of the courthouse, a purple silhou-
ette against the glare of the sky. Other points detached
themselves, swimming in a golden mist, projecting blue
shadows far before them; the mammoth live-oak by
Hooven's, towering superb and magnificent ; the line of
eucalyptus trees, behind which he knew was the Los
Muertos ranch house — his home; the watering-tank, the

46 The Octopus

great iron-hooped tower of wood that stood at the join-
ing of the Lower Road and the County Road ; the long
wind-break of poplar trees and the white walls of Cara-
her's saloon on the County Road.

But all this seemed to be only foreground, a mere
array of accessories — a mass of irrelevant details. Be-
yond Annixter's, beyond Guadalajara, beyond the Lower
Road, beyond Broderson Creek, on to the south and
west, infinite, illimitable, stretching out there under the
sheen of the sunset forever and forever, flat, vast, un-
broken, a huge scroll, unrolling between the horizons,
spread the great stretches of the ranch of Los Muer-
tos, bare of crops, shaved close in the recent harvest.
Near at hand were hills, but on that far southern horizon
only the curve of the great earth itself checked the view.
Adjoining Los Muertos, and widening to the west,
opened the Broderson ranch. The Osterman ranch to
the northwest carried on the great sweep of landscape ;
ranch after ranch. Then, as the imagination itself ex-
panded under the stimulus of that measureless range of
vision, even those great ranches resolved themselves
into mere foreground, mere accessories, irrelevant de-
tails. Beyond the fine line of the horizons, over the
curve of the globe, the shoulder of the earth, were other
ranches, equally vast, and beyond these, others, and be-
yond these, still others, the immensities multiplying,
lengthening out vaster and vaster. The whole gigantic
sweep of the San Joaquin expanded, Titanic, before the
eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering and
shimmering under the sun's red eye. At long intervals,
a faint breath of wind out of the south passed slowly
over the levels of the baked and empty earth, accentuat-
ing the silence, marking off the stillness. It seemed to
exhale from the land itself, a prolonged sigh as of deep
fatigue. It was the season after the harvest, and the

A Story of California 47

great earth, the mother, after its period of reproduction,
its pains of labour, delivered of the fruit of its loins, slept
the sleep of exhaustion, the infinite repose of the colos-
sus, benignant, eternal, strong, the nourisher of nations,
the feeder of an entire world.

Ha! there it was, his epic, his inspiration, his West,
his thundering progression of hexameters. A sudden
uplift, a sense of exhilaration, of physical exaltation ap-
peared abruptly to sweep Presley from his feet. As
from a point high above the world, he seemed to domi-
nate a universe, a whole order of things. He was diz-
zied, stunned, stupefied, his morbid supersensitive mind
reeling, drunk with the intoxication of mere immensity.
Stupendous ideas for which there were no names drove
headlong through his brain. Terrible, formless shapes,
vague figures, gigantic, monstrous, distorted, whirled at
a gallop through his imagination.

He started homeward, still in his dream, descending
from the hill, emerging from the canon, and took the
short cut straight across the Quien Sabe ranch, leaving
Guadalajara far to his left. He tramped steadily on
through the wheat stubble, walking fast, his head in a
whirl.

Never had he so nearly grasped his inspiration as at
that moment on the hill-top. Even now, though the
sunset was fading, though the wide reach of valley was
shut from sight, it still kept him company. Now the
details came thronging back — the component parts of
his poem, the signs and symbols of the West. It was
there, close at hand, he had been in touch with it all day.
It was in the centenarian's vividly coloured reminis-
cences— De La Cuesta, holding his grant from the Span-
ish crown, with his power of life and death; the romance
of his marriage ; the white horse with its pillion of red
leather and silver bridle mountings; the bull-fights in the

48 The Octopus

Plaza; the gifts of gold dust, and horses and tallow. It
was in Vanamee's strange history, the tragedy of his
love; Angele Varian, with her marvellous loveliness; the
Egyptian fulness of her lips, the perplexing upward slant
of her violet eyes, bizarre, oriental; her white forehead
made three cornered by her plaits of gold hair; the mys-
tery of the Other; her death at the moment of her child's
birth. It was in Vanamee's flight into the wilderness;
the story of the Long Trail; the sunsets behind the altar-
like mesas, the baking desolation of the deserts; the
strenuous, fierce life of forgotten towns, down there, far
off, lost below the horizons of the southwest; the sono-
rous music of unfamiliar names — Quijotoa, Uintah, So-
nora, Laredo, Uncompahgre. It was in the Mission, with
its cracked bells, its decaying walls, its venerable sun dial,
its fountain and old garden, and in the Mission Fathers
themselves, the priests, the padres, planting the first
wheat and oil and wine to produce the elements of the
Sacrament — a trinity of great industries, taking their
rise in a religious rite.

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

By now, however, it was dark. Presley hurried for-
ward. He came to the line fence of the Quien Sabe
ranch. Everything was very still. The stars were all
out. There was not a sound other than the de Profun-
dis, still sounding from very far away. At long intervals
the great earth sighed dreamily in its sleep. All about,
the feeling of absolute peace and quiet and security and
untroubled happiness and content seemed descending
from the stars like a benediction. The beauty of his

A Story of California 49

poem, its idyl, came to him like a caress; that alone
had been lacking. It was that, perhaps, which had left
it hitherto incomplete. At last he was to grasp his song
in all its entity.

But suddenly there was an interruption. Presley had
climbed the fence at the limit of the Quien Sabe ranch.
Beyond was Los Muertos, but between the two ran the
railroad. He had only time to jump back upon the
embankment when, with a quivering of all the earth, a
locomotive, single, unattached, shot by him with a roar,
filling the air with the reek of hot oil, vomiting smoke
and sparks ; its enormous eye, Cyclopean, red, throwing
a glare far in advance, shooting by in a sudden crash of
confused thunder; filling the night with the terrific
clamour of its iron hoofs.

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

Before Presley could recover from the shock of the
irruption, while the earth was still vibrating, the rails
still humming, the engine was far away, flinging the echo
of its frantic gallop over all the valley. For a brief in-
stant it roared with a hollow diapason on the Long
Trestle over Broderson Creek, then plunged into a cut-
ting farther on, the quivering glare of its fires losing it-
self in the night, its thunder abruptly diminishing to a
subdued and distant humming. All at once this ceased.
The engine was gone.

But the moment the noise of the engine lapsed, Pres-
ley— about to start forward again — was conscious of a
confusion of lamentable sounds that rose into the night
from out the engine's wake. Prolonged cries of agony,
sobbing wails of infinite pain, heart-rending, pitiful.

50 The Octopus

The noises came from a little distance. He ran down
the track, crossing the culvert, over the irrigating ditch,
and at the head of the long reach of track — between the
culvert and the Long Trestle — paused abruptly, held im-
movable at the sight of the ground and rails all about
him.

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

Presley turned away, horror-struck, sick at heart,
overwhelmed with a quick burst of irresistible compas-
sion for this brute agony he could not relieve. The
sweetness was gone from the evening, the sense of peace,
of security, and placid contentment was stricken from
the landscape. The hideous ruin in the engine's path
drove all thought of his poem from his mind. The in-
spiration vanished like a mist. The de Profundis had
ceased to ring.

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

A Story of California 51

Then, faint and prolonged, across the levels of the
ranch, he heard the engine whistling for Bonneville.
Again and again, at rapid intervals in its flying course, it
whistled for road crossings, for sharp curves, for trestles;
ominous notes, hoarse, bellowing, ringing with the ac-
cents of menace and defiance; and abruptly Presley saw
again, in his imagination, the galloping monster, the ter-
ror of steel and steam, with its single eye, cyclopean, red,
shooting from horizon to horizon; but saw it now as the
symbol of a vast power, huge, terrible, flinging the echo
of its thunder over all the reaches of the valley, leaving
blood and destruction in its path ; the leviathan, with ten-
tacles of steel clutching into the soil, the soulless Force,
the iron-hearted Power, the monster, the Colossus, the
Octopus.

II

On the following morning, Harran Derrick was up and
about by a little after six o'clock, and a quarter of an
hour later had breakfast in the kitchen of the ranch
house, preferring not to wait until the Chinese cook laid
the table in the regular dining-room. He scented a hard
day's work ahead of him, and was anxious to be at it be-
times. He was practically the manager of Los Muertos,
and, with the aid of his foreman and three division super-
intendents, carried forward nearly the entire direction of
the ranch, occupying himself with the details of his
father's plans, executing his orders, signing contracts,
paying bills, and keeping the books.

For the last three weeks little had been done. The
crop — such as it was — had been harvested and sold, and
there had been a general relaxation of activity for up-
wards of a month. Now, however, the fall was coming
on, the dry season was about at its end; any time after
the twentieth of the month the first rains might be ex-
pected, softening the ground, putting it into condition
for the plough. Two days before this, Harran had noti-
fied his superintendents on Three and Four to send in
such grain as they had reserved for seed. On Two the
wheat had not even shown itself above the ground, while
on One, the Home ranch, which was under his own im-
mediate supervision, the seed had already been graded
and selected.

It was Harran's intention to commence blue-stoning
his seed that day, a delicate and important process

A Story of California 53

which prevented rust and smut appearing in the crop
when the wheat should come up. But, furthermore, he
wanted to find time to go to Guadalajara to meet the
Governor on the morning train. His day promised to
be busy.

But as Harran was finishing his last cup of coffee,
Phelps, the foreman on the Home ranch, who also looked
after the storage barns where the seed was kept, pre-
sented himself, cap in hand, on the back porch by the
kitchen door.

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

Harran nodded.

" I'll see about it. You've got all the blue-stone you
want, have you, Phelps?" and without waiting for an
answer he added, " Tell the stableman I shall want the
team about nine o'clock to go to Guadalajara. Put them
in the buggy. The bays, you understand."

When the other had gone, Harran drank off the rest
of his coffee, and, rising, passed through the dining-room
and across a stone-paved hallway with a glass roof into
the office just beyond.

The office was the nerve-centre of the entire ten thou-
sand acres of Los Muertos, but its appearance and fur-
nishings were not in the least suggestive of a farm. It
was divided at about its middle by a wire railing, painted
green and gold, and behind this railing were the high
desks where the books were kept, the safe, the letter-
press and letter-files, and Harran's typewriting machine.
A great map of Los Muertos with every water-course,
depression, and elevation, together with indications of
the varying depths of the clays and loams in the soil, ac-
curately plotted, hung against the wall between the win-
dows, while near at hand by the safe was the telephone.

But, no doubt, the most significant object in the office

54 The Octopus

was the ticker. This was an innovation in the San Joa-
quin, an idea of shrewd, quick-witted young Annixter,
which Harran and Magnus Derrick had been quick to
adopt, and after them Broderson and Osterman, and
many others of the wheat growers of the county. The
offices of the ranches were thus connected by wire with
San Francisco, and through that city with Minneapolis,
Duluth, Chicago, New York, and at last, and most im-
portant of all, with Liverpool. Fluctuations in the price
of the world's crop during and after the harvest thrilled
straight to the office of Los Muertos, to that of the
Quien Sabe, to Osterman's, and to Broderson's. Dur-
ing a flurry in the Chicago wheat pits in the August of
that year, which had affected even the San Francisco
market, Harran and Magnus had sat up nearly half of one
night watching the strip of white tape jerking unsteadily
from the reel. At such moments they no longer felt
their individuality. The ranch became merely the part
of an enormous whole, a unit in the vast agglomera-
tion of wheat land the whole world round, feeling the
effects of causes thousands of miles distant — a drought
on the prairies of Dakota, a rain on the plains of India,
a frost on the Russian steppes, a hot wind on the llanos
of the Argentine.

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

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

The other made excuses for an unavoidable delay, and

A Story of California 55

was adding that he was on the point of starting out, when
Harran cut in with:

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

After telephoning Cutter, Harran put on his hat, went
over to the barns, and found Phelps. Phelps had al-
ready cleaned out the vat which was to contain the solu-
tion of blue-stone, and was now at work regrading the
seed. Against the wall behind him ranged the row of
sacks. Harran cut the fastenings of these and examined
the contents carefully, taking handfuls of wheat from
each and allowing it to run through his fingers, or nip-
ping the grains between his nails, testing their hard-
ness.

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

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

Harran put his chin in the air.

" Bread would be as good as cake, then," he answered,

56 The Octopus

going from sack to sack, inspecting the contents and
consulting the tags affixed to the mouths.

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

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

" We can't do better than to stay by White Sonora and
Propo," remarked Harran. " We've got our best re-
sults with that, and European millers like it to mix with
the Eastern wheats that have more gluten than ours.
That is, if we have any wheat at all next year."

A feeling of discouragement for the moment bore
down heavily upon him. At intervals this came to him
and for the moment it was overpowering. The idea
•of " what's-the-use " was upon occasion a veritable op-
pression. Everything seemed to combine to lower the
price of wheat. The extension of wheat areas always
exceeded increase of population; competition was grow-
ing fiercer every year. The farmer's profits were the
object of attack from a score of different quarters. It
was a flock of vultures descending upon a common prey
— the commission merchant, the elevator combine, the
mixing-house ring, the banks, the warehouse men, the
labouring man, and, above all, the railroad. Steadily
the Liverpool buyers cut and cut and cut. Everything,
every element of the world's markets, tended to force
down the price to the lowest possible figure at which it
could be profitably farmed. Now it was down to eighty-
seven. It was at that figure the crop had sold that year ;
and to think that the Governor had seen wheat at two
dollars and five cents in the year of the Turko-Russian
War!

He turned back to the house after giving Phelps final
directions, gloomy, disheartened, his hands deep in his

A Story of California 57

pockets, wondering what was to be the outcome. So
narrow had the margin of profit shrunk that a dry season
meant bankruptcy to the smaller farmers throughout all
the valley. He knew very well how widespread had been
the distress the last two years. With their own tenants
on Los Muertos, affairs had reached the stage of des-
peration. Derrick had practically been obliged to>
" carry " Hooven and some of the others. The Gover-
nor himself had made almost nothing during the last
season; a third year like the last, with the price steadily
sagging, meant nothing else but ruin.

But here he checked himself. Two consecutive dry
seasons in California were almost unprecedented; a third
would be beyond belief, and the complete rest for nearly
all the land was a compensation. They had made no
money, that was true; but they had lost none. Thank
God, the homestead was free of mortgage; one good sea-
son would more than make up the difference.

He was in a better mood by the time he reached the
driveway that led up to the ranch house, and as he raised
his eyes toward the house itself, he could not but feel that
the sight of his home was cheering. The ranch house
was set in a great grove of eucalyptus, oak, and cypress,
enormous trees growing from out a lawn that was as
green, as fresh, and as well-groomed as any in a garden
in the city. This lawn flanked all one side of the house,
and it was on this side that the family elected to spend
most of its time. The other side, looking out upon the
Home ranch toward Bonneville and the railroad, was but
little used. A deep porch ran the whole length of the
house here, and in the lower branches of a live-oak near
the steps Harran had built a little summer house for his
mother. To the left of the ranch house itself, toward
the County Road, was the bunk-house and kitchen for
some of the hands. From the steps of the porch the

58 The Octopus

view to the southward expanded to infinity. There was
not so much as a twig to obstruct the view. In one leap
the eye reached the fine, delicate line where earth and
sky met, miles away. The flat monotony of the land,
clean of fencing, was broken by one spot only, the roof
of the Division Superintendent's house on Three — a mere
speck, just darker than the ground. Cutter's house on
Four was not even in sight. That was below the
horizon. v

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

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

Magnus Derrick's wife looked hardly old enough to
be the mother of two such big fellows as Harran and
Lyman Derrick. She was not far into the fifties, and
her brown hair still retained much of its brightness. She
could yet be called pretty. Her eyes were large and
easily assumed a look of inquiry and innocence, such as
one might expect to see in a young girl. By disposition
she was retiring; she easily obliterated herself. She was
not made for the harshness of the world, and yet she had
known'these harshnesses in her younger days. Magnus
had married her when she was twenty-one years old, at
a time when she was a graduate of some years' standing
from the State Normal School and was teaching litera-
ture, music, and penmanship in a seminary in the town

A Story of California 59

of Marysville. She overworked herself here continu-
ally, loathing the strain of teaching, yet clinging to it
with a tenacity born of the knowledge that it was her
only means of support. Both her parents were dead;
she was dependent upon herself. Her one ambition was
to see Italy and the Bay of Naples. The "Marble
Faun," Raphael's "Madonnas" and "II Trovatore "
were her beau ideals of literature and art. She dreamed
of Italy, Rome, Naples, and the world's great " art-
centres." There was no doubt that her affair with Mag-
nus had been a love-match, but Annie Payne would have
loved any man who would have taken her out of the
droning, heart-breaking routine of the class and music
room. She had followed his fortunes unquestioningly.
First at Sacramento, during the turmoil of his political
career, later on at Placerville in El Dorado County, after
Derrick had interested himself in the Corpus Christi
group of mines, and finally at Los Muertos, where, after
selling out his fourth interest in Corpus Christi, he had
turned rancher and had " come in " on the new tracts
of wheat land just thrown open by the railroad. She
had lived here now for nearly ten years. But never for
one moment since the time her glance first lost itself in
the unbroken immensity of the ranches had she known
a moment's content. Continually there came into her
pretty, wide-open eyes — the eyes of a young doe — a look
of uneasiness, of distrust, and aversion. Los Muertos
frightened her. She remembered the days of her young
girlhood passed on a farm in eastern Ohio — five hundred
acres, neatly partitioned into the water lot, the cow pas-
ture, the corn lot, the barley field, and wheat farm ; cosey,
comfortable, home-like; where the farmers loved their
land, caressing it, coaxing it, nourishing it as though it
were a thing almost conscious ; where the seed was sown
by hand, and a single two-horse plough was sufficient

60 The Octopus

for the entire farm; where the scythe sufficed to cut the
harvest and the grain was thrashed with flails.

But this new order of things — a ranch bounded only
by the horizons, where, as far as one could see, to the
north, to the east, to the south and to the west, was all
one holding, a principality ruled with iron and steam,
bullied into a yield of three hundred and fifty thousand
bushels, where even when the land was resting, un-
ploughed, unharrowed, and unsown, the wheat came up
— troubled her, and even at times filled her with an un-
definable terror. To her mind there was something in-
ordinate about it all ; something almost unnatural. The
direct brutality of ten thousand acres of wheat, nothing
but wheat as far as the eye could see, stunned her a little.
The one-time writing-teacher of a young ladies' semi-
nary, with her pretty deer-like eyes and delicate fingers,
shrank from it. She did not want to look at so much
wheat. There was something vaguely indecent in the
sight, this food of the people, this elemental force, this
basic energy, weltering here under the sun in all the un-
conscious nakedness of a sprawling, primordial Titan.

The monotony of the ranch ate into her heart hour by
hour, year by year. And with it all, when was she to see
Rome, Italy, and the Bay of Naples ? It was a different
prospect truly. Magnus had given her his promise that
once the ranch was well established, they two should
travel. But continually he had been obliged to put her
off, now for one reason, now for another; the machine
would not as yet run of itself, he must still feel his hand
upon the lever ; next year, perhaps, when wheat should
go to ninety, or the rains were good. She did not insist.
She obliterated herself, only allowing, from time to time,
her pretty, questioning eyes to meet his. In the mean-
time she retired within herself. She surrounded herself
with books. Her taste was of the delicacy of point lace.

A Story of California 61

She knew her Austin Dobson by heart. She read poems,
essays, the ideas of the seminary at Marysville per-
sisting in her mind. " Marius the Epicurean," " The
Essays of Elia," " Sesame and Lilies," " The Stones of
Venice," and the little toy magazines, full of the flaccid
banalities of the " Minor Poets," were continually in her
hands.

When Presley had appeared on Los Muertos, she had
welcomed his arrival with delight. Here at last was a
congenial spirit. She looked forward to long conversa-
tions with the young man on literature, art, and ethics.
But Presley had disappointed her. That he — outside of
his few chosen deities — should care little for literature,
shocked her beyond words. His indifference to " style,"
to elegant English, was a positive affront. His savage
abuse and open ridicule of the neatly phrased rondeaux
and sestinas and chansonettes of the little magazines was
to her mind a wanton and uncalled-for cruelty. She
found his Homer, with its slaughters and hecatombs
and barbaric feastings and headstrong passions, violent
and coarse. She could not see with him any romance,
any poetry in the life around her ; she looked to Italy for
that. His " Song of the West," which only once, inco-
herent and fierce, he had tried to explain to her, its swift,
tumultuous life, its truth, its nobility and savagery, its
heroism and obscenity, had revolted her.

" But, Presley," she had murmured, " that is not lit-
erature."

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

A little later, one of the stablemen brought the buggy
with the team of bays up to the steps of the porch, and
Harran, putting on a different coat and a black hat, took
himself off to Guadalajara.

The morning was fine ; there was no cloud in the sky,

62 The Octopus

but as Harran's buggy drew away from the grove oi
trees about the ranch house, emerging into the open
country on either side of the Lower Road, he caught
himself looking sharply at the sky and the faint line of
hills beyond the Quien Sabe ranch. There was a certain
indefinite cast to the landscape that to Harran's eye was
not to be mistaken. Rain, the first of the season, was
not far off.

"That's good/' he muttered, touching the bays with the
whip, " we can't get our ploughs to hand any too soon."

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

It was ten minutes before train time when Harran
reached the depot at Guadalajara. The San Francisco
papers of the preceding day had arrived on an earlier
train. He bought a couple from the station agent and
looked them over till a distant and prolonged whistle
announced the approach of the down train.

In one of the four passengers that alighted from the
train, he recognised his father. He half rose in his seat,
whistling shrilly between his teeth, waving his hand, and
Magnus Derrick, catching sight of him, came forward
quickly.

A Story of California 63

Magnus — the Governor — was all of six feet tall, and
though now well toward his sixtieth year, was as erect
as an officer of cavalry.* He was broad in proportion, a
fine commanding figure, imposing an immediate respect,
impressing one with a sense of gravity, of dignity and a
certain pride of race. He was smooth-shaven, thin-
lipped, with a broad chin, and a prominent hawk-like
nose — the characteristic of the family — thin, with a high
bridge, such as one sees in the later portraits of the Duke
of Wellington. His hair was thick and iron-grey, and
had a tendency to curl in a forward direction just in front
of his ears. He wore a top-hat of grey, with a wide brim,
and a frock coat, and carried a cane with a yellowed
ivory head.

As a young man it had been his ambition to represent
his native State — North Carolina — in the United States
Senate. Calhoun was his " great man," but in two suc-
cessive campaigns he had been defeated. His career
checked in this direction, he had come to California in
the fifties. He had known and had been the intimate
friend of such men as Terry, Broderick, General Baker,
Lick, Alvarado, Emerich, Larkin, and, above all, of the
unfortunate and misunderstood Ralston. Once he had
been put forward as the Democratic candidate for gov-
ernor, but failed of election. After this Magnus had
definitely abandoned politics and had invested all his
money in the Corpus Christi mines. Then he had sold
out his interest at a small profit — just in time to miss his
chance of becoming a multi-millionaire in the Comstock
boom — and was looking for reinvestments in other lines
when the news that " wheat had been discovered in Cali-
fornia " was passed from mouth to mouth. Practically
it amounted to a discovery. Dr. Glenn's first harvest of
wheat in Colusa County, quietly undertaken but sud-
denly realised with dramatic abruptness, gave a new mat-

64 The Octopus

ter for reflection to the thinking men of the New West.
California suddenly leaped unheralded into the world's
market as a competitor in wheat production. In a few
years her output of wheat exceeded the value of her out-
put of gold, and when, later on, the Pacific and South-
western Railroad threw open to settlers the rich lands
of Tulare County — conceded to the corporation by the
government as a bonus for the construction of the road
— Magnus had been quick to seize the opportunity and
had taken up the ten thousand acres of Los Muertos.
Wherever he had gone, Magnus had taken his family
with him. Lyman had been born at Sacramento during
the turmoil and excitement of Derrick's campaign for
governor, and Harran at Shingle Springs, in El Dorado
County, six years later.

But Magnus was in every sense the " prominent man."
In whatever circle he moved he was the chief figure. In-
stinctively other men looked to him as the leader. He
himself was proud of this distinction; he assumed the
grand manner very easily and carried it well. As a pub-
lic speaker he was one of the last of the followers of the
old school of orators. He even carried the diction and
manner of the rostrum into private life. It was said of
him that his most colloquial conversation could be taken
down in shorthand and read off as an admirable speci-
men of pure, well-chosen English. He loved to do things
upon a grand scale, to preside, to dominate. In his
good humour there was something Jovian. When angry,
everybody around him trembled. But he had not the
genius for detail, was not patient. The certain grandi-
ose lavishness of his disposition occupied itself more
with results than with means. He was always ready to
take chances, to hazard everything on the hopes of
colossal returns. In the mining days at Placerville there
was no more redoubtable poker player in the county.

A Story of California 65

He had been as lucky in his mines as in his gambling,
sinking shafts and tunnelling in violation of expert
theory and rinding " pay " in every case. Without know-
ing it, he allowed himself to work his ranch much as if
he was still working his mine. The old-time spirit of
'49, hap-hazard, unscientific, persisted in his mind.
Everything was a gamble — who took the greatest
chances was most apt to be the greatest winner. The
idea of manuring Los Muertos, of husbanding his great
resources, he would have scouted as niggardly, He-
braic, ungenerous.

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

" Well, boy."

" Well, Governor."

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

Harran was about to reply, but at that moment Mag-
nus caught sight of the three flat cars loaded with bright-
painted farming machines which still remained on the
siding above the station. He laid his hands on the reins
and Harran checked the team.

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

The train had by this time gone on its way and Har-
ran brought the team up to the siding.

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

Harran breathed a sigh of relief.

66 The Octopus

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

Magnus nodded a grave approval.

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

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

But as he turned the horses to allow his father to get
into the buggy again, the two were surprised to hear a
thick, throaty voice wishing them good-morning, and
turning about were aware of S. Behrman, who had come
up while they were examining the ploughs. Harran's
eyes flashed on the instant and through his nostrils he
drew a sharp, quick breath, while a certain rigour of car-
riage stiffened the set of Magnus Derrick's shoulders
and back. Magnus had not yet got into the buggy, but
stood with the team between him and S. Behrman, eye-
ing him calmly across the horses' backs. S. Behrman
came around to the other side of the buggy and faced
Magnus.

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

S. Behrman was the banker of Bonneville. But be-

A Story of California 67

sides this he was many other things. He was a real
estate agent. He bought grain ; he dealt in mortgages.
He was one of the local political bosses, but more im-
portant than all this, he was the representative of the
Pacific and Southwestern Railroad in that section of
Tulare County. The railroad did little business in that
part of the country that S. Behrman did not supervise,
from the consignment of a shipment of wheat to the
management of a damage suit, or even to the repair
and maintenance of the right of way. During the time
when the ranchers of the county were righting the grain-
rate case, S. Behrman had been much in evidence in
and about the San Francisco court rooms and the lobby
of the legislature in Sacramento. He had returned to
Bonneville only recently, a decision adverse to the
ranchers being foreseen. The position he occupied on
the salary list of the Pacific and Southwestern could not
readily be defined, for he was neither freight agent, pas-
senger agent, attorney, real-estate broker, nor political
servant, though his influence in all these offices was un-
doubted and enormous. But for all that, the ranchers
about Bonneville knew whom to look to as a source of
trouble. There was no denying the fact that for Oster-
man, Broderson, Annixter and Derrick, S. Behrman was
the railroad.

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

Magnus, head and shoulders above the other, tall,
thin, erect, looked down upon S. Behrman, inclining
his head, failing to see his extended hand.

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

" Well, Mr. Derrick," continued S. Behrman, wiping
the back of his neck with his handkerchief, " I saw in the

68 The Octopus

city papers yesterday that our case had gone against
you."

" I guess it wasn't any great news to you," commented
Harran, his face scarlet. " I guess you knew which way
Ulsteen was going to jump after your very first inter-
view with him. You don't like to be surprised in this
sort of thing, S. Behrman."

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

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

" It was part of the game," put in Harran, " for the
Railroad Commission to cut rates to a ridiculous fig-
ure, far below a reasonable figure, just so that it would be
confiscation. Whether Ulsteen is a tool of yours or not,
he had to put the rates back to what they were orig-
inally."

" If you enforced those rates, Mr. Harran," returned
S. Behrman calmly, " we wouldn't be able to earn suf-
ficient money to meet operating expenses or fixed
charges, to say nothing of a surplus left over to pay
dividends "

A Story of California 69

" Tell me when the P. and S. W. ever paid divi-
dends."

" The lowest rates," continued S. Behrman, " that the
legislature can establish must be such as will secure us a
fair interest on our investment."

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

" The laws of the State," returned S. Behrman, " fix
the rate of interest at seven per cent. That's a good
enough standard for us. There is no reason, Mr. Har-
ran, why a dollar invested in a railroad should not earn
as much as a dollar represented by a promissory note —
seven per cent. By applying your schedule of rates we
would not earn a cent ; we would be bankrupt."

" Interest on your investment !" cried Harran, furious.
" It's fine to talk about fair interest. / know and you
know that the total earnings of the P. and S. W. — their
main, branch and leased lines for last year — was between
nineteen and twenty millions of dollars. Do you mean
to say that twenty million dollars is seven per cent, of the
original cost of the road? "

S. Behrman spread out his hands, smiling.

" That was the gross, not the net figure — and how can
you tell what was the original cost of the road?"

" Ah, that's just it," shouted Harran, emphasising
each word with a blow of his fist upon his knee, his eyes
sparkling, " you take cursed good care that we don't
know anything about the original cost of the road. But
we know you are bonded for treble your value ; and we
know this : that the road could have been built for fifty-
four thousand dollars per mile and that you say it cost
you eighty-seven thousand. It makes a difference, S.
Behrman, on which of these two figures you are basing
your seven per cent."

70 The Octopus

" That all may show obstinacy, Harran," observed St
Behrman vaguely, " but it don't show common sense."

" We are threshing out old straw, I believe, gentle-
men," remarked Magnus. " The question was thor-
oughly sifted in the courts."

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

" They are consigned to me," admitted Magnus.

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

" Possibly," said Magnus.

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

" What do you mean ? " demanded Harran. " The
ploughs are here. We have nothing more to do with the
railroad. I am going to have my wagons down here this
afternoon."

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

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

" To San Francisco ! " he answered, " we want them
here — what are you talking about ? "

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

Harran did remember now, but never before had the

A Story of California 71

matter so struck home. He leaned back in his seat in
dumb amazement for the instant. Even Magnus had
turned a little pale. Then, abruptly, Harran broke out
violent and raging.

" What next ? My God, why don't you break into our
houses at night ? Why don't you steal the watch out of
my pocket, steal the horses out of the harness, hold us up
with a shot-gun; yes, ' stand and deliver; your money or
your life.' Here we bring our ploughs from the East over
your lines, but you're not content with your long-haul
rate between Eastern points and Bonneville. You want
to get us under your ruinous short-haul rate between
Bonneviile and San Francisco, and return. Think of it !
Here's a load of stuff for Bonneville that can't stop at
Bonneville, where it is consigned, but has got to go up to
San Francisco first by way of Bonneville, at forty cents
per ton and then be reshipped from San Francisco back
to Bonneville again at fifty-one cents per ton, the short-
haul rate. And we have to pay it all or go without.
Here are the ploughs right here, in sight of the land they
have got to be used on, the season just ready for them,
and we can't touch them. Oh," he exclaimed in deep
disgust, " isn't it a pretty mess ! Isn't it a farce ! the
whole dirty business ! "

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

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

" What's your blackmail for this ? " vociferated Har-
ran. "How much do you want to let us go? How
much have we got to pay you to be allowed to use

72 The Octopus

our own ploughs — what's your figure? Come, spit it
out."

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

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

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

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

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

A Story of California 73

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

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

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

" No, I haven't yet," answered Dyke, " and I had bet-
ter be sure of that, hadn't I ? I hear that the rate is rea-
sonable, though."

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

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

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

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

He inquired after his wife and the ranch, commenting
upon the work on the irrigating ditch. Harran gave him
the news of the past week, Dyke's discharge, his resolve
to raise a crop of hops ; Vanamee's return, the killing of
the sheep, and Hooven's petition to remain upon the

74 The Octopus

ranch as Magnus's tenant. It needed only Harran's rec-
ommendation that the German should remain to have
Magnus consent upon the instant.

" You know more about it than I, boy," he said, " and
whatever you think is wise shall be done."

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

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

Lyman, Magnus's eldest son, had never taken kindly
toward ranch life. He resembled his mother more than
he did Magnus, and had inherited from her a distaste for
agriculture and a tendency toward a profession. At a
time when Harran was learning the rudiments of farm-
ing, Lyman was entering the State University, and,
graduating thence, had spent three years in the study
of law. But later on, traits that were particularly his
father's developed. Politics interested him. He told
himself he was a born politician, was diplomatic, ap-
proachable, had a talent for intrigue, a gift of making
friends easily and, most indispensable of all, a veritable
genius for putting influential men under obligations to
himself. Already he had succeeded in gaining for him-
self two important offices in the municipal administration
of San Francisco — where he had his home — sheriff's at-
torney, and, later on, assistant district attorney. But
with these small achievements he was by no means satis-
fied. The largeness of his father's character, modified
in Lyman by a counter-influence of selfishness, had pro-
duced in him an inordinate ambition. Where his father
during his political career had considered himself only
as an exponent of principles he strove to apply, Lyman
saw but the office, his own personal aggrandisement

A Story of California 75

He belonged to the new school, wherein objects were
attained not by orations before senates and assemblies,
but by sessions of committees, caucuses, compromises
and expedients. His goal was to be in fact what Magnus
was only in name — governor. Lyman, with shut teeth,
had resolved that some day he would sit in the guber-
natorial chair in Sacramento.

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

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

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

Harran nodded and remarked:

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

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

Annixter was lying in the hammock on the porch, pre-
cisely as Presley had found him the day before, reading
" David Copperfield " and stuffing himself with dried
prunes. When he recognised Magnus, however, he got
up, though careful to give evidence of the most poignant
discomfort. He explained his difficulty at great length,
protesting that his stomach was no better than a sponge-

7 6 The Octopus

bag. Would Magnus and Harran get down and have
a drink? There was whiskey somewhere about.

Magnus, however, declined. He stated his errand,
asking Annixter to come over to Los Muertos that even-
ing for seven o'clock dinner. Osterman and Broderson
would be there.

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

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

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

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

" We are thinking of it," replied Magnus.

Annixter grunted scornfully.

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

Tactless, blunt, and direct, Annixter was quite capable
of calling even Magnus a fool to his face. But before
he could proceed, S. Behrman in his single buggy turned

A Story of California 77

into the gate, and driving leisurely up to the porch
halted on the other side of Magnus's team.

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

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

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

" Why, not very much, Mr. Annixter," he replied,
ignoring the belligerency in the young ranchman's voice,
" but I will have to lodge a protest against you, Mr.
Annixter, in the matter of keeping your line fence in
repair. The sheep were all over the track last night,
this side the Long Trestle, and I am afraid they have seri-
ously disturbed our ballast along^ there. We — the rail-
road— can't fence along our right of way. The farmers
have the prescriptive right of that, so we have to look
to you to keep your fence in repair. I am sorry, but I
shall have to protest "

Annixter returned to the hammock and stretched him-
self out in it to his full length, remarking tranquilly:

"Go to the devil!"

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

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

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

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

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

To his mind it was the last insult, the most outrageous
calumny. He had no worse epithet at his command.

78 The Octopus

" may show obstinacy," pursued S. Behrman, bent

upon finishing the phrase, " but it don't show common
sense."

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

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

" Well, that's in the town limits of Guadalajara."

" Why, Mr. Annixter, the Long Trestle is a goo'd two
miles out of Guadalajara.

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

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

" Oh, I know nothing about it," declared Magnus, re-
fusing to be involved.

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

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

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

Magnus and Harran drove on, leaving Annixter try-
ing to draw S. Behrman into a wrangle.

When at length S. Behrman as well took himself away,
Annixter returned to his hammock, finished the rest of
his prunes and read another chapter of " Copperfield."

A Story of California 79

Then he put the book, open, over his face and went to
sleep.

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

In connection with his ranch, Annixter ran a dairy
farm on a very small scale, making just enough butter
and cheese for the consumption of the ranch's personnel.
Old man Tree, his wife, and his daughter Hilma looked
after the dairy. But there was not always work enough
to keep the three of them occupied and Hilma at times
made herself useful in other ways. As often as not she
lent a hand in the kitchen, and two or three times a week
she took her mother's place in looking after Annixter's
house, making the beds, putting his room to rights,
bringing his meals up from the kitchen. For the last
summer she had been away visiting with relatives in one
of the towns on the coast. But the week previous to
this she had returned and Annixter had come upon her
suddenly one day in the dairy, making cheese, the sleeves
of her crisp blue shirt waist rolled back to her very
shoulders. Annixter had carried away with him a clear-
cut recollection of these smooth white arms of hers,
bare to the shoulder, very round and cool and fresh. He

8o The Octopus

would not have believed that a girl so young should
have had arms so big and perfect. To his surprise he
found himself thinking of her after he had gone to bed
that night, and in the morning when he woke he was
bothered to know whether he had dreamed about
Hilma' s fine white arms over night. Then abruptly he
had lost patience with himself for being so occupied with
the subject, raging and furious with all the breed of fee-
males — a fine way for a man to waste his time. He
had had his experience with the timid little creature in
the glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento. That
was enough. Feemales! Rot! None of them in his,
thank you. He had seen Hilma Tree give him a look in
the dairy. Aha, he saw through her! She was trying
to get a hold on him, was she? He would show her.
Wait till he saw -her again. He would send her about
her business in a hurry. He resolved upon a terrible
demeanour in the presence of the dairy girl — a great
show of indifference, a fierce masculine nonchalance; and
when, the next morning, she brought him his breakfast,
he had been smitten dumb as soon as she entered the
room, glueing his eyes upon his plate, his elbows close
to his side, awkward, clumsy, overwhelmed with con-
straint.

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

As he reflected upon the matter now, scowling ab-

A Story of California 81

stractedly at the button of the electric bell, turning the
whole business over in his mind, he remembered that
to-day was butter-making day and that Mrs. Tree
would be occupied in the dairy. That meant that Hilma
would take her place. He turned to the mirror of the
sideboard, scrutinising his reflection with grim disfavour.
After a moment, rubbing the roughened surface of his
chin the wrong way, he muttered to his image in the
glass :

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

He crossed over into his bedroom and peeped around
the edge of the lowered curtain. The window looked
out upon the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well and
the cook-house and dairy-house close beside it. As he
watched, he saw Hilma come out from the cook-house
and hurry across toward the kitchen. Evidently, she
was going to see about his dinner. But as she passed by
the artesian well, she met young Delaney, one of Annix-
ter's hands, coming up the trail by the irrigating ditch,
leading his horse toward the stables, a great coil of
barbed wire in his gloved hands and a pair of nippers
thrust into his belt. No doubt, he had been mending the
break in the line fence by the Long Trestle. Annixter
saw him take off his wide-brimmed hat as he met Hilma,
and the two stood there for some moments talking to-
gether. Annixter even heard Hilma laughing very gayly
at something Delaney was saying. She patted his horse's
neck affectionately, and Delaney, drawing the nippers
from his belt, made as if to pinch her arm with them.
She caught at his wrist and pushed him away, laughing
again. To Annixter's mind the pair seemed astonish-
ingly intimate. Brusquely his anger flamed up.

Ak, that was it, was it? Delaney and Hilma had an
6

52 The Octopus

understanding between themselves. They carried on
their affair right out there in the open, under his very
eyes. It was absolutely disgusting. Had they no sense
of decency, those two? Well, this ended it. He would
stop that sort of thing short off; none of that on his ranch
if he knew it. No, sir. He would pack that girl off be-
fore he was a day older. He wouldn't have that kind
about the place. Not much! She'd have to get out.
He would talk to old man Tree about it this afternoon.
Whatever happened, he insisted upon morality.

" And my dinner! " he suddenly exclaimed. " I've got
to wait and go hungry — and maybe get sick again —
while they carry on their disgusting love-making."

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

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

A few moments later, while Annixter was pretending
to read the county newspaper by the window in the
dining-room, Hilma came in to set the table. At the
time Annixter had his feet cocked on the window ledge
and was smoking a cigar, but as soon as she entered the
room he — without premeditation — brought his feet
down to the floor and crushed out the lighted tip of his
cigar under the window ledge. Over the top of the
paper he glanced at her covertly from time to time.

Though Hilma was only nineteen years old, she was
a large girl with all the development of a much older
woman. There was a certain generous amplitude to the
full, round curves of her hips and shoulders that sug-
gested the precocious maturity of a healthy, vigorous
animal life passed under the hot southern sun of a half-

A Story of California 83

tropical country. She was, one knew at a glance, warm-
blooded, full-blooded, with an even, comfortable balance
of temperament. Her neck was thick, and sloped to her
shoulders, with full, beautiful curves, and under her chin
and under her ears the flesh was as white and smooth as
floss satin, shading exquisitely to a faint delicate brown
on her nape at the roots of her hair. Her throat rounded
to meet her chin and cheek, with a soft swell of the skin,
tinted pale amber in the shadows, but blending by barely
perceptible gradations to the sweet, warm flush of her
cheek. This colour on her temples was just touched
with a certain blueness where the flesh was thin over the
fine veining underneath. Her eyes were light brown,
and so wide open that on the slightest provocation the
ful disc of the pupil was disclosed; the lids — just a frac-
tion of a shade darker than the hue of her face: — were
edged with lashes that were almost black. While these
lashes were not long, they were thick and rimmed her
eyes with a fine, thin line. Her mouth was rather large,
the lips shut tight, and nothing could have been more
graceful, more charming than the outline of these full
lips of hers, and her round white chin, modulating down-
ward with a certain delicious roundness to her neck, her
throat and the sweet feminine amplitude of her breast.
The slightest movement of her head and shoulders sent
a gentle undulation through all this beauty of soft out-
lines and smooth surfaces, the delicate amber shadows
deepening or fading or losing themselves imperceptibly
in the pretty rose-colour of her cheeks, or the dark,
warm-tinted shadow of her thick brown hair.

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

84 The Octopus

of a bitumen brownness, but in the sunlight it vibrated
with a sheen like tarnished gold.

Like most large girls, her movements were not hur-
ried, and this indefinite deliberateness of gesture, this
slow grace, this certain ease of attitude, was a charm
that was all her own.

But Hilma's greatest charm of all was her simplicity —
a simplicity that was not only in the calm regularity of
her face, with its statuesque evenness of contour, its
broad surface of cheek and forehead and the masses of
her straight smooth hair, but was apparent as well in
the long line of her carriage, from her foot to her waist
and the single deep swell from her waist to her shoulder.
Almost unconsciously she dressed in harmony with this
note of simplicity, and on this occasion wore a skirt of
plain dark blue calico and a white shirt waist crisp from
the laundry.

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

He found himself wondering how it was that a girl in
Hilma's position should be able to keep herself so pretty,
so trim, so clean and feminine, but he reflected that her
work was chiefly in the dairy, and even there of the light-
est order. She was on the ranch more for the sake of
being with her parents than from any necessity of em-
ployment. Vaguely he seemed to understand that, in
that great new land of the West, in the open-air, healthy
life of the ranches, where the conditions of earning a live-
lihood were of the easiest, refinement among the
younger women was easily to be found — not the refine-

A Story of California 83

ment of education, nor culture, but the natural, intuitive
refinement of the woman, not as yet defiled and crushed
out by the sordid, strenuous life-struggle of over-popu-
lated districts. It was the original, intended and natural
delicacy of an elemental existence, close to nature, close
to life, close to the great, kindly earth.

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

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

" Good-morning, sir," she answered, looking up, rest-
ing for a moment on her outspread palms. " I hope you
are better."

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

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

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

Annixter had no particular interest in the dog. For
weeks at a time he ignored its existence. It was not
his dog. But to-day it seemed as if he could not let the
subject rest. For no reason that he could explain even
to himself, he recurred to it continually. He questioned
Hilma minutely all about the dog. Who owned him?
How old did she think he was? Did she imagine the dog
was sick? Where had he got to? Maybe he had
crawled off to die somewhere. He recurred to the sub-
ject all through the meal; apparently, he could talk of

86 The Octopus

nothing else, and as she finally went away after clearing
off the table, he went onto the porch and called after
her:

" Say, Miss Hilma."

" Yes, sir."

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

" Very well, sir."

Annixter returned to the dining-room and sat down
in the chair he had just vacated.

" To hell with the dog! " he muttered, enraged, he
could not tell why.

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

" If I do," he said to himself, " I'll ride the buckskin."

The buckskin was a half-broken broncho that fought
like a fiend under the saddle until the quirt and spur
brought her to her senses. But Annixter remembered
that the Trees' cottage, next the dairy-house, looked out
upon the stables, and perhaps Hilma would see him while
he was mounting the horse and be impressed with his
courage.

A Story of California 87

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

However, as Annixter stepped from the porch of the
ranch house, he was surprised to notice a grey haze over
all the sky; the sunlight was gone; there was a sense of
coolness in the air; the weather-vane on the barn — a fine
golden trotting horse with flamboyant mane and tail —
was veering in a southwest wind. Evidently the ex-
pected rain was close at hand.

Annixter crossed over to the stables reflecting that
he could ride the buckskin to the Trees' cottage and
tell Hilma that he would not be home to supper. The
conference at Los Muertos would be an admirable ex-
cuse for this, and upon the spot he resolved to go over
to the Derrick ranch house, after all.

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

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

" Oh, Delaney got her, did he? "

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

"He can, can he?" observed Annixter. Then after

88 The Octopus

a silence, " Well, all right, Billy; put my saddle on what-
ever you've got here. I'm going over to Los Muertos
this afternoon."

" Want to look out for the rain, Mr. Annixter," re-
marked Billy. " Guess we'll have rain before night."

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

Annixter returned to the house to look for his rubber
coat in deep disgust, not permitting himself to glance
toward the dairy-house and the Trees' cottage. But
as he reached the porch he heard the telephone ringing
his call. It was Presley, who rang up from Los Muer-
tos. He had heard from Harran that Annixter was,
perhaps, coming over that evening. If he came, would
he mind bringing over his — Presley's — bicycle. He had
left it at the Quien Sabe ranch the day before and had
forgotten to come back that way for it.

" Well," objected Annixter, a surly note in his voice,
" I was going to ride over."

" Oh, never mind, then, " returned Presley easily. " I
was to blame for forgetting it. Don't bother about it.
I'll come over some of these days and get it myself."

Annixter hung up the transmitter with a vehement
wrench and stamped out of the room, banging the door.
He found his rubber coat hanging in the hallway and
swung into it with a fierce movement of the shoulders that
all but started the seams. Everything seemed to con-
spire to thwart him. It was just like that absent-minded,
crazy poet, Presley, to forget his wheel. Well, he could
come after it himself. He, Annixter, would ride some
horse, anyhow. When he came out upon the porch he
saw the wheel leaning against the fence where Presley
had left it. If it stayed there much longer the rain would
catch it. Annixter ripped out an oath. At every mo-
ment his ill-humour was increasing. Yet, for all that, he

A Story of California 89

went back to the stable, pushing the bicycle before him,
and countermanded his order, directing the stableman
to get the buggy ready. He himself carefully stowed
Presley's bicycle under the seat, covering it with a couple
of empty sacks and a tarpaulin carriage cover.

While he was doing this, the stableman uttered an ex-
clamation and paused in the act of backing the horse
into the shafts, holding up a hand, listening.

From the hollow roof of the barn and from the thick
velvet-like padding of dust over the ground outside, and
from among the leaves of the few nearby trees and plants
there came a vast, monotonous murmur that seemed to
issue from all quarters of the horizon at once, a pro-
longed and subdued rustling sound, steady, even, per-
sistent.

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

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

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

" She did it on purpose," Annixter told himself, chew-
ing fiercely on his cigar. " Cuts me now, hey? Well,
this does settle it. She leaves this ranch before I'm a
day older."

He decided that he would put off his tour of inspection

9O The Octopus

till the next day. Travelling in the buggy as he did, he
must keep to the road which led to Derrick's, in very
roundabout fashion, by way of Guadalajara. This rain
would reduce the thick dust of the road to two feet of
viscid mud. It would take him quite three hours to
reach the ranch house on Los Muertos. He thought of
Delaney and the buckskin and ground his teeth. And
all this trouble, if you please, because of a fool feemale
girl. A fine way for him to waste his time. Well, now
he was done with it. His decision was taken now. She
should pack.

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

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

" Yah-h-h you!" he shouted, inarticulate with exas-
peration. " You — you — Gor-r-r, wait till I get hold of
you. Whoa, you!"

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

A Story of California 91

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

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

" Oh — oh, there you are, are you? "

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

" Oh, you guess it's all right, do you? " observed An-
nixter through his teeth.

" Why — why — yes," returned the other, bewildered at
the truculent ring in Annixter's voice. " I mended that
break by the Long Trestle just now and "

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

" Why, Mr. Annixter " began Delaney.

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

" Why, sir," declared Delaney, beginning to get in-
dignant, " the sheep did it themselves last night."

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

" But, say, look here "

" Get off the ranch. You get off the ranch. And

92 The Octopus

taking that buckskin against my express orders. I
won't have your kind about the place, not much. I'm
easy-going enough, Lord knows, but I don't propose to
be imposed on all the time. Pack off, you understand,
and do it lively. Go to the foreman and tell him I told
him to pay you off and then clear out. And, you hear
me" he concluded, with a menacing outthrust of his
lower jaw, " you hear me, if I catch you hanging around
the ranch house after this, or if I so much as see you on
Quien Sabe, I'll show you the way off of it, my friend, at
the toe of my boot. Now, then, get out of the way and
let me pass."

Angry beyond the power of retort, Delaney drove the
spurs into the buckskin and passed the buggy in a single
bound. Annixter gathered up the reins and drove on,
muttering to himself, and occasionally looking back to
observe the buckskin flying toward the ranch house in
a spattering shower of mud, Delaney urging her on, his
head bent down against the falling rain.

' Huh," grunted Annixter with grim satisfaction, a
certain sense of good humour at length returning to him,
" that just about takes the saleratus out of your dough,
my friend."

A little farther on, Annixter got out of the buggy a
second time to open another gate that let him out upon
the Upper Road, not far distant from Guadalajara. It
was the road that connected that town with Bonneville,
and that ran parallel with the railroad tracks. On the
other side of the track he could see the infinite extension
of the brown, bare land of Los Muertos, turning now to
a soft, moist welter of fertility under the insistent caress-
ing of the rain. The hard, sun-baked clods were de-
composing, the crevices between drinking the wet with
an eager, sucking noise. But the prospect was dreary;
the distant horizons were blotted under drifting mists

A Story of California 93

of rain; the eternal monotony of the earth lay open to
the sombre low sky without a single adornment, without
a single variation from its melancholy flatness. Near at
hand the wires between the telegraph poles vibrated with
a faint humming under the multitudinous fingering of
the myriad of falling drops, striking among them and
dripping off steadily from one to another. The poles
themselves were dark and swollen and glistening with
wet, while the little cones of glass on the transverse bars
reflected the dull grey light of the end of the afternoon.

As Annixter was about to drive on, a freight train
passed, coming from Guadalajara, going northward to-
ward Bonneville, Fresno and San Francisco. It was a
long train, moving slowly, methodically, with a measured
coughing of its locomotive and a rhythmic cadence of its
trucks over the interstices of the rails. On two or three
of the flat cars near its end, Annixter plainly saw Magnus
Derrick's ploughs, their bright coating of red and green
paint setting a single brilliant note in all this array of
grey and brown.

Annixter halted, watching the train file past, carrying
Derrick's ploughs away from his ranch, at this very time
of the first rain, when they would be most needed. He
watched it, silent, thoughtful, and without articulate
comment. Even after it passed he sat in his place a long
time, watching it lose itself slowly in the distance, its
prolonged rumble diminishing to a faint murmur. Soon
he heard the engine sounding its whistle for the Long
Trestle.

But the moving train no longer carried with it that
impression of terror and destruction that had so thrilled
Presley's imagination the night before. It passed slowly
on its way with a mournful roll of wheels, like the pass-
ing of a cortege, like a file of artillery-caissons charioting
dead bodies; the engine's smoke enveloping it in a

94 The Octopus

mournful veil, leaving a sense of melancholy in its wake,
moving past there, lugubrious, lamentable, infinitely sad.
under the grey sky and under the grey mist of rain which
continued to fall with a subdued, rustling sound, steady,
persistent, a vast monotonous murmur that seemed to
come from all quarters of the horizon at once.

Ill

When Annixter arrived at the Los Muertos ranch
house that same evening, he found a little group already
assembled in the dining-room. Magnus Derrick, wear-
ing the frock coat of broadcloth that he had put on for
the occasion, stood with his back to the fireplace. Har-
ran sat close at hand, one leg thrown over the arm of his
chair. Presley lounged on the sofa, in corduroys and
high laced boots, smoking cigarettes. Broderson leaned
on his folded arms at one corner of the dining table, and
Genslinger, editor and proprietor of the principal news-
paper of the county, the " Bonneville Mercury," stood
with his hat and driving gloves under his arm, opposite
Derrick, a half-emptied glass of whiskey and water in his
hand.

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

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

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

The question in issue in Genslinger's remark was of
the most vital interest to the ranchers around Bonneville
and Guadalajara. Neither Magnus Derrick, Broderson,.
Annixter, nor Osterman actually owned all the ranches

96 The Octopus

which they worked. As yet, the vast majority of these
wheat lands were the property of the P. and S. W. The
explanation of this condition of affairs went back to the
e'arly history of the Pacific and Southwestern, when, as
a bonus for the construction of the road, the national
government had granted to the company the odd num-
bered sections of land on either side of the proposed
line of route for a distance of twenty miles. Indisputably,
these sections belonged to the P. and S. W. The even-
numbered sections being government property could
be and had been taken up by the ranchers, but the rail-
road sections, or, as they were called, the " alternate sec-
tions," would have to be purchased direct from the rail-
road itself.

But this had not prevented the farmers from "coming
in " upon that part of the San Joaquin. Long before this
the railroad had thrown open these lands, and, by means
of circulars, distributed broadcast throughout the State,
had expressly invited settlement thereon. At that time
patents had not been issued to the railroad for their odd-
numbered sections, but as soon as the land was patented
the railroad would grade it in value and offer it for sale,
the first occupants having the first chance of purchase.
The price of these lands was to be fixed by the price the
government put upon its own adjoining lands — about
two dollars and a half per acre.

With cultivation and improvement the ranches must
inevitably appreciate in value. There was every chance
to make fortunes. When the railroad lands about
Bonneville had been thrown open, there had been almost
a rush in the matter of settlement, and Broderson, An-
nixter, Derrick, and Osterman, being foremost with
their claims, had secured the pick of the country. But
the land once settled upon, the P. and S. W. seemed to be
in no hurry as to fixing exactly the value of its sections

A Story of California 97

included in the various ranches and offering them for
sale. The matter dragged along from year to year, was
forgotten for months together, being only brought to
mind on such occasions as this, when the rumour spread
that the General Office was about to take definite action
in the affair.

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

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

" From the circulars and pamphlets," answered Har-
ran, " that the railroad issued to us when they opened
these lands. They are pledged to that. Even the P. and
S. W. couldn't break such a pledge as that. You are new
in the country, Mr. Genslinger. You don't remember
the conditions upon which we took up this land."

" And our improvements," exclaimed Annixter.
" Why, Magnus and I have put about five thousand dol-
lars between us into that irrigating ditch already. I
guess we are not improving the land just to make it
valuable for the railroad people. No matter how much
we improve the land, or how much it increases in value,
they have got to stick by their agreement on the basis of
two-fifty per acre. Here's one case where the P. and
S. W. don't get everything in sight."

Genslinger frowned, perplexed.

" I am new in the country, as Harran says," he an-
swered, " but it seems to me that there's no fairness in

98 The OctopuG

that proposition. The presence of the railroad has
helped increase the value of your ranches quite as much
as your improvements. Why should you get all the bene-
fit of the rise in value and the railroad nothing? The
fair way would be to share it between you."

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

" Well," murmured Genslinger, " from what I know of
the affair, I don't believe the P. and S. W. intends to sell
for two-fifty an acre, at all. The managers of the road
want the best price they can get for everything in these
hard times."

" Times aren't ever very hard for the railroad," haz-
ards old Broderson.

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

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

" Hard times," he repeated, a troubled, perplexed note
in his voice ; " well, yes — yes. I suppose the road docs
have hard times, maybe. Everybody does — of course.
I didn't mean that exactly. I believe in being just and
fair to everybody. I mean that we've got to use their
lines and pay their charges good years and bad years,
the P. and S. W. being the only road in the State. That
is — well, when I say the only road — no, I won't say the
only road. Of course there are other roads. There's the
D. P. and M. and the San Francisco and North Pacific,
that runs up to Ukiah. I got a brother-in-law in Ukiah,

A Story of California 99

That's not much of a wheat country round Ukiah,
though they do grow some wheat there, come to think.
But I guess it's too far north. Well, of course there
isn't much. Perhaps sixty thousand acres in the whole
county — if you include barley and oats. I don't know;
maybe it's nearer forty thousand. I don't remember
very well. That's a good many years ago. I "

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

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

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

Soon after this Genslinger took himself away, and Der-
rick's Chinaman came in to set the table.

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

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

" Oh, as to pledges," murmured Broderson, " the rail-
road is not always too much hindered by those."

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

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

Presley had taken Princess Nathalie upon his knee,
stroking her long, sleek hair, and the cat, stupefied with
beatitude, had closed her eyes to two fine lines, clawing
softly at the corduroy of Presley's trousers with alter-
nate paws.

ioo The Octopus

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

And as he spoke, young Osterman arrived.

He was a young fellow, but singularly inclined to bald-
ness. His ears, very red and large, stuck out at right
angles from either side of his head, and his mouth, too,
was large — a great horizontal slit beneath his nose. His
cheeks were of a brownish red, the cheek bones a little
salient. His face was that of a comic actor, a singer of
songs, a man never at a loss for an answer, continually
striving to make a laugh. But he took no great interest
in ranching and left the management of his land to his
superintendents and foremen, he, himself, living in
Bonneville. He was a poser, a wearer of clothes, forever
acting a part, striving to create an impression, to draw
attention to himself. He was not without a certain
energy, but he devoted it to small ends, to perfecting
himself in little accomplishments, continually running
after some new thing, incapable of persisting long in any
one course. At one moment his mania would be fencing;
the next, sleight-of-hand tricks; the next, archery. For
upwards of one month he had devoted himself to learn-
ing how to play two banjos simultaneously, then aban-
doning this had developed a sudden passion for stamped
leather work and had made a quantity of purses, tennis
belts, and hat bands, which he presented to young ladies
of his acquaintance. It was his policy never to make an
enemy. He was liked far better than he was respected.
People spoke of him as " that goat Osterman," or " that
fool Osterman kid," and invited him to dinner. He was
of the sort who somehow cannot be ignored. If only be-
cause of his clamour he made himself important. If he
had one abiding trait, it was his desire of astonishing
people, and in some way, best known to himself, man-
aged to cause the circulation of the most extraordinary

A Story of California 101

stories wherein he, himself, was the chief actor. He was
glib, voluble, dexterous, ubiquitous, a teller of funny
stones, a cracker of jokes.

Naturally enough, he was heavily in debt, but carried
the burden of it with perfect nonchalance. The year be-
fore S. Behrman had held mortgages for fully a third of
his crop and had squeezed him viciously for interest.
But for all that, Osterman and S. Behrman were con-
tinually seen arm-in-arm on the main street of Bonne-
ville. Osterman was accustomed to slap S. Behrman on
his fat back, declaring:

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

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

" I am not going to stay," she explained, smiling pleas-
antly at the group of men, her pretty, wide-open brown
eyes, with their look of inquiry and innocence, glancing
from face to face, " I only came to see if you wanted
anything and to say how do you do."

She began talking to old Broderson, making in-
quiries as to his wife, who had been sick the last week,
and Osterman turned to the company, shaking hands
all around, keeping up an incessant stream of conver-
sation.

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

At once Annixter began to get red in the face, retiring
towards a corner of the room, standing in an awkward
position by the case of stuffed birds, shambling and con-

102 The Octopus

fused, while Mrs. Derrick was present, standing rigidly
on both feet, his elbows close to his sides. But he was
angry with Osterman, muttering imprecations to him-
self, horribly vexed that the young fellow should call him
"Buck" before Magnus's wife. This goat Osterman!
Hadn't he any sense, that fool? Couldn't he ever learn
how to behave before a feemale? Calling him " Buck "
like that while Mrs. Derrick was there. Why a stable-
boy would know better ; a hired man would have better
manners.

All through the dinner that followed Annixter was out
of sorts, sulking in his place, refusing to eat by way of
vindicating his self-respect, resolving to bring Osterman
up with a sharp turn if he called him " Buck " again.

The Chinaman had made a certain kind of plum pud-
ding for dessert, and Annixter, who remembered other
-dinners at the Derrick's, had been saving himself for
this, and had meditated upon it all through the meal.
No doubt, it would restore all his good humour, and he
believed his stomach was so far recovered as to be able
to stand it.

But, unfortunately, the. pudding was served with a
sauce that he abhorred — a thick, gruel-like, colourless
mixture, made from plain water and sugar. Before he
could interfere, the Chinaman had poured a quantity of
it upon his plate.

" Faugh! " exclaimed Annixter. " It makes me sick.
Such — such sloop. Take it away. I'll have mine straight,
if you don't mind."

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

" Look here, don't you call me Buck. You don't seem
to have any sense, and, besides, it isn't good for my
stomach. I know better. What do you know about my

A Story of California 103

stomach, anyhow ? Just looking at sloop like that makes
me sick."

A little while after this the Chinaman cleared away the
dessert and brought in coffee and cigars. The whiskey
bottle and the syphon of soda-water reappeared. The
men eased themselves in their places, pushing back from
the table, lighting their cigars, talking of the beginning
of the rains and the prospects of a rise in wheat. Brod-
erson began an elaborate mental calculation, trying to
settle in his mind the exact date of his visit to Ukiah, and
Osterman did sleight-of-hand tricks with bread pills.
But Princess Nathalie, the cat, was uneasy. Annixter
was occupying her own particular chair in which she
slept every night. She could not go to sleep, but spied
upon him continually, watching his every movement
with her lambent, yellow eyes, clear as amber.

Then, at length, Magnus, who was at the head of the
table, moved in his place, assuming a certain magisterial
attitude. " Well, gentlemen," he observed, " I have lost
my case against the railroad, the grain-rate case. Ul-
steen decided against me, and now I hear rumours to
the effect that rates for the hauling of grain are to be
advanced."

When Magnus had finished, there was a moment's
silence, each member of the group maintaining his at-
titude of attention and interest. It was Harran who first
spoke.

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

Shelgrim ! The name fell squarely in the midst of the
conversation, abrupt, grave, sombre, big with sugges-
tion, pregnant with huge associations. No one in the
group who was not familiar with it; no one, for that

104 The Octopus

matter, in the county, the State, the whole reach of the
West, the entire Union, that did not entertain convictions
as to the man who carried it; a giant figure in the end-of-
the-century finance, a product of circumstance, an inevit-
able result of conditions, characteristic, typical, symbolic
of ungovernable forces. In the New Movement, the New
Finance, the reorganisation of capital, the amalgamation
of powers, the consolidation of enormous enterprises —
no one individual was more constantly in the eye of the
world; no one was more hated, more dreaded, no one
more compelling of unwilling tribute to his command-
ing genius, to the colossal intellect operating the width
of an entire continent than the president and owner of
the Pacific and Southwestern.

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

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

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

" In any case," hazarded Magnus, " it is scarcely prob-
able that the deal — whatever it is to be — has been con-
summated. If we act quickly, there may be a chance."

" Act quickly ! How ? " demanded Annixter. " Good
Lord ! what can you do ? We're cinched already. It
all amounts to just this : You can't buck against the rail-
road. We've tried it and tried it, and we are stuck every
time. You, yourself, Derrick, have just lost your grain-
rate case. S. Behrman did you up. Shelgrim owns the
courts. He's got men like Ulsteen in his pocket. He's
got the Railroad Commission in his pocket. He's got
the Governor of the State in his pocket. He keeps a
million-dollar lobby at Sacramento every minute of the
time the legislature is in session; he's got his own men
on the floor of the United States Senate. He has the

A Story of California 105

whole thing organised like an army corps. What are
you going to do ? He sits in his office in San Francisco
and pulls the strings and we've got to dance."

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

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

" It is to the Railroad Commission, nevertheless," re-
marked Magnus, " that the people of the State must
look for relief. That is our only hope. Once elect Com-
missioners who would be loyal to the people, and the
whole system of excessive rates falls to the ground."

" Well, why not have a Railroad Commission of our
own, then? " suddenly declared young Osterman.

" Because it can't be done," retorted Annixter. " You
can't buck against the railroad and if you could you can't
organise the farmers in the San Joaquin. We tried it
once, and it was enough to turn your stomach. The rail-
road quietly bought delegates through S. Behrman and
did us up."

" Well, that's the game to play," said Osterman de-
cisively, " buy delegates."

" It's the only game that seems to win," admitted
Harran gloomily.

" Or ever will win," exclaimed Osterman, a sudden
excitement seeming to take possession of him. His
face — the face of a comic actor, with its great slit of
mouth and stiff, red ears — went abruptly pink.

" Look here," he cried, " this thing is getting des-
perate. We've fought and fought in the courts and out

io6 The Octopus

and we've tried agitation and — and all the rest of it and
S. Behrman sacks us every time. Now comes the time
when there's a prospect of a big crop ; we've had no rain
for two years and the land has had a long rest. If there
is any rain at all this winter, we'll have a bonanza year,
and just at this very moment when we've got our chance
— a chance to pay off our mortgages and get clear of
debt and make a strike — here is Shelgrim making a deal
to cinch us and put up rates. And now here's the pri-
maries coming off and a new Railroad Commission go-
ing in. That's why Shelgrim chose this time to make
his deal. If we wait till Shelgrim pulls it off, we're done
for, that's flat. I tell you we're in a fix if we don't keep
an eye open. Things are getting desperate. Magnus
has just said that the key to the whole thing is the Rail-
road Commission. Well, why not have a Commission of
our own ? Never mind how we get it, let's get it. If it's
got to be bought, let's buy it and put our own men on it
and dictate what the rates will be. Suppose it costs
a hundred thousand dollars. Well, we'll get back more
than that in cheap rates."

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

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

" And a crazy, wild-eyed scheme at that," said An-
nixter gruffly. " Even supposing you bought a Railroad
Commission and got your schedule of low rates, what
happens? The P. and S. W. crowd get out an injunction
and tie you up."

" They would tie themselves up, too. Hauling at low
rates is better than no hauling at all. The wheat has
got to be moved."

" Oh, rot ! " cried Annixter. " Aren't you ever going

A Story of California 107

to learn any sense ? Don't you know that cheap trans-
portation would benefit the Liverpool buyers and not
us ? Can't it be fed into you that you can't buck against
the railroad? When you try to buy a Board of Com-
missioners don't you see that you'll have to bid against
the railroad, bid against a corporation that can chuck
out millions to our thousands? Do you think you can
bid against the P. and S. W.? "

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

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

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

Annixter struck the table with his fist in exasperation.

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

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

" It would be the chance of them — our Commissioners
— selling out against the certainty of Shelgrim doing us
up. That is," he hastened to add, "almost a certainty;
pretty near a certainty."

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

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

io8 The Octopus

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

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

Magnus glanced at his son in considerable surprise.
He had not expected this of Harran. But so great was
his affection for his son, so accustomed had he become
to listening to his advice, to respecting his opinions,
that, for the moment, after the first shock of surprise
and disappointment, he was influenced to give a certain
degree of attention to this new proposition. He in no
way countenanced it. At any moment he was prepared
to rise in his place and denounce it and Osterman both.
It was trickery of the most contemptible order, a thing
he believed to be unknown to the old school of politics
and statesmanship to which he was proud to belong;
but since Harran, even for one moment, considered it,
he, Magnus, who trusted Harran implicitly, would do
likewise — if it was only to oppose and defeat it in its
very beginnings.

And abruptly the discussion began. Gradually Oster-
man, by dint of his clamour, his strident reiteration, the
plausibility of his glib, ready assertions, the ease with
which he extricated himself when apparently driven to a
corner, completely won over old Broderson to his way
of thinking. Osterman bewildered him with his volu-
bility, the lightning rapidity with which he leaped from
one subject to another, garrulous, witty, flamboyant,
terrifying the old man with pictures of the swift ap-
proach of ruin, the imminence of danger.

Annixter, who led the argument against him — loving
argument though he did — appeared to poor advantage,
unable to present his side effectively. He called Oster-
man a fool, a goat, a senseless, crazy-headed jackass, but
was unable to refute his assertions. His debate was the
clumsy heaving of brickbats, brutal, direct. He con-

A Story of California 109

tradicted everything Osterman said as a matter of prin-
ciple, made conflicting assertions, declarations that were
absolutely inconsistent, and when Osterman or Harran
used these against him, could only exclaim:

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

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

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

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

"Well, now is your chance to get even," he vociferated.
" It is now or never. You can take it and save the situa-
tion for yourselves and all California or you can leave
it and rot on your own ranches. Buck, I know you. I
know you're not afraid of anything that wears skin.

J i o The Octopus

I know you've got sand all through you, and I know if
I showed you how we could put our deal through and
seat a Commission of our own, you wouldn't hang back.
Governor, you're a brave man. You know the advan-
tage of prompt and fearless action. You are not the
sort to shrink from taking chances. To play for big
stakes is just your game — to stake a fortune on the turn
of a card. You didn't get the reputation of being the
strongest poker player in El Dorado County for noth-
ing. Now, here's the biggest gamble that ever came
your way. If we stand up to it like men with guts in us,
we'll win out. If we hesitate, we're lost."

" I don't suppose you can help playing the goat, Oster-
man," remarked Annixter, " but what's your idea?
What do you think we can do? I'm not saying," he
hastened to interpose, " that you've anyways convinced
me by all this cackling. I know as well as you that we
are in a hole. But I knew that before I came here to-
night. You've not done anything to make me change
my mind. But just what do you propose? Let's
hear it."

" Well, I say the first thing to do is to see Disbrow.
He's the political boss of the Denver, Pueblo, and Mo-
jave road. We will have to get in with the machine
some way and that's particularly why I want Magntis
with us. He knows politics better than any of us and if
we don't want to get sold again we will have to have
some one that's in the know to steer us."

" The only politics I understand, Mr. Osterman," an-
swered Magnus sternly, " are honest politics. You must
look elsewhere for your political manager. I refuse to
have any part in this matter. If the Railroad Commis-
sion can be nominated legitimately, if your arrangements
can be made without bribery, I am with you to the last
iota of my ability."

A Story of California 1 1 1

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

Broderson was about to speak when Osterman kicked
his foot under the table. He, himself, held his peace.
He was quick to see that if he could involve Magnus and
Annixter in an argument, Annixter, for the mere love of
contention, would oppose the Governor and, without
knowing it, would commit himself to his — Osterman's —
scheme.

This was precisely what happened. In a few moments
Annixter was declaring at top voice his readiness to
mortgage the crop of Quien Sabe, if necessary, for the
sake of " busting S. Behrman." He could see no great
obstacle in the way of controlling the nominating con-
vention so far as securing the naming of two Railroad
Commissioners was concerned. Two was all they
needed. Probably it would cost money. You didn't get
something for nothing. It would cost them all a good
deal more if they sat like lumps on a log and played
tiddledy-winks while Shelgrim sold out from under them.
Then there was this, too : the P. and S. W. were hard up
just then. The shortage on the State's wheat crop for
the last two years had affected them, too. They were
retrenching in expenditures all along the line. Hadn't
they just cut wages in all departments? There was this
affair of Dyke's to prove it. The railroad didn't always
act as a unit, either. There was always a party in it
that opposed spending too much money. He would bet
that party was strong just now. Fie was kind of sick
himself of being kicked by S. Behrman. Hadn't that
pip turned up on his ranch that very day to bully him
about his own line fence? Next he would be telling him
what kind of clothes he ought to wear. Harran had the
right idea. Somebody had got to be busted mighty soon
now and he didn't propose that it should be he.

H2 The Octopus

" Now you are talking something like sense/' observed
Osterman. " I thought you would see it like that when
you got my idea."

" Your idea, your idea! " cried Annixter. " Why, I've
had this idea myself for over three years."

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

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

"Who, for instance?"

" Darrell, that Los Angeles man — remember? "

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

" Pm'-cisely," cried Osterman. " We make it worth
Disbrow's while to do it. We go to him and say, ' Mr.
Disbrow, you manage the politics for the Mojave rail-
road, and what you say goes with your Board of Direc-
tors. We want you to adopt our candidate for Railroad
Commissioner for the third district. How much do you
want for doing it? ' I know we can buy Disbrow. That
gives us one Commissioner. We need not bother about
that any more. In the first district we don't make any
move at all. We let the political managers of the P. and
S. W. nominate whoever they like. Then we concen-

A Story of California 113

trate all our efforts to putting in our man in the second
district. There is where the big fight will come."

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

" Well, suppose we win," put in Annixter truculently,
already acknowledging himself as involved in the pro-
posed undertaking; " suppose we win and get low rates
for hauling grain. How about you, then? You count
yourself in then, don't you? You get all the benefit of
lower rates without sharing any of the risks we take to
secure them. No, nor any of the expense, either. No,
you won't dirty your fingers with helping us put this deal
through, but you won't be so cursed particular when it
comes to sharing the profits, will you?"

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

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

In an instant he dominated the entire group, imposing
a respect that was as much fear as admiration. No one
made response. For the moment he was the Master
again, the Leader. Like so many delinquent school-
boys, the others cowered before him, ashamed, put to
confusion, unable to find their tongues. In that brief
instant of silence following upon Magnus's outburst, and
while he held them subdued and over-mastered, the
fabric of their scheme of corruption and dishonesty
trembled to its base. It was the last protest of the Old
School, rising up there in denunciation of the new order

ii4 The Octopus

of things, the statesman opposed to the politician; hon-
esty, rectitude, uncompromising integrity, prevailing for
the last time against the devious manoeuvring, the evil
communications, the rotten expediency of a corrupted
institution.

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

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

" I understand Magnus all right," put in Osterman.
" He don't have to go into this thing, if it's against his
conscience. That's all right. Magnus can stay out if he
wants to, but that won't prevent us going ahead and see-
ing what we can do. Only there's this about it." He
turned again to Magnus, speaking with every degree of
earnestness, every appearance of conviction. " I did
not deny, Governor, from the very start that this would
mean bribery. But you don't suppose that / like the idea
either. If there was one legitimate hope that was yet
left untried, no matter how forlorn it was, I would try it.
But there's not It is literally and soberly true that
every means of help — every honest means — has been
attempted. Shelgrim is going to cinch us. Grain rates
are increasing, while, on the other hand, the price of
wheat is sagging lower and lower all the time. If we
don't do something we are ruined."

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

" I respect the Governor's principles. I admire them.
They do him every degree of credit." Then, turning di-
rectly to Magnus, he concluded with, " But I only want
you to ask yourself, sir, if, at such a crisis, one ought to
think of oneself, to consider purely personal motives in

A Story of California 115

such a desperate situation as this ? Now, we want you
with us, Governor; perhaps not openly, if you don't
wish it, but tacitly, at least. I won't ask you for an
answer to-night, but what I do ask of you is to consider
this matter seriously and think over the whole business.
Will you do it?"

Osterman ceased definitely to speak, leaning forward
across the table, his eyes fixed on Magnus's face. There
was a silence. Outside, the rain fell continually with
an even, monotonous murmur. In the group of men
around the table no one stirred nor spoke. They looked
steadily at Magnus, who, for the moment, kept his glance
fixed thoughtfully upon the table before him. In an-
other moment he raised his head and looked from face
to face around the group. After all, these were his
neighbours, his friends, men writh whom he had been
upon the closest terms of association. In a way they
represented what now had come to be his world. His
single swift glance took in the men, one after another.
Annixter, rugged, crude, sitting awkwardly and uncom-
fortably in his chair, his unhandsome face, with its out-
thrust lower lip and deeply cleft masculine chin, flushed
and eager, his yellow hair disordered, the one tuft on the
crown standing stiffly forth like the feather in an Indian's
scalp lock; Broderson, vaguely combing at his long
beard with a persistent maniacal gesture, distressed,
troubled and uneasy; Osterman, with his comedy face,
the face of a music-hall singer, his head bald and set off
by his great red ears, leaning back in his place, softly
cracking the knuckle of a forefinger, and, last of all and
close to his elbow, his son, his support, his confidant and
companion, Harran, so like himself, with his own erect,
fine carriage, his thin, beak-like nose and his blond hair,
with its tendency to curl in a forward direction in front
of the ears, young, strong, courageous, full of the pi'om-

n6 The Octopus

ise of the future years. His blue eyes looked straight
into his father's with what Magnus could fancy a glance
of appeal. Magnus could see that expression in the
faces of the others very plainly. They looked to him as
their natural leader, their chief who was to bring them
out from this abominable trouble which was closing in
upon them, and in them all he saw many types. They
— these men around his table on that night of the first
rain of a coming season — seemed to stand in his imagi-
nation for many others — all the farmers, ranchers, and
wheat growers of the great San Joaquin. Their words
were the words of a whole community; their distress,
the distress of an entire State, harried beyond the bounds
of endurance, driven to the wall, coerced, exploited,
harassed to the limits of exasperation.

" I will think of it," he said, then hastened to add, " but
I can tell you beforehand that you may expect only a
refusal."

After Magnus had spoken, there was a prolonged si-
lence. The conference seemed of itself to have come to
an end for that evening. Presley lighted another cigar-
ette from the butt of the one he had been smoking, and
the cat, Princess Nathalie, disturbed by his movement
and by a whiff of drifting smoke, jumped from his knee
to the floor and picking her way across the room to An-
nixter, rubbed gently against his legs, her tail in the air,
her back delicately arched. No doubt she thought it
time to settle herself for the night, and as Annixter gave
no indication of vacating his chair, she chose this way of
cajoling- him into ceding his place to her. But Annixter
was irritated at the Princess's attentions, misunderstand-
ing their motive.

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

A Story of California 1 1 7

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

" Yes, he was here," said Harran, " and — " but An-
nixter took the words out of his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

" Oh, you needn't get scared," said Annixter. " Gen-
slinger don't know, that's all. He thinks there was no
understanding that the price of the land should not be
advanced when the P. and S. W. came to sell to us."

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

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

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

" ' The Company invites settlers to go upon its lands before
patents are issued or the road is completed, and intends in such
cases to sell to them in preference to any other applicants and at
a price based upon the value of the land without improvements'
and on the other page here," he remarked, " they refer to this

1 1 8 The Octopus

again. */;/ ascertaining the value of the lands •, any improve*
ments that a settler or any other person may have on the lands
ivill not be taken into consideration, neither will the price be
increased in consequence thereof. . . . Settlers are thus
insured that in addition to being accorded the first privilege of
purchase, at the graded price, they will also be protected in
their improvements' And here," he commented, "in Sec-
tion IX. it reads, ' The lands are not uniform in price, but
are offered at various figures from $2.50 upward per acre.
Usually land covered with tall timber is held at $5.00 per acre,
and that with pine at $10.00. Most is for sale at $2.50 and
$5.00."

" When you come to read that carefully," hazarded old
Broderson, " it — it's not so very reassuring. ' Most is
for sale at two-fifty an acre/ it says. That don't mean
' all' that only means some. I wish now that I had se-
cured a more iron-clad agreement from the P. and S. W.
when I took up its sections on my ranch, and — and Gen-
slinger is in a position to know the intentions of the rail-
road. At least, he — he — he is in touch with them. All
newspaper men are. Those, I mean, who are subsidised
by the General Office. But, perhaps, Genslinger isn't
subsidised, I don't know. I — I am not sure. Maybe —
perhaps '

" Oh, you don't know and you do know, and maybe
and perhaps, and you're not so sure," vociferated An-
nixter. " How about ignoring the value of our improve-
ments? Nothing hazy about that statement, I guess. *t
says in so many words that any improvements we maxe
will not be considered when the land is appraised and
that's the same thing, isn't it? The unimproved land is
worth two-fifty an acre ; only timber land is worth more
and there's none too much timber about here."

" Well, one thing at a time," said Harran. " The thing
for us now is to get into this primary election and the

A Story of California 1 1 9

convention and see if we can push our men for Railroad
Commissioners."

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

But when Magnus's guests turned their attention to
the matter of returning to their different ranches, they
abruptly realised that the downpour had doubled and
trebled in its volume since earlier in the evening. The
fields and roads were veritable seas of viscid mud, the
night absolutely black-dark; assuredly not a night in
which to venture out. Magnus insisted that the three
ranchers should put up at Los Muertos. Osterman ac-
cepted at once, Annixter, after an interminable discus-
sion, allowed himself to be persuaded, in the end accept-
ing as though granting a favour. Broderson protested
that his wife, who was not well, would expect him to re-
turn that night and would, no doubt, fret if he did not
appear. Furthermore, he lived close by, at the junction
of the County and Lower Road. He put a sack over his
head and shoulders, persistently declining Magnus's of-
fered umbrella and rubber coat, and hurried away, re-
marking that he had no foreman on his ranch and had to
be up and about at five the next morning to put his men
to work.

"Fool!" muttered Annixter when the old man had
gone. " Imagine farming a ranch the size of his with-
out a foreman."

Harran showed Osterman and Annixter where they
were to sleep, in adjoining rooms. Magnus soon after-
ward retired.

Osterman found an excuse for going to bed, but An-
nixter and Harran remained in the latter's room, in a
haze of blue tobacco smoke, talking, talking. But at

I2O The Octopus

length, at the end of all argument, Annixter got up,
remarking:

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

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

The darkness was profound, impenetrable; the rain
fell with an uninterrupted roar. Near at hand one
could hear the sound of dripping eaves and foliage and
the eager, sucking sound of the drinking earth, and
abruptly while Harran stood looking out, one hand upon
the upraised sash, a great puff of the outside air invaded
the room, odourous with the reek of the soaking earth,
redolent with fertility, pungent, heavy, tepid. He closed
the window again and sat for a few moments on the edge
of the bed, one shoe in his hand, thoughtful and ab-
sorbed, wondering if his father would involve himself
in this new scheme, wondering if, after all, he wanted
him to.

But suddenly he was aware of a commotion, issuing
from the direction of Annixter's room, and the voice of
Annixter himself upraised in expostulation and exas-
peration. The door of the room to which Annixter had
been assigned opened with a violent wrench and an
angry voice exclaimed to anybody who would listen :

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

The door banged to so that all the windov/s of the
house rattled in their frames.

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

A Story of California 121

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

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

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

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

Annixter turned on him with a shout.

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

He swung into his waistcoat and coat, scrabbling at
the buttons in the violence of his emotions. " And I
don't know but what it will make me sick again to go

122 The Octopus

out in a night like this. No, I won't stay. Some things
are funny, and then, again, there are some things that are
not. Ah, yes, sloop! Well, that's all right. I can be
funny, too, when you come to that. You don't get a
cent of money out of me. You can do your dirty bribery
in your own dirty way. I won't come into this scheme
at all. I wash my hands of the whole business. It's
rotten and it's wild-eyed; it's dirt from start to finish;
and you'll all land in State's prison. You can count me
out."

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

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

He stormed to the door leading out upon the porch,
deaf to all reason. Harran and Presley followed him,
trying to dissuade him from going home at that time of
night and in such a storm, but Annixter was not to be
placated. He stamped across to the barn where his
horse and buggy had been stabled, splashing through the
puddles under foot, going out of his way to drench him-
self, refusing even to allow Presley and Harran to help
him harness the horse.

" What's the use of making a fool of yourself, Annix-
ter ? " remonstrated Presley, as Annixter backed the
horse from the stall. " You act just like a ten-year-old
boy. If Osterman wants to play the goat, why should
you help him out ? "

"He's a pip" vociferated Annixter. "You don't

A Story of California 123

understand, Presley. It runs in my family to hate any-
thing sticky. It's — it's — it's heredity. How would you
like to get into bed at two in the morning and jam your
feet down into a slimy mess like that? Oh, no. It's not
so funny then. And you mark my words, Mr. Harran
Derrick," he continued, as he climbed into the buggy,
shaking the whip toward Harran, " this business we
talked over to-night — I'm out of it. It's yellow. It's too
cursed dishonest."

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

Harran and Presley closed the barn and returned to
the house, sheltering themselves under a tarpaulin car-
riage cover. Once inside, Harran went to remonstrate
with Osterman, who was still up. Magnus had again
retired. The house had fallen quiet again.

As Presley crossed the dining-room on the way to his
own apartment in the second story of the house, he
paused for a moment, looking about him. In the dull
light of the lowered lamps, the redwood panelling of
the room showed a dark crimson as though stained
with blood. On the massive slab of the dining table the
half-emptied glasses and bottles stood about in the con-
fusion in which they had been left, reflecting themselves
deep into the polished wood; the glass doors of the case
of stuffed birds was a subdued shimmer; the many-
coloured Navajo blanket over the couch seemed a mere
patch of brown.

Around the table the chairs in which the men had sat
throughout the evening still ranged themselves in a semi-
circle, vaguely suggestive of the conference of the past
few hours, with all its possibilities of good and evil, its
significance of a future big with portent. The room was

124 The Octopus

still. Only on the cushions of the chair that Annixter
had occupied, the cat, Princess Nathalie, at last comfort-
ably settled in her accustomed place, dozed complacently,
her paws tucked under her breast, rilling the deserted
room with the subdued murmur of her contented purr.

IV

On the Quien Sabe ranch, in one of its western divi-
sions, near the line fence that divided it from the Oster-
man holding, Vanamee was harnessing the horses to the
plough to which he had been assigned two days before,
a stable-boy from the division barn helping him.

Promptly discharged from the employ of the sheep-
raisers after the lamentable accident near the Long
Trestle, Vanamee had presented himself to Harran, ask-
ing for employment. The season was beginning; on all
the ranches work was being resumed. The rain had put
the ground into admirable condition for ploughing, and
Annixter, Broderson, and Osterman all had their gangs
at work. Thus, Vanamee was vastly surprised to find
Los Muertos idle, the horses still in the barns, the men
gathering in the shade of the bunk-house and eating-
house, smoking, dozing, or going aimlessly about, their
arms dangling. The ploughs for which Magnus and
Harran were waiting in a fury of impatience had not yet
arrived, and since the management of Los Muertos had
counted upon having these in hand long before this time,
no provision had been made for keeping the old stock in
repair; many of these old ploughs were useless, broken,
and out of order; some had been sold. It could not be
said definitely when the new ploughs would arrive. Har-
ran had decided to wait one week longer, and then, in
case of their non-appearance, to buy a consignment of
the old style of plough from the dealers in Bonneville.
He could afford to lose the money better than he could
afford to lose the season.

126 The Octopus

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

The evening before, when the foreman had blown his
whistle at six o'clock, the long line of ploughs had halted
upon the instant, and the drivers, unharnessing their
teams, had taken them back to the division barns — leav-
ing the ploughs as they were in the furrows. But an hour
after daylight the next morning the work was resumed.
After breakfast, Vanamee, riding one horse and leading
the others, had returned to the line of ploughs together
with the other drivers. Now he was busy harnessing
the team. At the division blacksmith shop — tempora-
rily put up — he had been obliged to wait while one of his
lead horses was shod, and he had thus been delayed quite
five minutes. Nearly all the other teams were har-
nessed, the drivers on their seats, waiting for the fore-
man's signal.

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

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

He climbed to his seat, shaking out the reins, and turn-
ing about, looked back along the line, then all around
him at the landscape inundated with the brilliant glow of
the early morning.

The day was fine. Since the first rain of the season,
there had been no other. Now the sky was without a
cloud, pale blue, delicate, luminous, scintillating with
morning. The great brown earth turned a huge flank to

A Story of California 127

it, exhaling the moisture of the early dew. The atmos-
phere, washed clean of dust and mist, was translucent as
crystal. Far off to the east, the hills on the other side
of Broderson Creek stood out against the pallid saffron
of the horizon as flat and as sharply outlined as if pasted
on the sky. The campanile of the ancient Mission of
San Juan seemed as fine as frost work. All about be-
tween the horizons, the carpet of the land unrolled itself
to infinity. But now it was no longer parched with heat,
cracked and warped by a merciless sun, powdered with
dust. The rain had done its work; not a clod that was
not swollen with fertility, not a fissure that did not exhale
the sense of fecundity. One could not take a dozen
steps upon the ranches without the brusque sensation
that underfoot the land was alive ; roused at last from its
sleep, palpitating with the desire of reproduction. Deep
down there in the recesses of the soil, the great heart
throbbed once more, thrilling with passion, vibrating
with desire, offering itself to the caress of the plough,
insistent, eager, imperious. Dimly one felt the deep-
seated trouble of the earth, the uneasy agitation of its
members, the hidden tumult of its womb, demanding to
be made fruitful, to reproduce, to disengage the eternal
renascent germ of Life that stirred and struggled in its
loins.

The ploughs, thirty-five in number, each drawn by its
team of ten, stretched in an interminable line, nearly a
quarter of a mile in length, behind and ahead of Van-
amee. They were arranged, as it were, en echelon, not in
file — not one directly behind the other, but each succeed-
ing plough its own width farther in the field than the one
in front of it. Each of these ploughs held five shears,
so that when the entire company was in motion, one hun-
dred and seventy-five furrows were made at the same
instant. At a distance, the ploughs resembled a great

128 The Octopus

column of field artillery. Each driver was in his place,
his glance alternating between his horses and the fore-
man nearest at hand. Other foremen, in their buggies
or buckboards, were at intervals along the line, like
battery lieutenant*. Annixter himself, on horseback, in
boots and campaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, overlooked
the scene.

The division superintendent, on the opposite side of
the line, galloped past to a position at the head. For a
long moment there was a silence. A sense of prepared-
ness ran from end to end of the column. All things were
ready, each man in his place. The day's work was about
to begin.

Suddenly, from a distance at the head of the line came
the shrill trilling of a whistle. At once the foreman near-
est Vanamee repeated it, at the same time turning down
the line, and waving one arm. The signal was repeated,
whistle answering whistle, till the sounds lost themselves
in the distance. At once the line of ploughs lost its im-
mobility, moving forward, getting slowly under way, the
horses straining in the traces. A prolonged movement
rippled from team to team, disengaging in its passage a
multitude of sounds — -the click of buckles, the creak of
straining leather, the subdued clash of machinery, the
cracking of whips, the deep breathing of nearly four hun-
dred horses, the abrupt commands and cries of the driv-
ers, and, last of all, the prolonged, soothing murmur of
the thick brown earth turning steadily from the multi-
tude of advancing shears.

The ploughing thus commenced, continued. The sun
rose higher. Steadily the hundred iron hands kneaded
and furrowed and stroked the brown, humid earth, the
hundred iron teeth bit deep into the Titan's flesh.
Perched on his seat, the moist living reins slipping and
tugging in his hands, Vanamee, in the midst of this

A Story of California 129

steady confusion of constantly varying sensation, sight
interrupted by sound, sound mingling with sight, on this
swaying, vibrating seat, quivering with the prolonged
thrill of the earth, lapsed to a sort of pleasing numbness,
in a sense, hypnotised by the weaving maze of things in
which he found himself involved. To keep his team at
an even, regular gait, maintaining the precise interval,
to run his furrows as closely as possible to those already
made by the plough in front — this for the moment was
the entire sum of his duties. But while one part of his
brain, alert and watchful, took cognisance of these mat-
ters, all the greater part was lulled and stupefied with the
long monotony of the affair.

The ploughing, now in full swing, enveloped him in a
vague, slow-moving whirl of things. Underneath him
was the jarring, jolting, trembling machine; not a clod
was turned, not an obstacle encountered, that he did not
receive the swift impression of it through all his body,
the very friction of the damp soil, sliding incessantly
from the shiny surface of the shears, seemed to repro-
duce itself in his finger-tips and along the back of his
head. He heard the horse-hoofs by the myriads crush-
ing down easily, deeply, into the loam, the prolonged
clinking of trace-chains, the working- of the smooth
brown flanks in the harness, the clatter of wooden hames,
the champing of bits, the click of iron shoes against
pebbles, the brittle stubble of the surface ground crack-
ling and snapping as the furrows turned, the sonorous,
steady breaths wrenched from the deep, labouring chests,
strap-bound, shining with sweat, and all along the line
the voices of the men talking to the horses. Everywhere
there were visions of glossy brown backs, straining,
heaving, swollen with muscle; harness streaked with
specks of froth, broad, cup-shaped hoofs, heavy with
brown loam, men's faces red with tan, blue overalls

130 The Octopus

spotted with axle-grease; muscled hands, the knuckles
whitened in their grip on the reins, and through it all
the ammoniacal smell of the horses, the bitter reek of
perspiration of beasts and men, the aroma of warm
leather, the scent of dead stubble — and stronger and
more penetrating than everything else, the heavy, ener-
vating odour of the upturned, living earth.

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

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

It was the long stroking caress, vigorous, male,
powerful, for which the Earth seemed panting. The
heroic embrace of a multitude of iron hands, gripping
deep into the brown, warm flesh of the land that quivered
responsive and passionate under this rude advance, so
robust as to be almost an assault, so violent as to be

A Story of California 131

veritably brutal. There, under the sun and under the
speckless sheen of the sky, the wooing of the Titan be-
gan, the vast primal passion, the two world-forces, the
elemental Male and Female, locked in a colossal em-
brace, at grapples in the throes of an infinite desire, at
once terrible and divine, knowing no law, untamed, sav-
age, natural, sublime.

From time to time the gang in which Vanamee worked
halted on the signal from foreman or overseer. The
horses came to a standstill, the vague clamour of the
work lapsed away. Then the minutes passed. The
whole work hung suspended. All up and down the line
one demanded what had happened. The division super-
intendent galloped past, perplexed and anxious. For
the moment, one of the ploughs was out of order, a bolt
had slipped, a lever refused to work, or a machine had
become immobilised in heavy ground, or a horse had
lamed himself. Once, even, toward noon, an entire
plough was taken out of the line, so out of gear that a
messenger had to be sent to the division forge to sum-
mon the machinist.

Annixter had disappeared. He had ridden farther
on to the other divisions of his ranch, to watch the work
in progress there. At twelve o'clock, according to his
orders, all the division superintendents put themselves
in communication with him by means of the telephone
wires that connected each of the division houses, report-
ing the condition of the work, the number of acres cov-
ered, the prospects of each plough traversing its daily
average of twenty miles.

At half-past twelve, Vanamee and the rest of the driv-
ers ate their lunch in the field, the tin buckets having
been distributed to them that morning after breakfast.
But in the evening, the routine of the previous day was
repeated, and Vanamee, unharnessing his team, riding

132 The Octopus

one horse and leading the others, returned to the division
barns and bunk-house.

It was between six and seven o'clock. The half hun-
dred men of the gang threw themselves upon the supper
the Chinese cooks had set out in the shed of the eating-
house, long as a bowling alley, unpainted, crude, the
seats benches, the table covered with oil cloth. Over-
head a half-dozen kerosene lamps flared and smoked.

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

But in all this scene Vanamee saw nothing repulsive.
Presley would have abhorred it — this feeding of the
People, this gorging of the human animal, eager for its
meat. Vanamee, simple, uncomplicated, living so close
to nature and the rudimentary life, understood its sig-
nificance. He knew very well that within a short half-
hour after this meal the men would throw themselves
down in their bunks to sleep without moving, inert and
stupefied with fatigue, till the morning. Work, food,
and sleep, all life reduced to its bare essentials, uncom-
plex, honest, healthy. They were strong, these men,

A Story of California 133

with the strength of the soil they worked, in touch with
the essential things, back again to the starting point of
civilisation, coarse, vital, real, and sane.

For a brief moment immediately after the meal, pipes
were lit, and the air grew thick with fragrant tobacco
smoke. On a corner of the dining-room table, a game
of poker was begun. One of the drivers, a Swede, pro-
duced an accordion; a group on the steps of the bunk-
house listened, with alternate gravity and shouts of
laughter, to the acknowledged story-teller of the gang.
But soon the men began to turn in, stretching them-
selves at full length on the horse blankets in the racklike
bunks. The sounds of heavy breathing increased stead-
ily, lights were put out, and before the afterglow had
faded from the sky, the gang was asleep.

Vanamee, however, remained awake. The night was
fine, warm; the sky silver-grey with starlight. By and
by there would be a moon. In the first watch after the
twilight, a faint puff of breeze came up out of the south.
From all around, the heavy penetrating smell of the new-
turned earth exhaled steadily into the darkness. After
a while, when the moon came up, he could see the vast
brown breast of the earth turn toward it. Far off, dis-
tant objects came into view: The giant oak tree at
Hooven's ranch house near the irrigating ditch on Los
Muertos, the skeleton-like tower of the windmill on An-
nixter's Home ranch, the clump of willows along Broder-
son Creek close to the Long Trestle, and, last of all, the
venerable tower of the Mission of San Juan on the high
ground beyond the creek.

Thitherward, like homing pigeons, Vanamee's
thoughts turned irresistibly. Near to that tower, just
beyond, in the little hollow, hidden now from his sight,
was the Seed ranch where Angel e Varian had lived.
Straining his eyes, peering across the intervening levels,

134 The Octopus

Vanamee fancied he could almost see the line of vener-
able pear trees in whose shadow she had been accus-
tomed to wait for him. On many such a night as this
he had crossed the ranches to find her there. His mind
went back to that wonderful time of his life sixteen
years before this, when Angele was alive, when they two
were involved in the sweet intricacies of a love so fine,
so pure, so marvellous that it seemed to them a miracle,
a manifestation, a thing veritably divine, put into the life
of them and the hearts of them by God Himself. To
that they had been born. For this love's sake they had
come into the world, and the mingling of their lives was
to be the Perfect Life, the intended, ordained union of
the soul of man with the soul of woman, indissoluble,
harmonious as music, beautiful beyond all thought, a
foretaste of Heaven, a hostage of immortality.

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

He had lost her. God had not meant it, after all. The
whole matter had been a mistake. That vast, wonderful
love that had come upon them had been only the flimsiest
mockery. Abruptly Vanamee rose. He knew the night
that was before him. At intervals throughout the course
of his prolonged wanderings, in the desert, on the mesa,
deep in the canon, lost and forgotten on the flanks of

A Story of California 135

unnamed mountains, alone under the stars and under
the moon's white eye, these hours came to him, his
grief recoiling- upon him like the recoil of a vast and
terrible engine. Then he must fight out the night,
wrestling with his sorrow, praying sometimes, inco-
herent, hardly conscious, asking " Why " of the night
and of the stars.

Such another night had come to him now. Until dawn
he knew he must struggle with his grief, torn with memo-
ries, his imagination assaulted with visions of a vanished
happiness. If this paroxysm of sorrow was to assail him
again that night, there was but one place for him to be.
He would go to the Mission — he would see Father Sar-
ria; he would pass the night in the deep shadow of the
aged pear trees in the Mission garden.

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

Until this moment Vanamee had not trusted himself
to see the Mission at night. On the occasion of his first
daytime visit with Presley, he had hurried away even
before the twilight had set in, not daring for the moment
to face the crowding phantoms that in his imagination
filled the Mission garden after dark. In the daylight,
the place had seemed strange to him. None of his asso-
ciations with the old building and its surroundings were
those of sunlight and brightness. Whenever, during his
long sojourns in the wilderness of the Southwest, he had
called up the picture in the eye of his mind, it had always

136 The Octopus

appeared to him in the dim mystery of moonless nights,
the venerable pear trees black with shadow, the fountain
a thing to be heard rather than seen.

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

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

The interior of the Mission, a great oblong of white-
washed adobe with a flat ceiling, was lighted dimly by
the sanctuary lamp that hung from three long chains
just over the chancel rail at the far end of the church, and
by two or three cheap kerosene lamps in brackets of imi-
tation bronze. All around the walls was the inevitable
series of pictures representing the Stations of the Cross.
They were of a hideous crudity of design and composi-
tion, yet were wrought out with an innocent, unquestion-
ing sincerity that was not without its charm. Each pic-
ture framed alike in gilt, bore its suitable inscription in
staring black letters. " Simon, The Cyrenean, Helps
Jesus to Carry His Cross." " Saint Veronica Wipes the

A Story of California 137

Face of Jesus." " Jesus Falls for the Fourth Time," and
so on. Half-way up the length of the church the pews
began, coffin-like boxes of blackened oak, shining from
years of friction, each with its door; while over them, and
built out from the wall, was the pulpit, with its tarnished
gilt sounding-board above it, like the raised cover of a
great hat-box. Between the pews, in the aisle, the violent
vermilion of a strip of ingrain carpet assaulted the eye.
Farther on were the steps to the altar, the chancel rail of
worm-riddled oak, the high altar, with its napery from
the bargain counters of a San Francisco store, the mas-
sive silver candlesticks, each as much as one man could
lift, the gift of a dead Spanish queen, and, last, the pic-
tures of the chancel, the Virgin in a glory, a Christ in
agony on the cross, and St. John the Baptist, the patron
saint of the Mission, the San Juan Bautista, of the early
days, a gaunt grey figure, in skins, two fingers upraised
in the gesture of benediction.

The air of the place was cool and damp, and heavy
with the flat, sweet scent of stale incense smoke. It was
of a vault-like stillness, and the closing of the door be-
hind Vanamee reechoed from corner to corner with a
prolonged reverberation of thunder.

However, Father Sarria was not in the church. Van-
amee took a couple of turns the length of the aisle, look-
ing about into the chapels on either side of the chancel.
But the building was deserted. The priest had been
there recently, nevertheless, for the altar furniture was
in disarray, as though he had been rearranging it but a
moment before. On both sides of the church and half-
way up their length, the walls were pierced by low arch-
ways, in which were massive wooden doors, clamped
with iron bolts. One of these doors, on the pulpit side
of the church, stood ajar, and stepping to it and pushing
it wide open, Vanamee looked diagonally across a little

The Octopus

patch of vegetables — beets, radishes, and lettuce — to the
rear of the building that had once contained the cloisters,
and through an open window saw Father Sarria dili-
gently polishing the silver crucifix that usually stood on
the high altar. Vanamee did not call to the priest. Put-
ting a finger to either temple, he fixed his eyes steadily
upon him for a moment as he moved about at his work.
In a few seconds he closed his eyes, but only part way.
The pupils contracted; his forehead lowered to an ex-
pression of poignant intensity. Soon afterward he saw
the priest pause abruptly in the act of drawing the cover
over the crucifix, looking about him from side to side.
He turned again to his work, and again came to a stop,
perplexed, curious. With uncertain steps, and evidently
wondering why he did so, he came to the door of the
room and opened it, looking out into the night. Van-
amee, hidden in the deep shadow of the archway, did not
move, but his eyes closed, and the intense expression
deepened on his face. The priest hesitated, moved for-
ward a step, turned back, paused again, then came
straight across the garden patch, brusquely colliding
with Vanamee, still motionless in the recess of the arch-
way.

Sarria gave a great start, catching his breath.

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

Vanamee put his chin in the air.

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

The priest shook his head.

" It troubles me," he said, " to think that my own will

A Story of California 139

can count for so little. Jnst now I could not resist. If a
deep river had been between us, I must have crossed it.
Suppose I had been asleep now? "

" It would have been all the easier," answered Van-
amee. " I understand as little of these things as you. But
I think if you had been asleep, your power of resistance
would have been so much the more weakened."

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

" Perhaps."

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

A few moments later the two passed out of the door on
the other side of the church, opposite the pulpit, Sarria
adjusting a silk skull cap on his tonsured head. He wore
his cassock now, and was far more the churchman in ap-
pearance than when Vanamee and Presley had seen him
on a former occasion.

They were now in the cloister garden. The place was
charming. Everywhere grew clumps of palms and mag-
nolia trees. A grapevine, over a century old, occupied a
trellis in one angle of the walls which surrounded the
garden on two sides. Along the third side was the
church itself, while the fourth was open, the wall having
crumbled away, its site marked only by a line of eight
great pear trees, older even than the grapevine,
gnarled, twisted, bearing no fruit. Directly opposite

140 The Octopus

the pear trees, in the south wall of the garden, was a
round, arched portal, whose gate giving upon the espla-
nade in front of the Mission was always closed. Small
gravelled walks, well kept, bordered with mignonette,
twisted about among the flower beds, and underneath
the magnolia trees. In the centre was a little fountain
in a stone basin green with moss, while just beyond,
between the fountain and the pear trees, stood what was
left of a sun dial, the bronze gnomon, green with the
beatings of the weather, the figures on the half-circle
of the dial worn away, illegible.

But on the other side of the fountain, and directly op-
posite the door of the Mission, ranged against the wall,
were nine graves — three with headstones, the rest with
slabs. Two of Sarria's predecessors were buried here ;
three of the graves were those of Mission Indians. One
was thought to contain a former alcalde of Guadalajara ;
two more held the bodies of De La Cuesta and his'young
wife (taking with her to the grave the illusion of her
husband's love), and the last one, the ninth, at the end of
the line, nearest the pear trees, was marked by a little
headstone, the smallest of any, on which, together with
the proper dates — only sixteen years apart — was cut the
name " Angele Varian."

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

Sarria and Vanamee found their way to a stone bench
against the side wall of the Mission, near the door from

A Story of California 141

which they had just issued, and sat down, Sarria light-
ing a cigar, Vanamee rolling and smoking cigarettes in
Mexican fashion.

All about them widened the vast calm night. All the
stars were out. The moon was coming up. There was
no wind, no sonnd. The insistent flowing of the fountain
seemed only as the symbol of the passing of time, a
thing that was understood rather than heard, inevitable,
prolonged. At long intervals, a faint breeze, hardly
more than a breath, found its way into the garden over
the enclosing walls, and passed overhead, spreading
everywhere the delicious, mingled perfume of magnolia
blossoms, of mignonette, of moss, of grass, and all the
calm green life silently teeming within the enclosure of
the walls.

From where he sat, Vanamee, turning his head, could
look out underneath the pear trees to the north. Close
at hand, a little valley lay between the high ground on
which the Mission was built, and the line of low hills just
beyond Broderson Creek on the Quien Sabe. In here
was the Seed ranch, which Angele's people had culti-
vated, a unique and beautiful stretch of five hundred
acres, planted thick with roses, violets, lilies, tulips, iris,
carnations, tube-roses, poppies, heliotrope — all manner
and description of flowers, five hundred acres of them,
solid, thick, exuberant; blooming and fading, and leav-
ing their seed or slips to be marketed broadcast all over
the United States. This had been the vocation of
Angele's parents — raising flowers for their seeds. All
over the country the Seed ranch was known. Now it
was arid, almost dry, but when in full flower, toward the
middle of summer, the sight of these half-thousand acres
royal with colour — vermilion, azure, flaming yellow — •
was a marvel. When an east wind blew, men on the
streets of Bonneville, nearly twelve miles away, could

142 The Octopus

catch the scent of this valley of flowers, this chaos of
perfume.

And into this life of flowers, this world of colour, this
atmosphere oppressive and clogged and cloyed and thick-
ened with sweet odour, Angele had been born. There
she had lived her sixteen years. There she had died. It
was not surprising that Vanamee, with his intense, deli-
cate sensitiveness to beauty, his almost abnormal ca-
pacity for great happiness, had been drawn to her, had
loved her so deeply.

She came to him from out of the flowers, the smell of
the roses in her hair of gold, that hung in two straight
plaits on either side of her face; the reflection of the vio-
lets in the profound dark blue of her eyes, perplexing,
heavy-lidded, almond-shaped, oriental; the aroma and
the imperial red of the carnations in her lips, with their
almost Egyptian fulness; the whiteness of the lilies, the
perfume of the lilies, and the lilies' slender balancing
grace in her neck. Her hands disengaged the odour of
the heliotropes. The folds of her dress gave off the
enervating scent of poppies. Her feet were redolent of
hyacinths.

For a long time after sitting down upon the bench,
neither the priest nor Vanamee spoke. But after a
while Sarria took his cigar from his lips, saying:

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

" Quien sabef "

"Yes, you, too. Where else? No, it is better here,
yonder, by the side of the litle girl."

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

" They amount to everything, my boy/'

A Story of California 143

" Yes, to one part of me, but not to the part of me that
belonged to Angele — the best part. Oh, you don't
know," he exclaimed with a sudden movement, " no one
can understand. What is it to me when you tell me that
sometime after I shall die too, somewhere, in a vague
place you call Heaven, I shall see her again? Do you
think that the idea of that ever made any one's sorrow
easier to bear? Ever took the edge from any one's
grief?"

" But you believe that "

" Oh, believe, believe ! " echoed the other. " What do
I believe? I don't know. I believe, or I don't believe.
I can remember what she was, but I cannot hope what
she will be. Hope, after all, is only memory seen re-
versed. When I try to see her in another life — whatever
you call it — in Heaven — beyond the grave — this vague
place of yours ; when I try to see her there, she comes
to my imagination only as what she was, material,
earthly, as I loved her. Imperfect, you say ; but that is
as I saw her, and as I saw her, I loved her ; and as she
was, material, earthly, imperfect, she loved me. It's
that, that I want," he exclaimed. " I don't want her
changed. I don't want her spiritualised, exalted, glori-
fied, celestial. I want her. 1 think it is only this feeling
that has kept me from killing myself. I would rather be
unhappy in the memory of what she actually was, than
be happy in the realisation of her transformed, changed,
made celestial. I am only human. Her soul! That was
beautiful, no doubt. But, again, it was something very
vague, intangible, hardly more than a phrase. But the
touch of her hand was real, the sound of her voice was
real, the clasp of her arms about my neck was real.
Oh," he cried, shaken with a sudden wrench of passion,
" give those back to me. Tell your God to give those
back to me — the sound of her voice, the touch of her

144 The Octopus

hand, the clasp of her dear arms, real, real, and then you
may talk to me of Heaven."

Sarria shook his head. " But when you meet her
again," he observed, " in Heaven, you, too, will be
changed. You will see her spiritualised, with spiritual
eyes. As she is now, she does not appeal to you. I un-
derstand that. It is because, as you say, you are only
human, while she is divine. But when you come to be
like her, as she is now, you will know her as she really
is, not as she seemed to be, because her voice was sweet,
because her hair was pretty, because her hand was warm
in yours. Vanamee, your talk is that of a foolish child.
You are like one of the Corinthians to whom Paul wrote.
Do you remember ? Listen now. I can recall the words,
and such words, beautiful and terrible at the same time,
such a majesty. They march like soldiers with trumpets.
' But some man will say ' — as you have said just now — •
1 How are the dead raised up ? And with what body do
they come ? Thou fool ! That which thou sowest is not
quickened except it die, 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. But
God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every
seed his own body. . . . It is sown a natural body ;
it is raised a spiritual body/ It is because you are a
natural body that you cannot understand her, nor wish
for her as a spiritual body, but when you are both spir-
itual, then you shall know each other as you are — know
as you never knew before. Your grain of wheat is your
symbol of immortality. You bury it in the earth. It
dies, and rises again a thousand times more beautiful.
Vanamee, your dear girl was only a grain of humanity
that we have buried here, and the end is not yet. But
all this is so old, so old. The world learned it a thousand
years ago, and yet each man that has ever stood by the

A Story of California 145

open grave of any one he loved must learn it all over
again from the beginning."

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

" That may all be as you say," he answered after a
while. " I have not learned it yet, in any case. Now, I
only know that I love her — oh, as if it all were yester-
day— and that I am suffering, suffering, always."

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

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

The priest shook his head.

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

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

" Oh, the terror of it," he murmured. " The horror
of it. And she — think of it, Sarria, only sixteen, a little
girl ; so innocent, that she never knew what wrong
meant, pure as a little child is pure, who believed that all
things were good ; mature only in her love. And to be
struck down like that, while your God looked down from
Heaven and would not take her part." All at once he
seemed to lose control of himself. One of those furies
of impotent grief and wrath that assailed him from time
to time, blind, insensate, incoherent, suddenly took pos-

146 The Octopus

session of him. A torrent of words issued from his
lips, and he flung out an arm, the fist clenched, in a fierce,
quick gesture, partly of despair, partly of defiance, partly
of supplication.

" No, your God would not take her part. Where was
God's mercy in that? Where was Heaven's protection
in that? Where was the loving kindness you preach
about? Why did God give her life if it was to be
stamped out ? Why did God give her the power of love
if it was to come to nothing ? Sarria, listen to me. Why
did God make her so divinely pure if He permitted that
abomination ? Ha ! " he exclaimed bitterly, " your God !
Why, an Apache buck would have been more merciful.
Your God ! There is no God. There is only the Devil.
The Heaven you pray to is only a joke, a wretched trick,
a delusion. It is only Hell that is real."

Sarria caught him by the arm.

" You are a fool and a child," he exclaimed, " and it is
blasphemy that you are saying. I forbid it. You under-
stand? I forbid it."

Vanamee turned on him with a sudden cry.

" Then, tell your God to give her back to me ! "

Sarria started away from him, his eyes widening in
astonishment, surprised out of all composure by the
other's outburst. Vanamee's swarthy face was pale,
the sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes were marked with
great black shadows. The priest no longer recognised
him. The face, that face of the ascetic, lean, framed in
its long black hair and pointed beard, was quivering with
the excitement of hallucination. It was the face of the
inspired shepherds of the Hebraic legends, living close
to nature, the younger prophets of Israel, dwellers in the
wilderness, solitary, imaginative, believing in the
Vision, having strange delusions, gifted wth strange
powers. In a brief second of thought, Sarria under-

A Story of California 147

stood. Out into the wilderness, the vast arid desert
of the Southwest, Vanamee had carried his grief. For
days, for weeks, months even, he had been alone, a soli-
tary speck lost in the immensity of the horizons ; con-
tinually he was brooding, haunted with his sorrow,
thinking, thinking, often hard put to it for food. The
body was ill-nourished, and the mind, concentrated for-
ever upon one subject, had recoiled upon itself, had
preyed upon the naturally nervous temperament, till the
imagination had become exalted, morbidly active, dis-
eased, beset with hallucinations, forever in search of the
manifestation, of the miracle. It was small wonder that,
bringing a fancy so distorted back to the scene of a van-
ished happiness, Vanamee should be racked with the
.nost violent illusions, beset in the throes of a veritable
hysteria.

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

It was the pitch of mysticism, the imagination har-
assed and goaded beyond the normal round, suddenly
flipping from the circumference, spinning off at a tan-
gent, out into the void, where all things seemed possible,
hurtling through the dark there, groping for the super-
natural, clamouring for the miracle. And it was also the
human, natural protest against the inevitable, the irre-
vocable ; the spasm of revolt under the sting of death,
the rebellion of the soul at the victory of the grave.

" He can give her back to me if He only will," Van-
amee cried. " Sarria, you must help me. I tell you — I
warn you, sir, I can't last much longer under it. My
head is all wrong with it — I've no more hold on my
mind. Something must happen or I shall lose my senses.
I am breaking down under it all, my body and my mind
alike. Bring her to me ; make God show her to me. If
all tales are true, it would not be the first time. If I

148 The Octopus

cannot have her, at least let me see her as she was, real,
earthly, not her spirit, her ghost. I want her real selft
undefined again. If this is dementia, then let me be de-
mented. But help me, you and your God ; create the de-
lusion, do the miracle."

" Stop ! " cried the priest again, shaking him roughly
by the shoulder. " Stop. Be yourself. This is de-
mentia; but I shall not let you be demented. Think of
what you are saying. Bring her back to you ! Is that
the way of God? I thought you were a man; this is the
talk of a weak-minded girl."

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

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

" A diseased and distorted mind is capable of hal-
lucinations, if that is what you mean," observed Sarria.

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

Sarria did not reply, and there was a long silence. In
the damp south corners of the walls a frog began to
croak at exact intervals. The little fountain rippled
monotonously, and a magnolia flower dropped from one
of the trees, falling straight as a plummet through the
motionless air, and settling upon the gravelled walk
with a faint rustling sound. Otherwise the stillness was
profound.

A little later, the priest's cigar, long since out, slipped

A Story of California 149

from his fingers to the ground. He began to nod gently.
Vanamee touched his arm.

"Asleep, sir?"

The other started, rubbing his eyes.

" Upon my word, I believe I was."

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

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

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

" Good-night, my boy."

Vanamee was left alone. For a long time he sat
motionless in his place, his elbows on his knees, his chin
propped in his hands. The minutes passed — then the
hours. The moon climbed steadily higher among the
stars. Vanamee rolled and smoked cigarette after cigar-
ette, the blue haze of smoke hanging motionless above
his head, or drifting in slowly weaving filaments across
the open spaces of the garden.

But the influence of the old enclosure, this corner of
romance and mystery, this isolated garden of dreams,
savouring of the past, with its legends, its graves, its
crumbling sun dial, its fountain with its rime of moss,
was not to be resisted. Now that the priest had left him,
the same exaltation of spirit that had seized upon Van-
amee earlier in the evening, by degrees grew big again
in his mind and imagination. His sorrow assaulted him
like the flagellations of a fine whiplash, and his love for
Angele rose again in his heart, it seemed to him never
so deep, so tender, so infinitely strong. No doubt, it
was his familiarity with the Mission garden, his clear-cut
remembrance of it, as it was in the days when he had met
Angele there, tallying now so exactly with the reality

150 The Octopus

there under his eyes, that brought her to his imagination
so vividly. As yet he dared not trust himself near her
grave, but, for the moment, he rose and, his hands
clasped behind him, walked slowly from point to point
amid the tiny gravelled walks, recalling the incidents of
eighteen years ago. On the bench he had quitted he and
Angele had often sat. Here by the crumbling sun dial,
he recalled the night when he had kissed her for the first
time. Here, again, by the rim of the fountain, with its
fringe of green, she once had paused, and, baring her
arm to the shoulder, had thrust it deep into the water,
and then withdrawing it, had given it to him to kiss,
all wet and cool; and here, at last, under the shadow
of the pear trees they had sat, evening after evening,
looking off over the little valley below them, watch-
ing the night build itself, dome-like, from horizon to
zenith.

Brusquely Vanamee turned away from the prospect.
The Seed ranch was dark at this time of the year, and
flowerless. Far off toward its centre, he had caught a
brief glimpse of the house where Angele had lived, and a
faint light burning in its window. But he turned from it
sharply. The deep-seated travail of his grief abruptly
reached the paroxysm. With long strides he crossed the
garden and reentered the Mission church itself, plung-
ing into the coolness of its atmosphere as into a bath.
What he searched for he did not know, or, rather, did
not define. He knew only that he was suffering, that a
longing for Angele, for some object around which his
great love could enfold itself, was tearing at his heart
with iron teeth. He was ready to be deluded; craved the
hallucination ; begged pitifully for the illusion ; anything
rather than the empty, tenantless night, the voiceless
silence, the vast loneliness of the overspanning arc of the
heavens.

A Story of California 151

Before the chancel rail of the altar, under the sanc-
tuary lamp, Vanamee sank upon his knees, his arms
folded upon the rail, his head bowed down upon them.
He prayed, with what words he could not say, for what
he did not understand — for help, merely, for relief, for an
Answer to his cry.

It was upon that, at length, that his disordered mind
concentrated itself, an Answer — he demanded, he im-
plored an Answer. Not a vague visitation of Grace, not
a formless sense of Peace ; but an Answer, something
real, even if the reality were fancied, a voice out of the
night, responding to his, a hand in the dark clasping
his groping fingers, a breath, human, warm, fragrant,
familiar, like a soft, sweet caress on his shrunken
cheeks. Alone there in the dim half-light of the de-
caying Mission, with its crumbling plaster, its naive
crudity of ornament and picture, he wrestled fiercely
with his desires — words, fragments of sentences,
inarticulate, incoherent, wrenched from his tight-shut
teeth.

But the Answer was not in the church. Above him,
over the high altar, the Virgin in a glory, with downcast
eyes and folded hands, grew vague and indistinct in the
shadow, the colours fading, tarnished by centuries of
incense smoke. The Christ in agony on the Cross was
but a lamentable vision of tormented anatomy, grey
flesh, spotted with crimson. The St. John, the San Juan
Bautista, patron saint of the Mission, the gaunt figure
in skins, two fingers upraised in the gesture of bene-
diction, gazed stolidly out into the half-gloom under
the ceiling, ignoring the human distress that beat it-
self in vain against the altar rail below, and Angele re-
mained as before — only a memory, far distant, in-
tangible, lost.
Vanamee rose, turning his back upon the altar with a

152 The Octopus

vague gesture of despair. He crossed the church, and
issuing from the low-arched door opposite the pulpit,
once more stepped out into the garden. Here, at least,
was reality. The warm, still air descended upon him like
a cloak, grateful, comforting, dispelling the chill that
lurked in the damp mould of plaster and crumbling
adobe.

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

He bent down, dropping upon one knee, a hand upon
the headstone, and read again the inscription. Then in-
stinctively his hand left the stone and rested upon the
low mound of turf, touching it with the softness of a
caress; and then, before he was aware of it, he was
stretched at full length upon the earth, beside the grave,
his arms about the low mound, his lips pressed against
the grass with which it was covered. The pent-up grief
of nearly twenty years rose again within his heart, and
overflowed, irresistible, violent, passionate. There was

A Story of California 153

no one to see, no one to hear. Vanamee had no thought
of restraint. He no longer wrestled with his pain — •
strove against it. There was even a sense of relief in
permitting himself to be overcome. But the reaction
from this outburst was equally violent. His revolt
against the inevitable, his protest against the grave,
shook him from head to foot, goaded him beyond all
bounds of reason, hounded him on and into the do-
main of hysteria, dementia. Vanamee was no longer
master of himself — no longer knew what he was doing.

At first, he had been content with merely a wild, un-
reasoned cry to Heaven that Angele should be restored
to him, but the vast egotism that seems to run through
all forms of disordered intelligence gave his fancy
another turn. He forgot God. He no longer reckoned
with Heaven. He arrogated their powers to himself — •
struggled to be, of his own unaided might, stronger than
death, more powerful than the grave. He had demanded
of Sarria that God should restore Angele to him, but
now he appealed directly to Angele herself. As he lay
there, his arms clasped about her grave, she seemed so
near to him that he fancied she must hear. And sud-
denly, at this moment, his recollection of his strange
compelling power — the same power by which he had
called Presley to him half-way across the Quien Sabe
ranch, the same power which had brought Sarria to his
side that very evening — recurred to him. Concentrat-
ing his mind upon the one object with which it had so
long been filled, Vanamee, his eyes closed, his face buried
in his arms, exclaimed :

" Come to me — Angele — don't you hear ? Come to
me/'

But the Answer was not in the Grave. Below him the
voiceless Earth lay silent, moveless, withholding the
secret, jealous of that which it held so close in its grip,

154 rFhe Octopus

refusing to give up that which had been confided to its
keeping, untouched by the human anguish that above
there, on its surface, clutched with despairing hands at a
grave long made. The Earth that only that morning
had been so eager, so responsive to the lightest sum-
mons, so vibrant with Life, now at night, holding death
within its embrace, guarding inviolate the secret of the
Grave, was deaf to all entreaty, refused the Answer, and
Angele remained as before, only a memory, far distant,
intangible, lost.

Vanamee lifted his head, looking about him with un-
seeing eyes, trembling with the exertion of his vain ef-
fort. But he could not as yet allow himself to despair.
Never before had that curious power of attraction failed
him. He felt himself to be so strong in this respect that
he was persuaded if he exerted himself to the limit of his
capacity, something — he could not say what — must
come of it. If it was only a self-delusion, an hallucina-
tion, he told himself that he would be content.

Almost of its own accord, his distorted mind concen-
trated itself again, every thought, all the power of his
will riveting themselves upon Angele. As if she were
alive, he summoned her to him. His eyes, fixed upon
the name cut into the headstone, contracted, the pupils
growing small, his fists shut tight, his nerves braced
rigid.

For a few seconds he stood thus, breathless, expectant,
awaiting the manifestation, the Miracle. Then, without
knowing why, hardly conscious of what was transpiring,
he found that his glance was leaving the headstone, was
turning from the grave. Not only this, but his whole
body was following the direction of his eyes. Before
he knew it, he was standing with his back to Angele's
grave, was facing the north, facing the line of pear trees
and the little valley where the Seed ranch lay. At first,

A Story of California 155

he thought this was because he had allowed his will to
weaken, the concentrated power of his mind to grow
slack. And once more turning toward the grave, he
banded all his thoughts together in a consummate effort,
his teeth grinding together, his hands pressed to his fore-
head. He forced himself to the notion that Angele was
alive, and to this creature of his imagination he addressed
himself:

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

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

Perplexed, he returned to the grave, once more calling
upon the resources of his will, and abruptly, so soon as
these reached a certain point, the same cross-current
set in. He could no longer keep his eyes upon the
headstone, could no longer think of the grave and what
it held. He must face the north; he must be drawn to-
ward the pear trees, and there left standing in their
shadow, looking out aimlessly over the Seed ranch,
wondering, bewildered. Farther than this the influence
never drew him, but up to this point — the line of pear
trees — it was not to be resisted.

For a time the peculiarity of the affair was of more
interest to Vanamee than even his own distress of spirit,
and once or twice he repeated the attempt, almost experi-

156 The Octopus

mentally, and invariably with the same result : so soon
as he seemed to hold Angele in the grip of his mind, he
was moved to turn about toward the north, and hurry
toward the pear trees on the crest of the hill that over-
looked the little valley.

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

To his fancy, she came to him again. He put himself
back many years. He remembered the warm nights
of July and August, profoundly still, the sky encrusted
with stars, the little Mission garden exhaling the mingled
perfumes that all through the scorching day had been
distilled under the steady blaze of a summer's sun. He
saw himself as another person, arriving at this, their
rendezvous. All day long she had been in his mind. All
day long he had looked forward to this quiet hour that
belonged to her. It was dark. He could see nothing,
but, by and by, he heard a step, a gentle rustle of the
grass on the slope of the hill pressed under an advancing
foot. Then he saw the faint gleam of pallid gold of her
hair, a barely visible glow in the starlight, and heard the
murmur of her breath in the lapse of the over-passing
breeze. And then, in the midst of the gentle perfumes
of the garden, the perfumes of the magnolia flowers, of
the mignonette borders, of the crumbling walls, there
expanded a new odour, or the faint mingling of many
odours, the smell of the roses that lingered in her hair, of
the lilies that exhaled from her neck, of the heliotrope
that disengaged itself from her hands and arms, and of
the hyacinths with which her little feet were redolent

A Story of California 157

And then, suddenly, it was herself — her eyes, heavy-
lidded, violet blue, full of the love of him; her sweet
full lips speaking his name; her hands clasping his hands,
his shoulders, his neck — her whole dear body giving it-
self into his embrace; her lips against his; her hands
holding his head, drawing his face down to hers.

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

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

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

"What was it?" he murmured, bewildered.

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

But just so sure as his hands were his own, just so sure
as the bark of the pear tree was rough, the mouldering
adobe of the Mission walls damp — just so sure had Some-
thing occurred. It was vague, intangible, appealing only

158 The Octopus

to some strange, nameless sixth sense, but none the less
perceptible. His mind, his imagination, sent out from
him across the night, across the little valley below him,
speeding hither and thither through the dark, lost, con-
fused, had suddenly paused, hovering, had found Some-
thing. It had not returned to him empty-handed. It
had come back, but now there was a change — myste-
rious, illusive. There were no words for this that had
transpired. But for the moment, one thing only was
certain. The night was no longer voiceless, the dark was
no longer empty. Far off there, beyond the reach of
vision, unlocalised, strange, a ripple had formed on the
still black pool of the night, had formed, flashed one in-
stant to the stars, then swiftly faded again. The night
shut down once more. There was no sound — nothing
stirred.

For the moment, Vanamee stood transfixed, struck
rigid in his place, stupefied, his eyes staring, breathless
with utter amazement. Then, step by step, he shrank
back into the deeper shadow, treading with the infinite
precaution of a prowling leopard. A qualm of something
very much like fear seized upon him. But immediately
on the heels of this first impression came the doubt of
his own senses. Whatever had happened had been so
ephemeral, so faint, so intangible, that now he wondered
if he had not deceived himself, after all. But the reac-
tion followed. Surely, there had been Something. And
from that moment began for him the most poignant un-
certainty of mind. Gradually he drew back into the
garden, holding his breath, listening to every faintest
sound, walking upon tiptoe. He reached the fountain,
and wetting his hands, passed them across his forehead
and eyes. Once more he stood listening. The silence
was profound.

Troubled, disturbed, Vanamee went away, passing out

A Story of California 159

of the garden, descending the hill. He forded Broder-
son Creek where it intersected the road to Guadalajara,
and went on across Quien Sabe, walking slowly, his head
bent down, his hands clasped behind his back, thoughtful,
perplexed.

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

Annixter slept soundly, making great work of the busi-
ness, unable to take even his rest gracefully. His eyes
were shut so tight that the skin at their angles was
drawn into puckers. Under his pillow, his two hands
were doubled up into fists. At intervals, he gritted his
teeth ferociously, while, from time to time, the abrupt
sound of his snoring dominated the brisk ticking of the
alarm clock that hung from the brass knob of the bed-
post, within six inches of his ear.

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

A Story of California 161

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

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

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

"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!"

He stared about the room, collecting his thoughts, re-
adjusting himself for the day's work.

The room was barren, the walls of tongue-and-groove
sheathing — alternate brown and yellow boards — like the
walls of a stable, were adorned with two or three un-
framed lithographs, the Christmas " souvenirs " of
weekly periodicals, fastened with great wire nails; a
bunch of herbs or flowers, lamentably withered and grey
with dust, was affixed to the mirror over the black walnut
washstand by the window, and a yellowed photograph of
Annixter's combined harvester — himself and his men in
a group before it — hung close at hand. On the floor, at
the bedside and before the bureau, were two oval rag-
carpet rugs. In the corners of the room were muddy
boots, a McClellan saddle, a surveyor's transit, an empty
coal-hod and a box of iron bolts and nuts. On the wall
over the bed, in a gilt frame, was Annixter's college di-
ploma, while on the bureau, amid a litter of hair-brushes.

1 62 The Octopus

dirty collars, driving gloves, cigars and the like, stood a
broken machine for loading shells.

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

The Quien Sabe ranch house was a six-room affair,
all on one floor. By no excess of charity could it have
been called a home. Annixter was a wealthy man; he
could have furnished his dwelling with quite as much
elegance as that of Magnus Derrick. As it was, how-
ever, he considered his house merely as a place to eat,
to sleep, to change his clothes in ; as a shelter from the
rain, an office where business was transacted — nothing
more.

When he was sufficiently awake, Annixter thrust his
feet into a pair of wicker slippers, and shuffled across
the office adjoining his bedroom, to the bathroom just
beyond, and stood under the icy shower a few minutes,
his teeth chattering, fulminating oaths at the coldness of
the water. Still shivering, he hurried into his clothes,
and, having pushed the button of the electric bell to
announce that he was ready for breakfast, immediately
plunged into the business of the day. While he was thus
occupied, the butcher's cart from Bonneville drove into
the yard with the day's supply of meat. This cart also
brought the Bonneville paper and the mail of the pre-
vious night. In the bundle of correspondence that the
butcher handed to Annixter that morning, was a tele-

A Story of California 163

gram from Osterman, at that time on his second trip to
Los Angeles. It read:

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

Annixter grunted as he tore the despatch into strips.

" Well," he muttered, " that part is settled, then."

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

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

Under protest, as he was particular to declare, and
after interminable argument, Annixter had allowed him-
self to be reconciled with Osterman, and to be persuaded
to reenter the proposed political " deal." A committee
had been formed to finance the affair — Osterman, old
Broderson, Annixter himself, and, with reservations,
hardly more than a looker-on, Harran Derrick. Of this
committee, Osterman was considered chairman. Mag-
nus Derrick had formally and definitely refused his ad-
herence to the scheme. He was trying to steer a middle
course. His position was difficult, anomalous. If freight
rates were cut through the efforts of the members of the
committee, he could not very well avoid taking advan-
tage of the new schedule. He would be the gainer,
though sharing neither the risk nor the expense. But,
meanwhile, the days were passing; the primary elections
were drawing nearer. The committee could not afford to
wait, and by way of a beginning, Osterman had gone to
Los Angeles, fortified by a large sum of money — a purse
to which Annixter, Broderson and himself had con-
tributed. He had put himself in touch with Disbrow,

164 The Octopus

the political man of the Denver, Pueblo and Mojave road,
and had had two interviews with him. The telegram that
Annixter received that morning was to say that Disbrow
had been bought over, and would adopt Darrell as the
D., P. and M. candidate for Railroad Commissioner from
the third district.

One of the cooks brought up Annixter's breakfast
that morning, and he went through it hastily, reading his
mail at the same time and glancing over the pages of the
" Mercury," Genslinger's paper. The " Mercury," An-
nixter was persuaded, received a subsidy from the Pacific
and Southwestern Railroad, and was hardly better than
the mouthpiece by which Shelgrim and the General Of-
fice spoke to ranchers about Bonneville.

An editorial in that morning's issue said:

" It would not be surprising to the well-informed, if the
long-deferred re-grade of the value of the railroad sec-
tions included in the Los Muertos, Quien Sabe, Oster-
man and Broderson properties was made before the
first of the year. Naturally, the tenants of these lands
feel an interest in the price which the railroad will put
upon its holdings, and it is rumoured they expect the land
will be offered to them for two dollars and fifty cents per
acre. It needs no seventh daughter of a seventh daugh-
ter to foresee that these gentlemen will be disappointed."

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

" Rot ! rot ! What does Genslinger know about it ? I
stand on my agreement with the P. and S. W. — from two
fifty to five dollars an acre — there it is in black and white.
The road is obligated. And my improvements ! I made
the land valuable by improving it, irrigating it, draining
it, and cultivating it. Talk to me. I know better."

The most abiding impression that Genslinger's edi-
torial made upon him was, that possibly the " Mercury "

A Story of California 165

was not subsidised by the corporation after all. If it was,
Genslinger would not have been led into making his mis-
take as to the value of the land. He would have known
that the railroad was under contract to sell at two dollars
and a half an acre, and not only this, but that when the
land was put upon the market, it was to be offered to
the present holders first of all. Annixter called to
mind the explicit terms of the agreement between him-
self and the railroad, and dismissed the matter from his
mind. He lit a cigar, put on his hat and went out.

The morning was fine, the air nimble, brisk. On the
summit of the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well,
the windmill was turning steadily in a breeze from the
southwest. The water in the irrigating ditch was well
up. There was no cloud in the sky. Far off to the east
and west, the bulwarks of the valley, the Coast Range
and the foothills of the Sierras stood out, pale amethyst
against the delicate pink and white sheen of the horizon.
The sunlight was a veritable flood, crystal, limpid, spark-
ling, setting a feeling of gayety in the air, stirring up an
effervescence in the blood, a tumult of exuberance in the
veins.

But on his way to the barns, Annixter was obliged to
pass by the open door of the dairy-house. Hilma Tree
was inside, singing at her work; her voice of a velvety
huskiness, more of the chest than of the throat, mingling
with the liquid dashing of the milk in the vats and churns,
and the clear, sonorous clinking of the cans and pans.
Annixter turned into the dairy-house, pausing on the
threshold, looking about him, Hilma stood bathed from
head to foot in the torrent of sunlight that poured in
upon her from the three wide-open windows. She was
charming, delicious, radiant of youth, of health, of well-
being. Into her eyes, wide open, brown, rimme3 with
their fine, thin line of intense black lashes, the sun set a

1 66 The Octopus

diamond flash; the same golden light glowed all around
her thick, moist hair, lambent, beautiful, a sheen of al-
most metallic lustre, and reflected itself upon her wet
lips, moving with the words of her singing. The white-
ness of her skin under the caress of this hale, vigorous
morning light was dazzling, pure, of a fineness beyond
words. Beneath the sweet modulation of her chin, the
reflected light from the burnished copper vessel she was
carrying set a vibration of pale gold. Overlaying the
flush of rose in her cheeks, seen only when she stood
against the sunlight, was a faint sheen of down, a lustrous
floss, delicate as the pollen of a flower, or the impalpable
powder of a moth's wing. She was moving to and fro
about her work, alert, joyous, robust; and from all the
fine, full amplitude of her figure, from her thick white
neck, sloping downward to her shoulders, from the deep,
feminine swell of her breast, the vigorous maturity of
her hips, there was disengaged a vibrant note of gayety,
of exuberant animal life, sane, honest, strong. She wore
a skirt of plain blue calico and a shirtwaist of pink linen,
clean, trim; while her sleeves turned back to her shoul-
ders, showed her large, white arms, wet with milk, re-
dolent and fragrant with milk, glowing and resplendent
in the early morning light.

On the threshold, Annixter took off his hat.

" Good morning, Miss Hilma."

Hilma, who had set down the copper can on top of the
Vat, turned about quickly.

"Oh, good morning, sir;" and, unconsciously, she
made a little gesture of salutation with her hand, raising
it part way toward her head, as a man would have done.

" Well/' began Annixter vaguely, " how are you get-
ting along down here? "

" Oh, very fine. To-day, there is not so much to do.
We drew the whey hours ago, and now we are just done

A Story of California 167

putting the curd to press. I have been cleaning. See my
pans. Wouldn't they do for mirrors, sir? And the cop-
per things. I have scrubbed and scrubbed. Oh, you
can look into the tiniest corners, everywhere, you won't
find so much as the littlest speck of dirt or grease. I
love clean things, and this room is my own particu-
lar place. Here I can do just as I please, and that is,
to keep the cement floor, and the vats, and the churns
and the separators, and especially the cans and coppers,
clean; clean, and to see that the milk is pure, oh, so that a
little baby could drink it; and to have the air always
sweet, and the sun — oh, lots and lots of sun, morning,
noon and afternoon, so that everything shines. You
know, I never see the sun set that it don't make me a
little sad; yes, always, just a little. Isn't it funny? I
should want it to be day all the time. And when the day
is gloomy and dark, I am just as sad as if a very good
friend of mine had left me. Would you believe it? Just
until within a few years, when I was a big girl, sixteen
and over, mamma had to sit by my bed every night before
I could go to sleep. I was afraid in the dark. Sometimes
I am now. Just imagine, and now I am nineteen — a
young lady."

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

" N-no; I don't know what. I wanted the light, I

wanted " She drew a deep breath, turning towards

the window and spreading her pink finger-tips to the
light. " Oh, the sun. I love the sun. See, put your
hand there — here on the top of the vat — like that. Isn't
it warm? Isn't it fine? And don't you love to see it
coming in like that through the windows, floods of it;
and all the little dust in it shining? Where there is lots
of sunlight, I think the people must be very good. It's

1 68 The Octopus

only wicked people that love the dark. And the wicked
things are always done and planned in the dark, I think.
Perhaps, too, that's why I hate things that are myste-
rious— things that I can't see, that happen in the dark."
She wrinkled her nose with a little expression of aver-
sion. " I hate a mystery. Maybe that's why I am afraid
in the dark — or was. I shouldn't like to think that any-
thing could happen around me that I couldn't see or un-
derstand or explain."

She ran on from subject to subject, positively gar-
rulous, talking in her low-pitched voice of velvety huski-
ness for the mere enjoyment of putting her ideas into
speech, innocently assuming that they were quite as
interesting to others as to herself. She was yet a great
child, ignoring the fact that she had ever grown up, tak-
ing a child's interest in her immediate surroundings, di-
rect, straightforward, plain. While speaking, she con-
tinued about her work, rinsing out the cans with a mix-
ture of hot water and soda, scouring them bright, and
piling them in the sunlight on top of the vat.

Obliquely, and from between his narrowed lids, An-
nixter scrutinised her from time to time, more and more
won over by her adorable freshness, her clean, fine youth.
The clumsiness that he usually experienced in the pres-
ence of women was wearing off. Hilma Tree's direct
simplicity put him at his ease. He began to wonder if
he dared to kiss Hilma, and if he did dare, how she
would take it. A spark of suspicion flickered up in his
mind. Did not her manner imply, vaguely, an invitation?
One never could tell with feemales. That was why she
was talking so much, no doubt, holding him there, af-
fording the opportunity. Aha! She had best look out,
or he would take her at her word.

" Oh, I had forgotten," suddenly exclaimed Hilma,
" the very thing I wanted to show you — the new press.

A Story of California 169

You remember I asked for one last month? This is it.
See, this is how it works. Here is where the curds go ;
look. And this cover is screwed down like this, and then
you work the lever this way." She grasped the lever in
both hands, throwing her weight upon it, her smooth,
bare arm swelling round and firm with the effort, one
slim foot, in its low shoe set off with the bright, steel
buckle, braced against the wall.

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

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

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

She went before him down into the cool obscurity un-
derneath, redolent of new cheese and fresh butter. An-
nixter followed, a certain excitement beginning to gain
upon him. He was almost sure now that Hilma wanted
him to kiss her. At all events, one could but try. But,
as yet, he was not absolutely sure. Suppose he had been
mistaken in her; suppose she should consider herself in-
sulted and freeze him with an icy stare. Annixter winced
at the very thought of it. Better let the whole business
go, and get to work. He was wasting half the morning.
Yet, if she did want to give him the opportunity of
kissing her, and he failed to take advantage of it, what a
ninny she would think him; she would despise him for
being afraid. He afraid! He, Annixter, afraid of a fool,
feemale girl. Why, he owed it to himself as a man to go
as far as he could. He told himself that that goat Oster-
man would have kissed Hilma Tree weeks ago. To test

170 The Octopus

his state of mind, he imagined himself as having decided
to kiss her, after all, and at once was surprised to experi-
ence a poignant qualm of excitement, his heart beating
heavily, his breath coming short. At the same time, his
courage remained with him. He was not afraid to try.
He felt a greater respect for himself because of this. His
self-assurance hardened within him, and as Hilma turned
to him, asking him to taste a cut from one of the ripe
cheeses, he suddenly stepped close to her, throwing an
arm about her shoulders, advancing his head.

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

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

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

" Well — well — that's all right — who's going to hurt
you? You needn't be afraid — who's going to hurt you —
that's all right."

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

A Story of California 171

" Good-bye, I— I'm sorry/"

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

"Oh, you goat! You beastly fool pip. Good Lord,
what an ass you've made of yourself now! "

Suddenly he resolved to put Hilma Tree out of his
thoughts. The matter was interfering with his work.
This kind of thing was sure not earning any money. He
shook himself as though freeing his shoulders of an
irksome burden, and turned his entire attention to the
work nearest at hand.

The prolonged rattle of the shinglers' hammers upon
the roof of the big barn attracted him, and, crossing over
between the ranch house and the artesian well, he stood
for some time absorbed in the contemplation of the vast
building, amused and interested with the confusion of
sounds — the clatter of hammers, the cadenced scrape
of saws, and the rhythmic shuffle of planes — that issued
from the gang of carpenters who were at that moment
putting the finishing touches upon the roof and rows of
stalls. A boy and two men were busy hanging the great
sliding door at the south end, while the painters — come
down from Bonneville early that morning — were en-
gaged in adjusting the spray and force engine, by means
of which Annixter had insisted upon painting the vast
surfaces of the barn, condemning the use of brushes and
pots for such work as old-fashioned and out-of-date.

He called to one of the foremen, to ask when the barn
would be entirely finished, and was told that at the end
of the week the hay and stock could be installed.

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

" Well, you know the rain "

172 The Octopus

" Oh, rot the rain! / work in the rain. You and your
unions make me sick."

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

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

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

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

It occurred to him that he had better set about sending
out the invitations for the affair. He was puzzled to de-
cide just how the thing should be managed, and resolved
that it might be as well to consult Magnus and Mrs.
Derrick.

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

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

A few moments later, he rode out of the barn and the
stable-yard, a fresh cigar between his teeth, his hat
slanted over his face against the rays of the sun, as yet
low in the east. He crossed the irrigating ditch and

A Story of California 173

gained the trail — the short cut over into Los Muertos,
by way of Hooven's. It led south and west into the low
ground overgrown by grey-green willows by Broderson
Creek, at this time of the rainy season a stream of con-
siderable volume, farther on dipping sharply to pass
underneath the Long Trestle of the railroad. On the
other side of the right of way, Annixter was obliged to
open the gate in Derrick's line fence. He managed this
without dismounting, swearing at the horse the while,
and spurring him continually. But once inside the gate
he cantered forward briskly.

This part of Los Muertos was Hooven's holding, some
five hundred acres enclosed between the irrigating ditch
and Broderson Creek, and half the way across, Annixter
came up with Hooven himself, busily at work replacing
a broken washer in his seeder. Upon one of the horses
hitched to the machine, her hands gripped tightly upon
the harness of the collar, Hilda, his little daughter, with
her small, hob-nailed boots and boy's canvas overalls, sat,
exalted and petrified with ecstasy and excitement, her
eyes wide opened, her hair in a tangle.

" Hello, Bismarck," said Annixter, drawing up beside
him. " What are you doing here? I thought the Gov-
ernor was going to manage without his tenants this
year."

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

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

*74 The Octopus

" Ach, dot wrainch," returned Hooven. " Soh ! Wail^
I tell you dose ting now whair I got 'em. Say, you see
dot wrainch. Dat's not Emericen wrainch at aile. I
got 'em at Gravelotte der day we licked der stuffun oudt
der Frainch, ach, you bedt. Me, I pelong to der Wur-
temberg redgimend, dot dey use to suppord der batterie
von der Brince von Hohenlohe. Alle der day we lay down
bei der stomach in der feildt behindt der batterie, und
der schells von der Frainch cennon hef eggsblode —
ach, donnerwetter ! — I tink efery schell eggsblode bei der
beckside my neck. Und dat go on der whole day, nod-
xiun else, noddun aber der Frainch schell, b-r-r, b-r-r,
b-r-r, b-r-am, und der smoag, und unzer batterie, dat go
off slow, steady, yoost like der glock, eins, zwei, boom !
€ins, zwei, boom! yoost like der glock, ofer und ofer
again, alle der day. Den vhen der night come dey say we
liev der great victorie made. I doand know. Vhat do I
see von der bettle? Noddun. Den we gedt oop und
maerch und maerch alle night, und in der morgen we
hear dose cennon egain, hell oaf der way, far-off, I doand
know vhair. Budt, nef'r mindt. Bretty quick, ach,
Gott — " his face flamed scarlet, "Ach, du licbcr Gott!
Bretty zoon, dere wass der Kaiser, glose bei, und Fritz,
Unzer Fritz. Bei Gott, den I go grazy, und yell, ach,
you bedt, der whole redgimend : ' Hock der Kaiser!
Hoch der Vaterland! ' Und der dears come to der eyes, I
doand know because vhy, und der mens gry und shaike
der hend, und der whole redgimend maerch off like dat,
fairy broudt, bei Gott, der head oop high, und sing ' Die
Wacht am Rhein.' Dot wass Gravelotte."

" And the monkey-wrench? "

" Ach, I pick 'um oop vhen der batterie go. Der
cennoniers hef forgedt und leaf 'um. I carry 'um in der
sack. I tink I use 'um vhen I gedt home in der business.
I was maker von vagons in Carlsruhe, und I nef'r gedt

A Story of California 175

home again. Vhen der war hef godt over, I go beck to
Ulm und gedt marriet, und den I gedt demn sick von der
armie. Vhen I gedt der release, I clair oudt, you bedt.
I come to Emerica. First, New Yor-ruk ; den Milwau-
kee ; den Sbringfieldt-Illinoy ; den Galifornie, und heir I
stay."

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

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

Annixter gathered up the reins, about to go on.

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

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

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

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

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

Annixter cantered on. In a few moments, he had
crossed Broderson Creek and had entered upon the

1 76 The Octopus

Home ranch of Los Muertos. Ahead of him, but so far
off that the greater portion of its bulk was below the
horizon, he could see the Derricks' home, a roof or two
between the dull green of cypress and eucalyptus. Noth-
ing else was in sight. The brown earth, smooth, un-
broken, was as a limitless, mud-coloured ocean. The
silence was profound.

Then, at length, Annixter's searching eye made out a
blur on the horizon to the northward ; the blur concen-
trated itself to a speck; the speck grew by steady de-
grees to a spot, slowly moving, a note of dull colour,
barely darker than the land, but an inky black silhouette
as it topped a low rise of ground and stood for a moment
outlined against the pale blue of the sky. Annixter
turned his horse from the road and rode across the ranch
land to meet this new object of interest. As the spot
grew larger, it resolved itself into constituents, a collec-
tion of units ; its shape grew irregular, fragmentary. A
disintegrated, nebulous confusion advanced toward An-
nixter, preceded, as he discovered on nearer approach,
by a medley of faint sounds. Now it was no longer a
spot, but a column, a column that moved, accompanied
by spots. As Annixter lessened the distance, these spots
resolved themselves into buggies or men on horseback
that kept pace with the advancing column. There were
horses in the column itself. At first glance, it appeared
as if there were nothing else, a riderless squadron tramp-
ing steadily over the upturned plough land of the ranch.
But it drew nearer. The horses were in lines, six abreast,
harnessed to machines. The noise increased, defined
itself. There was a shout or two; occasionally a horse
blew through his nostrils with a prolonged, vibrating
snort. The click and clink of metal work was incessant,
the machines throwing off a continual rattle of wheels
and cogs and clashing springs. The column approached

A Story of California 177

nearer ; was close at hand. The noises mingled to a sub-
dued uproar, a bewildering confusion; the impact of in-
numerable hoofs was a veritable rumble. Machine after
machine appeared ; and Annixter, drawing to one side,
remained for nearly ten minutes watching and interested,
while, like an array of chariots — clattering, jostling,
creaking, clashing, an interminable procession, machine
succeeding machine, six-horse team succeeding six-
horse team — bustling, hurried — Magnus Derrick' s
thirty-three grain drills, each with its eight hoes, went
clamouring past, like an advance of military, seeding the
ten thousand acres of the great ranch ; fecundating the
living soil; implanting deep in the dark womb of the
Earth the germ of life, the sustenance of a whole world,
the food of an entire People.

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

When Annixter reached the ranch house of Los
Muertos, under the shade of the cypress and eucalyptus
trees, he found Mrs. Derrick on the porch, seated in a
long wicker chair. She had been washing her hair, and
the light brown locks that yet retained so much of their
brightness, were carefully spread in the sun over the
back of her chair. Annixter could not but remark that,

178 The Octopus

spite of her more than fifty years, Annie Derrick was yet
rather pretty. Her eyes were still those of a young girl,
just touched with an uncertain expression of innocence
and inquiry, but as her glance fell upon him, he found
that that expression changed to one of uneasiness, of
distrust, almost of aversion.

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

At once, Annie Derrick had been seized with a sudden
terror lest Magnus, after all, should allow himself to be
persuaded ; should yield to the pressure that was every
day growing stronger. None better than she knew the
iron integrity of her husband's character. None better
than she remembered how his dearest ambition, that of
political preferment, had been thwarted by his refusal to
truckle, to connive, to compromise with his ideas of
right. Now, at last, there seemed to be a change. Long
continued oppression, petty tyranny, injustice and ex-
tortion had driven him to exasperation. S. Behrman's
insults still rankled. He seemed nearly ready to coun-
tenance Osterman's scheme. The very fact that he was
willing to talk of it to her so often and at such great
length, was proof positive that it occupied his mind.
The pity of it, the tragedy of it! He, Magnus, the

A Story of California 1 79

" Governor," who had been so staunch, so rigidly up-
right, so loyal to his convictions, so bitter in his denun-
ciation of the New Politics, so scathing in his attacks on
bribery and corruption in high places ; was it possible
that now, at last, he could be brought to withhold his
condemnation of the devious intrigues of the unscrupu-
lous, going on there under his very eyes ? That Magnus
should not command Harran to refrain from all inter-
course with the conspirators, had been a matter of vast
surprise to Mrs. Derrick. Time was when Magnus
would have forbidden his son to so much as recognise
a dishonourable man.

But besides all this, Derrick's wife trembled at the
thought of her husband and son engaging in so desperate
a grapple with the railroad — that great monster, iron-
hearted, relentless, infinitely powerful. Always it had
issued triumphant from the fight; always S. Behrman,
the Corporation's champion, remained upon the field
as victor, placid, unperturbed, unassailable. But now a
more terrible struggle than any hitherto loomed menac-
ing over the rim of the future ; money was to be spent
like water ; personal reputations were to be hazarded in
the issue ; failure meant ruin in all directions, financial
ruin, moral ruin, ruin of prestige, ruin of character.
Success, to her mind, was almost impossible. Annie
Derrick feared the railroad. At night, when everything
else was still, the distant roar of passing trains echoed
across Los Muertos, from Guadalajara, from Bonneville,
or from the Long Trestle, straight into her heart. At
such moments she saw very plainly the galloping terror
of steam and steel, with its single eye, cyclopean, red,
shooting from horizon to horizon, symbol of a vast
power, huge and terrible; the leviathan with tentacles of
steel, to oppose which meant to be ground to instant de-
struction beneath the clashing wheels. No, it was better

i8o The Octopus

to submit, to resign oneself to the inevitable. She ob-
literated herself, shrinking from the harshness of the
world, striving, with vain hands, to draw her husband
back with her.

Just before Annixter's arrival, she had been sitting,
thoughtful, in her long chair, an open volume of poems
turned down upon her lap, her glance losing itself in the
immensity of Los Muertos that, from the edge of the
lawn close by, unrolled itself, gigantic, toward the far,
southern horizon, wrinkled and serrated after the sea-
son's ploughing. The earth, hitherto grey with dust,
was now upturned and brown. As far as the eye could
reach, it was empty of all life, bare, mournful, absolutely
still ; and, as she looked, there seemed to her morbid
imagination — diseased and disturbed with long brooding,
sick with the monotony of repeated sensation — to be
disengaged from all this immensity, a sense of a vast
oppression, formless, disquieting. The terror of sheer
bigness grew slowly in her mind; loneliness beyond
words gradually enveloped her. She was lost in all these
limitless reaches of space. Had she been abandoned in
mid-ocean, in an open boat, her terror could hardly have
been greater. She felt vividly that certain uncongeniality
which, when all is said, forever remains betwreen humanity
and the earth which supports it. She recognised the
colossal indifference of nature, not hostile, even kindly
and friendly, so long as the human ant-swarm was sub-
missive, working with it, hurrying along at its side in the
mysterious march of the centuries. Let, however, the
insect rebel, strive to make head against the power of
this nature, and at once it became relentless, a gigantic
engine, a vast power, huge, terrible; a leviathan with a
heart of steel, knowing no compunction, no forgiveness,
no tolerance; crushing out the human atom with sound-
less calm, the agony of destruction sending never a jar,

A Story of California 18 1

never the faintest tremour through all that prodigious
mechanism of wheels and cogs.

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

The sound of hoofs grinding upon the gravel of the
driveway brought her to herself again, and, withdrawing
her gaze from the empty plain of Los Muertos, she saw
young Annixter stopping his horse by the carriage steps.
But the sight of him only diverted her mind to the other
trouble. She could not but regard him with aversion.
He was one of the conspirators, was one of the leaders
in the battle that impended; no doubt, he had come to
,, make a fresh attempt to win over Magnus to the unholy
alliance.

However, there was little trace of enmity in her greet-
ing. Her hair was still spread, like a broad patch of
brown sea-weed, upon the white towel over the chair-
back, and she made that her excuse for not getting up.
In answer to Annixter's embarrassed inquiry after Mag-
nus, she sent the Chinese cook to call him from the office ;
and Annixter, after tying his horse to the ring driven
into the trunk of one of the eucalyptus trees, came up to
the porch, and, taking off his hat, sat down upon the
steps.

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

" No," said Mrs. Derrick, " Harran went to Bonne-
ville early this morning."

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

1 82 The Octopus

" What is it you want to see Mr. Derrick about? " she
inquired hastily. " Is it about this plan to elect a Rail-
road Commission? Magnus does not approve of it," she
declared with energy. " He told me so last night."

Annixter moved about awkwardly where he sat,
smoothing down with his hand the one stiff lock of yel-
low hair that persistently stood up from his crown like an
Indian's scalp-lock. At once his suspicions were all
aroused. Ah ! this feemale woman was trying to get a
hold on him, trying to involve him in a petticoat mess,
trying to cajole him. Upon the instant, he became very
crafty; an excess of prudence promptly congealed his
natural impulses. In an actual spasm of caution, he
scarcely trusted himself to speak, terrified lest he should
commit himself to something. He glanced about appre-
hensively, praying that Magnus might join them speedily,
relieving the tension.

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

But as he spoke, Presley had come up behind An-
nixter in time to get the drift of the conversation, and
now observed:

" That's nonsense, Buck. You're not giving a public
ball. You must send out invitations."

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

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

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

"It is, is it?" answered Annixter, perplexed and
troubled. No other man of his acquaintance could have
so contradicted Annixter without provoking a quarrel

A Story of California 183

upon the instant. Why the young rancher, irascible, ob-
stinate, belligerent, should invariably defer to the poet,
was an inconsistency never to be explained. It was with
great surprise that Mrs. Derrick heard him continue:

" Well, I suppose you know what you're talking about,
Pres. Must have written wvites, hey?"

" Of course."

"Typewritten?"

" Why, what an ass you are, Buck," observed Presley
calmly. " Before you get through with it, you will prob-
ably insult three-fourths of the people you intend to in-
vite, and have about a hundred quarrels on your hands,
and a lawsuit or two."

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

" I got a wire from Osterman this morning, Gover-
nor, and, well — we've got Disbrow. That means that
the Denver, Pueblo and Mojave is back of us. There's
half the fight won, first off."

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

Annixter raised a shoulder vexatiously.

" You've got to pay for what you get," he returned.
" You don't get something for nothing, I guess. Gov-

1 84 The Octopus

ernor," he went on, " I don't see how you can stay out of
this business much longer. You see how it will be.
We're going to win, and I don't see how you can feel
that it's right of you to let us do all the work and stand
all the expense. There's never been a movement of any
importance that went on around you that you weren't the
leader in it. All Tulare County, all the San Joaquin, for
that matter, knows you. They want a leader, and they
are looking to you. I know how you feel about politics
nowadays. But, Governor, standards have changed
since your time; everybody plays the game now as we
are playing it — the most honourable men. You can't
play it any other way, and, pshaw ! if the right wins out
in the end, that's the main thing. We want you in this
thing, and we want you bad. You've been chewing on
this affair now a long time. Have you made up your
mind ? Do you come in ? I tell you what, you've got to
look at these things in a large way. You've got to judge
by results. Well, now, what do you think? Do you
come in? "

Magnus's glance left Annixter's face, and for an in-
stant sought the ground. His frown lowered, but now it
was in perplexity, rather than in anger. His mind was
troubled, harassed with a thousand dissensions.

But one of Magnus's strongest instincts, one of his
keenest desires, was to be, if only for a short time, the
master. To control men had ever been his ambition;
submission of any kind, his greatest horror. His energy
stirred within him, goaded by the lash of his anger, his
sense of indignity, of insult. Oh for one moment to be
able to strike back, to crush his enemy, to defeat the rail-
road, hold the Corporation in the grip of his fist, put
down S. Behrman, rehabilitate himself, regain his self-
respect. To be once more powerful, to command, to
dominate. His thin lips pressed themselves together,

A Story of California 185

the nostrils of his prominent hawk-like nose dilated, his
erect, commanding figure stiffened unconsciously. For
a moment, he saw himself controlling the situation,
the foremost figure in his State, feared, respected,
thousands of men beneath him, his ambition at length
gratified; his career, once apparently brought to naught,
completed; success a palpable achievement. What if
this were his chance, after all, come at last after all these
years. His chance ! The instincts of the old-time gam-
bler, the most redoubtable poker player of El Dorado
County, stirred at the word. Chance ! To know it when
it came, to recognise it as it passed fleet as a wind-flurry,
grip at it, catch at it, blind, reckless, staking all upon the
hazard of the issue, that was genius. Was this his
Chance? All of a sudden, it seemed to him that it was.
But his honour! His cherished, lifelong integrity, the
unstained purity of his principles ? At this late date, were
they to be sacrificed? Could he now go counter to all
the firm built fabric of his character ? How, afterward,
could he bear to look Harran and Lyman in the face?
And, yet — and, yet — back swung the pendulum — to ne-
glect his Chance meant failure ; a life begun in promise,
and ended in obscurity, perhaps in financial ruin, poverty
even. To seize it meant achievement, fame, influence,
prestige, possibly great wealth.

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

Annixter struck his heel into the ground with a sup-
pressed oath. Always these fool feemale women came
between him and his plans, mixing themselves up in his

1 86 The Octopus

affairs. Magnus had been on the very point of saying
something, perhaps committing himself to some course
of action, and, at precisely the wrong moment, his wife
had cut in. The opportunity was lost. The three re-
turned toward the ranch house; but before saying good-
bye, Annixter had secured from Magnus a promise to the
effect that, before coming to a definite decision in the
matter under discussion, he would talk further with him.

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

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

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

When they had gone, Mrs. Derrick sought out her
husband in the office of the ranch house. She was at
her prettiest that morning, her cheeks flushed with ex-
citement, her innocent, wide-open eyes almost girlish.
She had fastened her hair, still moist, with a black rib-
bon tied at the back of her head, and the soft mass of
light brown reached to below her waist, making her look
very young.

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

Magnus nodded.

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

" But you won't, will you? You won't listen to him

A Story of California 187

again; you won't so much as allow him — anybody — to
even suppose you would lend yourself to bribery? Oh,
Magnus, I don't know what has come over you these last
few weeks. Why, before this, you would have been in-
sulted if any one thought you would even consider any-
thing like dishonesty. Magnus, it would break my heart
if you joined Mr. Annixter and Mr. Osterman. Why,
you couldn't be the same man to me afterward; you, who
have kept yourself so clean till now. And the boys;
what would Lyman say, and Harran, and every one who
knows you and respects you, if you lowered yourself to
be just a political adventurer! "

For a moment, Derrick leaned his head upon his hand,
avoiding her gaze. At length, he said, drawing a deep
breath:

" I am troubled, Annie. These are the evil days. I
have much upon my mind."

" Evil days or not," she insisted, " promise me this
one thing, that you will not join Mr. Annixter's scheme."

She had taken his hand in both of hers and was looking
into his face, her pretty eyes full of pleading.

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

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

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

Again Magnus wavered, about to yield to his better

1 88 The Octopus

instincts and to the entreaties of his wife. He began to
see how perilously far he had gone in this business. He
was drifting closer to it every hour. Already he was
entangled, already his foot was caught in the mesh that
was being spun. Sharply he recoiled. Again all his
instincts of honesty revolted. No, whatever happened,
he would preserve his integrity. His wife was right.
Always she had influenced his better side. At that mo-
ment, Magnus's repugnance of the proposed political
campaign was at its pitch of intensity. He wondered
how he had ever allowed himself to so much as entertain
the idea of joining with the others. Now, he would
wrench free, would, in a single instant of power, clear
himself of all compromising relations. He turned to his
wife. Upon his lips trembled the promise she implored.
But suddenly there came to his mind the recollection of
his new-made pledge to Annixter. He had given his
word that before arriving at a decision he would have a
last interview with him. To Magnus, his given word
was sacred. Though now he wanted to, he could not as
yet draw back, could not promise his wife that he would
decide to do right. The matter must be delayed a few
days longer.

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

Meanwhile, Annixter, Phelps, and Presley continued
on their way toward Bonneville. In a short time they
had turned into the County Road by the great watering-
tank, and proceeded onward in the shade of the inter-
minable line of poplar trees, the wind-break that
stretched along the roadside bordering the Broderson

A Story of California 189

ranch. But as they drew near to Caraher's saloon and
grocery, about half a mile outside of Bonneville, they
recognised Harran's horse tied to the railing in front of
it. Annixter left the others and went in to see Harran.

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

Disconcerted at Annixter's directness, Harran stam-
mered an affirmative, adding:

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

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

Harran fell thoughtful, his hands in his pockets, frown-
ing moodily at the toe of his boot. There was a silence.
Then:

" I don't like to go it blind," he hazarded. " I'm sort
ot sharing the responsibility of what you do, then. I'm
a silent partner. And, then — I don't want to have any
difficulties with the Governor. We've always got along
well together. He wouldn't like it, you know, if I did
anything like that."

190 The Octopus

" Say," exclaimed Annixter abruptly, " if the Gover-
nor says he will keep his hands off, and that you can do
as you please, will you come in? For God's sake, let us
ranchers act together for once. Let's stand in with each
other in one fight."

Without knowing it, Annixter had touched the right
spring.

" I don't know but what you're right," Harran mur-
mured vaguely. His sense of discouragement, that feel-
ing of what's-the-use, was never more oppressive. All
fair means had been tried. The wheat grower was at
last with his back to the wall. If he chose his own means
of fighting, the responsibility must rest upon his enemies,
not on himself.

" It's the only way to accomplish anything," he con-
tinued, " standing in with each other . . , well,
> . . go ahead and see what you can do. If the
Governor is willing, I'll come in for my share of the
campaign fund."

" That's some sense," exclaimed Annixter, shaking
him by the hand. " Half the fight is over already. We've
got Disbrow you know; and the next thing is to get hold
of some of those rotten San Francisco bosses. Oster-
man will— — " But Harran interrupted him, making a
quick gesture with his hand.

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

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

Bonneville was very lively at all times. It was a little

A Story of California 191

city of some twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants,
where, as yet, the city hall, the high school building, and
the opera house were objects of civic pride. It was well
governed, beautifully clean, full of the energy and strenu-
ous young life of a new city. An air of the briskest ac-
tivity pervaded its streets and sidewalks. The business
portion of the town, centring about Main Street, was
always crowded. Annixter, arriving at the Post Office,
found himself involved in a scene of swiftly shifting sights
and sounds. Saddle horses, farm wagons — the inevit-
able Studebakers — buggies grey with the dust of country
roads, buckboards with squashes and grocery packages
stowed under the seat, two-wheeled sulkies and training
carts, \vere hitched to the gnawed railings and zinc-
sheathed telegraph poles along the curb. Here and
there, on the edge of the sidewalk, were bicycles, wedged
into bicycle racks painted with cigar advertisements.
Upon the asphalt sidewalk itself, soft and sticky with the
morning's heat, was a continuous movement. Men with
large stomachs, wearing linen coats but no vests, la-
boured ponderously up and down. Girls in lawn skirts,
shirt waists, and garden hats, went to and fro, invariably
in couples, coming in and out of the drug store, the
grocery store, and haberdasher's, or lingering in front
of the Post Office, which was on a corner under the
I.O.O.F. hall. Young men, in shirt sleeves, with brown,
wicker cuff-protectors over their forearms, and pencils
behind their ears, bustled in front of the grocery store,
anxious and preoccupied. A very old man, a Mexican,
in ragged white trousers and bare feet, sat on a horse-
block in front of the barber shop, holding a horse by a
rope around its neck. A Chinaman went by, teetering
under the weight of his market baskets slung on a pole
across his shoulders. In the neighbourhood of the
hotel, the Yosemite House, travelling salesmen, drum-

1 92 The Octopus

mers for jewelry firms of San Francisco, commercial
agents, insurance men, well-dressed, metropolitan, deb-
onair, stood about cracking jokes, or hurried in and
out of the flapping white doors of the Yosemite bar-
room. The Yosemite 'bus and City 'bus passed up the
street, on the way from the morning train, each with its
two or three passengers. A very narrow wagon, be-
longing to the Cole & Colemore Harvester Works, went
by, loaded with long strips of iron that made a horrible
din as they jarred over the unevenness of the pavement.
The electric car line, the city's boast, did a brisk business,
its cars whirring from end to end of the street, with a
jangling of bells and a moaning plaint of gearing. On
the stone bulkheads of the grass plat around the new
City Hall, the usual loafers sat, chewing tobacco, swap-
ping stories. In the park were the inevitable array of
nursemaids, skylarking couples, and ragged little boys.
A single policeman, in grey coat and helmet, friend and
acquaintance of every man and woman in the town, stood
by the park entrance, leaning an elbow on the fence post,
twirling his club.

But in the centre of the best business block of the
street was a three-story building of rough brown stone,
set off with plate glass windows and gold-lettered signs.
One of these latter read, "Pacific and Southwestern Rail-
road, Freight and Passenger Office," while another,
much smaller, beneath the windows of the second story,
bore the inscription, " P. and S. W. Land Office."

Annixter hitched his horse to the iron post in front of
this building, and tramped up to the second floor, letting
himself into an office where a couple of clerks and book-
keepers sat at work behind a high wire screen. One of
these latter recognised him and came forward.

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

A Story of California 193

The bookkeeper led Annixter to the private office in
an adjoining room, ushering him through a door, on
the frosted glass of which was painted the name, " Cyrus
Blakelee Ruggles." Inside, a man in a frock coat, shoe-
string necktie, and Stetson hat, sat writing at a roller-
top desk. Over this desk was a vast map of the railroad
holdings in the country about Bonneville and Guadala-
jara, the alternate sections belonging to the Corporation
accurately plotted.

Ruggles was cordial in his welcome of Annixter. He
had a way of fiddling with his pencil continually while he
talked, scribbling vague lines and fragments of words
and names on stray bits of paper, and no sooner had An-
nixter sat down than he had begun to write, in full-bellied
script, Ann Ann all over his blotting pad.

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

" Well, Mr. Annixter/' observed Ruggles, writing
a great L before the Ann, and finishing it off with a
flourishing d. " The lands " — he crossed out one of the
n's and noted the effect with a hasty glance — " the lands
are practically yours. You have an option on them in-
definitely, and, as it is, you don't have to pay the taxes."

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

" The land had not been patented to us then," an-
swered Ruggles.

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

194 The Octopus

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

Annixter crossed his legs weariedly.

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

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

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

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

" I'm only acting for the General Office, Mr. An-
nixter," returned Ruggles. " Whenever the Directors
are ready to take that matter up, I'll be only too glad
to put it through for you."

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

Ruggles spread out his hands with a deprecatory
gesture.

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

" Well, your company does."

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

" Oh, rot! As if you and Genslinger and S. Behrman
didn't run the whole show down here. Come on, letV
have it, Ruggles. What does S. Behrman pay Gen-
slinger for inserting that three-inch ad. of the P. and
S. W. in his paper ? Ten thousand a year, hey ? "

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

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

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

A Story of California 195

"What's this?" asked Ruggles.

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

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

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

" I don't understand you people," exclaimed Annix-
ter. " I offered to buy of you the same way four years
ago and you sang the same song. Why, it isn't business.
You lose the interest on your money. Seven per cent.,
of that capital for four years — you can figure it out.
It's big money."

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

" I want to own my own land," returned Annixter.
" I want to feel that every lump of dirt inside my fence
is my personal property. Why, the very house I live
in now — the ranch house — stands on railroad ground.'*

" But, you've an option "

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

" But, according to you, the railroad can't take ad-

196 The Octopus

vantage of the rise in any case. According to you, you
can sell for twenty dollars, but we can only get two and
a half."

" Who made it worth twenty? " cried Annixter. " I've
improved it up to that figure. Genslinger seems to have
that idea in his nut, too. Do you people think you can
hold that land, untaxed, for speculative purposes until
it goes up to thirty dollars and then sell out to some one
else — sell it over our heads? You and Genslinger
weren't in office when those contracts were drawn. You
ask your boss, you ask S. Behrman, he knows. The
General Office is pledged to sell to us in preference to
any one else, for two and a half."

" Well," observed Ruggles decidedly, tapping the end
of his pencil on his desk and leaning forward to empha-
sise his words, " we're not selling now. That's said and
signed, Mr. Annixter."

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

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

"You won't take it?"

" No."

" I'll make it a cash payment, money down — the whole
of it — payable to Cyrus Blakelee Ruggles, for the P. and
S. W."

" No."

" Third and last time."

" No."

"Oh, go to the devil!"

" I don't like your tone, Mr. Annixter," returned Rug-
gles, flushing angrily.

" I don't give a curse whether you like it or not," re-
torted Annixter, rising and thrusting the check into his
pocket, " but never you mind, Mr. Ruggles, you and
S. Behrman and Genslinger and Shelgrim and the whole

A Story of California 197

gang of thieves of you — you'll wake this State of Cali-
fornia up some of these days by going just one little bit
too far, and there'll be an election of Railroad Commis-
sioners of, by, and for the people, that'll get a twist of
you, my bunco-steering friend — you and your backers
and cappers and swindlers and thimble-riggers, and
smash you, lock, stock, and barrel. That's my tip to you
and be damned to you, Mr. Cyrus Blackleg Ruggles."

Annixter stormed out of the room, slamming the door
behind him, and Ruggles, trembling with anger, turned
to his desk and to the blotting pad written all over with
the words Lands, Twenty dollars, Tivo and a half, Option,
and, over and over again, with great swelling curves and
flourishes, Railroad, Railroad, Railroad.

But as Annixter passed into the outside office, on the
other side of the wire partition he noted the figure of
a man at the counter in conversation with one of the
clerks. There was something familiar to Annixter's eye
about the man's heavy built frame, his great shoulders
and massive back, and as he spoke to the clerk in a tre-
mendous, rumbling voice, Annixter promptly recognised
Dyke.

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

" Smartest little tad in Tulare County," asserted Dyke.
" She's getting prettier every day, Mr. Annixter. There's
a little tad that was just born to be a lady. Can recite
the whole of ' Snow Bound ' without ever stopping. You
don't believe that, maybe, hey? Well, it's true. She'll
be just old enough to enter the Seminary up at Marys-
ville next winter, and if my hop business pays two per
cent, on the investment, there's where she's going to go."

198 The Octopus

" How's it coming on? " inquired Annixter.

"The hop ranch? Prime. I've about got the land
in shape, and I've engaged a foreman who knows all
about hops. I've been in luck. Everybody will go into
the business next year when they see hops go to a dollar,
and they'll overstock the market and bust the price.
But I'm going to get the cream of it now. I say two per
cent. Why, Lord love you, it will pay a good deal more
than that. It's got to. It's cost more than I- figured
to start the thing, so, perhaps, I may have to borrow
somewheres; but then on such a sure game as this — and
I do want to make something out of that little tad of
mine."

"Through here?" inquired Annixter, making ready
to move off.

" In just a minute," answered Dyke. " Wait for me
and I'll walk down the street with you."

Annixter grumbled that he was in a hurry, but waited,
nevertheless, while Dyke again approached the clerk.

" I shall want some empty cars of you people this
fall," he explained. " I'm a hop-raiser now, and I just
want to make sure what your rates on hops are. I've
been told, but I want to make sure. Savvy? "

There was a long delay while the clerk consulted the
tariff schedules, and Annixter fretted impatiently. Dyke,
growing uneasy, leaned heavily on his elbows, watching
the clerk anxiously. If the tariff was exorbitant, he saw
his plans brought to naught, his money jeopardised, the
little tad, Sidney, deprived of her education. He began
to blame himself that he had not long before determined
definitely what the railroad would charge for moving his
hops. He told himself he was not much of a business
man; that he managed carelessly.

" Two cents," suddenly announced the clerk with a
certain surly indifference.

A Story of California 199

" Two cents a pound? "

" Yes, two cents a pound — that's in car-load lots, of
course. I won't give you that rate on smaller consign-
ments."

" Yes, car-load lots, of course . . . two cents.
Well, all right."

He turned away with a great sigh of relief.

" He sure did have me scared for a minute," he said
to Annixter, as the two went down to the street, "fiddling
and fussing so long. Two cents is all right, though.
Seems fair to me. That fiddling of his was all put
on. I know 'em, these railroad heelers. He knew I
was a discharged employee first off, and he played the
game just to make me seem small because I had to ask
favours of him. I don't suppose the General Office tips
its slavees off to act like swine, but there's the feeling
through the whole herd of them. ' Ye got to come to
us. We let ye live only so long as we choose, and what
are ye going to do about it? If ye don't like it, git
out.' "

Annixter and the engineer descended to the street and
had a drink at the Yosemite bar, and Annixter went into
the General Store while Dyke bought a little pair of red
slippers for Sidney. Before the salesman had wrapped
them up, Dyke slipped a dime into the toe of each with
a wink at Annixter.

" Let the little tad find 'em there," he said behind his
hand in a hoarse whisper. " That'll be one on Sid."

" Where to now ? " demanded Annixter as they re-
gained the street. " I'm going down to the Post Office
and then pull out for the ranch. Going my way? "

Dyke hesitated in some confusion, tugging at the ends
of his fine blonde beard.

" No, no. I guess I'll leave you here. I've got — got
other things to do up the street. So long."

2oo The Octopus

The two separated, and Annixter hurried through the
crowd to the Post Office, but the mail that had come in
on that morning's train was unusually heavy. It was
nearly half an hour before it was distributed. Naturally
enough, Annixter placed all the blame of the delay upon
the railroad, and delivered himself of some pointed re-
marks in the midst of the waiting crowd. He was irri-
tated to the last degree when he finally emerged upon
the sidewalk again, cramming his mail into his pockets.
One cause of his bad temper was the fact that in the
bundle of Quien Sabe letters was one to Hilma Tree
in a man's handwriting.

" Huh! " Annixter had growled to himself, " that pip
Delaney. Seems now that I'm to act as go-between for
?em. Well, maybe that feemale girl gets this letter, and
then, again, maybe she don't."

But suddenly his attention was diverted. Directly
opposite the Post Office, upon the corner of the street,
stood quite the best business building of which Bonne-
ville could boast. It was built of Colusa granite, very
solid, ornate, imposing. Upon the heavy plate of the
window of its main floor, in gold and red letters, one read
the words : " Loan and Savings Bank of Tulare County."
It was of this bank that S. Behrman was president. At
the street entrance of the building was a curved sign of
polished brass, fixed upon the angle of the masonry; this
sign bore the name, " S. Behrman," and under it in
smaller letters were the words, " Real Estate, Mort-
gages."

As Annixter's glance fell upon this building, he was
surprised to see Dyke standing upon the curb in front
of it, apparently reading from a newspaper that he held
in his hand. But Annixter promptly discovered that he
was not reading at all. From time to time the former
engineer shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye

A Story of California 201

up and down the street. Annixter jumped at a conclu-
sion. An idea suddenly occurred to him. Dyke was
watching to see if he was observed — was waiting an
opportunity when no one who knew him should be in
sight. Annixter stepped back a little, getting a tele-
graph pole somewhat between him and the other. Very
interested, he watched what was going on. Pretty soon
Dyke thrust the paper into his pocket and sauntered
slowly to the windows of a stationery store, next the
street entrance of S. Behrman's offices. For a few
seconds he stood there, his back turned, seemingly ab-
sorbed in the display, but eyeing the street narrowly
nevertheless; then he turned around, gave a last look
about and stepped swiftly into the doorway by the great
brass sign. He disappeared. Annixter came from be-
hind the telegraph pole with a flush of actual shame upon
his face. There had been something so slinking, so
mean, in the movements and manner of this great, burly
honest fellow of an engineer, that he could not help but
feel ashamed for him. Circumstances wrere such that
a simple business transaction was to Dyke almost cul-
pable, a degradation, a thing to be concealed.

" Borrowing money of S. Behrman," commented An-
nixter, " mortgaging your little homestead to the rail-
road, putting your neck in the halter. Poor fool! The
pity of it. Good Lord, your hops must pay you big, now,
old man."

Annixter lunched at the Yosemite Hotel, and then
later on, toward the middle of the afternoon, rode out
of the town at a canter by the way of the Upper Road
that paralleled the railroad tracks and that ran diamet-
rically straight between Bonneville and Guadalajara.
About half-way between the two places he overtook
Father Sarria trudging back to San Juan, his long cas-
sock powdered with dust. He had a wicker crate in one

2O2 The Octopus

hand, and in the other, in a small square valise, the
materials for the Holy Sacrament. Since early morn-
ing the priest had covered nearly fifteen miles on foot,
in order to administer Extreme Unction to a moribund
good-for-nothing, a greaser, half Indian, half Portu-
guese, who lived in a remote corner of Osterman's stock
range, at the head of a canon there. But he had re-
turned by way of Bonneville to get a crate that had come
for him from San Diego. He had been notified of its
arrival the day before.

Annixter pulled up and passed the time of day with the
priest.

" I don't often get up your way," he said, slowing down
his horse to accommodate Sarria's deliberate plodding.
Sarria wiped the perspiration from his smooth, shiny
face.

" You? Well, with you it- is different," he answered.
" But there are a great many Catholics in the county —
some on your ranch. And so few come to the Mission.
At High Mass on Sundays, there are a few — Mexicans
and Spaniards from Guadalajara mostly; but weekdays,
for matins, vespers, and the like, I often say the offices to
an empty church — ' the voice of one crying in the wilder-
ness.' You Americans are not good churchmen. Sun-
days you sleep — you read the newspapers."

"Well, there's Vanamee," observed Annixter. "I
suppose he's there early and late."

Sarria made a sharp movemen^. of interest.

" Ah, Vanamee — a strange lad; a wonderful character,
for all that. If there were only more like him. I am
troubled about him. You know I am a very owl at
night. I come and go about the Mission at all hours.
Within the week, three times I have seen Vanamee in
the little garden by the Mission, and at the dead of night.
He had come without asking for me. He did not see

A Story of California 203

me. It was strange. Once, when I had got up at dawn
to ring for early matins, I saw him stealing away out of
the garden. He must have been there all the night. He
is acting queerly. He is pale; his cheeks are more
sunken than ever. There is something wrong with him.
I can't make it out. It is a mystery. Suppose you ask
him?"

" Not I. I've enough to bother myself about. Van-
amee is crazy in the head. Some morning he will turn
up missing again, and drop out of sight for another
three yearc. Best let him alone, Sarria. He's a crank.
How is that greaser of yours up on Osterman's stock
range?"

" Ah, the poor fellow — the poor fellow," returned the
other, the tears coming to his eyes. " He died this
morning — as you might say, in my arms, painfully, but
in the faith, in the faith. A good fellow."

" A lazy, cattle-stealing, knife-in-his-boot Dago."

" You misjudge him. A really good fellow on better
acquaintance."

Annixter grunted scornfully. Sarria's kindness and
good-will toward the most outrageous reprobates of
the ranches was proverbial. He practically supported
some half-dozen families that lived in forgotten cabins,
lost and all but inaccessible, in the far corners of stock
range and canon. This particular greaser was the lazi-
est, the dirtiest, the most worthless of the lot. But in
Sarria's mind, the lout was an object of affection, sin-
cere, unquestioning. Thrice a week the priest, with a
basket of provisions — cold ham, a bottle of wine, olives,
loaves of bread, even a chicken or two — toiled over the
interminable stretch of country between the Mission
and his cabin. Of late, during the rascal's sickness,
these visits had been almost daily. Hardly once did
the priest leave the bedside that he did not slip a half-

204 The Octopus

dollar into the palm of his wife or oldest daughter. And
this was but one case out of many.

His kindliness toward animals was the same. A horde
of mange-corroded curs lived off his bounty, wolfish,
ungrateful, often marking him with their teeth, yet never
knowing the meaning of a harsh word. A burro, over-
fed, lazy, incorrigible, browsed on the hill back of the
Mission, obstinately refusing to be harnessed to Sarria's
little cart, squealing and biting whenever the attempt
was made; and the priest suffered him, submitting to his
humour, inventing excuses for him, alleging that the bur-
ro was foundered, or was in need of shoes, or was feeble
from extreme age. The two peacocks, magnificent,
proud, cold-hearted, resenting all familiarity, he served
with the timorous, apologetic affection of a queen's lady-
in-waiting, resigned to their disdain, happy if only they
condescended to enjoy the grain he spread for them.

At the Long Trestle, Annixter and the priest left the
road and took the trail that crossed Broderson Creek
by the clumps of grey-green willows and led across
Quien Sabe to the ranch house, and to the Mission far-
ther on. They were obliged to proceed in single file
here, and Annixter, who had allowed the priest to go in
front, promptly took notice of the wicker basket he car-
ried. Upon his inquiry, Sarria became confused. " It
was a basket that he had had sent down to him from the
city."

" Well, I know— but what's in it? "

" Why — I'm sure — ah, poultry — a chicken or two."

" Fancy breed? "

" Yes, yes, that's it, a fancy breed."

At the ranch house, where they arrived toward five
o'clock, Annixter insisted that the priest should stop
long enough for a glass of sherry. Sarria left the basket
and his small black valise at the foot of the porch steps,

A Story of California 205

and sat down in a rocker on the porch itself, fanning
.himself with his broad-brimmed hat, and shaking the
dust from his cassock. Annixter brought out the de-
canter of sherry and glasses, and the two drank to each
other's health.

But as the priest set down his glass, wiping his lips
with a murmur of satisfaction, the decrepit Irish setter
that had attached himself to Annixter's house came out
from underneath the porch, and nosed vigorously about
the wicker basket. He upset it. The little peg holding
down the cover slipped, the basket fell sideways, opening
as it fell, and a cock, his head enclosed in a little chamois
bag such as are used for gold watches, struggled blindly
out into the open air. A second, similarly hooded, fol-
lowed. The pair, stupefied in their headgear, stood rigid
and bewildered in their tracks, clucking uneasily. Their
tails were closely sheared. Their legs, thickly muscled,,
and extraordinarily long, were furnished with enormous
cruel-looking spurs. The breed was unmistakable. An-
nixter looked once at the pair, then shouted with laugh-
ter.

" ' Poultry ' — ' a chicken or two ' — ' fancy breed ' —
ho! yes, I should think so. Game cocks! Fighting
cocks ! Oh, you old rat ! You'll be a dry nurse to a burro,
and keep a hospital for infirm puppies, but you will fight
game cocks. Oh, Lord ! Why, Sarria, this is as good
a grind as I ever heard. There's the Spanish cropping
out, after all."

Speechless with chagrin, the priest bundled the cocks
into the basket and catching up the valise, took himself
abruptly away, almost running till he had put himself
out of hearing of Annixter's raillery. And even ten
minutes later, when Annixter, still chuckling, stood upon
the porch steps, he saw the priest, far in the distance,
climbing the slope of the high ground, in the direction

206 The Octopus

of the Mission, still hurrying on at a great pace, his
cassock napping behind him, his head bent; to Annixter's
notion the very picture of discomfiture and confusion.

As Annixter turned about to reenter the house, he
found himself almost face to face with Hilma Tree. She
was just going in at the doorway, and a great flame of
the sunset, shooting in under the eaves of the porch,
enveloped her from her head, with its thick, moist hair
that hung low over her neck, to her slim feet, setting a
golden flash in the little steel buckles of her low shoes.
She had come to set the table for Annixter's supper.
Taken all aback by the suddenness of the encounter,
Annixter ejaculated an abrupt and senseless, " Excuse
me." But Hilma, without raising her eyes, passed on
unmoved into the dining-room, leaving Annixter trying
to find his breath, and fumbling with the brim of his hat,
that he was surprised to find he had taken from his head.
Resolutely, and taking a quick advantage of his oppor-
tunity, he followed her into the dining-room.

" I see that dog has turned up," he announced with
brisk cheerfulness. " That Irish setter I was asking
about."

Hilma, a swift, pink flush deepening the delicate rose
of her cheeks, did not reply, except by nodding her head.
She flung the table-cloth out from under her arms across
the table, spreading it smooth, with quick little caresses
of her hands. There was a moment's silence. Then
Annixter said :

" Here's a letter for you." He laid it down on the
table near her, and Hilma picked it up. " And see here,
Miss Hilma," Annixter continued, " about that — this
morning — I suppose you think I am a first-class mucker.
If it will do any good to apologise,, why, I will. I want
to be friends with you. I made a bad mistake, and
started in the wrong way. I don't know much about

A Story of California 207

women people. I want you to forget about that — this
morning, and not think I am a galoot and a mucker. Will
you do it? Will you be friends with me? "

Hilma set the plate and coffee cup by Annixter's place
before answering, and Annixter repeated his question.
Then she drew a deep, quick breath, the flush in her
cheeks returning.

" I think it was — it was so wrong of you," she mur-
mured. " Oh! you don't know how it hurt me. I cried
— oh, for an hour."

" Well, that's just it," returned Annixter vaguely,
moving his head uneasily. " I didn't know what kind
of a girl you were — I mean, I made a mistake. I thought
it didn't make much difference. I thought all feemales
were about alike."

" I hope you know now," murmured Hilma ruefully.
" I've paid enough to have you find out. I cried — you
don't know. Why, it hurt me worse than anything I can
remember. I hope you know now."

" Well,. I do know now," he exclaimed.

" It wasn't so much that you tried to do — what you
did," answered Hilma, the single deep swell from her
waist to her throat rising and falling in her emotion.
" It was that you thought that you could — that anybody
could that wanted to — that I held myself so cheap.
Oh!" she cried, with a sudden sobbing catch in her
throat, " I never can forget it, and you don't know what
it means to a girl."

" Well, that's just what I do want," he repeated. " I
want you to forget it and have us be good friends."

In his embarrassment, Annixter could think of no
other words. He kept reiterating again and again dur-
ing the pauses of the conversation :

" I want you to forget it. Will you? Will you forget
it— that — this morning, and have us be good friends?"

208 The Octopus

He could see that her trouble was keen. He was
astonished that the matter should be so grave in her
estimation. After all, what was it that a girl should be
kissed? But he wanted to regain his lost ground.

" Will you forget it, Miss Hilma? I want you to like
me."

She took a clean napkin from the sideboard drawer
and laid it down by the plate.

" I — I do want you to like me," persisted Annixter.
" I want you to forget all about this business and like
me."

Hilma was silent. Annixter saw the tears in her eyes.

" How about that ? Will you forget it ? Will you —
will — will you like me? "

She shook her head.

" No," she said.

" No what? You won't like me? Is that it? "

Hilma, blinking at the napkin through her tears,
nodded to say, Yes, that was it.

Annixter hesitated a moment, frowning, harassed and
perplexed.

" You don't like me at all, hey? "

At length Hilma found her speech. In her low voice,
lower and more velvety than ever, she said:

" No— I don't like you at all."

Then, as the tears suddenly overpowered her, she
dashed a hand across her eyes, and ran from the room
and out of doors.

Annixter stood for a moment thoughtful, his pro-
truding lower lip thrust out, his hands in his pocket.

" I suppose she'll quit now," he muttered. " .Suppose
she'll leave the ranch — if she hates me like that. Well,
she can go — that's all — she can go. Fool feemale girl,"
he muttered between his teeth, " petticoat mess."

He was about to sit down to his supper when his eye

A Story of California 209

fell upon the Irish setter, on his haunches in the doorway.
There was an expectant, ingratiating look on the dog's
face. No doubt, he suspected it was time for eating.

" Get out — you! " roared Annixter in a tempest of
wrath.

The dog slunk back, his tail shut down close, his ears
drooping, but instead of running away, he lay down and
rolled supinely upon his back, the very image of sub-
mission, tame, abject, disgusting. It was the one thing
to drive Annixter to a fury. He kicked the dog off the
porch in a rolling explosion of oaths, and flung himself
down to his seat before the table, fuming and panting.

" Damn the dog and the girl and the whole rotten
business — and now," he exclaimed, as a sudden fancied
qualm arose in his stomach, " now, it's all made me sick.
Might have known it. Oh, it only lacked that to wind
up the whole day. Let her go, I don't care, and the
sooner the better."

He countermanded the supper and went to bed before
it was dark, lighting his lamp, on the chair near the head
of the bed, and opening his " Copperfield " at the place
marked by the strip of paper torn from the bag of
prunes. For upward of an hour he read the novel,
methodically swallowing one prune every time he
reached the bottom of a page. About nine o'clock he
blew out the lamp and, punching up his pillow, settled
himself for the night.

Then, as his mind relaxed in that strange, hypnotic
condition that comes just before sleep, a series of pic-
tures of the day's doings passed before his imagination
like the roll of a kinetoscope.

First, it was Hilma Tree, as he had seen her in the
dairy-house — charming, delicious, radiant of youth, her
thick, white neck with its pale amber shadows under the
chin ; her wide, open eyes rimmed with fine, black lashes ;

210 The Octopus

the deep swell of her breast and hips, the delicate, lus-
trous floss on her cheek, impalpable as the pollen of a
flower. He saw her standing there in the scintillating
light of the morning, her smooth arms wet with milk,
redolent and fragrant of milk, her whole, desirable figure
moving in the golden glory of the sun, steeped in a lam-
bent flame, saturated with it, glowing with it, joyous as
the dawn itself.

Then it was Los Muertos and Hooven, the sordid
little Dutchman, grimed with the soil he worked in, yet
vividly remembering a period of military glory, exciting
himself with recollections of Gravelotte and the Kaiser,
but contented now in the country of his adoption, defining
the Fatherland as the place where wife and children lived.
Then came the ranch house of Los Muertos, under the
grove of cypress and eucalyptus, with its smooth, grav-
elled driveway and well-groomed lawns; Mrs. Derrick
with her wide-opened eyes, that so easily took on a look
of uneasiness, of innocence, of anxious inquiry, her face
still pretty, her brown hair that still retained so much
of its brightness spread over her chair back, drying in
the sun; Magnus, erect as an officer of cavalry, smooth-
shaven, grey, thin-lipped, imposing, with his hawk-like
nose and forward-curling grey hair; Presley with his
dark face, delicate mouth and sensitive, loose lips, in
corduroys and laced boots, smoking cigarettes — an in-
teresting figure, suggestive of a mixed origin, morbid,
excitable, melancholy, brooding upon things that had no
names. Then it was Bonneville, with the gayety and
confusion of Main Street, the whirring electric cars, the
zinc-sheathed telegraph poles, the buckboards with
squashes stowed under the seats; Ruggles in frock coat,
Stetson hat and shoe-string necktie, writing abstract-
edly upon his blotting pad; Dyke, the engineer, big-
boned, powerful, deep-voiced, good-natured, with his

A Story of California 2 1 1

fine blonde beard and massive arms, rehearsing the
praises of his little daughter Sidney, guided only by the
one ambition that she should be educated at a seminary,
slipping a dime into the toe of her diminutive slipper,
then, later, overwhelmed with shame, slinking into S.
Behrman's office to mortgage his homestead to the
heeler of the corporation that had discharged him. By
suggestion, Annixter saw S. Behrman, too, fat, with a
vast stomach, the check and neck meeting to form a
great, tremulous jowl, the roll of fat over his collar,
sprinkled with sparse, stiff hairs; saw his brown, round-
topped hat of varnished straw, the linen vest stamped
with innumerable interlocked horseshoes, the heavy watch
chain, clinking against the pearl vest buttons ; invariably
placid, unruffled, never losing his temper, serene, unas-
sailable, enthroned.

Then, at the end of all, it was the ranch again, seen in
a last brief glance before he had gone to bed; the fecun-
dated earth, calm at last, nursing the emplanted germ of
life, ruddy with the sunset, the horizons purple, the small
clamour of the day lapsing into quiet, the great, still twi-
light, building itself, dome-like, toward the zenith. The
barn fowls were roosting in the trees near the stable, the
horses crunching their fodder in the stalls, the day's work
ceasing by slow degrees; and the priest, the Spanish
churchman, Father Sarria, relic of a departed regime,
kindly, benign, believing in all goodness, a lover of his
fellows and of dumb animals, yet, for all that, hurrying
away in confusion and discomfiture, carrying in one
hand the vessels of the Holy Communion and in the
other a basket of game cocks.

CHAPTER VI

It was high noon, and the rays of the sun, that hung
poised directly overhead in an intolerable white glory, fell
straight as plummets upon the roofs and streets of Gua-
dalajara. The adobe walls and sparse brick sidewalks
of the drowsing town radiated the heat in an oily, quiver-
ing shimmer. The leaves of the eucalyptus trees around
the Plaza drooped motionless, limp and relaxed under the
scorching, searching blaze. The shadows of these trees
had shrunk to their smallest circumference, contracting
close about the trunks. The shade had dwindled to the
breadth of a mere line. The sun was everywhere. The
heat exhaling from brick and plaster and metal met the
heat that steadily descended blanketwise and smother-
ing, from the pale, scorched sky. Only the lizards — they
lived in chinks of the crumbling adobe and in interstices
of the sidewalk — remained without, motionless, as if
stuffed, their eyes closed to mere slits, basking, stupefied
with heat. At long intervals the prolonged drone of an
insect developed out of the silence, vibrated a moment in
a soothing, somnolent, long note, then trailed slowly into
the quiet again. Somewhere in the interior of one of the
'dobe houses a guitar snored and hummed sleepily. On
the roof of the hotel a group of pigeons cooed incessantly
with subdued, liquid murmurs, very plaintive ; a cat, per-
fectly white, with a pink nose and thin, pink lips, dozed
complacently on a fence rail, full in the sun. In a corner
of the Plaza three hens wallowed in the baking hot dust,
their wings fluttering, clucking comfortably.

A Story of California 213

And this was all. A Sunday repose prevailed the whole
moribund town, peaceful, profound. A certain pleasing
numbness, a sense of grateful enervation exhaled from
the scorching plaster. There was no movement, no sound
of human business. The faint hum of the insect, the
intermittent murmur of the guitar, the mellow complain-
ings of the pigeons, the prolonged purr of the white cat,
the contented clucking of the hens — all these noises min-
gled together to form a faint, drowsy bourdon, pro-
longed, stupefying, suggestive of an infinite quiet, of a
calm, complacent life, centuries old, lapsing gradually to
its end under the gorgeous loneliness of a cloudless, pale
blue sky and the steady fire of an interminable sun.

In Solotari's Spanish-Mexican restaurant, Vanamee
and Presley sat opposite each other at one of the tables
near the door, a bottle of white wine, tortillas, and an
earthen pot of frijoles between them. They were the
sole occupants of the place. It was the day that Annix-
ter had chosen for his barn-dance and, in consequence,
Quien Sabe was in fete and work suspended. Presley
and Vanamee had arranged to spend the day in each
other's company, lunching at Solotari's and taking a long
tramp in the afternoon. For the moment they sat back
in their chairs, their meal all but finished. Solotari
brought black coffee and a small carafe of mescal, and
retiring to a corner of the room, went to sleep.

All through the meal Presley had been wondering over
a certain change he observed in his friend. He looked
at him again.

Vanamee's lean, spare face was of an olive pallor. His
long, black hair, such as one sees in the saints and evan-
gelists of the pre-Raphaelite artists, hung over his ears.
Presley again remarked his pointed beard, black and fine,
growing from the hollow cheeks. He looked at his face,
a face like that of a young seer, like a half-inspired

214 The Octopus

shepherd of the Hebraic legends, a dweller in the wilder-
ness, gifted with strange powers. He was dressed as
when Presley had first met him, herding his sheep, in
brown canvas overalls, thrust into top boots ; grey flannel
shirt, open at the throat, showing the breast ruddy with
tan; the waist encircled with a cartridge belt, empty of
cartridges.

But now, as Presley took more careful note of him, he
\vas surprised to observe a certain new look in Vanamee's
deep-set eyes. He remembered now that all through the
morning Vanamee had been singularly reserved. He was
continually drifting into reveries, abstracted, distrait.
Indubitably, something of moment had happened.

At length Vanamee spoke. Leaning back in his chair,
his thumbs in his belt, his bearded chin upon his breast,
his voice was the even monotone of one speaking in his
sleep.

He told Presley in a few words what had happened
during the first night he had spent in the garden of the
old Mission, of the Answer, half-fancied, half-real, that
had come to him.

" To no other person but you would I speak of this,"
he said, " but you, I think, will understand — will be sym-
pathetic, at least, and I feel the need of unburdening
myself of it to some one. At first I would not trust my
own senses. I was sure I had deceived myself, but on a
second night it happened again. Then I was afraid — or
no, not afraid, but disturbed — oh, shaken to my very,
heart's core. I resolved to go no further in the matter,
never again to put it to test. For a long time I stayed
away from the Mission, occupying myself with my work,
keeping it out of my mind. But the temptation was too
strong. One night I found myself there again, under
the black shadow of the pear trees calling for Angele,
summoning- ?>•;•? fre*^. out the dark, from out the night.

A Story of California 215

This time the Answer was prompt, unmistakable. I can-
not explain to you what it was, nor how it came to me,
for there was no sound. I saw absolutely nothing but
the empty night. There was no moon. But somewhere
off there over the little valley, far off, the darkness was
troubled; that me that went out upon my thought — out
from the Mission garden, out over the valley, calling for
her, searching for her, found, I don't know what, but
found a resting place — a companion. Three times since
then I have gone to the Mission garden at night. Last
night was the third time/'

He paused, his eyes shining with excitement. Presley
leaned forward toward him, motionless with intense
absorption.

" Well— and last night/' he prompted.

Vanamee stirred in his seat, his glance fell, he drummed
an instant upon the table.

" Last night," he answered, " there was — there was a
change. The Answer was — " he drew a deep breath —
"nearer."

"You are sure?"

The other smiled with absolute certainty.

" It was not that I found the Answer sooner, easier. I
could not be mistaken. No, that which has troubled the
darkness, that which has entered into the empty night — is
coming nearer to me — physically nearer, actually nearer/'

His voice sank again. His face like the face of younger
prophets, the seers, took on a half-inspired expression.
He looked vaguely before him with unseeing eyes.

" Suppose," he murmured, " suppose I stand there
under the pear trees at night and call her again and again,
and each time the Answer comes nearer and nearer and I
wait until at last one night, the supreme night of all,
she— she "

Suddenly the tension broke. With a sharp cry and a

216 The Octopus

violent uncertain gesture of the hand Vanamee came to
himself.

" Oh," he exclaimed, " what is it? Do I dare? What
does it mean? There are times when it appals me and
there are times when it thrills me with a sweetness and a
happiness that I have not known since she died. The
vagueness of it! How can I explain it to you, this that
happens when I call to her across the night — that faint,
far-off, unseen tremble in the darkness, that intangible,
scarcely perceptible stir. Something neither heard nor
seen, appealing to a sixth sense only. Listen, it is some-
thing like this : On Quien Sabe, all last week, we have
been seeding the earth. The grain is there now under
the earth buried in the dark, in the black stillness, under
the clods. Can you imagine the first — the very first little
quiver of life that the grain of wheat must feel after it is
sown, when it answers to the call of the sun, down there
in the dark of the earth, blind, deaf; the very first stir
from the inert, long, long before any physical change has
occurred, — long before the microscope could discover the
slightest change, — when the shell first tightens with the
first faint premonition of life? Well, it is something as
illusive as that." He paused again, dreaming, lost in a
reverie, then, just above a whisper, murmured:

" ' That which thou sowest is not quickened except it
die/ . . . and she, Angele . . . died/'

" You could not have been mistaken ? " said Presley.
" You were sure that there was something ? Imagination
can do so much and the influence of the surroundings
was strong. How impossible it would be that anything
should happen. And you say you heard nothing, saw
nothing/'

" I believe," answered Vanamee, " in a sixth sense, or,
rather, a whole system of other unnamed senses beyond
the reach of our understanding. People who live much

A Story of California 217

alone and close to nature experience the sensation of it.
Perhaps it is something fundamental that we share with
plants and animals. The same thing that sends the
birds south long before the first colds, the same thing that
makes the grain of wheat struggle up to meet the sun.
And this sense never deceives. You may see wrong,
hear wrong, but once touch this sixth sense and it acts
with absolute fidelity, you are certain. No, I hear noth-
ing in the Mission garden. I see nothing, nothing
touches me, but I am certain for all that."

Presley hesitated for a moment, then he asked:

" Shall you go back to the garden again ? Make the
test again ? "

" I don't know."

" Strange enough/' commented Presley, wondering.

Vanamee sank back in his chair, his eyes growing
vacant again:

" Strange enough," he murmured.

There was a long silence. Neither spoke nor moved.
There, in that moribund, ancient town, wrapped in its
siesta, flagellated with heat, deserted, ignored, baking in
a noon-day silence, these two strange men, the one a poet
by nature, the other by training, both out of tune with
their world, dreamers, introspective, morbid, lost and un-
familiar at that end-of-the-century time, searching for a
sign, groping and baffled amidst the perplexing obscurity
of the Delusion, sat over empty wine glasses, silent with
the pervading silence that surrounded them, hearing only
the cooing of doves and the drone of bees, the quiet so
profound, that at length they could plainly distinguish at
intervals the puffing and coughing of a locomotive
switching cars in the station yard of Bonneville.

It was, no doubt, this jarring sound that at length
roused Presley from his lethargy. The two friends rose ;
Solotari very sleepily came forward; they paid for the

2i8 The Octopus

luncheon, and stepping out into the heat and glare of the
streets of the town, passed on through it and took the
road that led northward across a corner of Dyke's hop
fields. They were bound for the hills in the northeastern
corner of Quien Sabe. It was the same walk which
Presley had taken on the previous occasion when he had
first met Vanamee herding the sheep. This encompass-
ing detour around the whole country-side was a favorite
pastime of his and he was anxious that Vanamee should
share his pleasure in it.

But soon after leaving Guadalajara, they found them-
selves upon the land that Dyke had bought and upon
which he was to raise his famous crop of hops. Dyke's
house was close at hand, a very pleasant little cottage,
painted white, with green blinds and deep porches, while
near it and yet in process of construction, were two great
storehouses and a drying and curing house, where the
hops were to be stored and treated. All about were evi-
dences that the former engineer had already been hard at
work. The ground had been put in readiness to receive
the crop and a bewildering, innumerable multitude of
poles, connected with a maze of wire and twine, had been
set out. Farther on at a turn of the road, they came upon
Dyke himself, driving a farm wagon loaded with more
poles. He was in his shirt sleeves, his massive, hairy
arms bare to the elbow, glistening with sweat, red with
heat. In his bell-like, rumbling voice, he was calling to
his foreman and a boy at work in stringing the poles
together. At sight of Presley and Vanamee he hailed
them jovially, addressing them as "boys/' and insisting
that they should get into the wagon with him and drive
to the house for a glass of beer. His mother had only
the day before returned from Marysville, where she had
been looking up a seminary for the little tad. She would
be delighted to see the two boys ; besides, Vanamee must

A Story of California 219

see how the little tad had grown since he last set eyes on
her ; wouldn't know her for the same little girl ; and the
beer had been on ice since morning. Presley and Vana-
mee could not well refuse.

They climbed into the wagon and jolted over the
uneven ground through the bare forest of hop-poles to
the house. Inside they found Mrs. Dyke, an old lady
with a very gentle face, who wore a cap and a very old-
fashioned gown with hoop skirts, dusting the what-not in
a corner of the parlor. The two men were presented and
the beer was had from off the ice.

" Mother/' said Dyke, as he wiped the froth from his
great blond beard, " ain't Sid anywheres about ? I want
Mr. Vanamee to see how she has grown. Smartest little
tad in Tulare County, boys. Can recite the whole of
* Snow Bound/ end to end, without skipping or looking at
the book. Maybe you don't believe that. Mother, ain't
I right — without skipping a line, hey ? "

Mrs. Dyke nodded to say that it was so, but explained
that Sidney was in Guadalajara. In putting on her new
slippers for the first time the morning before, she had
found a dime in the toe of one of them and had had the
whole house by the ears ever since till she could spend it.

" Was it for licorice to make her licorice water ? "
inquired Dyke gravely.

" Yes," said Mrs. Dyke. " I made her tell me what she
was going to get before she went, and it was licorice."

Dyke, though his mother protested that he was foolish
and that Presley and Vanamee had no great interest in
" young ones," insisted upon showing the visitors Sidney's
copy-books. They were monuments of laborious, elabor-
ate neatness, the trite moralities and ready-made aphor-
isms of the philanthropists and publicists, repeated from
page to page with wearying insistence. " I, too, am an
American Citizen. S. D.," "As the Twig is Bent the

220 The Octopus

Tree is Inclined," " Truth Crushed to Earth Will Rise
Again/' "As for Me, Give Me Liberty or Give Me
Death," and last of all, a strange intrusion amongst the
mild, well-worn phrases, two legends. " My motto —
Public Control of Public Franchises," and " The P. and
S. W. is an Enemy of the State."

" I see," commented Presley, " you mean the little tad
to understand ' the situation ' early."

" I told him he was foolish to give that to Sid to copy,"
said Mrs. Dyke, with indulgent remonstrance. " What
can she understand of public franchises ? "

" Never mind," observed Dyke, " she'll remember it
when she grows up and when the seminary people have
rubbed her up a bit, and then she'll begin to ask questions
and understand. And don't you make any mistake,
mother," he went on, " about the little tad not knowing
who her dad's enemies are. What do you think, boys?
Listen, here. Precious little I've ever told her of the
railroad or how I was turned off, but the other day I was
working down by the fence next the railroad tracks and
Sid was there. She'd brought her doll rags down and
she was playing house behind a pile of hop poles. Well,
along comes a through freight — mixed train from Mis-
souri points and a string of empties from New Orleans, — •
and when it had passed, what do you suppose the tad did ?
She didn't know I was watching her. She goes to the
fence and spits a little spit after the caboose and puts out
her little head and, if you'll believe me, hisses at the
train; and mother says she does that same every time
she sees a train go by, and never crosses the tracks that
she don't spit her little spit on 'em. What do you think
of that?"

" But I correct her every time," protested Mrs. Dyke
seriously. " Where she picked up the trick of hissing I
don't know. No, it's not funny. It seems dreadful to

A Story of California 221

see a little girl who's as sweet and gentle as can be in
every other way, so venomous. She says the other little
girls at school and the boys, too, are all the same way.
Oh, dear," she sighed, "why will the General Office be
so unkind and unjust ? Why, I couldn't be happy, with
all the money in the world, if I thought that even one
little child hated me — hated me so that it would spit and
hiss at me. And it's not one child, it's all of them, so
Sidney says ; and think of all the grown people who hate
the road, women and men, the whole county, the whole
State, thousands and thousands of people. Don't the
managers and the directors of the road ever think of
that ? Don't they ever think of all the hate that surrounds
them, everywhere, everywhere, and the good people that
just grit their teeth when the name of the road is men-
tioned ? Why do they want to make the people hate them ?
No," she murmured, the tears starting to her eyes, " No,
I tell you, Mr. Presley, the men who own the railroad are
wicked, bad-hearted men who don't care how much the
poor people suffer, so long as the road makes its eighteen
million a year. They don't care whether the people hate
them or love them, just so long as they are afraid of
them. It's not right and God will punish them sooner or
later."

A little after this the two young men took themselves
away, Dyke obligingly carrying them in the wagon as far
as the gate that opened into the Quien Sabe ranch. On
the way, Presley referred to what Mrs. Dyke had said and
led Dyke, himself, to speak of the P. and S. W.

"Well," Dyke said, "it's like this, Mr. Presley. I,
personally, haven't got the right to kick. With you
wheat-growing people I guess it's different, but hops, you
see, don't count for much in the State. It's such a little
business that the road don't want to bother themselves to
tax it. It's the wheat growers that the road cinches.

222 The Octopus

The rates on hops are fair. I've got to admit that ; I was
in to Bonneville a while ago to find out. It's two cents a
pound, and Lord love you, that's reasonable enough to
suit any man. No," he concluded, " I'm on the way to
make money now. The road sacking me as they did
was, maybe, a good thing for me, after all. It came just
at the right time. I had a bit of money put by and here
was the chance to go into hops with the certainty that
hops would quadruple and quintuple in price inside the
year. No, it was my chance, and though they didn't
mean it by a long chalk, the railroad people did me a
good turn when they gave me my time — and the tad'll
enter the seminary next fall."

About a quarter of an hour after they had said good-
bye to the one-time engineer, Presley and Vanamee,
tramping briskly along the road that led northward
through Quien Sabe, arrived at Annixter's ranch house.
At once they were aware of a vast and unwonted bustle
that revolved about the place. They stopped a few
moments looking on, amused and interested in what was
going forward.

The colossal barn was finished. Its freshly white-
washed sides glared intolerably in the sun, but its interior
was as yet innocent of paint and through the yawning
vent of the sliding doors came a delicious odour of new,
fresh wood and shavings. A crowd of men — Annixter's
farm hands — were swarming all about it. Some were
balanced on the topmost rounds of ladders, hanging fes-
toons of Japanese lanterns from tree to tree, and all
across the front of the barn itself. Mrs. Tree, her daugh-
ter Hilma and another woman were inside the barn cut-
ting into long strips bolt after bolt of red, white and blue
cambric and directing how these strips should be draped
from the ceiling and on the walls ; everywhere resounded
the tapping of tack hammers. A farm wagon drove up

A Story of California 223,

loaded to overflowing with evergreens and with great
bundles of palm leaves, and these were immediately
seized upon and affixed as supplementary decorations to-
the tri-coloured cambric upon the inside walk of the barn.
Two of the larger evergreen trees were placed on either
side the barn door and their tops bent over to form an
arch. In the middle of this arch it was proposed to hang
a mammoth pasteboard escutcheon with gold letters,
spelling the word Welcome. Piles of chairs, rented from
I.O.O.F. hall in Bonneville, heaped themselves in an ap-
parently hopeless entanglement on the ground; while at
the far extremity of the barn a couple of carpenters clat-
tered about the impromptu staging which was to accom-
modate the band.

There was a strenuous gayety in the air; everybody
was in the best of spirits. Notes of laughter continually
interrupted the conversation on every hand. At every
moment a group of men involved themselves in uproari-
ous horse-play. They passed oblique jokes behind their
hands to each other — grossly veiled double-meanings
meant for the women — and bellowed with laughter
thereat, stamping on the ground. The relations between
the sexes grew more intimate, the women and girls push-
ing the young fellows away from their sides with vigor-
ous thrusts of their elbows. It was passed from group
to group that Adela Vacca, a division superintendent's
wife, had lost her garter ; the daughter of the foreman
of the Home ranch was kissed behind the door of the
dairy-house.

Annixter, in execrable temper, appeared from time to
time, hatless, his stiff yellow hair in wild disorder. He
hurried between the barn and the ranch house, carrying
now a wickered demijohn, now a case of wine, now a
basket of lemons and pineapples. Besides general super-
vision, he had elected to assume the responsibility of

224 The Octopus

composing the punch — something stiff, by jingo, a punch
that would raise you right out of your boots; a regular
hairlifter.

The harness room of the barn he had set apart for
himself and intimates. He had brought a long table
down from the house and upon it had set out boxes of
cigars, bottles of whiskey and of beer and the great
china bowls for the punch. It would be no fault of his,
he declared, if half the number of his men friends were
not uproarious before they left. His barn dance would
be the talk of all Tulare County for years to come. For
this one day he had resolved to put all thoughts of busi-
ness out of his head. For the matter of that, things were
going well enough. Osterman was back from Los An-
geles with a favourable report as to his affair with Dis-
brow and Darrell. There had been another meeting of
the committee. Harran Derrick had attended. Though
Tie had taken no part in the discussion, Annixter was
satisfied. The Governor had consented to allow Harran
to " come in," if he so desired, and Harran had pledged
himself to share one-sixth of the campaign expenses,
providing these did not exceed a certain figure.

As Annixter came to the door of the barn to shout
abuse at the distraught Chinese cook who was cutting up
lemons in the kitchen, he caught sight of Presley and
Vanamee and hailed them.

" Hello, Pres," he called. " Come over here and see
"how she looks ; " he indicated the barn with a movement
of his head. " Well, we're getting ready for you to-
night," he went on as the two friends came up. " But
how we are going to get straightened out by eight o'clock
I don't know. Would you believe that pip Caraher is
short of lemons — at this last minute and I told him I'd
want three cases of 'em as much as a month ago, and
here, just when I want a good lively saddle horse to get

A Story of California 225

around on, somebody hikes the buckskin out the corral.
Stole her, by jingo. I'll have the law on that thief if it
breaks me — and a sixty-dollar saddle 'n' head-stall gone
with her ; and only about half the number of Jap lanterns
that I ordered have shown up and not candles enough for
those. It's enough to make a dog sick. There's nothing
done that you don't do yourself, unless you stand over
these loafers with a club. I'm sick of the whole business
— and I've lost my hat; wish to God I'd never dreamed
of givin' this rotten fool dance. Clutter the whole place
up with a lot of feemales. I sure did lose my presence of
mind when I got that idea."

Then, ignoring the fact that it was he, himself, who
had called the young men to him, he added :

" Well, this is my busy day. Sorry I can't stop and
talk to you longer."

He shouted a last imprecation at the Chinaman and
turned back into the barn. Presley and Vanamee went
on, but Annixter, as he crossed the floor of the barn, all
but collided with Hilma Tree, who came out from one
of the stalls., a box of candles in her arms.

Gasping out an apology, Annixter reentered the har-
ness room, closing the door behind him, and forgetting
all the responsibility of the moment, lit a cigar and sat
down in one of the hired chairs, his hands in his pockets,
his feet on the table, frowning thoughtfully through the
blue smoke.

Annixter was at last driven to confess to himself that
he could not get the thought of Hilma Tree out of his
mind. Finally she had " got a hold on him." The thing
that of all others he most dreaded had happened. A
feemale girl had got a hold on him, and now there was
no longer for him any such thing as peace of mind. The
idea of the young woman was with him continually. He
went to bed with it ; he got up with it. At every moment

226 The Octopus

of the day he was pestered with it. It interfered with
his work, got mixed up in his business. What a miser-
able confession for a man to make ; a fine way to waste
his time. Was it possible that only the other day he had
stood in front of the music store in Bonneville and seri-
ously considered making Hilma a present of a music-
box? Even now, the very thought of it made him flush
with shame, and this after she had told him plainly that
she did not like him. He was running after her — he,
Annixter! He ripped out a furious oath, striking the
table with his boot heel. Again and again he had re-
solved to put the whole affair from out his mind. Once
he had been able to do so, but of late it was becoming
harder and harder with every successive day. He had
only to close his eyes to see her as plain as if she stood
before him ; he saw her in a glory of sunlight that set a
fine tinted lustre of pale carnation and gold on the silken
sheen of her white skin, her hair sparkled with it, her
thick, strong neck, sloping to her shoulders with beauti-
ful, full curves, seemed to radiate the light; her eyes,
brown, wide, innocent in expression, disclosing the full
disc of the pupil upon the slightest provocation, flashed
in this sunlight like diamonds.

Annixter was all bewildered. With the exception of
the timid little creature in the glove-cleaning establish-
ment in Sacramento, he had had no acquaintance with
any woman. His world was harsh, crude, a world of
men only — men who were to be combatted, opposed —
his hand was against nearly every one of them. Women
he distrusted with the instinctive distrust of the overgrown
schoolboy. Now, at length, a young woman had come
into his life. Promptly he was struck with discomfiture,
annoyed almost beyond endurance, harassed, bedevilled,
excited, made angry and exasperated. He was suspicious
of the woman, yet desired her, totally ignorant of how to

A Story of California 227

approach her, hating the sex, yet drawn to the individual,
confusing the two emotions, sometimes even hating Hilma
as a result of this confusion, but at all times disturbed,
vexed, irritated beyond power of expression.

At length, Annixter cast his cigar from him and
plunged again into the work of the day. The afternoon
wore to evening, to the accompaniment of wearying and
clamorous endeavour. In some unexplained fashion, the
labour of putting the great barn in readiness for the dance
was accomplished; the last bolt of cambric was hung in
place from the rafters. The last evergreen tree was
nailed to the joists of the walls; the last lantern hung,
the last nail driven into the musicians* platform. The
sun set. There was a great scurry to have supper and
dress. Annixter, last of all the other workers, left the
barn in the dusk of twilight. He was alone; he had a
saw under one arm, a bag of tools was in his hand. He
was in his shirt sleeves and carried his coat over his
shoulder; a hammer was thrust into one of his hip
pockets. He was in execrable temper. The day's work
had fagged him out. He had not been able to find his hat.

" And the buckskin with sixty dollars' worth of saddle
gone, too," he groaned. "Oh, ain't it sweet?"

At his house, Mrs. Tree had set out a cold supper for
him, the inevitable dish of prunes serving as dessert.
After supper Annixter bathed and dressed. He decided
at the last moment to wear his usual town-going suit, a
sack suit of black, made by a Bonneville tailor. But his
hat was gone. There were other hats he might have
worn, but because this particular one was lost he fretted
about it all through his dressing and then decided to have
one more look around the barn for it.

For over a quarter of an hour he pottered about the
barn, going from stall to stall, rummaging the harness
room and feed room, all to no purpose. At last he came

228 The Octopus

out again upon the main floor, definitely giving up the
search, looking about him to see if everything was in
order.

The festoons of Japanese lanterns in and around the
barn were not yet lighted, but some half-dozen lamps,
with great, tin reflectors, that hung against the walls, were
burning low. A dull half light pervaded the vast interior,
hollow, echoing, leaving the corners and roof thick with
impenetrable black shadows. The barn faced the west
and through the open sliding doors was streaming a single
bright bar from the after-glow, incongruous and out of
all harmony with the dull flare of the kerosene lamps.

As Annixter glanced about him, he saw a figure step
briskly out of the shadows of one corner of the building,
pause for the fraction of one instant in the bar of light,
then, at sight of him, dart back again. There was a
sound of hurried footsteps.

Annixter, with recollections of the stolen buckskin in
his mind, cried out sharply:

"Who's there?"

There was no answer. In a second his pistol was in
his hand.

"Who's there? Quick, speak up or I'll shoot."

" No, no, no, don't shoot/' cried an answering voice.
" Oh, be careful. It's I— Hilma Tree."

Annixter slid the pistol into his pocket with a great
qualm of apprehension. He came forward and met
Hilma in the doorway.

" Good Lord," he murmured, " that sure did give me a
start. HI had shot "

Hilma stood abashed and confused before him. She
was dressed in a white organdie frock of the most rigor-
ous simplicity and wore neither flower nor ornament.
The severity of her dress made her look even larger than
usual, and even as it was her eyes were on a level with

A Story of California 229

Annixter's. There was a certain fascination in the con-
tradiction of stature and character of Hilma — a great
girl, half-child as yet, but tall as a man for all that.

There was a moment's awkward silence, then Hilma
explained :

" I — I came back to look for my hat. I thought I left
it here this afternoon."

" And I was looking for my hat," cried Annixter.
" Funny enough, hey ? "

They laughed at this as heartily as children might have
done. The constraint of the situation was a little relaxed
and Annixter, with sudden directness, glanced sharply:
at the young woman and demanded :

" Well, Miss Hilma, hate me as much as ever? "

" Oh, no, sir," she answered, " I never said I hated
you."

" Well, — dislike me, then ; I know you said that."

" I — I disliked what you did — tried to do. It made
me angry and it hurt me. I shouldn't have said what I
did that time, but it was your fault."

" You mean you shouldn't have said you didn't like
me ? " asked Annixter. " Why ? "

"Well, well,— I don't— I don't dislike anybody," ad-
mitted Hilma.

" Then I can take it that you don't dislike me? Is
that it?"

" I don't dislike anybody/' persisted Hilma.

" Well, I asked you more than that, didn't I ? " queried
Annixter uneasily. " I asked you to like me, remember,
the other day. I'm asking you that again, now. I want
you to like me."

Hilma lifted her eyes inquiringly to his. In her words
was an unmistakable ring of absolute sincerity. Inno-
cently she inquired :

"Why?"

230 The Octopus

Annixter was struck speechless. In the face of such
candour, such perfect ingenuousness, he was at a loss for
any words.

« Well— well," he stammered, " well— I don't know,"
he suddenly burst out. " That is," he went on, groping
for his wits, " I can't quite say why." The idea of a
colossal lie occurred to him, a thing actually royal.

" I like to have the people who are around me like me,"
he declared. " I — I like to be popular, understand ?
Yes, that's it," he continued, more reassured. " I don't
like the idea of any one disliking me. That's the way I
am. It's my nature."

" Oh, then," returned Hilma, " you needn't bother.
No, I don't dislike you."

" Well, that's good,'' declared Annixter judicially.
" That's good. But hold on/' he interrupted, " I'm for-
getting. It's not enough to not dislike me. I want you
to like me. How about that?"

Hilma paused for a moment, glancing vaguely out of
the doorway toward the lighted window of the dairy-
house, her head tilted.

"I don't know that I ever thought about that," she
said.

" Well, think about it now," insisted Annixter.

" But I never thought about liking anybody particu-
larly," she observed. " It's because I like everybody,
don't you see?"

" Well, you've got to like some people more than other
people," hazarded Annixter, " and I want to be one of
those ' some people,' savvy? Good Lord, I don't know
how to say these fool things. I talk like a galoot when I
get talking to feemale girls and I can't lay my tongue to
anything that sounds right. It isn't my nature. And
look here, I lied when I said I liked to have people like
rne — to be popular. Rot! I don't care a curse about

A Story of California 231

people's opinions of me. But there's a few people that
are more to me than most others — that chap Presley, for
instance — and those people I do want to have like me.
What they think counts. Pshaw! I know I've got
enemies ; piles of them. I could name you half a dozen
men right now that are naturally itching to take a shot
at me. How about this ranch? Don't I know, can't I
hear the men growling oaths under their breath after
I've gone by? And in business ways, too," he went on,
speaking half to himself, " in Bonneville and all over the
county there's not a man of them wouldn't howl for joy
if they got a chance to down Buck Annixter. Think I
care? Why, I like it. I run my ranch to suit myself
and I play my game my own way. I'm a ' driver/ I
know it, and a ' bully/ too. Oh, I know what they call
me — ' a brute beast, with a twist in my temper that would
rile up a new-born lamb/ and I'm ' crusty ' and ' pig-
headed ' and ' obstinate/ They say all that, but they've
got to say, too, that I'm cleverer than any man- jack in
the running. There's nobody can get ahead of me." His
eyes snapped. " Let 'em grind their teeth. They can't
' down ' me. When I shut my fist there's not one of
them can open it. No, not with a chisel." He turned to
Hilma again. " Well, when a man's hated as much as
that, it stands to reason, don't it, Miss Hilma, that the
few friends he has got he wants to keep? I'm not such
an entire swine to the people that know me best — that
jackass, Presley, for instance. I'd put my hand in the
fire to do him a real service. Sometimes I get kind of
lonesome; wonder if you would understand? It's my
fault, but there's not a horse about the place that don't
lay his ears back when I get on him; there's not a dog
don't put his tail between his legs as soon as I come near
him. The cayuse isn't foaled yet here on Quien Sabe that
can throw me, nor the dog whelped that would dare show

232 The Octopus

his teeth at me. I kick that Irish setter every time I
see him — but wonder what I'd do, though, if he didn't
slink so much, if he wagged his tail and was glad to see
me? So it all comes to this: I'd like to have you — well,
sort of feel that I was a good friend of yours and like
me because of it."

The flame in the lamp on the wall in front of Hilma
stretched upward tall and thin and began to smoke. She
went over to where the lamp hung and, standing on tip-
toe, lowered the wick. As she reached her hand up,
Annixter noted how the sombre, lurid red of the lamp
made a warm reflection on her smooth, round arm.

" Do you understand ? " he queried.

" Yes, why, yes," she answered, turning around. " It's
very good of you to want to be a friend of mine. I
didn't think so, though, when you tried to kiss me. But
maybe it's all right since you've explained things. You
see I'm different from you. I like everybody to like me
and I like to like everybody. It makes one so much
happier. You wouldn't believe it, but you ought to try
it, sir, just to see. It's so good to be good to people and
to have people good to you. And everybody has always
been so good to me. Mamma and papa, of course, and
Billy, the stableman, and Montalegre, the Portugee fore-
man, and the Chinese cook, even, and Mr. Delaney — only
he went away — and Mrs. Vacca and her little "

" Delaney, hey ? " demanded Annixter abruptly. " You
and he were pretty good friends, were you ? "

" Oh, yes," she answered. " He was just as good to
me. Every day in the summer time he used to ride over
to the Seed ranch back of the Mission and bring me a
great armful of flowers, the prettiest things, and I used
to pretend to pay him for them with dollars made of
cheese that I cut out of the cheese with a biscuit cutter.
It was such fun. We were the best of friends."

A Story of California 233

" There's another lamp smoking," growled Annixter.
" Turn it down, will you ? — and see that somebody sweeps
this floor here. It's all littered up with pine needles.
I've got a lot to do. Good-bye."

" Good-bye, sir."

Annixter returned to the ranch house, his teeth
clenched, enraged, his face flushed.

"Ah," he muttered, " Delaney, hey? Throwing it up
to me that I fired him." His teeth gripped together
more fiercely than ever. " The best of friends, hey ? By
God, I'll have that girl yet. I'll show that cow-puncher.
Ain't I her employer, her boss? I'll show her — and
Delaney, too. It would be easy enough — and then De-
laney can have her — if he wants her — after me."

An evil light flashing from under his scowl, spread
over his face. The male instincts of possession, unrea-
soned, treacherous, oblique, came twisting to the surface.
All the lower nature of the man, ignorant of women,
racked at one and the same time with enmity and desire,
roused itself like a hideous and abominable beast. And
at the same moment, Hilma returned to her house, hum-
ming to herself as she walked, her white dress glowing
with a shimmer of faint saffron light in the last ray of
the after-glow.

A little after half-past seven, the first carry-all, bearing
the druggist of Bonneville and his women-folk, arrived
in front of the new barn. Immediately afterward an
express wagon loaded down with a swarming family of
Spanish-Mexicans, gorgeous in red and yellow colours,
followed. Billy, the stableman, and his assistant took
charge of the teams, unchecking the horses and hitching
them to a fence back of the barn. Then Caraher, the
saloon-keeper, in " derby " hat, " Prince Albert " coat,
pointed yellow shoes and inevitable red necktie, drove
into the yard on his buckboard, the delayed box of

234 The Octopus

lemons under the seat. It looked as if the whole array
of invited guests was to arrive in one unbroken proces-
sion, but for a long half-hour nobody else appeared.
Annixter and Caraher withdrew to the harness room and
promptly involved themselves in a wrangle as to the
make-up of the famous punch. From time to time their
voices could be heard uplifted in clamorous argument.

" Two quarts and a half and a cupful of chartreuse."

" Rot, rot, I know better. Champagne straight and a
dash of brandy."

The druggist's wife and sister retired to the feed room,
where a bureau with a swinging mirror had been placed
for the convenience of the women. The druggist stood
awkwardly outside the door of the feed room, his coat
collar turned up against the draughts that drifted through
the barn, his face troubled, debating anxiously as to the
propriety of putting on his gloves. The Spanish-Mexi-
can family, a father, mother and five children and sister-
in-law, sat rigid on the edges of the hired chairs, silent,
constrained, their eyes lowered, their elbows in at their
sides, glancing furtively from under their eyebrows at
the decorations or watching with intense absorption
young Vacca, son of one of the division superintendents,
who wore a checked coat and white thread gloves and
who paced up and down the length of the barn, frowning,
very important, whittling a wax candle over the floor to
make it slippery for dancing.

The musicians arrived, the City Band of Bonneville —
Annixter having managed to offend the leader of the
" Dirigo " Club orchestra, at the very last moment, to
such a point that he had refused his services. These
members of the City Band repaired at once to their plat-
form in the corner. At every instant they laughed up-
roariously among themselves, joshing one of their num-
ber, a Frenchman, whom they called " Skeezicks." Their

A Story of California 235

hilarity reverberated in a hollow, metallic roll among the
rafters overhead. The druggist observed to young
Vacca as he passed by that he thought them pretty fresh,
just the same.

" I'm busy, I'm very busy," returned the young man,
continuing on his way, still frowning and paring the
stump of candle.

" Two quarts 'n' a half. Two quarts 'n' a half."

" Ah, yes, in a way, that's so ; and then, again, in a way,
it isn't. I know better."

All along one side of the barn were a row of stalls,
fourteen of them, clean as yet, redolent of new cut wood,
the sawdust still in the cracks of the flooring. Deliber-
ately the druggist went from one to the other, pausing
contemplatively before each. He returned down the line
and again took up his position by the door of the feed
room, nodding his head judicially, as if satisfied. He
decided to put on his gloves.

By now it was quite dark. Outside, between the barn
and the ranch houses one could see a group of men on
step-ladders lighting the festoons of Japanese lanterns.
In the darkness, only their faces appeared here and there,
high above the ground, seen in a haze of red, strange,
grotesque. Gradually as the multitude of lanterns were
lit, the light spread. The grass underfoot looked like
green excelsior. Another group of men invaded the
barn itself, lighting the lamps and lanterns there. Soon
the whole place was gleaming with points of light.
Young Vacca, who had disappeared, returned with his
pockets full of wax candles. He resumed his whittling,
refusing to answer any questions, vociferating that he
was busy.

Outside there was a sound of hoofs and voices. More
guests had arrived. The druggist, seized with confusion,
terrified lest he had put on his gloves too soon, thrust his

236 The Octopus

hands into his pockets. It was Cutter, Magnus Derrick's
division superintendent, who came, bringing his wife and
her two girl cousins. They had come fifteen miles by
the trail from the far distant division house on " Four "
of Los Muertos and had ridden on horseback instead of
driving. Mrs. Cutter could be heard declaring that she
was nearly dead and felt more like going to bed than
dancing. The two girl cousins, in dresses of dotted
Swiss over blue sateen, were doing their utmost to pacify
her. She could be heard protesting from moment to
moment. One distinguished the phrases " straight to my
bed," " back nearly broken in two," " never wanted to
come in the first place." The druggist, observing Cut-
ter take a pair of gloves from Mrs. Cutter's reticule,
drew his hands from his pockets.

But abruptly there was an interruption. In the musi-
cians' corner a scuffle broke out. A chair was over-
turned. There was a noise of imprecations mingled
with shouts of derision. Skeezicks, the Frenchman, had
turned upon the joshers.

" Ah, no," he was heard to exclaim, " at the end of the
end it is too much. Kind of a bad canary — we will go to
see about that. Aha, let him close up his face before I
demolish it with a good stroke of the fist."

The men who were lighting the lanterns were obliged
to intervene before he could be placated.

Hooven and his wife and daughters arrived. Minna
was carrying little Hilda, already asleep, in her arms.
Minna looked very pretty, striking even, with her black
hair, pale face, very red lips and greenish-blue eyes.
She was dressed in what had been Mrs. Hooven's wed-
ding gown, a cheap affair of " farmer's satin." Mrs.
Hooven had pendent earrings of imitation jet in her
ears. Hooven was wearing an old frock coat of Magnus
Derrick's, the sleeves too long, the shoulders absurdly too

A Story of California 237

wide. He and Cutter at once entered into an excited
conversation as to the ownership of a certain steer.

" Why, the brand—

"Ach, Gott, der brendt," Hooven clasped his head,
"ach, der brendt, dot maks me laugh some laughs.
Dot's goot — der brendt — doand I see um — shoor der
boole mit der bleck star bei der vore-head in der middle
oaf. Any someones you esk tell you dot is mein boole.
You esk any someones. Der brendt? To hell mit der
brendt. You aindt got some memorie aboudt does ting:
I guess nodt"

" Please step aside, gentlemen," said young Vacca,
who was still making the rounds of the floor.

Hooven whirled about. " Eh ? What den," he ex-
claimed, still excited, willing to be angry at any one for
the moment. " Doand you push soh, you. I tink ber-
hapz you doand own dose barn, hey ? "

" I'm busy, I'm very busy." The young man pushed
by with grave preoccupation.

" Two quarts 'n' a half. Two quarts 'n' a half."

" I know better. That's all rot."

But the barn was filling up rapidly. At every mo-
ment there was a rattle of a newly arrived vehicle from
outside. Guest after guest appeared in the doorway,
singly or in couples, or in families, or in garrulous
parties of five and six. Now it was Phelps and his
mother from Los Muertos, now a foreman from Broder-
son's with his family, now a gayly apparelled clerk from
a Bonneville store, solitary and bewildered, looking for
a place to put his hat, now a couple of Spanish-Mexican
girls from Guadalajara with coquettish effects of black
and yellow about their dress, now a group of Osterman's
tenants, Portuguese, swarthy, with plastered hair and
curled mustaches, redolent of cheap perfumes. Sarria
arrived, his smooth, shiny face glistening with perspira-

238 The Octopus

tion. He wore a new cassock and carried his broad-
brimmed hat under his arm. His appearance made quite
a stir. He passed from group to group, urbane, affable,
shaking hands right and left ; he assumed a set smile of
amiability which never left his face the whole evening.

But abruptly there was a veritable sensation. From
out the little crowd that persistently huddled about the
doorway came Osterman. He wore a dress-suit with a
white waistcoat and patent leather pumps — what a won-
•der! A little qualm of excitement spread around the
barn. One exchanged nudges of the elbow with one's
neighbour, whispering earnestly behind the hand. What
astonishing clothes ! Catch on to the coat-tails ! It was
a masquerade costume, maybe; that goat Osterman was
such a josher, one never could tell what he would do
next.

The musicians began to tune up. From their corner
came a medley of mellow sounds, the subdued chirps of
the violins, the dull bourdon of the bass viol, the liquid
gurgling of the flageolet and the deep-toned snarl of the
big horn, with now and then a rasping stridulating of the
snare drum. A sense of gayety began to spread through-
out the assembly. At every moment the crowd increased.
The aroma of new-sawn timber and sawdust began to be
mingled with the feminine odour of sachet and flowers.
There was a babel of talk in the air — male baritone and
soprano chatter — varied by an occasional note of laugh-
ter and the swish of stiffly starched petticoats. On the
row of chairs that went around three sides of the wall
groups began to settle themselves. For a long time the
guests huddled close to the doorway; the lower end of
the floor was crowded, the upper end deserted ; but by de-
grees the lines of white muslin and pink and blue sateen
extended, dotted with the darker figures of men in black
suits. The conversation grew louder as the timidity of

A Story of California 239

the early moments wore off. Groups at a distance called
back and forth; conversations were carried on at top
voice. Once, even a whole party hurried across the
floor from one side of the barn to the other.

Annixter emerged from the harness room, his face red
with wrangling. He took a position to the right of the
door, shaking hands with newcomers, inviting them over
and over again to cut loose and whoop it along. Into
the ears of his more intimate male acquaintances he
dropped a word as to punch and cigars in the harness
room later on, winking with vast intelligence.

Ranchers from remoter parts of the country appeared :
Garnett, from the Ruby rancho, Keast, from the ranch
of the same name, Gethings, of the San Pablo, Chattern,
of the Bonanza, and others and still others, a score of
them — elderly men, for the most part, bearded, slow of
speech, deliberate, dressed in broadcloth. Old Broder-
son, who entered with his wife on his arm, fell in with
this type, and with them came a certain Dabney, of
whom nothing but his name was known, a silent old
man, who made no friends, whom nobody knew or spoke
to, who was seen only upon such occasions as this, coming
from no one knew where, going, no one cared to inquire
whither.

Between eight and half-past, Magnus Derrick and his
family were seen. Magnus's entry caused no little im-
pression. Some said : " There's the Governor," and called
their companions' attention to the thin, erect figure, com-
manding, imposing, dominating all in his immediate
neighbourhood. Harran came with him, wearing a cut-
away suit of black. He was undeniably handsome, young
and fresh looking, his cheeks highly coloured, quite the
finest looking of all the younger men ; blond, strong,
with that certain courtliness of manner that had always
made him liked. He took his mother upon his arm

240 The Octopus

and conducted her to a seat by the side of Mrs.
Broderson.

Annie Derrick was very pretty that evening. She
was dressed in a grey silk gown with a collar of pink
velvet. Her light brown hair that yet retained so much
of its brightness was transfixed by a high, shell comb,
very Spanish. But the look of uneasiness in her large
eyes — the eyes of a young girl — was deepening every
day. The expression of innocence and inquiry which
they so easily assumed, was disturbed by a faint sugges-
tion of aversion, almost of terror. She settled herself in
her place, in the corner of the hall, in the rear rank of
chairs, a little frightened by the glare of lights, the hum
of talk and the shifting crowd, glad to be out of the
way, to attract no attention, willing to obliterate herself.

All at once Annixter, who had just shaken hands with
Dyke, his mother and the little tad, moved abruptly in
his place, drawing in his breath sharply. The crowd
around the great, wide-open main door of the barn had
somewhat thinned out and in the few groups that still
remained there he had suddenly recognised Mr. and
Mrs. Tree and Hilma, making their way towards some
empty seats near the entrance of the feed room.

In the dusky light of the barn earlier in the evening,
Annixter had not been able to see Hilma plainly. Now,
however, as she passed before his eyes in the glittering
radiance of the lamps and lanterns, he caught his breath
in astonishment. Never had she appeared more beautiful
in his eyes. It did not seem possible that this was the
same girl whom he saw every day in and around the
ranch house and dairy, the girl of simple calico frocks
and plain shirt waists, who brought him his dinner, who
made up his bed. Now he could not take his eyes from
her. Hilma, for the first time, was wearing her hair
done high upon her head. The thick, sweet-smelling

A Story of California 241

masses, bitumen brown in the shadows, corruscated like
golden filaments in the light. Her organdie frock was
long, longer than any she had yet worn. It left a little
of her neck and breast bare and all of her arm.

Annixter muttered an exclamation. Such arms ! How
did she manage to keep them hid on ordinary occasions.
Big at the shoulder, tapering with delicious modulations
to the elbow and wrist, overlaid with a delicate, gleaming
lustre. As often as she turned her head the movement
sent a slow undulation over her neck and shoulders, the
pale amber-tinted shadows under her chin, coming and
going over the creamy whiteness of the skin like the
changing moire of silk. The pretty rose colour of her
cheek had deepened to a pale carnation. Annixter, his
hands clasped behind him, stood watching.

In a few moments Hilma was surrounded by a group
of young men, clamouring for dances. They came from
all corners of the barn, leaving the other girls precipi-
tately, almost rudely. There could be little doubt as to
who was to be the belle of the occasion. Hilma's little
triumph was immediate, complete. Annixter could hear
her voice from time to time, its usual velvety huskiness
vibrating to a note of exuberant gayety.

All at once the orchestra swung off into a march — the
Grand March. There was a great rush to secure
" partners." Young Vacca, still going the rounds, was
pushed to one side. The gayly apparelled clerk from the
Bonneville store lost his head in the confusion. He could
not find his " partner." He roamed wildly about the
barn, bewildered, his eyes rolling. He resolved to pre-
pare an elaborate programme card on the back of an old
envelope. Rapidly the line was formed, Hilma and Har-
ran Derrick in the lead, Annixter having obstinately re-
fused to engage in either march, set or dance the whole
evening. Soon the confused shuffling of feet settled to a

242 The Octopus

measured cadence; the orchestra blared and wailed, the
snare drum, rolling at exact intervals, the cornet mark-
ing the time. It was half-past eight o'clock.

Annixter drew a long breath :

" Good," he muttered, " the thing is under way at last."

Singularly enough, Osterman also refused to dance.
The week before he had returned from Los Angeles,
bursting with the importance of his mission. He had
been successful. He had Disbrow " in his pocket." He
was impatient to pose before the others of the committee
as a skilful political agent, a manipulator. He forgot
his attitude of the early part of the evening when he had
drawn attention to himself with his wonderful clothes.
Now his comic actor's face, with its brownish-red cheeks,
protuberant ears and horizontal slit of a mouth, was
overcast with gravity. His bald forehead was seamed
with the wrinkles of responsibility. He drew Annixter
into one of the empty stalls and began an elaborate ex-
planation, glib, voluble, interminable, going over again
in detail what he had reported to the committee in outline.

* I managed — I schemed — I kept dark — I lay
low "

But Annixter refused to listen.

" Oh, rot your schemes. There's a punch in the har-
ness room that will make the hair grow on the top of your
head in the place where the hair ought to grow. Come
on, we'll round up some of the boys and walk into it."

They edged their way around the hall outside " The
Grand March," toward the harness room, picking up on
their way Caraher, Dyke, Hooven and old Broderson.
Once in the harness room, Annixter shot the bolt.

" That affair outside," he observed, " will take care of
itself, but here's a little orphan child that gets lonesome
without company."

Annixter began ladling the punch, filling the glasses.

A Story of California 243

Osterman proposed a toast to Quien Sabe and the
Biggest Barn. Their elbows crooked in silence. Old
Broderson set down his glass, wiping his long beard and
remarking :

" That — that certainly is very — very agreeable. I re-
member a punch I drank on Christmas day in '83, or no,
it was '84 — anyhow, that punch — it was in Ukiah — 'twas
'83 — " He wandered on aimlessly, unable to stop his
flow of speech, losing himself in details, involving his
talk in a hopeless maze of trivialities to which nobody
paid any attention.

" I don't drink myself/' observed Dyke, " but just a
taste of that with a lot of water wouldn't be bad for the
little tad. She'd think it was lemonade." He was about
to mix a glass for Sidney, but thought better of it at the
last moment.

" It's the chartreuse that's lacking," commented Cara-
her, lowering at Annixter. The other flared up on the
instant.

" Rot, rot. I know better. In some punches it goes ;
and then, again, in others it don't."

But it was left to Hooven to launch the successful
phrase :

" Gesundheit" he exclaimed, holding out his second
glass. After drinking, he replaced it on the table with a
long breath. " Ach Gott ! " he cried, " dat poonsch, say
I tink dot poonsch mek some demn goot vertilizer, hey ? "

Fertiliser ! The others roared with laughter.

" Good eye, Bismarck," commented Annixter. The
name had a great success. Thereafter throughout the
evening the punch was invariably spoken of as the " Fer-
tiliser." Osterman, having spilt the bottom of a glassful
on the floor, pretended that he saw shoots of grain com-
ing up on the spot. Suddenly he turned upon old
Broderson.

544 The Octopus

" I'm bald, ain't I ? Want to know how I lost my
hair? Promise you won't ask a single other question
and I'll tell you. Promise your word of honour."

" Eh ? What — wh — I — I don't understand. Your
hair? Yes, I'll promise. How did you lose it?"

" It was bit off/'

The other gazed at him stupefied; his jaw dropped.
The company shouted, and old Broderson, believing he
had somehow accomplished a witticism, chuckled in his
beard, wagging his head. But suddenly he fell grave,
struck with an idea. He demanded :

" Yes— I know— but— but what bit it off ? "

" Ah," vociferated Osterman, " that's just what you
promised not to ask."

The company doubled up with hilarity. Caraher
leaned against the door, holding his sides, but Hooven,
all abroad, unable to follow, gazed from face to face with
a vacant grin, thinking it was still a question of his
famous phrase.

"Vertilizer, hey? Dots some fine joke, hey? You
bedt."

What with the noise of their talk and laughter, it was
some time before Dyke, first of all, heard a persistent
knocking on the bolted door. He called Annixter's at-
tention to the sound. Cursing the intruder, Annixter
unbolted and opened the door. But at once his manner
changed.

" Hello. It's Presley. Come in, come in, Pres."

There was a shout of welcome from the others. A
spirit of effusive cordiality had begun to dominate the
gathering. Annixter caught sight of Vanamee back of
Presley, and waiving for the moment the distinction of
employer and employee, insisted that both the friends
should come in.

"Any friend of Pres is my friend," he declared.

A Story of California 245

But when the two had entered and had exchanged
greetings, Presley drew Annixter aside.

" Vanamee and I have just come from Bonneville," he
explained. " We saw Delaney there. He's got the buck-
skin, and he's full of bad whiskey and dago-red. You
should see him; he's wearing all his cow-punching out-
fit, hair trousers, sombrero, spurs and all the rest of it,
and he has strapped himself to a big revolver. He says
he wasn't invited to your barn dance but that he's coming
over to shoot up the place. He says you promised to
show him off Quien Sabe at the toe of your boot and
that he's going to give you the chance to-night ! "

" Ah," commented Annixter, nodding his head, " he is,
is he?"

Presley was disappointed. Knowing Annixter's iras-
cibility, he had expected to produce a more dramatic
effect. He began to explain the danger of the business.
Delaney had once knifed a greaser in the Panamint
country. He was known as a " bad " man. But Annix-
ter refused to be drawn.

" All right," he said, " that's all right. Don't tell any-
body else. You might scare the girls off. Get in and
drink."

Outside the dancing was by this time in full swing.
The orchestra was playing a polka. Young Vacca, now
at his fiftieth wax candle, had brought the floor to the
slippery surface of glass. The druggist was dancing
with one of the Spanish-Mexican girls with the solemnity
of an automaton, turning about and about, always in the
same direction, his eyes glassy, his teeth set. Hilma Tree
was dancing for the second time with Harran Derrick.
She danced with infinite grace. Her cheeks were bright
red, her eyes half-closed, and through her parted lips she
drew from time to time a long, tremulous breath of pure
delight. The music, the weaving colours, the heat of the

246 The Octopus

air, by now a little oppressive, the monotony of repeated
sensation, even the pain of physical fatigue had exalted
all her senses. She was in a dreamy lethargy of happi-
ness. It was her "first ball." She could have danced
without stopping until morning. Minna Hooven and Cut-
ter were " promenading." Mrs. Hooven, with little Hilda
already asleep on her knees, never took her eyes from
her daughter's gown. As often as Minna passed near
her she vented an energetic " pst ! pst ! " The metal tip
of a white draw string was showing from underneath the
waist of Minna's dress. Mrs. Hooven was on the point
of tears.

The solitary gayly apparelled clerk from Bonneville
was in a fever of agitation. He had lost his elaborate
programme card. Bewildered, beside himself with trepi-
dation, he hurried about the room, jostled by the dancing
couples, tripping over the feet of those who were seated ;
he peered distressfully under the chairs and about the
floor, asking anxious questions.

Magnus Derrick, the centre of a listening circle of
ranchers — Garnett from the Ruby rancho, Keast from
the ranch of the same name, Gethings and Chattern of
the San Pablo and Bonanza — stood near the great open
doorway of the barn, discussing the possibility of a
shortage in the world's wheat crop for the next year.

Abruptly the orchestra ceased playing with a roll of
the snare drum, a flourish of the cornet and a prolonged
growl of the bass viol. The dance broke up, the couples
hurrying to their seats, leaving the gayly apparelled clerk
suddenly isolated in the middle of the floor, rolling his
eyes. The druggist released the Spanish-Mexican girl
with mechanical precision out amidst the crowd of
dancers. He bowed, dropping his chin upon his cravat ;
throughout the dance neither had hazarded a word. The
girl found her way alone to a chair, but the druggist.

A Story of California 247

sick from continually revolving in the same direction,
walked unsteadily toward the wall. All at once the barn
reeled around him ; he fell down. There was a great
laugh, but he scrambled to his feet and disappeared
abruptly out into the night through the doorway of the
barn, deathly pale, his hand upon his stomach.

Dabney, the old man whom nobody knew, approached
the group of ranchers around Magnus Derrick and stood,
a little removed, listening gravely to what the governor
was saying, his chin sunk in his collar, silent, offering
no opinions.

But the leader of the orchestra, with a great gesture of
his violin bow, cried out:

" All take partners for the lancers and promenade
around the hall ! "

However, there was a delay. A little crowd formed
around the musicians' platform ; voices were raised ; there
was a commotion. Skeezicks, who played the big horn,
accused the cornet and the snare-drum of stealing his
cold lunch. At intervals he could be heard expostu-
lating :

" Ah, no ! at the end of the end ! Render me the
sausages, you, or less I break your throat ! Aha ! I know
you. You are going to play me there a bad farce. My
sausages and the pork sandwich, else I go away from
this place ! "

He made an exaggerated show of replacing his big
horn in its case, but the by-standers raised a great pro-
test. The sandwiches and one sausage were produced;
the other had disappeared. In the end Skeezichs allowed
himself to be appeased. The dance was resumed.

Half an hour later the gathering in the harness room
was considerably reinforced. It was the corner of the
barn toward which the male guests naturally gravitated.
Harran Derrick, who only cared to dance with Hilma

248 The Octopus

Tree, was admitted. Garnett from the Ruby rancho and
Gethings from the San Pablo, came in a little afterwards.
A fourth bowl of punch was mixed, Annixter and Car-
aher clamouring into each other's face as to its ingre-
dients. Cigars were lighted. Soon the air of the room
became blue with an acrid haze of smoke. It was very
warm. Ranged in their chairs around the side of the
room, the guests emptied glass after glass.

Vanamee alone refused to drink. He sat a little to
one side, disassociating himself from what was going
forward, watching the others calmly, a little contemptu-
ously, a cigarette in his ringers.

Hooven, after drinking his third glass, however, was
afflicted with a great sadness; his breast heaved with
immense sighs. He asserted that he was " obbressed ; "
Cutter had taken his steer. He retired to a corner and
seated himself in a heap on his chair, his heels on the
rungs, wiping the tears from his eyes, refusing to be com-
forted.

Old Broderson startled Annixter, who sat next to him,
out of all measure by suddenly winking at him with
infinite craftiness.

" When I was a lad in Ukiah," he whispered hoarsely,
*" I was a devil of a fellow with the girls ; but Lordy ! "
he nudged him slyly, " I wouldn't have it known ! "

Of those who were drinking, Annixter alone retained
all his wits. Though keeping pace with the others, glass
for glass, the punch left him solid upon his feet, clear-
headed. The tough, cross-grained fibre of him seemed
proof against alcohol. Never in his life had he been
drunk. He prided himself upon his power of resistance.
It was his nature.

" Say ! " exclaimed old Broderson, gravely addressing
the company, pulling at his beard uneasily — " say ! I — I
— listen ! I'm a devil of a fellow with the girls." He

A Story of California 249

wagged his head doggedly, shutting his eyes in a know-
ing fashion. " Yes, sir, I am. There was a young lady
in Ukiah — that was when I was a lad of seventeen. We
used to meet in the cemetery in the afternoons. I was
to go away to school at Sacramento, and the afternoon
I left we met in the cemetery and we stayed so long I
almost missed the train. Her name was Celestine."

There was a pause. The others waited for the rest of
the story.

" And afterwards ? " prompted Annixter.

" Afterwards ? Nothing afterwards. I never saw her
again. Her name was Celestine."

The company raised a chorus of derision, and Oster-
man cried ironically:

" Say ! that's a pretty good one ! Tell us another."

The old man laughed with the rest, believing he had
made another hit. He called Osterman to him, whisper-
ing in his ear :

" Sh ! Look here ! Some night you and I will go up
to San Francisco — hey? We'll go skylarking. We'll be
gay. Oh, I'm a — a — a rare old buck, I am ! I ain't too
old. You'll see."

Annixter gave over the making of the fifth bowl of
punch to Osterman, who affirmed that he had a recipe
for a " fertiliser " from Solotari that would take the
plating off the ladle. He left him wrangling with Car-
aher, who still persisted in adding chartreuse, and stepped
out into the dance to see how things were getting on.

It was the interval between two dances. In and around
a stall at the farther end of the floor, where lemonade
was being served, was a great throng of young men.
Others hurried across the floor singly or by twos and
threes, gingerly carrying overflowing glasses to their
" partners," sitting in long rows of white and blue and
pink against the opposite wall, their mothers and older

250 The Octopus

sisters in a second dark-clothed rank behind them. A
babel of talk was in the air, mingled with gusts of
laughter. Everybody seemed having a good time. In
the increasing heat the decorations of evergreen trees
and festoons threw off a pungent aroma that suggested
a Sunday-school Christmas festival. In the other stalls,
lower down the barn, the young men had brought chairs,
and in these deep recesses the most desperate love-making
was in progress, the young man, his hair neatly parted,
leaning with great solicitation over the girl, his " part-
ner " for the moment, fanning her conscientiously, his
arm carefully laid along the back of her chair.

By the doorway, Annixter met Sarria, who had stepped
out to smoke a fat, black cigar. The set smile of amia-
bility was still fixed on the priest's smooth, shiny face;
the cigar ashes had left grey streaks on the front of his
cassock. He avoided Annixter, fearing, no doubt, an
allusion to his game cocks, and took up his position back
of the second rank of chairs by the musicians' stand,
beaming encouragingly upon every one who caught
his eye.

Annixter was saluted right and left as he slowly went
the round of the floor. At every moment he had to
pause to shake hands and to listen to congratulations
upon the size of his barn and the success of his dance.
But he was distrait, his thoughts elsewhere; he did not
attempt to hide his impatience when some of the young
men tried to engage him in conversation, asking him to
be introduced to their sisters, or their friends' sisters.
He sent them about their business harshly, abominably
rude, leaving a wake of angry disturbance behind him,
sowing the seeds of future quarrels and renewed un-
popularity. He was looking for Hilma Tree.

When at last he came unexpectedly upon her, standing
near where Mrs. Tree was seated, some half-dozen young

A Story of California 251

men hovering uneasily in her neighbourhood, all his au-
dacity was suddenly stricken from him ; his gruffness, his
overbearing insolence vanished with an abruptness that
left him cold. His old-time confusion and embarrass-
ment returned to him. Instead of speaking to her as
he intended, he affected not to see her, but passed by,
his head in the air, pretending a sudden interest in a
Japanese lantern that was about to catch fire.

But he had had a single distinct glimpse of her,
'definite, precise, a"hd this glimpse was enough. Hilma
had changed. The change was subtle, evanescent, hard
to define, but not the less unmistakable. The excitement,
the enchanting delight, the delicious disturbance of " the
first ball," had produced its result. Perhaps there had
only been this lacking. It was hard to say, but for that
brief instant of time Annixter was looking at Hilma,
the woman. She was no longer the young girl upon
whom he might look down, to whom he might con-
descend, whose little, infantile graces were to be consid-
ered with amused toleration.

When Annixter returned to the harness room, he let
himself into a clamour of masculine hilarity. Osterman
had, indeed, made a marvellous " fertiliser," whiskey for
the most part, diluted with champagne and lemon juice.
The first round of this drink had been welcomed with a
salvo of cheers. Hooven, recovering his spirits under
its violent stimulation, spoke of " heving ut oudt mit
Cudder, bei Gott," while Osterman, standing on a chair
at the end of the room, shouted for a " few moments
quiet, gentlemen," so that he might tell a certain story
he knew.

But, abruptly, Annixter discovered that the liquors —
the champagne, whiskey, brandy, and the like — were run-
ning low. This would never do. He felt that he would
stand disgraced if it could be said afterward that he had

252 The Octopus

not provided sufficient drink at his entertainment. He
slipped out, unobserved, and, rinding two of his ranch
hands near the doorway, sent them down to the ranch
house to bring up all the cases of "stuff" they found
there.

However, when this matter had been attended to, An-
nixter did not immediately return to the harness room.
On the floor of the barn a square dance was under way,
the leader of the City Band calling the figures. Young
Vacca indefatigably continued the rounds of the barn,
paring candle after candle, possessed with this single idea
of duty, pushing the dancers out of his way, refusing
to admit that the floor was yet sufficiently slippery. The
druggist had returned indoors, and leaned dejected and
melancholy against the wall near the doorway, unable
to dance, his evening's enjoyment spoiled. The gayly
apparelled clerk from Bonneville had just involved him-
self in a deplorable incident. In a search for his hand-
kerchief, which he had lost while trying to find his pro-
gramme card, he had inadvertently wandered into the
feed room, set apart as the ladies' dressing room, at the
moment when Mrs. Hooven, having removed the waist
of Minna's dress, was relacing her corsets. There was a
tremendous scene. The clerk was ejected forcibly, Mrs.
Hooven filling all the neighbourhood with shrill expostu-
lation. A young man, Minna's " partner," who stood near
the feed room door, waiting for her to come out, had
invited the clerk, with elaborate sarcasm, to step outside
for a moment ; and the clerk, breathless, stupefied, hustled
from hand to hand, remained petrified, with staring eyes,
turning about and about, looking wildly from face to
face, speechless, witless, wondering what had happened.

But the square dance was over. The City Band was
just beginning to play a waltz. Annixter assuring him-
self that everything was going all right, was picking his

A Story of California 253

way across the floor, when he came upon Hilma Tree
quite alone, and looking anxiously among the crowd of
dancers.

" Having a good time, Miss Hilma ? " he demanded,
pausing for a moment.

" Oh, am I, just! " she exclaimed. " The best time-
but I don't know what has become of my partner. See !
I'm left all alone — the only time this whole evening,"
she added proudly. " Have you seen him — my partner,
sir? I forget his name. I only met him this evening,
and I've met so many I can't begin to remember half
of them. He was a young man from Bonneville — a
clerk, I think, because I remember seeing him in a store
there, and he wore the prettiest clothes ! "

" I guess he got lost in the shuffle," observed Annixter.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He took his resolu-
tion in both hands. He clenched his teeth.

" Say ! look here, Miss Hilma. What's the matter with
you and I stealing this one for ourselves ? I don't mean
to dance. I don't propose to make a jumping- jack of
myself for some galoot to give me the laugh, but we'll
walk around. Will you? What do you say?"

Hilma consented.

" I'm not so very sorry I missed my dance with that —
that — little clerk," she said guiltily. " I suppose that's
very bad of me, isn't it?"

Annixter fulminated a vigorous protest.

" I am so warm ! " murmured Hilma, fanning herself
with her handkerchief ; " and, oh ! such a good time as
I have had! I was so afraid that I would be a wall-
flower and sit up by mamma and papa the whole even-
ing ; and as it is, I have had every single dance, and even
some dances I had to split. Oh-h ! " she breathed, glanc-
ing lovingly around the barn, noting again the festoons
of tri-coloured cambric, the Japanese lanterns, flaring

254 The Octopus

lamps, and " decorations " of evergreen ; " oh-h ! it's all
so lovely, just like a fairy story; and to think that it
can't last but for one little evening, and that to-morrow
morning one must wake up to the every-day things
again ! "

" Well/' observed Annixter doggedly, unwilling that
she should forget whom she ought to thank, " I did my
best, and my best is as good as another man's, I guess."

Hilma overwhelmed him with a burst of gratitude
which he gruffly pretended to deprecate. Oh, that was
all right. It hadn't cost him much. He liked to see
people having a good time himself, and the crowd did
seem to be enjoying themselves. What did she think?
Did things look lively enough? And how about herself
— was she enjoying it?

Stupidly Annixter drove the question home again, at
his wits' end as to how to make conversation. Hilma
protested volubly she would never forget this night,
adding :

" Dance ! Oh, you don't know how I love it ! I didn't
know myself. I could dance all night and never stop
once ! "

Annixter was smitten with uneasiness. No doubt this
" promenading " was not at all to her taste. Wondering
what kind of a spectacle he was about to make of him-
self, he exclaimed :

"Want to dance now?"

" Oh, yes ! " she returned.

They paused in their walk, and Hilma, facing him,
gave herself into his arms. Annixter shut his teeth,
the perspiration starting from his forehead. For five
years he had abandoned dancing. Never in his best days
had it been one of his accomplishments.

They hesitated a moment, waiting to catch the time
from the musicians. Another couple bore down upon

A Story of California 255

them at precisely the wrong moment, jostling them out of
step. Annixter swore under his breath. His arm still
about the young woman, he pulled her over to one corner.

" Now/' he muttered, " we'll try again."

A second time, listening to the one-two-three, one-two-
three cadence of the musicians, they endeavoured to get
under way. Annixter waited the fraction of a second
too long and stepped on Hilma's foot. On the third
attempt, having worked out of the corner, a pair of
dancers bumped into them once more, and as they were
recovering themselves another couple caromed violently
against Annixter so that he all but lost his footing. He
was in a rage. Hilma, very embarrassed, was trying not
to laugh, and thus they found themselves, out in the
middle of the floor, continually jostled from their posi-
tion, holding clumsily to each other, stammering excuses
into one another's faces, when Delaney arrived.

He came with the suddenness of an explosion. There
was a commotion by the doorway, a rolling burst of
oaths, a furious stamping of hoofs, a wild scramble of
the dancers to either side of the room, and there he was.
He had ridden the buckskin at a gallop straight through
the doorway and out into the middle of the floor of the
barn.

Once well inside, Delaney hauled up on the cruel spade-
bit, at the same time driving home the spurs, and the
buckskin, without halting in her gait, rose into the air
upon her hind feet, and coming down again with a
thunder of iron hoofs upon the hollow floor, lashed out
with both heels simultaneously, her back arched, her head
between her knees. It was the running buck, and had
not Delaney been the hardest buster in the county, would
have flung him headlong like a sack of sand. But he
eased off the bit, gripping the mare's flanks with his
knees, and the buckskin, having long since known her

256 The Octopus

master, came to hand quivering, the bloody spume drip-
ping from the bit upon the slippery floor.

Delaney had arrayed himself with painful elaboration,
determined to look the part, bent upon creating the im-
pression, resolved that his appearance at least should
justify his reputation of being "bad." Nothing was
lacking — neither the campaign hat with up-turned brim,
nor the dotted blue handkerchief knotted behind the neck,
nor the heavy gauntlets stitched with red, nor — this above
all — the bear-skin " chaparejos," the hair trousers of the
mountain cowboy, the pistol holster low on the thigh. But
for the moment this holster was empty, and in his right
hand, the hammer at full cock, the chamber loaded, the
puncher flourished his teaser, an army Colt's, the lamp-
light dully reflected in the dark blue steel.

In a second of time the dance was a bedlam. The
musicians stopped with a discord, and the middle of the
crowded floor bared itself instantly. It was like sand
blown from off a rock; the throng of guests, carried
by an impulse that was not to be resisted, bore back
against the sides of the barn, overturning chairs, tripping
upon each other, falling down, scrambling to their feet
again, stepping over one another, getting behind each
other, diving under chairs, flattening themselves against
the wall — a wild, clamouring pell-mell, blind, deaf, panic-
stricken ; a confused tangle of waving arms, torn muslin,
crushed flowers, pale faces, tangled legs, that swept in
all directions back from the centre of the floor, leaving
Annixter and Hilma, alone, deserted, their arms about
each other, face to face with Delaney, mad with alcohol,
bursting with remembered insult, bent on evil, reckless
of results.

After the first scramble for safety, the crowd fell quiet
for the fraction of an instant, glued to the walls, afraid
to stir, struck dumb and motionless with surprise and

A Story of California 257

terror, and in the instant's silence that followed Annixter,
his eyes on Delaney, muttered rapidly to Hilma:

" Get back, get away to one side. The fool might
shoot."

There was a second's respite afforded while Delaney
occupied himself in quieting the buckskin, and in that
second of time, at this moment of crisis, the wonderful
thing occurred. Hilma, turning from Delaney, her hands
clasped on Annixter's arm, her eyes meeting his, ex-
claimed :

" You, too ! "

And that was all ; but to Annixter it was a revelation.
Never more alive to his surroundings, never more ob-
servant, he suddenly understood. For the briefest lapse
of time he and Hilma looked deep into each other's eyes,
and from that moment on, Annixter knew that Hilma
cared.

The whole matter was brief as the snapping of a
finger. Two words and a glance and all was done. But
as though nothing had occurred, Annixter pushed Hilma
from him, repeating harshly:

" Get back, I tell you. Don't you see he's got a gun ?
Haven't I enough on my hands without you ? "

He loosed her clasp and his eyes once more on De-
laney, moved diagonally backwards toward the side of
the barn, pushing Hilma from him. In the end he thrust
her away so sharply that she gave back with a long
stagger ; somebody caught her arm and drew her in, leav-
ing Annixter alone once more in the middle of the floor,
his hands in his coat pockets, watchful, alert, facing his
enemy.

But the cow-puncher was not ready to come to grapples
yet. Fearless, his wits gambolling under the lash of the
alcohol, he wished to make the most of the occasion,
maintaining the suspense, playing for the gallery. By

258 The Octopus

touches of the hand and knee he kept the buckskin in
continual, nervous movement, her hoofs clattering, snort-
ing, tossing her head, while he, himself, addressing him-
self to Annixter, poured out a torrent of invective.

" Well, strike me blind if it ain't old Buck Annixter !
He was going to show me off Quien Sabe at the toe of
his boot, was he? Well, here's your chance, — with the
ladies to see you do it. Gives a dance, does he, high-
falutin' hoe-down in his barn and forgets to invite his
,old broncho-bustin' friend. But his friend don't for-
get him; no, he don't. He remembers little things, does
his broncho-bustin' friend. Likes to see a dance hisself
on occasion, his friend does. Comes anyhow, trustin' his
welcome will be hearty; just to see old Buck Annixter
dance, just to show Buck Annixter's friends how Buck
can dance — dance all by hisself, a little hen-on-a-hot-plate
dance when his broncho-bustin' friend asks him so polite.
A little dance for the ladies, Buck. This feature of the
entertainment is alone worth the price of admission.
Tune up, Buck. Attention now ! I'll give you the key."

He " fanned " his revolver, spinning it about his index
finger by the trigger-guard with incredible swiftness, the
twirling weapon a mere blur of blue steel in his hand.
Suddenly and without any apparent cessation of the move-
ment, he fired, and a little splinter of wood flipped into
the air at Annixter's feet.

" Time ! " he shouted, while the buckskin reared to
the report. " Hold on — wait a minute. This place is
too light to suit. That big light yonder is in my eyes.
Look out, I'm going to throw lead."

A second shot put out the lamp over the musicians'
stand. The assembled guests shrieked, a frantic, shrink-
ing quiver ran through the crowd like the huddling of
frightened rabbits in their pen.

Annixter hardly moved. He stood some thirty paces

A Story of California 259

from the buster, his hands still in his coat pockets, his
eyes glistening, watchful.

Excitable and turbulent in trifling matters, when
actual bodily danger threatened he was of an abnormal
quiet.

" I'm watching you," cried the other. " Don't make
any mistake about that. Keep your hands in your coat
pockets, if you'd like to live a little longer, understand?
And don't let me see you make a move toward your hip
or your friends will be asked to identify you at the
morgue to-morrow morning. When I'm bad, I'm called
the Undertaker's Friend, so I am, and I'm that bad to-
night that I'm scared of myself. They'll have to revise
the census returns before I'm done with this place.
Come on, now, I'm getting tired waiting. I come to see
a dance."

" Hand over that horse, Delaney," said Annixter, with-
out raising his voice, " and clear out."

The other affected to be overwhelmed with infinite
astonishment, his eyes staring. He peered down from
the saddle.

" Wh-a-a-t ! " he exclaimed ; " wh-a-a-t (lid you say ?
Why, I guess you must be looking for trouble; that's
what I guess."

" There's where you're wrong, m'son," muttered An-
nixter, partly to Delaney, partly to himself. " If I was
looking for trouble there wouldn't be any guess-work
about it."

With the words he began firing. Delaney had hardly
entered the barn before Annixter's plan had been formed.
Long since his revolver was in the pocket of his coat, and
he fired now through the coat itself, without withdraw-
ing his hands.

Until that moment Annixter had not been sure of him-
self. There was no doubt that for the first few moments

260 The Octopus

of the affair he would have welcomed with joy any
reasonable excuse for getting out of the situation. But
the sound of his own revolver gave him confidence. He
whipped it from his pocket and fired again.

Abruptly the duel began, report following report,
spurts of pale blue smoke jetting like the darts of short
spears between the two men, expanding to a haze and
drifting overhead in wavering strata. It was quite prob-
able that no thought of killing each other suggested itself
to either Annixter or Delaney. Both fired without aim-
ing very deliberately. To empty their revolvers and
avoid being hit was the desire common to both. They
no longer vituperated each other. The revolvers spoke
for them.

Long after, Annixter could recall this moment. For
years he could with but little effort reconstruct the scene
— the densely packed crowd flattened against the sides of
the barn, the festoons of lanterns, the mingled smell of
evergreens, new wood, sachets, and powder smoke ; the
vague clamour of distress and terror that rose from the
throng of guests, the squealing of the buckskin, the un-
even explosions of the revolvers, the reverberation of
trampling hoofs, a brief glimpse of Harran Derrick's
excited face at the door of the harness room, and in the
open space in the centre of the floor, himself and De-
laney, manoeuvring swiftly in a cloud of smoke.

Annixter's revolver contained but six cartridges. Al-
ready it seemed to him as if he had fired twenty times.
Without doubt the next shot was his last. Then what?
He peered through the blue haze that with every dis-
charge thickened between him and the buster. For his
own safety he must " place " at least one shot. Delaney's
chest and shoulders rose suddenly above the smoke close
upon him as the distraught buckskin reared again. An-
nixter, for the first time during the fight, took definite

A Story of California 261

aim, but before he could draw the trigger there was a
great shout and he was aware of the buckskin, the
bridle trailing, the saddle empty, plunging headlong
across the floor, crashing into the line of chairs. De-
laney was scrambling off the floor. There was blood on
the buster's wrist and he no longer carried his revolver.
Suddenly he turned and ran. The crowd parted right
and left before him as he made toward the doorway.
He disappeared.

Twenty men promptly sprang to the buckskin's head,
but she broke away, and wild with terror, bewildered,
blind, insensate, charged into the corner of the barn by
the musicians' stand. She brought up against the wall
with cruel force and with impact of a sack of stones ; her
head was cut. She turned and charged again, bull-like,
the blood streaming from her forehead. The crowd,
shrieking, melted before her rush. An old man was
thrown down and trampled. The buckskin trod upon
the dragging bridle, somersaulted into a confusion of
chairs in one corner, and came down with a terrific clat-
ter in a wild disorder of kicking hoofs and splintered
wood. But a crowd of men fell upon her, tugging at the
bit, sitting on her head, shouting, gesticulating. For
five minutes she struggled and fought ; then, by degrees,
she recovered herself, drawing great sobbing breaths at
long intervals that all but burst the girths, rolling her
eyes in bewildered, supplicating fashion, trembling in
«very muscle, and starting and shrinking now and then
like a young girl in hysterics. At last she lay quiet.
The men allowed her to struggle to her feet. The saddle
was removed and she was led to one of the empty stalls,
where she remained the rest of the evening, her head
low, her pasterns quivering, turning her head apprehen-
sively from time to time, showing the white of one eye
and at long intervals heaving a single prolonged sigh.

262 The Octopus

And an hour later the dance was progressing as evenly
as though nothing in the least extraordinary had oc-
curred. The incident was closed — that abrupt swoop of
terror and impending death dropping down there from
-out the darkness, cutting abruptly athwart the gayety of
the moment, come and gone with the swiftness of a
thunderclap. Many of the women had gone home, tak-
ing their men with them ; but the great bulk of the crowd
still remained, seeing no reason why the episode should
interfere with the evening's enjoyment, resolved to hold
the ground for mere bravado, if for nothing else. De-
laney would not come back, of that everybody was per-
suaded, and in case he should, there was not found want-
ing fully half a hundred young men who would give
him a dressing down, by jingo! They had been too sur-
prised to act when Delaney had first appeared, and be-
fore they knew where they were at, the buster had cleared
out. In another minute, just another second, they would
'have shown him — yes, sir, by jingo! — ah, you bet!

On all sides the reminiscences began to circulate. At
least one man in every three had been involved in a
gun fight at some time of his life. " Ah, you ought to
'have seen in Yuba County one time — " " Why, in
Butte County in the early days — " " Pshaw ! this to-
night wasn't anything! Why, once in a saloon in Ari-
zona when I was there — " and so on, over and over
again. Osterman solemnly asserted that he had seen a
greaser sawn in two in a Nevada sawmill. Old Broder-
son had witnessed a Vigilante lynching in '55 on Cali-
fornia Street in San Francisco. Dyke recalled how once
in his engineering days he had run over a drunk at a
street crossing. Gethings of the San Pablo had taken a
shot at a highwayman. Hooven had bayonetted a French
Chasseur at Sedan. An old Spanish-Mexican, a cen-
tenarian from Guadalajara, remembered Fremont's stand

A Story of California 263

on a mountain top in San Benito County. The druggist
had fired at a burglar trying to break into his store one
New Year's eve. Young Vacca had seen a dog shot in
Guadalajara. Father Sarria had more than once admin-
istered the sacraments to Portuguese desperadoes dying
of gunshot wounds. Even the women recalled terrible
scenes. Mrs. Cutter recounted to an interested group
how she had seen a claim jumped in Placer County in
1851, when three men were shot, falling in a fusillade of
rifle shots, and expiring later upon the floor of her kitchen
while she looked on. Mrs. Dyke had been in a stage
hold-up, when the shotgun messenger was murdered.
Stories by the hundreds went the round of the company.
The air was surcharged with blood, dying groans, the
reek of powder smoke, the crack of rifles. All the
legends of '49, the violent, wild life of the early days,
were recalled to view, defiling before them there in an
endless procession under the glare of paper lanterns and
kerosene lamps.

But the affair had aroused a combative spirit amongst
the men of the assembly. Instantly a spirit of aggres-
sion, of truculence, swelled up underneath waistcoats
and starched shirt bosoms. More than one offender was
promptly asked to " step outside." It was like young
bucks excited by an encounter of stags, lowering their
horns upon the slightest provocation, showing off before
the does and fawns. Old quarrels were remembered.
One sought laboriously for slights and insults, veiled in
ordinary conversation. The sense of personal honour be-
came refined to a delicate, fine point. Upon the slightest
pretext there was a haughty drawing up of the figure,
a twisting of the lips into a smile of scorn. Caraher
spoke of shooting S. Behrman on sight before the end
of the week. Twice it became necessary to separate
Hooven and Cutter, renewing their quarrel as to the

264 The Octopus

ownership of the steer. All at once Minna Hooven's
" partner " fell upon the gayly apparelled clerk from
Bonneville, pummelling him with his fists, hustling him
out of the hall, vociferating that Miss Hooven had been
grossly insulted. It took three men to extricate the-
clerk from his clutches, dazed, gasping, his collar un-
fastened and sticking up into his face, his eyes staring
wildly into the faces of the crowd.

But Annixter, bursting with pride, his chest thrown
out, his chin in the air, reigned enthroned in a circle
of adulation. He was the Hero. To shake him by the
hand was an honour to be struggled for. One clapped
him on the back with solemn nods of approval. " There's
the boy for you ; " " There was nerve for you ; " " What's
the matter with Annixter ? " " How about that for sand,
and how was that for a shot? " " Why, Apache Kid
couldn't have bettered that." "Cool enough." "Took
a steady eye and a sure hand to make a shot like that."
" There was a shot that would be told about in Tulare
County fifty years to come."

Annixter had refrained from replying, all ears to this
conversation, wondering just what had happened. He
knew only that Delaney had run, leaving his revolver
and a spatter of blood behind him. By degrees, how-
ever, he ascertained that his last shot but one had struck
Delaney's pistol hand, shattering it and knocking the
revolver from his grip. He was overwhelmed with as-
tonishment. Why, after the shooting began he had not
so much as seen Delaney with any degree of plainness.
The whole affair was a whirl.

" Well, where did you learn to shoot that way ? " some
one in the crowd demanded. Annixter moved his shoul-
ders with a gesture of vast unconcern.

"Oh," he observed carelessly, "it's not my shooting
that ever worried me, m'son."

A Story of California 265

The crowd gaped with delight. There was a great
wagging of heads.

" Well, I guess not."

" No, sir, not much."

" Ah, no, you bet not."

When the women pressed around him, shaking his
hands, declaring that he had saved their daughters' lives,
Annixter assumed a pose of superb deprecation, the mod-
est self-obliteration of the chevalier. He delivered him-
self of a remembered phrase, very elegant, refined. It
was Lancelot after the tournament, Bayard receiving
felicitations after the battle.

" Oh, don't say anything about it," he murmured. " I
only did what any man would have done in my place."

To restore completely the equanimity of the company,
he announced supper. This he had calculated as a tre-
mendous surprise. It was to have been served at mid-
night, but the irruption of Delaney had dislocated the
order of events, and the tables were brought in an hour
ahead of time. They were arranged around three sides
of the barn and were loaded down with cold roasts of
beef, cold chickens and cold ducks, mountains of sand-
wiches, pitchers of milk and lemonade, entire cheeses,
bowls of olives, plates of oranges and nuts. The advent
of this supper was received with a volley of applause.
The musicians played a quick step. The company threw
themselves upon the food with a great scraping of chairs
and a vast rustle of muslins, tarletans, and organdies;
soon the clatter of dishes was a veritable uproar. The
tables were taken by assault. One ate whatever was
nearest at hand, some even beginning with oranges and
nuts and ending with beef and chicken. At the end the
paper caps were brought on, together with the ice cream.
All up and down the tables the pulled " crackers " snapped
continually like the discharge of innumerable tiny rifles.

266 The Octopus

The caps of tissue paper were put on — " Phrygian Bon-
nets," " Magicians' Caps," " Liberty Caps ; " the young
girls looked across the table at their vis-a-vis with bursts
of laughter and vigorous clapping of the hands.

The harness room crowd had a table to themselves, at
the head of which sat Annixter and at the foot Harran.
The gun fight had sobered Presley thoroughly. He sat
by the side of Vanamee, who ate but little, preferring
rather to watch the scene with calm observation, a little
contemptuous when the uproar around the table was too
boisterous, savouring of intoxication. Osterman rolled
bullets of bread and shot them with astonishing force
up and down the table, but the others — Dyke, old Broder-
son, Caraher, Harran Derrick, Hooven, Cutter, Garnett
of the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same
name, Gethings of the San Pablo, and Chattern of the
Bonanza — occupied themselves with eating as much as
they could before the supper gave out. At a corner of
the table, speechless, unobserved, ignored, sat Dabney,
of whom nothing was known but his name, the silent
old man who made no friends. He ate and drank
quietly, dipping his sandwich in his lemonade.

Osterman ate all the olives he could lay his hands on,
a score of them, fifty of them, a hundred of them. He
touched no crumb of anything else. Old Broderson
stared at him, his jaw fallen. Osterman declared he had
once eaten a thousand on a bet. The men called each
others' attention to him. Delighted to create a sensa-
tion, Osterman persevered. The contents of an entire
bowl disappeared in his huge, reptilian slit of a mouth.
His cheeks of brownish red were extended, his bald fore-
head glistened. Colics seized upon him. His stomach
revolted. It was all one with him. He was satisfied,
contented. He was astonishing the people.

" Once I swallowed a tree toad/' he told old Broder-

A Story of California 267

son, "by mistake. I was eating grapes, and the beggar
lived in me three weeks. In rainy weather he would sing.
You don't believe that," he vociferated. " Haven't I got
the toad at home now in a bottle of alcohol."

And the old man, never doubting, his eyes starting,
wagged his head in amazement.

"Oh, yes," cried Caraher, the length of the table,
" that's a pretty good one. Tell us another."

" That reminds me of a story," hazarded old Broder-
son uncertainly ; " once when I was a lad in Ukiah, fifty
years "

" Oh, yes," cried half a dozen voices, " that's a pretty
good one. Tell us another."

" Eh — wh — what ? " murmured Broderson, looking
about him. " I — I don't know. It was Ukiah. You —
you — you mix me all up."

As soon as supper was over, the floor was cleared
again. The guests clamoured for a Virginia reel. The
last quarter of the evening, the time of the most riotous
fun, was beginning. The young men caught the girls
who sat next to them. The orchestra dashed off into a
rollicking movement. The two lines were formed. In a
second of time the dance was under way again ; the guests
still wearing the Phrygian bonnets and liberty caps of
pink and blue tissue paper.

But the group of men once more adjourned to the har-
ness room. Fresh boxes of cigars were opened ; the sev-
enth bowl of fertiliser was mixed. Osterman poured the
dregs of a glass of it upon his bald head, declaring that
he could feel the hair beginning to grow.

But suddenly old Broderson rose to his feet.

" Aha," he cackled, " I'm going to have a dance, I
am. Think I'm too old? I'll show you young fellows.
I'm a regular old rooster when I get started."

He marched out into the barn, the others following,

268 The Octopus

holding their sides. He found an aged Mexican woman
by the door and hustled her, all confused and giggling,
into the Virginia reel, then at its height. Every one
crowded around to see. Old Broderson stepped off with
the alacrity of a colt, snapping his fingers, slapping his
thigh, his mouth widening in an excited grin. The entire
company of the guests shouted. The City Band re-
doubled their efforts ; and the old man, losing his head,
breathless, gasping, dislocated his stiff joints in his ef-
forts. He became possessed, bowing, scraping, advanc-
ing, retreating, wagging his beard, cutting pigeons' wings,
distraught with the music, the clamour, the applause, the
effects of the fertiliser.

Annixter shouted:

" Nice eye, Santa Claus."

But Annixter's attention wandered. He searched for
Hilma Tree, having still in mind the look in her eyes at
that swift moment of danger. He had not seen her since
then. At last he caught sight of her. She was not
dancing, but, instead, was sitting with her " partner " at
the end of the barn near her father and mother, her eyes
wide, a serious expression on her face, her thoughts, no
doubt, elsewhere. Annixter was about to go to her when
he was interrupted by a cry.

Old Broderson, in the midst of a double shuffle, had
clapped his hand to his side with a gasp, which he fol-
lowed by a whoop of anguish. He had got a stitch or had
started a twinge somewhere. With a gesture of resigna-
tion, he drew himself laboriously out of the dance, limp-
ing abominably, one leg dragging. He was heard asking
for his wife. Old Mrs. Broderson took him in charge.
She jawed him for making an exhibition of himself,
scolding as though he were a ten-year-old.

" Well, I want to know ! " she exclaimed, as he hobbled
off, dejected and melancholy, leaning upon her arm,

A Story of California 269

" thought he had to dance, indeed ! What next ? A gay
old grandpa, this. He'd better be thinking of his coffin.''

It was almost midnight. The dance drew towards its
close in a storm of jubilation. The perspiring musicians
toiled like galley slaves ; the guests singing as they danced.

The group of men reassembled in the harness room.
Even Magnus Derrick condescended to enter and drink
a toast. Presley and Vanamee, still holding themselves
aloof, looked on, Vanamee more and more disgusted.
Dabney, standing to one side, overlooked and forgotten,
continued to sip steadily at his glass, solemn, reserved.
Garnett of the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of
the same name, Gethings of the San Pablo, and Chattern
of the Bonanza, leaned back in their chairs, their waist-
coats unbuttoned, their legs spread wide, laughing — they
could not tell why. Other ranchers, men whom Annixter
had never seen, appeared in the room, wheat growers
from places as far distant as Goshen and Pixley; young
men and old, proprietors of veritable principalities, hun-
dreds of thousands of acres of wheat lands, a dozen of
them, a score of them; men who were strangers to each
other, but who made it a point to shake hands with
Magnus Derrick, the " prominent man " of the valley.
Old Broderson, whom every one had believed had gone
home, returned, though much sobered, and took his place,
refusing, however, to drink another spoonful.

Soon the entire number of Annixter's guests found
themselves in two companies, the dancers on the floor of
the barn, frolicking through the last figures of the Vir-
ginia reel and the boisterous gathering of men in the
harness room, downing the last quarts of fertiliser. Both
assemblies had been increased. Even the older people
had joined in the dance, while nearly every one of the
men who did not dance had found their way into -the
harness room. The two groups rivalled each other in

270 The Octopus

their noise. Out on the floor of the barn was a very
whirlwind of gayety,a tempest of laughter, hand-clapping
and cries of amusement. In the harness room the con-
fused shouting and singing, the stamping of heavy feet,
set a quivering reverberation in the oil of the kerosene
lamps, the flame of the candles in the Japanese lanterns
flaring and swaying in the gusts of hilarity. At intervals,
between the two, one heard the music, the wailing of the
violins, the vigorous snarling of the cornet, and the
harsh, incessant rasping of the snare drum.

And at times all these various sounds mingled in a
single vague note, huge, clamorous, that rose up into the
night from the colossal, reverberating compass of the
barn and sent its echoes far off across the unbroken levels
of the surrounding ranches, stretching out to infinity
under the clouded sky, calm, mysterious, still.

Annixter, the punch bowl clasped in his arms, was
pouring out the last spoonful of liquor into Caraher's
glass when he was aware that some one was pulling at
the sleeve of his coat. He set down the punch bowl.

" Well, where did you come from? " he demanded.

It was a messenger from Bonneville, the uniformed
boy that the telephone company employed to carry mes-
sages. He had just arrived from town on his bicycle,
out of breath and panting.

" Message for you, sir. Will you sign ? "

He held the book to Annixter, who signed the receipt,
wondering.

The boy departed, leaving a thick envelope of yellow
paper in Annixter's hands, the address typewritten, the
word " Urgent " written in blue pencil in one corner.

Annixter tore it open. The envelope contained other
sealed envelopes, some eight or ten of them, addressed to
Magnus Derrick, Osterman, Broderson, Garnett, Keast,
Gethings, Chattern, Dabney, and to Annixter himself.

A Story of California 271

Still puzzled, Annixter distributed the envelopes, mut-
tering to himself :

"What's up now?"

The incident had attracted attention. A comparative
quiet followed, the guests following the letters with their
eyes as they were passed around the table. They fancied
that Annixter had arranged a surprise.

Magnus Derrick, who sat next to Annixter, was the
first to receive his letter. With a word of excuse he
opened it.

" Read it, read it, Governor," shouted a half-dozen
voices. " No secrets, you know. Everything above
board here to-night."

Magnus cast a glance at the contents of the letter, then
rose to his feet and read :

Magnus Derrick,

Bonneville, Tulare Co., Cal.

Dear Sir:

By regrade of October 1st, the value of the railroad
land you occupy, included in your ranch of Los Muertos,
has been fixed at $27.00 per acre. The land is now for
sale at that price to any one.

Yours, etc.,
CYRUS BLAKELEE RUGGLES,

Land Agent, P. and S. W. R. R.

S. BEHRMAN,

Local Agent, R and S. W. R. R.

In the midst of the profound silence that followed,
Osterman was heard to exclaim grimly :

" That's a pretty good one. Tell us another."

But for a long moment this was the only remark.

The silence widened, broken only by the sound of torn

272 The Octopus

paper as Annixter, Osterman, old Broderson, Garnett,
Keast, Gethings, Chattern, and Dabney opened and read
their letters. They were all to the same effect, almost
word for word like the Governor's. Only the figures and
the proper names varied. In some cases the price per
acre was twenty-two dollars. In Annixter's case it was
thirty.

" And — and the company promised to sell to me, to — •
to all of us," gasped old Broderson, " at two dollars and
a half an acre."

It was not alone the ranchers immediately around
Bonneville who would be plundered by this move on the
part of the Railroad. The " alternate section " system
applied throughout all the San Joaquin. By striking
at the Bonneville ranchers a terrible precedent was
established. Of the crowd of guests in the harness
room alone, nearly every man was affected, every man
menaced with ruin. All of a million acres was suddenly
involved.

Then suddenly the tempest burst. A dozen men were
on their fee"t in an instant, their teeth set, their fists
clenched, their faces purple with rage. Oaths, curses,
maledictions exploded like the firing of successive mines.
Voices quivered with wrath, hands flung upward, the
fingers hooked, prehensile, trembled with anger. The
sense of wrongs, the injustices, the oppression, extortion,
and pillage of twenty years suddenly culminated and
found voice in a raucous howl of execration. For a
second there was nothing articulate in that cry of savage
exasperation, nothing even intelligent. It was the human
animal hounded to its corner, exploited, harried to its
last stand, at bay, ferocious, terrible, turning at last with
bared teeth and upraised claws to meet the death grapple.
It was the hideous squealing of the tormented brute, its
back to the wall, defending its lair, its mate and its

A Story of California 273

whelps, ready to bite, to rend, to trample, to batter out
the life of The Enemy in a primeval, bestial welter of
blood and fury.

The roar subsided to intermittent clamour, in the
pauses of which the sounds of music and dancing made
themselves audible once more.

" S. Behrman again," vociferated Harran Derrick.

" Chose his moment well," muttered Annixter. " Hits
his hardest when we're all rounded up having a good
time."

" Gentlemen, this is ruin."

"What's to be done now?"

" Fight! My God ! do you think we are going to
stand this? Do you think we can?"

The uproar swelled again. The clearer the assembly
of ranchers understood the significance of this move on
the part of the Railroad, the more terrible it appeared,
the more flagrant, the more intolerable. Was it possible,
was it within the bounds of imagination that this tyranny
should be contemplated? But they knew — past years
had driven home the lesson — the implacable, iron mon-
ster with whom they had to deal, and again and again
the sense of outrage and oppression lashed them to their
feet, their mouths wide with curses, their fists clenched
tight, their throats hoarse with shouting.

" Fight ! How fight ? What are you going to do ? "

" If there's a law in this land "

" If there is, it is in Shelgrim's pocket. Who owns the
courts in California? Ain't it Shelgrim?"

" God damn him."

"Well, how long are you going to stand it? How
long before you'll settle up accounts with six inches ol
plugged gas-pipe ? "

" And our contracts, the solemn pledges of the corpo-
ration to sell to us first of all "

18

274 The Octopus

" And now the land is for sale to anybody."

" Why, it is a question of my home. Am I to be turned
out? Why, I have put eight thousand dollars into im-
proving this land."

" And I six thousand, and now that I have, the Rail-
road grabs it."

"And the system of irrigating ditches that Derrick
and I have been laying out. There's thousands of dollars
in that!"

" I'll fight this out till I've spent every cent of my
money."

" Where ? In the courts that the company owns ? "

" Think I anr going to give in to this ? Think I am to
get off my land? By God, gentlemen, law or no law,
railroad or no railroad, / — will — not"

" Nor I."

" Nor I."

" Nor I."

"This is the last. Legal means first; if those fail —
the shotgun."

" They can kill me. They can shoot me down, but
I'll die — die fighting for my home — before I'll give in to
this."

At length Annixter made himself heard:

" All out of the room but the ranch owners," he
shouted. " Hooven, Caraher, Dyke, you'll have to clear
out. This is a family affair. Presley, you and your
friend can remain."

Reluctantly the others filed through the door. There
remained in the harness room — besides Vanamee and
Presley — Magnus Derrick, Annixter, old Broderson,
Harran, Garnett from the Ruby rancho, Keast from the
ranch of the same name, Gethings of the San Pablo,
Chattern of the Bonanza, about a score of others, ranch-
ers from various parts of the county, and, last of all,

A Story of California 275

Dabney, ignored, silent, to whom nobody spoke and who,
as yet, had not uttered a word.

But the men who had been asked to leave the harness
room spread the news throughout the barn. It was re-
peated from lip to lip. One by one the guests dropped
out of the dance. Groups were formed. By swift de-
grees the gayety lapsed away. The Virginia reel broke
up. The musicians ceased playing, and in the place of
the noisy, effervescent revelry of the previous half hour, a
subdued murmur filled all the barn, a mingling of whis-
pers, lowered voices, the coming and going of light foot-
steps, the uneasy shifting of positions, while from behind
the closed doors of the harness room came a prolonged,
sullen hum of anger and strenuous debate. The dance
came to an abrupt end. The guests, unwilling to go as
yet, stunned, distressed, stood clumsily about, their eyes
vague, their hands swinging at their sides, looking
stupidly into each others' faces. !A sense of impending
calamity, oppressive, foreboding, gloomy, passed through
the air overhead in the night, a long shiver of anguish
and of terror, mysterious, despairing.

In the harness room, however, the excitement con-
tinued unchecked. One rancher after another delivered
himself of a torrent of furious words. There was no
order, merely the frenzied outcry of blind fury. One
spirit alone was common to all — resistance at whatever
cost and to whatever lengths.

Suddenly Osterman leaped to his feet, his bald head
gleaming in the lamp-light, his red ears distended, a
flood of words filling his great, horizontal slit of a mouth,
his comic actor's face flaming. Like the hero of a melo-
drama, he took stage with a great sweeping gesture.

" Organisation," he shouted, " that must be our watch-
word. The curse of the ranchers is that they fritter
away their strength. Now, we must stand together, now,

276 The Octopus

now. Here's the crisis, here's the moment. Shall we
meet it ? / call for the League. Not next week, not to-
morrow, not in the morning, but now, now, now, this
very moment, before we go out of that door. Every one
of us here to join it, to form the beginnings of a vast
organisation, banded together to death, if needs be, for
the protection of our rights and homes. Are you ready ?
Is it now or never? I call for the League."

Instantly there was a shout. With an actor's instinct,
Osterman had spoken at the precise psychological moment.
He carried the others off their feet, glib, dexterous, volu-
ble. Just what was meant by the League the others did
not know, but it was something, a vague engine, a ma-
chine with which to fight. Osterman had not done speak-
ing before the room rang with outcries, the crowd of
men shouting, for what they did not know.

" The League ! The League ! "

" Now, to-night, this moment; sign our names before
we leave."

" He's right. Organisation ! The League ! "

" We have a committee at work already," Osterman
vociferated, " I am a member, and also Mr. Broderson,
Mr. Annixter, and Mr. Harran Derrick. What our aims
are we will explain to you later. Let this committee be
the nucleus of the League — temporarily, at least. Trust
us. We are working for you and with you. Let this
committee be merged into the larger committee of the
League, and for President of the League " — he paused
the fraction of a second — " for President there can be
but one name mentioned, one man to whom we all must
look as leader — Magnus Derrick."

The Governor's name was received with a storm of
cheers. The harness room reechoed with shouts of:

"Derrick! Derrick!"

" Magnus for President ! "

A Story of California 277

" Derrick, our natural leader."
" Derrick, Derrick, Derrick for President."
Magnus rose to his feet. He made no gesture. Erect
as a cavalry officer, tall, thin, commanding, he domi-
nated the crowd in an instant. There was a moment's
hush.

" Gentlemen," he said, " if organisation is a good
word, moderation is a better one. The matter is too
grave for haste. I would suggest that we each and sev-
erally return to our respective homes for the night, sleep
over what has happened, and convene again to-morrow,
when we are calmer and can approach this affair in a
more judicious mood. As for the honour with which you
would inform me, I must affirm that that, too, is a matter
for grave deliberation. This League is but a name as yet.
To accept control of an organisation whose principles
are not yet fixed is a heavy responsibility. I shrink from

it "

But he was allowed to proceed no farther. A storm of
protest developed. There were shouts of :

" No, no. The League to-night and Derrick for Pres-
ident."

" We have been moderate too long."
" The League first, principles afterward."
" We can't wait," declared Osterman. " Many of us
cannot attend a meeting to-morrow. Our business affairs
would prevent it. Now we are all together. I propose
a temporary chairman and secretary be named and a bal-
lot be taken. But first the League. Let us draw up a
set of resolutions to stand together, for the defence of
our homes, to death, if needs be, and each man present
affix his signature thereto."

He subsided amidst vigorous applause. The next
quarter of an hour was a vague confusion, every one talk-
ing at once, conversations going on in low tones in

278 The Octopus

various corners of the room. Ink, pens, and a sheaf of
foolscap were brought from the ranch house. A set of
resolutions was draughted, having the force of a pledge,
organising the League of Defence. Annixter was the
first to sign. Others followed, only a few holding back,
refusing to join till they had thought the matter over.
The roll grew; the paper circulated about the table;
each signature was welcomed by a salvo of cheers. At
length, it reached Harran Derrick, who signed amid
tremendous uproar. He released the pen only to shake
a score of hands.

" Now, Magnus Derrick."

" Gentlemen," began the Governor, once more rising,
" I beg of you to allow me further consideration. Gen-
tlemen "

He was interrupted by renewed shouting.
" No, no, now or never. Sign, join the League."
" Don't leave us. We look to you to help."
But presently the excited throng that turned their
faces towards the Governor were aware of a new face at
his elbow. The door of the harness room had been left
unbolted and Mrs. Derrick, unable to endure the heart-
breaking suspense of waiting outside, had gathered up
all her courage and had come into the room. Trembling,
she clung to Magnus's arm, her pretty light-brown hair
in disarray, her large young girl's eyes wide with terror
and distrust. What was about to happen she did not
understand, but these men were clamouring for Magnus
to pledge himself to something, to some terrible course
of action, some ruthless, unscrupulous battle to the death
with the iron-hearted monster of steel and steam. Nerved
with a coward's intrepidity, she, who so easily obliterated
herself, had found her way into the midst of this frantic
crowd, into this hot, close room, reeking of alcohol and
tobacco smoke, into this atmosphere surcharged with

A Story of California 279

hatred and curses. She seized her husband's arm im-
ploring, distraught with terror.

" No, no," she murmured ; " no, don't sign."

She was the feather caught in the whirlwind. En
masse, the crowd surged toward the erect figure of the
Governor, the pen in one hand, his wife's fingers in the
other, the roll of signatures before him. The clamour
was deafening; the excitement culminated brusquely.
Half a hundred hands stretched toward him; thirty
voices^ at top pitch, implored, expostulated, urged, al-
most commanded. The reverberation of the shouting
was as the plunge of a cataract.

It was the uprising of The People ; the thunder of th<e
outbreak of revolt ; the mob demanding to be led, aroused
at last, imperious, resistless, overwhelming. It was the
blind fury of insurrection, the brute, many-tongued, red-
eyed, bellowing for guidance, baring its teeth, unsheath-
ing its claws, imposing its will with the abrupt, resistless
pressure of the relaxed piston, inexorable, knowing no
pity.

" No, no," implored Annie Derrick. " No, Magnus,
don't sign."

" He must'' declared Harran, shouting in her ear to
make himself heard, " he must. Don't you understand? "

Again the crowd surged forward, roaring. Mrs. Der-
rick was swept back, pushed to one side. Her husband
no longer belonged to her. She paid the penalty for
being the wife of a great man. The world, like a colossal
iron wedge, crushed itself between. She was thrust to
the wall. The throng of men, stamping, surrounded
Magnus ; she could no longer see him, but, terror-struck,
she listened. There was a moment's lull, then a vast
thunder of savage jubilation. Magnus had signed.

Harran found his mother leaning against the wall, her
hands shut over her ears; her eyes, dilated with fear,

280 The Octopus

brimming with tears. He led her from the harness room
to the outer room, where Mrs. Tree and Hilma took
charge of her, and then, impatient, refusing to answer the
hundreds of anxious questions that assailed him, hurried
back to the harness room.

Already the balloting was in progress, Osterman acting
as temporary chairman. On the very first ballot he was
made secretary of the League pro tern., and Magnus
unanimously chosen for its President. An executive
committee was formed, which was to meet the next day
at the Los Muertos ranch house.

It was half-past one o'clock. In the barn outside the
greater number of the guests had departed. Long since
the musicians had disappeared. There only remained
the families of the ranch owners involved in the meeting
in the harness room. These huddled in isolated groups
in corners of the garish, echoing barn, the women in their
wraps, the young men with their coat collars turned up
against the draughts that once more made themselves
felt.

For a long half hour the loud hum of eager conversa-
tion continued to issue from behind the door of the har-
ness room. Then, at length, there was a prolonged
scraping of chairs. The session was over. The men
came out in groups, searching for their families.

At once the homeward movement began. Every one
was worn out. Some of the ranchers' daughters had
gone to sleep against their mothers' shoulders.

Billy, the stableman, and his assistant were awakened,
and the teams were hitched up. The stable yard was full
of a maze of swinging lanterns and buggy lamps. The
horses fretted, champing the bits ; the carry-alls creaked
with the straining of leather and springs as they received
their loads. At every instant one heard the rattle of
wheels, as vehicle after vehicle disappeared in the night.

A Story of California 281

A fine, drizzling rain was falling, and the lamps began to
show dim in a vague haze of orange light.

Magnus Derrick was the last to go. At the doorway
of the barn he found Annixter, the roll of names — which
it had been decided he was to keep in his safe for the
moment — under his arm. Silently the two shook hands.
Magnus departed. The grind of the wheels of his carry-
all grated sharply on the gravel of the driveway in front
of the ranch house, then, with a hollow roll across a
little plank bridge, gained the roadway. For a moment
the beat of the horses' hoofs made itself heard on the
roadway. It ceased. Suddenly there was a great silence.

Annixter, in the doorway of the great barn, stood
looking about him for a moment, alone, thoughtful.
The barn was empty. That astonishing evening had
come to an end. The whirl of things and people, the
crowd of dancers, Delaney, the gun fight, Hilma Tree,
her eyes fixed on him in mute confession, the rabble in
the harness room, the news of the regrade, the fierce
outburst of wrath, the hasty organising of the League, all
went spinning confusedly through his recollection. But
he was exhausted. Time enough in the morning to think
it all over. By now it was raining sharply. He put the
roll of names into his inside pocket, threw a sack over
his head and shoulders, and went down to the ranch
house.

But in the harness room, lighted by the glittering lan-
terns and flaring lamps, in the midst of overturned chairs,
spilled liquor, cigar stumps, and broken glasses, Van-
amee and Presley still remained talking, talking. At
length, they rose, and came out upon the floor of the
barn and stood for a moment looking about them.

Billy, the stableman, was going the rounds of the
walls, putting out light after light. By degrees, the vast
interior was growing dim. Upon the roof overhead the

282 The Octopus

rain drummed incessantly, the eaves dripping. The floor
was littered with pine needles, bits of orange peel, ends
and fragments of torn organdies and muslins and bits of
tissue paper from the " Phrygian Bonnets " and " Liberty
Caps." The buckskin mare in the stall, dozing on three
legs, changed position with a long sigh. The sweat
stiffening the hair upon her back and loins, as it dried,
gave off a penetrating, ammoniacal odour that mingled
with the stale perfume of sachet and wilted flowers.

Presley and Vanamee stood looking at the deserted
barn. There was a long silence. Then Presley said :
"Well . . . what do you think of it all?"
" I think," answered Vanamee slowly, " I think that
there was a dance in Brussels the night before Waterloo."

BOOK II

In his office at San Francisco, seated before a massive
desk of polished redwood, very ornate, Lyman Derrick
sat dictating letters to his typewriter, on a certain morn-
ing early in the spring of the year. The subdued mono-
tone of his voice proceeded evenly from sentence to sen-
tence, regular, precise, businesslike.

" I have the honour to acknowledge herewith your
favour of the I4th instrrnt, and in reply would state "

" Please find enclosed draft upon New Orleans to
be applied as per our understanding "

" In answer to your favour No. 1107, referring to the
case of the City and County of San Francisco against
Excelsior Warehouse & Storage Co., I would say

His voice continued, expressionless, measured, distinct.
While he spoke, he swung slowly back and forth in his
leather swivel chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his
pop eyes fixed vaguely upon the calendar on the opposite
wall, winking at intervals when he paused, searching for
a word.

" That's all for the present," he said at length.

Without reply, the typewriter rose and withdrew,
thrusting her pencil into the coil of her hair, closing the
door behind her, softly, discreetly.

When she had gone, Lyman rose, stretching himself,
putting up three fingers to hide his yawn. To further

286 The Octopus

loosen his muscles, he took a couple of turns the length of
the room, noting with satisfaction its fine appointments,
the padded red carpet, the dull olive green tint of the
walls, the few choice engravings — portraits of Marshall,
Taney, Field, and a coloured lithograph — excellently
done — of the Grand Canon of the Colorado — the deep-
seated leather chairs, the large and crowded bookcase
(topped with a bust of James Lick, and a huge greenish
globe), the waste basket of woven coloured grass, made
by Navajo Indians, the massive silver inkstand on the
desk, the elaborate filing cabinet, complete in every par-
ticular, and the shelves of tin boxes, padlocked, impres-
sive, grave, bearing the names of clients, cases and estates.

He was between thirty-one and thirty-five years of
age. Unlike Harran, he resembled his mother, but he
was much darker than Annie Derrick and his eyes were
much fuller, the eyeball protruding, giving him a pop-
eyed, foreign expression, quite unusual and unexpected.
His hair was black, and he wore a small, tight, pointed
mustache, which he was in the habit of pushing delicately
upward from the corners of his lips with the ball of his
thumb, the little finger extended. As often as he made
this gesture, he prefaced it with a little twisting gesture
of the forearm in order to bring his cuff into view, and,
in fact, this movement by itself was habitual.

He was dressed carefully, his trousers creased, a pink
rose in his lapel. His shoes were of patent leather, his
cutaway coat was of very rough black cheviot, his
double-breasted waistcoat of tan covert cloth with buttons
of smoked pearl. An Ascot scarf — a great puff of heavy
black silk — was at his neck, the knot transfixed by a tiny
golden pin set off with an opal and four small diamonds.

At one end of the room were two great windows of
plate glass, and pausing at length before one of these,
Lyman selected a cigarette from his curved box of

A Story of California 287

oxydized silver, lit it and stood looking down and out,
willing to be idle for a moment, amused and interested m
the view.

His office was on the tenth floor of the Exchange
Building, a beautiful, tower-like affair of white stone,
that stood on the corner of Market Street near its inter-
section with Kearney, the most imposing office building
of the city.

Below him the city swarmed tumultuous through its
grooves, the cable-cars starting and stopping with a gay
jangling of bells and a strident whirring of jostled glass
windows. Drays and carts clattered over the cobbles,
and an incessant shuffling of thousands of feet rose from
the pavement. Around Lotta's fountain the baskets of
the flower sellers, crammed with chrysanthemums, violets,
pinks, roses, lilies, hyacinths, set a brisk note of colour in
the grey of the street.

But to Lyman's notion the general impression of this
centre of the city's life was not one of strenuous business
activity. It was a continuous interest in small things, a
people ever willing to be amused at trifles, refusing to
consider serious matters — good-natured, allowing them-
selves to be imposed upon, taking life easily — generous,
companionable, enthusiastic ; living, as it were, from day
to day, in a place where the luxuries of life were had
without effort ; in a city that offered to consideration the
restlessness of a New York, without its earnestness ; the
serenity of a Naples, without its languor ; the romance of
a Seville, without its picturesqueness.

As Lyman turned from the window, about to resume
his work, the office boy appeared at the door.

" The man from the lithograph company, sir/' an-
nounced the boy.

"Well, what does he want?" demanded Lyman, add-
ing, however, upon the instant : " Show him in."

The Octopus

A young man entered, carrying a great bundle, which
he deposited on a chair, with a gasp of relief, exclaiming,
all out of breath :

*; From the Standard Lithograph Company/'

"What is?"

" Don't know," replied the other. " Maps, I guess."

" I don't want any maps. Who sent them? I guess
you're mistaken."

Lyman tore the cover from the top of the package,
drawing out one of a great many huge sheets of white
paper, folded eight times. Suddenly, he uttered an excla-
mation :

"Ah, I see. They are maps. But these should not
have come here. They are to go to the regular office for
distribution." He wrote a new direction on the label of
the package : " Take them to that address," he went on.
" I'll keep this one here. The others go to that address.
If you see Mr. Darrell, tell him that Mr. Derrick — you
get the name — Mr. Derrick may not be able to get around
this afternoon, but to go ahead with any business just the
same."

The young man departed with the package and. Lyman,
spreading 'out the map upon, the table, remained for some
time studying it thoughtfully.

It was a commissioner's official railway map of the
State of California, completed to March 3Oth of that year.
Upon it the different railways of the State were accur-
ately plotted in various colours, blue, green, yellow.
However, the blue, the yellow, and the green were but
brief traceries, very short, isolated, unimportant. At a
little distance these could hardly be seen. The whole
map was gridironed by a vast, complicated network of
red lines marked P. and S. W. R. R. These centralised
at vSan Francisco and thence ramified and spread north,
east, and south, to every quarter of the State. From

A Story of California 289

Coles, in the topmost corner of the map, to Yuma in the
lowest, from Reno on one side to San Francisco on the
other, ran the plexus of red, a veritable system of blood
circulation, complicated, dividing, and reuniting, branch-
ing, splitting, extending, throwing out feelers, off-shoots,
tap roots, feeders — diminutive little blood suckers that
shot out from the main jugular and went twisting up into
some remote county, laying hold upon some forgotten
village or town, involving it in one of a myriad branching
coils, one of a hundred tentacles, drawing it, as it were,
toward that centre from which all this system sprang.

The map was white, and it seemed as if all the colour
which should have gone to vivify the various counties,
towns, and cities marked upon it had been absorbed by
that huge, sprawling organism, with its ruddy arteries
converging to a central point. It was as though the State
had been sucked white and colourless, and against this
pallid background the red arteries of the monster stood
out, swollen with life-blood, reaching out to infinity,
gorged to bursting; an excrescence, a gigantic parasite
fattening upon the life-blood of an entire commonwealth.

However, in an upper corner of the map appeared the
names of the three new commissioners : Jones McNish
for the first district, Lyman Derrick for the second, and
James Darrell for the third.

Nominated in the Democratic State convention in the
fall of the preceding year, Lyman, backed by the coteries
of San Francisco bosses in the pay of his father's political
committee of ranchers, had been elected together with
Darrell, the candidate of the Pueblo and Mojave road,
and McNish, the avowed candidate of the Pacific and
Southwestern. Darrell was rabidly against the P. and S.
W., McNish rabidly for it. Lyman was supposed to be
the conservative member of the board, the ranchers' can-
didate, it was true, and faithful to their interests, but a

IQ

290 The Octopus

calm man, deliberative, swayed by no such violent emo-
tions as his colleagues.

Osterman's dexterity had at last succeeded in entang-
ling Magnus inextricably in the new politics. The fa-
mous League, organised in the heat of passion the night
of Annixter's barn dance, had been consolidated all
through the winter months. Its executive committee, of
which Magnus was chairman, had been, through Oster-
man's manipulation, merged into the old committee com-
posed of Broderson, Annixter, and himself. Promptly
thereat he had resigned the chairmanship of this commit-
tee, thus leaving Magnus at its head. Precisely as Oster-
man had planned, Magnus was now one of them. The
new committee accordingly had two objects in view: to
resist the attempted grabbing of their lands by the Rail-
road, and to push forward their own secret scheme of
electing a board of railroad commissioners who should
regulate wheat rates so as to favour the ranchers of the
San Joaquin. The land cases were promptly taken to the
courts and the new grading — fixing the price of the lands
at twenty and thirty dollars an acre instead of two — bit-
terly and stubbornly fought. But delays occurred, the
process of the law was interminable, and in the intervals
the committee addressed itself to the work of seating the
" Ranchers' Commission," as the projected Board of
Commissioners came to be called.

It was Harran who first suggested that his brother,
Lyman, be put forward as the candidate for this district.
At once the proposition had a great success. Lyman
seemed made for the place. While allied by every tie
of blood to the ranching interests, he had never been
identified with them. He was city-bred. The Railroad
would not be over-suspicious of him. He was a good
lawyer, a good business man, keen, clear-headed, far-
sighted, had already some practical knowledge of pol-

A Story of California 291

itics, having served a term as assistant district attorney,
and even at the present moment occupying the position
of sheriff's attorney. More than all, he was the son of
Magnus Derrick; he could be relied upon, could be
trusted implicitly to remain loyal to the ranchers' cause.

The campaign for Railroad Commissioner had been
very interesting. At the very outset Magnus's commit-
tee found itself involved in corrupt politics. The pri-
maries had to be captured at all costs and by any means,
and when the convention assembled it was found neces-
sary to buy outright the votes of certain delegates. The
campaign fund raised by contributions from Magnus,
Annixter, Broderson, and Osterman was drawn upon
to the extent of five thousand dollars.

Only the committee knew of this corruption. The
League, ignoring ways and means, supposed as a matter
of course that the campaign was honorably conducted.

For a whole week after the consummation of this part
of the deal, Magnus had kept to his house, refusing to be
seen, alleging that he was ill, which was not far from
the truth. The shame of the business, the loathing of
what he had done, were to him things unspeakable. He
could no longer look Harran in the face. He began a
course of deception with his wife. More than once, he
had resolved to break with the whole affair, resigning
his position, allowing the others to proceed without him.
But now it was too late. He was pledged. He had
joined the League. He was its chief, and his defection
might mean its disintegration at the very time when it
needed all its strength to fight the land cases. More than
a mere deal in bad politics was involved. There was the
land grab. His withdrawal from an unholy cause would
mean the weakening, perhaps the collapse, of another
cause that he believed to be righteous as truth itself. He
was hopelessly caught in the mesh. Wrong seemed in-

292 The Octopus

dissolubly knitted into the texture of Right. He was
blinded, dizzied, overwhelmed, caught in the current of
events, and hurried along he knew not where. He re-
signed himself.

In the end, and after much ostentatious opposition on
the part of the railroad heelers, Lyman was nominated
and subsequently elected.

When this consummation was reached Magnus, Oster-
man, Broderson, and Annixter stared at each other.
Their wildest hopes had not dared to fix themselves upon
so easy a victory as this. It was not believable that the
corporation would allow itself to be fooled so easily,
would rush open-eyed into the trap. How had it hap-
pened?

Osterman, however, threw his hat into the air with
wild whoops of delight. Old Broderson permitted him-
self a feeble cheer. Even Magnus beamed satisfaction.
The other members of the League, present at the time,
shook hands all around and spoke of opening a few
bottles on the strength of the occasion. Annixter alone
was recalcitrant.

" It's too easy," he declared. " No, I'm not satisfied.
Where's Shelgrim in all this? Why don't he show his
hand, damn his soul? The thing is yellow, I tell you.
There's a big fish in these waters somewheres. I don't
know his name, and I don't know his game, but he's mov-
ing round off and on, just out of sight. If you think
you've netted him, I don't, that's all I've got to say."

But he was jeered down as a croaker. There was the
Commission. He couldn't get around that, could he?
There was Darrell and Lyman Derrick, both pledged to
the ranches. Good Lord, he was never satisfied. He'd
be obstinate till the very last gun was fired. Why, if he
got drowned in a river he'd float up-stream just to be
contrary.

A Story of California 293

In the course of time, the new board was seated. For
the first few months of its term, it was occupied in clear-
ing up the business left over by the old board and in the
completion of the railway map. But now, the decks
were cleared. It was about to address itself to the con-
sideration of a revision of the tariff for the carriage of
grain between the San Joaquin Valley and tide-water.

Both Lyman and Darrell were pledged to an average
ten per cent, cut of the grain rates throughout the entire
State.

The typewriter returned with the letters for Lyman to
sign, and he put away the map and took up his morning's
routine of business, wondering, the while, what would
become of his practice during the time he was involved
in the business of the Ranchers' Railroad Commission.

But towards noon, at the moment when Lyman was
drawing off a glass of mineral water from the siphon
that stood at his elbow_, there was an interruption.
Some one rapped vigorously upon the door, which was
immediately after opened, and Magnus and Harran came
in, followed by Presley.

" Hello, hello ! " cried Lyman, jumping up, extending
his hands, " why, here's a surprise. I didn't expect you
all till to-night. Come in, come in and sit down. Have a
glass of sizz-water, Governor."

The others explained that they had come up from
Bonneville the night before, as the Executive Committee
of the League had received a despatch from the lawyers
it had retained to fight the Railroad, that the judge of
the court in San Francisco, where the test cases were
being tried, might be expected to hand down his decision
the next day.

Very soon after the announcement of the new grading
of the ranchers' lands, the corporation had offered,
through S. Behrman, to lease the disputed lands to the

294 The Octopus

ranchers at a nominal figure. The offer had been angrily;
rejected, and the Railroad had put up the lands for sale
at Ruggles's office in Bonneville. At the exorbitant
price named, buyers promptly appeared — dummy buyers,
beyond shadow of doubt, acting either for the Railroad
or for S. Behrman — men hitherto unknown in the
county, men without property, without money, adven-
turers, heelers. Prominent among them, and bidding
for the railroad's holdings included on Annixter's ranch,
was Delaney.

The farce of deeding the corporation's sections to these
fictitious purchasers was solemnly gone through with at
Ruggles's office, the Railroad guaranteeing them pos-
session. The League refused to allow the supposed
buyers to come upon the land, and the Railroad, faithful
to its pledge in the matter of guaranteeing its dummies
possession, at once began suits in ejectment in the dis-
trict court in Visalia, the county seat.

It was the preliminary skirmish, the reconnaisance in
force, the combatants feeling each other's strength, will-
ing to proceed with caution, postponing the actual death-
grip for a while till each had strengthened its position
and organised its forces.

During the time the cases were on trial at Visalia, S.
Behrman was much in evidence in and about the courts.
The trial itself, after tedious preliminaries, was brief.
The ranchers lost. The test cases were immediately car-
ried up to the United States Circuit Court in San Fran-
cisco. At the moment the decision of this court was
pending.

" Why, this is news," exclaimed Lyman, in response to
the Governor's announcement ; " I did not expect them
to be so prompt. I was in court only last week and there
seemed to be no end of business ahead. I suppose you •
are very anxious ? "

A Story of California 295

Magnus nodded. He had seated himself in one of
Lyman's deep chairs, his grey top-hat, with its wide
brim, on the floor beside him. His coat of black broad-
cloth that had been tightly packed in his valise, was yet
wrinkled and creased; his trousers were strapped under
his high boots. As he spoke, he stroked the bridge of
his hawklike nose with his bent forefinger.

Leaning back in his chair, he watched his two sons
with secret delight. To his eye, both were perfect speci-
mens of their class, intelligent, well-looking, resource-
ful. He was intensely proud of them. He was never
happier, never more nearly jovial, never more erect, more
military, more alert, and buoyant than when in the com-
pany of his two sons. He honestly believed that no finer
examples of young manhood existed throughout the en-
tire nation.

" I think we should win in this court," Harran ob-
served, watching the bubbles break in his glass. " The
investigation has been much more complete than in the
Visalia trial. Our case this time is too good. It has
made too much talk. The court would not dare render
a decision for the Railroad. Why, there's the agreement
in black and white — and the circulars the Railroad is-
sued. How can one get around those ? "

" Well, well, we shall know in a few hours now," re-
marked Magnus.

" Oh," exclaimed Lyman, surprised, " it is for this
morning, then. Why aren't you at the court ? "

" It seemed undignified, boy," answered the Governor.
" We shall know soon enough."

" Good God ! " exclaimed Harran abruptly, " when I
think of what is involved. Why, Lyman, it's our home,
the ranch house itself, nearly all Los Muertos, practically
our whole fortune, and just now when there is promise of
an enormous crop of wheat. And it is not only us.

The Octopus

There are over half a million acres of the San Joaquin in-
volved. In some cases of the smaller ranches, it is the
confiscation of the whole of the rancher's land. If this
thing goes through, it will absolutely beggar nearly a
hundred men. Broderson wouldn't have a thousand
.acres to his name. Why, it's monstrous."

" But the corporations offered to lease these lands,"
remarked Lyman. "Are any of the ranchers taking up
that offer — or are any of them buying outright? "

" Buying ! At the new figure ! " exclaimed Harran,
" at twenty and thirty an acre ! Why, there's not one in
ten that can. They are land-poor. And as for leasing
— leasing land they virtually own — no, there's precious
few are doing that, thank God ! That would be acknowl-
edging the railroad's ownership right away — forfeiting
their rights for good. None of the Leaguers are doing it,
I know. That would be the rankest treachery."

He paused for a moment, drinking the rest of the
mineral water, then interrupting Lyman, who was about
to speak to Presley, drawing him into the conversation
through politeness, said: "Matters are just romping
right along to a crisis these days. It's a make or break
for the wheat growers of the State now, no mistake.
Here are the land cases and the new grain tariff drawing
to a head at about the same time. If we win our land
cases, there's your new freight rates to be applied, and
then all is beer and skittles. Won't the San Joaquin go
wild if we pull it off, and I believe we will,"

" How we wheat growers are exploited and trapped
and deceived at every turn," observed Magnus sadly.
u The courts, the capitalists, the railroads, each of them
in turn hoodwinks us into some new and wonderful
scheme, only to betray us in the end. Well," he added,
turning to Lyman, " one thing at least we can depend on.
We will cut their grain rates for them, eh, Lyman ? "

A Story of California 297

Lyman crossed his legs and settled himself in his of-
fice chair.

" I have wanted to have a talk with you about that,
sir," he said. " Yes, we will cut the rates — an average
10 per cent, cut throughout the State, as we are pledged.
But I am going to warn you, Governor, and you, Har-
ran ; don't expect too much at first. The man who, even
after twenty years' training in the operation of railroads,
can draw an equitable, smoothly working schedule of
freight rates between shipping point and common point,
is capable of governing the United States. What with
main lines, and leased lines, and points of transfer, and
the laws governing common -carriers, and the rulings of
the Inter-State Commerce Commission, the whole mat-
ter has become so confused that Vanderbilt himself
couldn't straighten it out. And how can it be expected
that railroad commissions who are chosen — well, let's be
frank — as ours was, for instance, from out a number of
men who don't know the difference between a switching
charge and a differential rate, are going to regulate the
whole business in six months' time ? Cut rates ; yes, any
fool can do that ; any fool can write one dollar instead of
two, but if you cut too low by a fraction of one per cent,
and if the railroad can get out an injunction, tie you up
and show that your new rate prevents the road being
operated at a profit, how are you any better off? "

" Your conscientiousness does you credit, Lyman," said
the Governor. " I respect you for it, my son. I know
you will be fair to the railroad. That is all we want.
Fairness to the corporation is fairness to the farmer, and
we won't expect you to readjust the whole matter out
of hand. Take your time. We can afford to wait."

" And suppose the next commission is a railroad
board, and reverses all our figures ? "

The one-time mining king, the most redoubtable poker

298 The Octopus

player of Calaveras County, permitted himself a mo-
mentary twinkle of his eyes.

" By then it will be too late. We will, all of us, have
made our fortunes by then."

The remark left Presley astonished out of all meas-
ure. He never could accustom himself to these strange
lapses in the Governor's character. Magnus was by na-
ture a public man, judicious, deliberate, standing firm
for principle, yet upon rare occasion, by some such re-
mark as this, he would betray the presence of a sub-
nature of recklessness, inconsistent, all at variance with
his creeds and tenets.

At the very bottom, when all was said and done, Mag-
nus remained the Forty-niner. Deep down in his heart
the spirit of the Adventurer yet persisted. " We will all
of us have made fortunes by then." That was it pre-
cisely. " After us the deluge." For all his public spirit,
for all his championship of justice and truth, his respect
for law, Magnus remained the gambler, willing to play
for colossal stakes, to hazard a fortune on the chance of
winning a million. It was the true California spirit
that found expression through him, the spirit of the
West, unwilling to occupy itself with details, refusing to
wait, to be patient, to achieve by legitimate plodding ;
the miner's instinct of wealth acquired in a single night
prevailed, in spite of all. It was in this frame of mind
that Magnus and the multitude of other ranchers of
whom he was a type, farmed their ranches. They had no
love for their land. They were not attached to the soil.
They worked their ranches as a quarter of a century be-
fore they had worked their mines. To husband the re-
sources of their marvellous San Joaquin, they considered
niggardly, petty, Hebraic. To get all there was out of
the land, to squeeze it dry, to exhaust it, seemed their
policy. When, at last, the land worn out, would refuse

A Story of California 299

to yield, they would invest their money in something
els« ; by then, they would all have made fortunes. They
did not care. " After us the deluge."

Lyman, however, was obviously uneasy, willing to
change the subject. He rose to his feet, pulling down
his cuffs.

" By the way," he observed, " I want you three to
lunch with me to-day at my club. It is close by. You
can wait there for news of the court's decision as well
as anywhere else, and I should like to show you the
place. I have just joined."

At the club, when the four men were seated at a
small table in the round window of the main room,
Lyman's popularity with all classes was very apparent.
Hardly a man entered that did not call out a salutation
to him, some even coming over to shake his hand. He
seemed to be every man's friend, and to all he seemed
equally genial. His affability, even to those whom he
disliked, was unfailing.

" See that fellow yonder," he said to Magnus, indi-
cating a certain middle-aged man, flamboyantly dressed,
who wore his hair long, who was afflicted with sore eyes,
and the collar of whose velvet coat was sprinkled with
dandruff, " that's Hartrath, the artist, a man absolutely
devoid of even the commonest decency. How he got in
here is a mystery to me."

Yet, when this Hartrath came across to say " How do
you do " to Lyman, Lyman was as eager in his cordiality
as his warmest friend could have expected.

" Why the devil are you so chummy with him, then ? "
observed Harran when Hartrath had gone away.

Lyman's explanation was vague. The truth of the
matter was, that Magnus's oldest son was consumed by
inordinate ambition. Political preferment was his dream,
and to the realisation of this dream popularity was an

300 The Octopus

essential. Every man who could vote, blackguard or
gentleman, was to be conciliated, if possible. He made it
his study to become known throughout the entire com-
munity— to put influential men under obligations to him-
self. He never forgot a name or a face. With every-
body he was the hail-fellow-well-met. His ambition was
not trivial. In his disregard for small things, he resem-
bled his father. Municipal office had no attraction for
him. His goal was higher. He had planned his life
twenty years ahead. Already Sheriff's Attorney, Assist-
ant District Attorney and Railroad Commissioner, he
could, if he desired, attain the office of District Attorney
itself. Just now, it was a question with him whether or
not it would be politic to fill this office. Would it ad-
vance or sidetrack him in the career he had outlined for
himself? Lyman wanted to be something better than
District Attorney, better than Mayor, than State Sen-
ator, or even than member of the United States Congress.
He wanted to be, in fact, what his father was only in
name — to succeed where Magnus had failed. He wanted
to be governor of the State. He had put his teeth to-
gether, and, deaf to all other considerations, blind to all
other issues, he worked with the infinite slowness, the
unshakable tenacity of the coral insect to this one end.

After luncheon was over, Lyman ordered cigars and
liqueurs, and with the three others returned to the main
room of the club. However, their former place in the
round window was occupied. A middle-aged man, with
iron grey hair and moustache, who wore a frock coat and
a white waistcoat, and in some indefinable manner sug-
gested a retired naval officer, was sitting at their table
smoking a long, thin cigar. At sight of him, Presley
became animated. He uttered a mild exclamation :

"Why, isn't that Mr. Cedarquist?"

" Cedarquist ? " repeated Lyman Derrick. " I know

A Story of California 301

him well. Yes, of course, it is," he continued. " Gov-
ernor, you must know him. He is one of our representa-
tive men. You would enjoy talking to him. He was
the head of the big Atlas Iron Works. They have shut
down recently, you know. Not failed exactly, but just
ceased to be a paying investment, and Cedarquist closed
them out. He has other interests, though. He's a rich
man — a capitalist."

Lyman brought the group up to the gentleman in ques-
tion and introduced them.

"Mr. Magnus Derrick, of course," observed Cedar-
quist, as he took the Governor's hand. " I've known you
by repute for some time, sir. This is a great pleasure, I
assure you." Then, turning to Presley, he added:
" Hello, Pres, my boy. How is the great, the very great
Poem getting on ? "

" It's not getting on at all, sir," answered Presley, in
some embarrassment, as they all sat down. " In fact,
I've about given up the idea. There's so much interest in
what you might call ' living issues ' down at Los Muertos
now, that I'm getting further and further from it every
day."

" I should say as much," remarked the manufacturer,
turning towards Magnus. "I'm watching your fight with
Shelgrim, Mr. Derrick, with every degree of interest."
He raised his drink of whiskey and soda. " Here's suc-
cess to you."

As he replaced his glass, the artist Hartrath joined
the group uninvited. As a pretext, he engaged Lyman
in conversation. Lyman, he believed, was a man with
a " pull " at the City Hall. In connection with a projected
Million-Dollar Fair and Flower Festival, which at that
moment was the talk of the city, certain statues were to
be erected, and Hartrath bespoke Lyman's influence to
further the pretensions of a sculptor friend of his, who

302 The Octopus

wished to be Art Director of the affair. In the matter of
this Fair and Flower Festival, Hartrath was not lacking
in enthusiasm. He addressed the others with extrava-
gant gestures, blinking his inflamed eyelids.

" A million dollars," he exclaimed. " Hey ! think of
that. Why, do you know that we have five hundred
thousand practically pledged already? Talk about pub-
lic spirit, gentlemen, this is the most public-spirited city
on the continent. And the money is not thrown away.
We will have Eastern visitors here by the thousands —
capitalists — men with money to invest. The million we
spend on our fair will be money in our pockets. Ah,
you should see how the women of this city are taking
hold of the matter. They are giving all kinds of little
entertainments, teas, ' Olde Tyme Singing Skules,' ama-
teur theatricals, gingerbread fetes, all for the benefit of
the fund, and the business men, too — pouring out their
money like water. It is splendid, splendid, to see a com-
munity so patriotic."

The manufacturer, Cedarquist, fixed the artist with a
glance of melancholy interest.

" And how much," he remarked, " will they contrib-
ute— your gingerbread women and public-spirited capi-
talists, towards the blowing up of the ruins of the Atlas
Ironworks?"

" Blowing up ? I don't understand," murmured the
artist, surprised.

" When you get your Eastern capitalists out here with
your Million-Dollar Fair," continued Cedarquist, " you
don't propose, do you, to let them see a Million-Dollar
Iron Foundry standing idle, because of the indifference
of San Francisco business men? They might ask perti-
nent questions, your capitalists, and we should have to
answer that our business men preferred to invest their
money in corner lots and government bonds, rather than

A Story of California 303

to back up a legitimate, industrial enterprise. We don't
want fairs. We want active furnaces. We don't want
public statues, and fountains, and park extensions and
gingerbread fetes. We want business enterprise. Isn't
it like us ? Isn't it like us ? " he exclaimed sadly. " What
a melancholy comment ! San Francisco ! It is not a city
— it is a Midway Plaisance. California likes to be
fooled. Do you suppose Shelgrim could convert the
whole San Joaquin Valley into his back yard otherwise?
Indifference to public affairs — absolute indifference, it
stamps us all. Our State is the very paradise of fakirs.
You and your Million-Dollar Fair ! " He turned to
Hartrath with a quiet smile. " It is just such men as
you, Mr. Hartrath, that are the ruin of us. You organise
a sham of tinsel and pasteboard, put on fool's cap and
bells, beat a gong at a street corner, and the crowd
cheers you and drops nickels into your hat. Your ginger-
bread fete; yes, I saw it in full blast the other night on
the grounds of one of your women's places on Sutter
Street. I was on my way home from the last board
meeting of the Atlas Company. A gingerbread fete,
my God ! and the Atlas plant shutting down for want of
financial backing. A million dollars spent to attract the
Eastern investor, in order to show him an abandoned
rolling mill, wherein the only activity is the sale of rem-
nant material and scrap steel."

Lyman, however, interfered. The situation was be-
coming strained. He tried to conciliate the three men —
the artist, the manufacturer, and the farmer, the warring
elements. But Hartrath, unwilling to face the enmity
that he felt accumulating against him, took himself away.
A picture of his — " A Study of the Contra Costa Foot-
hills " — was to be raffled in the club rooms for the benefit
of the Fair. He, himself, was in charge of the matter.
He disappeared.

304 The Octopus

Cedarquist looked after him with contemplative in-
terest. Then, turning to Magnus, excused himself for
the acridity of his words.

" He's no worse than many others, and the people
of this State and city are, after all, only a little more
addle-headed than other Americans." It was his
favourite topic. Sure of the interest of his hearers, he
unburdened himself.

" If I were to name the one crying evil of American
life, Mr. Derrick," he continued, " it would be the in-
difference of the better people to public affairs. It is so
in all our great centres. There are other great trusts,
God knows, in the United States besides our own dear P.
and S.W. Railroad. Every State has its own grievance.
If it is not a railroad trust, it is a sugar trust, or an oil
trust, or an industrial trust, that exploits the People,
because the People allow it. The indifference of the
People is the opportunity of the despot. It is as true
as that the whole is greater than the part, and the maxim
is so old that it is trite — it is laughable. It is neglected
and disused for the sake of some new ingenious and
complicated theory, some wonderful scheme of reorgan-
isation, but the fact remains, nevertheless, simple, funda-
mental, everlasting. The People have but to say ' No,'
and not the strongest tyranny, political, religious, or
financial, that was ever organised, could survive one
week."

The others, absorbed, attentive, approved, nodding
their heads in silence as the manufacturer finished.

" That's one reason, Mr. Derrick," the other resumed
after a moment, " why I have been so glad to meet you.
You and your League are trying to say ' No ' to the
trust. I hope you will succeed. If your example will
rally the People to your cause, you will. Otherwise — "
he shook his head.

A Story of California 305

" One stage of the fight is to be passed this very day,"
observed Magnus. " My sons and myself are expecting
hourly news from the City Hall, a decision in our case
is pending."

" We are both of us fighters, it seems, Mr. Derrick,"
said Cedarquist. " Each with his particular enemy. We
are well met, indeed, the farmer and the manufacturer,
both in the same grist between the two millstones of the
lethargy of the Public and the aggression of the Trust,
the two great evils of modern America. Pres, my boy,
there is your epic poem ready to hand."

But Cedarquist was full of another idea. Rarely did
so favourable an opportunity present itself for explain-
ing his theories, his ambitions. Addressing himself to
Magnus, he continued:

" Fortunately for myself, the Atlas Company was not
my only investment. I have other interests. The build-
ing of ships — steel sailing ships — has been an ambition
of mine, — for this purpose, Mr. Derrick, to carry Ameri-
can wheat. For years, I have studied this question of
American wheat, and at last, I have arrived at a theory.
Let me explain. At present, all our California wheat
goes to Liverpool, and from that port is distributed over
the world. But a change is coming. I am sure of it.
You young men," he turned to Presley, Lyman, and Har-
ran, " will live to see it. Our century is about done. The
great word of this nineteenth century has been Produc-
tion. The great word of the twentieth century will be —
listen to me, you youngsters — Markets. As a market for
our Production — or let me take a concrete example — as
a market for our Wheat, Europe is played out. Popula-
tion in Europe is not increasing fast enough to keep up
with the rapidity of our production. In some cases, as
in France, the population is stationary. We, however,
have gone on producing wheat at a tremendous rate.

20

306 The Octopus

The result is over-production. We supply more than
Europe can eat, and down go the prices. The remedy
is not in the curtailing of our wheat areas, but in this, we
must have nezu markets, greater markets. For years we
have been sending our wheat from East to West, from
California to Europe. But the time will come when we
must send it from West to East. We must march with
the course of empire, not against it. I mean, we must
look to China. Rice in China is losing its nutritive qual-
ity. The Asiatics, though, must be fed; if not on rice,
then on wheat. Why, Mr. Derrick, if only one-half the
population of China ate a half ounce of flour per man
per day all the wheat areas in California could not feed
them. Ah, if I could only hammer that into the brains
of every rancher of the San Joaquin, yes, and of every
owner of every bonanza farm in Dakota and Minnesota.
Send your wheat to China; handle it yourselves; do
away with the middleman; break up the Chicago wheat
pits and elevator rings and mixing houses. When in
feeding China you have decreased the European ship-
ments, the effect is instantaneous. Prices go up in Eu-
rope without having the least effect upon the prices in
China. We hold the key, we have the wheat, — infinitely
more than we ourselves can eat. Asia and Europe must
look to America to be fed. What fatuous neglect of
opportunity to continue to deluge Europe with our sur-
plus food when the East trembles upon the verge of
starvation ! "

The two men, Cedarquist and Magnus, continued the
conversation a little further. The manufacturer's idea
was new to the Governor. He was greatly interested.
He withdrew from the conversation. Thoughtful, he
leaned back in his place, stroking the bridge of his beak-
like nose with a crooked forefinger.

Cedarquist turned to Harran and began asking details

A Story of California 307

as to the conditions of the wheat growers of the San
Joaquin. Lyman still maintained an attitude of polite
aloofness, yawning occasionally behind three fingers, and
Presley was left to the company of his own thoughts.

There had been a day when the affairs and grievances
of the farmers of his acquaintance — Magnus, Annixter,
Osterman, and old Broderson — had filled him only with
disgust. His mind full of a great, vague epic poem
of the West, he had kept himself apart, disdainful of
what he chose to consider their petty squabbles. But the
scene in Annixter's harness room had thrilled and up-
lifted him. He was palpitating with excitement all
through the succeeding months. He abandoned the idea
of an epic poem. In six months he had not written a
single verse. Day after day he trembled with excite-
ment as the relations between the Trust and League be-
came more and more strained. He saw the matter in its
true light. It was typical. It was the world-old war
between Freedom and Tyranny, and at times his hatred
of the railroad shook him like a crisp and withered
reed, while the languid indifference of the people of
the State to the quarrel filled him with a blind exas-
peration.

But, as he had once explained to Vanamee, he must
find expression. He felt that he would suffocate other-
wise. He had begun to keep a journal. As the inclina-
tion spurred him, he wrote down his thoughts and ideas
in this, sometimes every day, sometimes only three or
four times a month. Also he flung aside his books of
poems — Milton, Tennyson, Browning, even Homer —
and addressed himself to Mill, Malthus, Young, Poush-
kin, Henry George, Schopenhauer. He attacked the sub-
ject of Social Inequality with unbounded enthusiasm.
He devoured, rather than read, and emerged from the af-
fair, his mind a confused jumble of conflicting notions,

308 The Octopus

sick with over-effort, raging against injustice and op-
pression, and with not one sane suggestion as to remedy
or redress.

The butt of his cigarette scorched his fingers and
roused him from his brooding. In the act of lighting
another, he glanced across the room and was surprised to
see two very prettily dressed young women in the com-
pany of an older gentleman, in a long frock coat, stand-
ing before Hartrath's painting, examining it, their heads
upon one side.

Presley uttered a murmur of surprise. He, himself,
was a member of the club, and the presence of women
within its doors, except on special occasions, was not
tolerated. He turned to Lyman Derrick for an explana-
tion, but this other had also seen the women and ab-
ruptly exclaimed :

" I declare, I had forgotten about it. Why, this is
Ladies' Day, of course."

" Why, yes," interposed Cedarquist, glancing at the
women' over his shoulder. " Didn't you know? They let
'em in twice a year, you remember, and this is a double
occasion. They are going to raffle Hartrath's picture, —
for the benefit of the Gingerbread Fair. Why, you are
not up to date, Lyman. This is a sacred and religious
rite, — an important public event."

" Of course, of course," murmured Lyman. He found
means to survey Harran and Magnus. Certainly, neither
his father nor his brother were dressed for the function
that impended. He had been stupid. Magnus invariably
attracted attention, and now with his trousers strapped
under his boots, his wrinkled frock coat — Lyman twisted
his cuffs into sight with an impatient, nervous move-
ment of his wrists, glancing a second time at his brother's
pink face, forward curling, yellow hair and clothes of a
country cut. But there was no help for it. He wondered

A Story of California 309

what were the club regulations in the matter of bringing
in visitors on Ladies' Day.

" Sure enough, Ladies' Day," he remarked, " I am very
glad you struck it, Governor. We can sit right where
we are. I guess this is as good a place as any to see the
crowd. It's a good chance to see all the big guns of the
city. Do you expect your people here, Mr. Cedarquist? "

" My wife may come, and my daughters," said\ the
manufacturer.

" Ah," murmured Presley, " so much the better. I
was going to give myself the pleasure of calling upon
your daughters, Mr. Cedarquist, this afternoon."

" You can save your carfare, Pres," said Cedarquist,
" you will see them here."

No doubt, the invitations for the occasion had ap-
pointed one o'clock as the time, for between that hour
and two, the guests arrived in an almost unbroken
stream. From their point of vantage in the round win-
dow of the main room, Magnus, his two sons, and Pres-
ley looked on very interested. Cedarquist had excused
himself, affirming that he must look out for his women
folk.

Of every ten of the arrivals, seven, at least, were ladies.
They entered the room — this unfamiliar masculine
haunt, where, their husbands, brothers, and sons spent so
much of their time — with a certain show of hesitancy
and little, nervous, oblique glances, moving their heads
from side to side like a file of hens venturing into a
strange barn. They came in groups, ushered by a single
member of the club, doing the honours with effusive
bows and polite gestures, indicating the various objects
of interest, pictures, busts, and the like, that decorated
the room.

Fresh from his recollections of Bonneville, Guadala-
jara, and the dance in Annixter's barn, Presley was as-

3io The Octopus

tonished at the beauty of these women and the elegance
of their toilettes. The crowd thickened rapidly. A mur-
mur of conversation arose, subdued, gracious, mingled
with the soft rustle of silk, grenadines, velvet. The scent
of delicate perfumes spread in the air, Violet de Parme,
Peau d'Espagne. Colours of the most harmonious blends
appeared and disappeared at intervals in the slowly mov-
ing press, touches of lavender-tinted velvets, pale violet
crepes and cream-coloured appliqued laces.

There seemed to be no need of introductions. Every-
body appeared to be acquainted. There was no awk-
wardness, no constraint. The assembly disengaged an
impression of refined pleasure. On every hand, innumer-
able dialogues seemed to go forward easily and naturally,
without break or interruption, witty, engaging, the
couple never at a loss for repartee. A third party was
gracefully included, then a fourth. Little groups were
formed, — groups that divided themselves, or melted into
other groups, or disintegrated again into isolated pairs,
or lost themselves in the background of the mass, — all
without friction, without embarrassment, — the whole af-
fair going forward of itself, decorous, tactful, well-bred.

At a distance, and not too loud, a stringed orchestra
sent up a pleasing hum. Waiters, with brass buttons on
their full dress coats, went from group to group, silent,
unobtrusive, serving salads and ices.

But the focus of the assembly was the little space be-
fore Hartrath's painting. It was called " A Study of the
Contra Costa Foothills," and was set in a frame of nat-
ural redwood, the bark still adhering. It was conspicu-
ously displayed on an easel at the right of the entrance to
the main room of the club, and was very large. In the
foreground, and to the left, under the shade of a live-oak,
stood a couple of reddish cows, knee-deep in a patch of
yellow poppies, while in the right-hand corner, to bal-

A Story of California 3 1 1

ance the composition, was placed a girl in a pink dress
and white sunbonnet, in which the shadows were indi-
cated by broad dashes of pale blue paint. The ladies and
young girls examined the production with little murmurs
of admiration, hazarding remembered phrases, searching
for the exact balance between generous praise and criti-
cal discrimination, expressing their opinions in the mild
technicalities of the Art Books and painting classes.
They spoke of atmospheric effects, of middle distance, of
" chiaro-oscuro" of fore-shortening, of the decomposition
of light, of the subordination of individuality to fidelity
of interpretation.

One tall girl, with hair almost white in its blondness,
having observed that the handling of the masses re-
minded her strongly of Corot, her companion, who car-
ried a gold lorgnette by a chain around her neck, an-
swered :

" Ah! Millet, perhaps, but not Corot."

This verdict had an immediate success. It was passed
from group to group. It seemed to imply a delicate dis-
tinction that carried conviction at once. It was decided
formally that the reddish brown cows in the picture were
reminiscent of Daubigny, and that the handling of the
masses was altogether Millet, but that the general effect
was not quite Corot.

Presley, curious to see the painting that was the sub-
ject of so much discussion, had left the group in the
round window, and stood close by Hartrath, craning his
head over the shoulders of the crowd, trying to catch a
glimpse of the reddish cows, the milk-maid and the blue
painted foothills. He was suddenly aware of Cedarquist's
voice in his ear, and, turning about, found himself face
to face with the manufacturer, his wife and his two
daughters.

There was a meeting. Salutations were exchanged,

312 The Octopus

Presley shaking hands all around, expressing his delight
at seeing his old friends once more, for he had known
the family from his boyhood, Mrs. Cedarquist being his
aunt. Mrs. Cedarquist and her two daughters declared
that the air of Los Muertos must certainly have done him
a world of good. He was stouter, there could be no
doubt of it. A little pale, perhaps. He was fatiguing
himself with his writing, no doubt. Ah, he must take
care. Health was everything, after all. Had he been
writing any more verse ? Every month they scanned the
magazines, looking for his name.

Mrs. Cedarquist was a fashionable woman, the presi-
dent or chairman of a score of clubs. She was forever
running after fads, appearing continually in the society
wherein she moved with new and astounding proteges —
fakirs whom she unearthed no one knew where, discov-
ering them long in advance of her companions. Now it
was a Russian Countess, with dirty finger nails, who trav-
elled throughout America and borrowed money ; now an
^Esthete who possessed a wonderful collection of topaz
gems> who submitted decorative schemes for the interior
arrangement of houses and who " received " in Mrs.
Cedarquist's drawing-rooms dressed in a white velvet cas-
sock; now a widow of some Mohammedan of Bengal or
Rajputana, who had a blue spot in the middle of her
forehead and who solicited contributions for her sisters
in affliction; now a certain bearded poet, recently back
from the Klondike; now a decayed musician who had
been ejected from a young ladies' musical conservatory
of Europe because of certain surprising pamphlets on
free love, and who had come to San Francisco to intro-
duce the community to the music of Brahms; now a
Japanese youth who wo're spectacles and a grey flannel
shirt and who, at intervals, delivered himself of the most
astonishing poems, vague, unrhymed, unmetrical lucu-

A Story of California 3 1 3

brations, incoherent, bizarre; now a Christian Scientist,
a lean, grey woman, whose creed was neither Christian
nor scientific ; now a university professor, with the brist-
ling beard of an anarchist chief-of-section, and a roaring,,
guttural voice, whose intenseness left him gasping and
apoplectic ; now a civilised Cherokee with a mission ; now
a female elocutionist, whose forte was Byron's Songs of
Greece; now a high caste Chinaman; now a miniature
painter; now a tenor, a pianiste, a mandolin player, a
missionary, a drawing master, a virtuoso, a collector, an
Armenian, a botanist with a new flower, a critic with a
new theory, a doctor with a new treatment.

And all these people had a veritable mania for declama-
tion and fancy dress. The Russian Countess gave talks
on the prisons of Siberia, wearing the headdress and
pinchbeck ornaments of a Slav bride ; the ^Esthete, in his
white cassock, gave readings on obscure questions of art
and ethics. The widow of India, in the costume of her
caste, described the social life of her people at home. The
bearded poet, perspiring in furs and boots of reindeer
skin, declaimed verses of his own composition about the
wild life of the Alaskan mining camps. The Japanese
youth, in the silk robes of the Samurai two-sworded
nobles, read from his own works — "The flat-bordered
earth, nailed down at night, rusting under the darkness,"
'' The brave, upright rains that came down like errands
from iron-bodied yore-time." The Christian Scientist, in
funereal, impressive black, discussed the contra-will and
pan-psychic hylozoism. The university professor put on
a full dress suit and lisle thread gloves at three in the
afternoon and before literary clubs and circles bellowed
extracts from Goethe and Schiler in the German, shak-
ing his fists, purple with vehemence. The Cherokee, ar-
rayed in fringed buckskin and blue beads, rented from a
costumer, intoned folk songs of his people in the vernacu-

314 The Octopus

lar. The elocutionist in cheese-cloth toga and tin brace-
lets, rendered " The Isles of Greece, where burning Sap-
pho loved and sung." The Chinaman, in the robes of a
mandarin, lectured on Confucius. The Armenian, in fez
and baggy trousers, spoke of the Unspeakable Turk. The
mandolin player, dressed like a bull fighter, held mu-
sical conversaziones, interpreting the peasant songs of
Andalusia.

It was the Fake, the eternal, irrepressible Sham; glib,
nimble, ubiquitous, tricked out in all the paraphernalia
of imposture, an endless defile of charlatans that passed
interminably before the gaze of the city, marshalled by
" lady presidents/' exploited by clubs of women, by liter-
ary societies, reading circles, and culture organisations.
The attention the Fake received, the time devoted to it,
the money which it absorbed, were incredible. It was all
one that impostor after impostor was exposed; it was all
one that the clubs, the circles, the societies were proved
beyond doubt to have been swindled. The more the Phil-
istine press of the city railed and guyed, the more the
women rallied to the defence of their protege of the hour.
That their favourite was persecuted, was to them a
veritable rapture. Promptly they invested the apostle of
culture with the glamour of a martyr.

The fakirs worked the community as shell-game trick-
sters work a county fair, departing with bursting pocket-
books, passing on the word to the next in line, assured
that the place was not worked out, knowing well that
there was enough for all.

More frequently the public of the city, unable to think
of more than one thing at one time, prostrated itself at the
feet of a single apostle, but at other moments, such as the
present, when a Flower Festival or a Million-Dollar Fair
aroused enthusiasm in all quarters, the occasion was one
of gala for the entire Fake. The decayed professors,

A Story of California 315

virtuosi, litterateurs, and artists thronged to the place en
masse. Their clamour filled all the air. On every hand
one heard the scraping of violins, the tinkling of mando-
lins, the suave accents of " art talks," the incoherencies
of poets, the declamation of elocutionists, the inarticulate
wanderings of the Japanese, the confused mutterings of
the Cherokee, the guttural bellowing of the German uni-
versity professor, all in the name of the Million-Dollar
Fair. Money to the extent of hundreds of thousands
was set in motion.

Mrs. Cedarquist was busy from morning until night.
One after another, she was introduced to newly arrived
fakirs. To each poet, to each litterateur, to each profes-
sor she addressed the same question :

" How long have you known you had this power ? "

She spent her days in one quiver of excitement and
jubilation. She was "in the movement." The people
of the city were awakening to a Realisation of the Beauti-
ful, to a sense of the higher needs of life. This was Art,
this was Literature, this was Culture and Refinement.
The Renaissance had appeared in the West.

She was a short, rather stout, red-faced, very much
over-dressed little woman of some fifty years. She was
rich in her own name, even before her marriage, being a
relative of Shelgrim himself and on familiar terms with
the great financier and his family. Her husband, while
deploring the policy of the railroad, saw no good reason
for quarrelling with Shelgrim, and on more than one
occasion had dined at his house.

On this occasion, delighted that she had come upon a
" minor poet," she insisted upon presenting him to Hart-
rath.

" You two should have so much in common," she ex-
plained.

Presley shook the flaccid hand of the artist, murmur-

316 The Octopus

ing conventionalities, while Mrs. Cedarquist hastened to
say:

" I am sure you know Mr. Presley's verse, Mr. Hart-
rath. You should, believe me. You two have much in
common. I can see so much that is alike in your modes
of interpreting nature. In Mr. Presley's sonnet, ' The
Better Part,' there is the same note as in your picture,
the same sincerity of tone, the same subtlety of touch, the
same nuances, — ah."

" Oh, my dear Madame," murmured the artist, inter-
rupting Presley's impatient retort ; " I am a mere bun-
gler. You don't mean quite that, I am sure. I am too
sensitive. It is my cross. Beauty," he closed his sore eyes
with a little expression of pain, " beauty unmans me."

But Mrs. Cedarquist was not listening. Her eyes were
fixed on the artist's luxuriant hair, a thick and glossy
mane, that all but covered his coat collar.

" Leonine ! " she murmured — " leonine ! Like Sam-
son of old."

However, abruptly bestirring herself, she exclaimed a
second later:

" But I must run away. I am selling tickets for you
this afternoon, Mr. Hartrath. I am having such suc-
cess. Twenty-five already. Mr. Presley, you will take
two chances, I am sure, and, oh, by the way, I have such
good news. You know I am one of the lady members of
the subscription committee for our Fair, and you know
we approached Mr. Shelgrim for a donation to help
along. Oh, such a liberal patron, a real Lorenzo di' Med-
ici. In the name of the Pacific and Southwestern he has
subscribed, think of it, five thousand dollars ; and yet they
will talk of the meanness of the railroad."

" Possibly it is to his interest," murmured Presley.
" The fairs and festivals bring people to the city over
his railroad."

A Story of California 317

But the others turned on him, expostulating.

" Ah, you Philistine," declared Mrs. Cedarquist. " And
this from you, Presley; to attribute such base mo-
tives "

" If the poets become materialised, Mr. Presley," de-
clared Hartrath, " what can we say to the people? "

" And Shelgrim encourages your million-dollar fairs
and fetes," said a voice at Presley's elbow, " because it is
throwing dust in the people's eyes."

The group turned about and saw Cedarquist, who had
come up unobserved in time to catch the drift of the talk.
But he spoke without bitterness ; there was even a good-
humoured twinkle in his eyes.

" Yes," he continued, smiling, " our dear Shelgrim pro-
motes your fairs, not only as Pres says, because it Is
money in his pocket, but because it amuses the people,
distracts their attention from the doings of his railroad.
When Beatrice was a baby and had little colics, I used to
jingle my keys in front of her nose, and it took her atten-
tion from the pain in her tummy; so Shelgrim."

The others laughed good-humouredly, protesting,
nevertheless, and Mrs. Cedarquist shook her finger in
warning at the artist and exclaimed:

" The Philistines be upon thee, Samson ! "

" By the way," observed Hartrath, willing to change
the subject, " I hear you are on the Famine Relief Com-
mittee. Does your work progress ? "

" Oh, most famously, I assure you," she said. " Such
a movement as we have started. Those poor creatures.
The photographs of them are simply dreadful. I had
the committee to luncheon the other day and we passed
them around." We are getting subscriptions from all over
the State, and Mr. Cedarquist is to arrange for the ship."

The Relief Committee in question was one of a great
number that had been formed in Calif oniia — and all over

318 The Octopus

the Union, for the matter of that — to provide relief for
the victims of a great famine in Central India. The whole
world had been struck with horror at the reports of suf-
fering and mortality in the affected districts, and had
hastened to send aid. Certain women of San Francisco,
with Mrs. Cedarquist at their head, had organised a
number of committees, but the manufacturer's wife
turned the meetings of these committees into social af-
fairs— luncheons, teas, where one discussed the ways and
means of assisting the starving Asiatics over teacups and
plates of salad.

Shortly afterward a mild commotion spread through-
out the assemblage of the club's guests. The drawing of
the numbers in the raffle was about to be made. Hart-
rath, in a flurry of agitation, excused himself. Cedar-
quist took Presley by the arm.

" Pres, let's get out of this," he said. " Come into the
wine room and I will shake you for a glass of sherry."

They had some difficulty in extricating themselves.
The main room where the drawing was to take place
suddenly became densely thronged. All the guests
pressed eagerly about the table near the picture, upon
which one of the hall boys had just placed a ballot box
containing the numbers. The ladies, holding their tickets
in their hands, pushed forward. A staccato chatter of
excited murmurs arose.

" What became of Harran and Lyman and the Gover-
nor?" inquired Presley.

Lyman had disappeared, alleging a business engage-
ment, but Magnus and his younger son had retired to
the library of the club on the floor above. It was almost
deserted. They were deep in earnest conversation.

" Harran," said the Governor, with decision, " there is
a deal, there, in what Cedarquist says. Our wheat to
China, hey, boy?"

A Story of California 319

" It is certainly worth thinking of, sir."

" It appeals to me, boy ; it appeals to me. It's big and
there's a fortune in it. Big chances mean big returns;
and I know — your old father isn't a back number yet,
Harran — I may not have so wide an outlook as our friend
Cedarquist, but I am quick to see my chance. Boy, the
whole East is opening, disintegrating before the Anglo-
Saxon. It is time that bread stuffs, as well, should make
markets for themselves in the Orient. Just at this mo-
ment, too, when Lyman will scale down freight rates so
we can haul to tidewater at little cost."

Magnus paused again, his frown beetling, and in the
silence the excited murmur from the main room of the
club, the soprano chatter of a multitude of women, found
its way to the deserted library.

" I believe it's worth looking into, Governor," asserted
Harran.

Magnus rose, and, his hands behind him, paced the
floor of the library a couple of times, his imagination all
stimulated and vivid. The great gambler perceived his
Chance, the kaleidoscopic shifting of circumstances that
made a Situation. It had come silently, unexpectedly.
He had not seen its approach. Abruptly he woke one
morning to see the combination realised. But also he
saw a vision. A sudden and abrupt revolution in the
Wheat. A new world of markets discovered, the matter
as important as the discovery of America. The torrent
of wheat was to be diverted, flowing back upon itself in
a sudden, colossal eddy, stranding the middleman, the
entre-preneur, the elevator- and mixing-house men dry
and despairing, their occupation gone. He saw the farmer
suddenly emancipated, the world's food no longer at the
mercy of the speculator, thousands upon thousands of
men set free of the grip of Trust and ring and monopoly
acting for themselves, selling their own wheat, organis-

320 The Octopus

ing into one gigantic trust, themselves, sending their
agents to all the entry ports of China. Himself, Annix-
ter, Broderson and Osterman would pool their issues.
He would convince them of the magnificence of the new
movement. They would be its pioneers. Harran would
be sent to Hong Kong to represent the four. They would
charter — probably buy — a ship, perhaps one of Cedar-
quist's, American built, the nation's flag at the peak, and
the sailing of that ship, gorged with the crops from
Broderson's and Osterman's ranches, from Quien Sabe
and Los Muertos, would be like the sailing of the cara-
vels from Palos. It would mark a new era; it would
make an epoch.

With this vision still expanding before the eye of his
mind, Magnus, with Harran at his elbow, prepared to
depart.

They descended to the lower floor and involved them-
selves for a moment in the throng of fashionables that
blocked the hallway and the entrance to the main room,
where the numbers of the raffle were being drawn. Near
the head of the stairs they encountered Presley and
Cedarquist, who had just come out of the wine room.

Magnus, still on fire with the new idea, pressed a few
questions upon the manufacturer before bidding him
good-bye. He wished to talk further upon the great sub-
'ject, interested as to details, but Cedarquist was vague in
his replies. He was no farmer, he hardly knew wheat
when he saw it, only he knew the trend of the world's
affairs ; he felt them to be setting inevitably east-
ward.

However, his very vagueness was a further inspira-
tion to the Governor. He swept details aside. He saw
only the grand coup, the huge results, the East con-
quered, the march of empire rolling westward, finally ar-
riving at its starting point, the vague, mysterious Orient.

A Story of California 321

He saw his wheat, like the crest of an advancing billow,
crossing the Pacific, bursting upon Asia, flooding the
Orient in a golden torrent. It was the new era. He had
lived to see the death of the old and the birth of the new ;
first the mine, now the ranch; first gold, now wheat.
Once again he became the pioneer, hardy, brilliant, tak-
ing colossal chances, blazing the way, grasping a fortune
— a million in a single day. All the bigness of his nature
leaped up again within him. At the magnitude of the in-
spiration he felt young again, indomitable, the leader at
last, king of his fellows, wresting from fortune at this
eleventh hour, before his old age, the place of high com-
mand which so long had been denied him. At last he
could achieve.

Abruptly Magnus was aware that some one had spoken
his name. He looked about and saw behind him, at a
little distance, two gentlemen, strangers to him. They,
had withdrawn from the crowd into a little recess. Evi-
dently having no women to look after, they had lost in-
terest in the afternoon's affair. Magnus realised that
they had not seen him. One of them was reading aloud
to his companion from an evening edition of that day's
newspaper. It was in the course of this reading that
Magnus caught the sound of his name. He paused, lis-
tening, and Presley, Harran and Cedarquist followed his
example. Soon they all understood. They were listen-
ing to the report of the judge's decision, for which
Magnus was waiting — the decision in the case of the
League vs. the Railroad. For the moment, the polite
clamour of the raffle hushed itself — the winning number
was being drawn. The guests held their breath, and in
the ensuing silence Magnus and the others heard these
words distinctly:

" .... It follows that the title to the lands in
question is in the plaintiff — the Pacific and Southwest-

322 The Octopus

ern Railroad, and the defendants have no title, and their
possession is wrongful. There must be findings and
judgment for the plaintiff, and it is so ordered."

In spite of himself, Magnus paled. Harran shut his
teeth with an oath. Their exaltation of the previous mo-
ment collapsed like a pyramid of cards. The vision of
the new movement of the wheat, the conquest of the
East, the invasion of the Orient, seemed only the flimsiest
mockery. With a brusque wrench, they were snatched
back to reality. Between them and the vision, between
the fecund San Joaquin, reeking with fruitfulness, and
the millions of Asia crowding toward the verge of starva-
tion, lay the iron-hearted monster of steel and steam, im-
placable, insatiable, huge — its entrails gorged with the
life blood that it sucked from an entire commonwealth,
its ever hungry maw glutted with the harvests that
should have fed the famished bellies of the whole world
of the Orient.

But abruptly, while the four men stood there, gaz-
ing into each other's faces, a vigorous hand-clapping
broke out. The raffle of Hartrath's picture was over,
and as Presley turned about he saw Mrs. Cedarquist
and her two daughters signalling eagerly to the manu-
facturer, unable to reach him because of the interven-
ing crowd. Then Mrs. Cedarquist raised her voice and
cried :

" I've won. I've won."

Unnoticed, and with but a brief word to Cedarquist,
Magnus and Harran went down the marble steps leading
to the street door, silent, Harran's arm tight around his
father's shoulder.

At once the orchestra struck into a lively air. A re-
newed murmur of conversation broke out, and Cedar-
quist, as he said good-bye to Presley, looked first at the
retreating figures of the ranchers, then at the gayly

A Story of California 323

dressed throng of beautiful women and debonair young
men, and indicating the whole scene with a single gesture,
said, smiling sadly as he spoke:

" Not a city, Presley, not a city, but a Midway
Plaisance."

II

Underneath the Long Trestle where Broderson Creek
cut the line of the railroad and the Upper Road, the
ground was low and covered with a second growth of
grey green willows. Along the borders of the creek
were occasional marshy spots, and now and then Hilma
Tree came here to gather water-cresses, which she made
into salads.

The place was picturesque, secluded, an oasis of green
shade in all the limitless, flat monotony of the surround-
ing wheat lands. The creek had eroded deep into the lit-
tle gully, and no matter how hot it was on the baking,
shimmering levels of the ranches above, down here one
always found one's self enveloped in an odorous, moist
coolness. From time to time, the incessant murmur of
the creek, pouring over and around the larger stones,
was interrupted by the thunder of trains roaring out
upon the trestle overhead, passing on with the furious
gallop of their hundreds of iron wheels, leaving in the
air a taint of hot oil, acrid smoke, and reek of escaping
steam.

On a certain afternoon, in the spring of the year,
Hilma was returning to Quien Sabe from Hooven's by
the trail that led from Los Muertos to Annixter's ranch
houses, under the trestle. She had spent the afternoon
with Minna Hooven, who, for the time being, was kept
indoors because of a wrenched ankle. As Hilma de-
scended into the gravel flats and thickets of willows un-
derneath the trestle, she decided that she would gather

A Story of California 325

\

some cresses for her supper that night. She found a spot
around the base of one of the supports of the trestle
where the cresses grew thickest, and plucked a couple of
handfuls, washing them in the creek and pinning them
up in her handkerchief. It made a little, round, cold
bundle, and Hilma, warm from her walk, found a de-
licious enjoyment in pressing the damp ball of it to her
cheeks and neck.

For all the change that Annixter had noted in her upon
the occasion of the barn dance, Hilma remained in many
things a young child. She was never at loss for enjoy-
ment, and could always amuse herself when left alone.
Just now, she chose to drink from the creek, lying prone
on the ground, her face half-buried in the water, and this,
not because she was thirsty, but because it was a new
way to drink. She imagined herself a belated traveller, a
poor girl, an outcast, quenching her thirst at the wayside
brook, her little packet of cresses doing duty for a bundle
of clothes. Night was coming on. Perhaps it would
storm. She had nowhere to go. She would apply at a
hut for shelter.

Abruptly, the temptation to dabble her feet in the creek
presented itself to her. Always she had liked to play in
the water. What a delight now to take off her shoes and
stockings and wade out into the shallows near the bank t
She had worn low shoes that afternoon, and the dust of
the trail had filtered in above the edges. At times, she
felt the grit and grey sand on the soles of her feet, and
the sensation had set her teeth on edge. What a delicious
alternative the cold, clean water suggested, and how easy
it would be to do as she pleased just then, if only she
were a little girl. In the end, it was stupid to be grown
up.

Sitting upon the bank, one finger tucked into the heel
of her shoe, Hilma hesitated. Suppose a train should

326 The Octopus

come ! She fancied she could see the engineer leaning
from the cab with a great grin on his face, or the brake-
man shouting gibes at her from the platform. Abruptly
she blushed scarlet. The blood throbbed in her temples.
Her heart beat.

Since the famous evening of the barn dance, Annixter
had spoken to her but twice. Hilma no longer looked
after the ranch house these days. The thought of setting
foot within Annixter's dining-room and bed-room ter-
rified her, and in the end her mother had taken over that
part of her work. Of the two meetings with the master
of Quien Sabe, one had been a mere exchange of good
mornings as the two happened to meet over by the ar-
tesian well; the other, more complicated, had occurred
in the dairy-house again, Annixter, pretending to look
over the new cheese press, asking about details of her
work. When this had happened on that previous occa-
sion, ending with Annixter's attempt to kiss her, Hilma
had been talkative enough, chattering on from one sub-
ject to another, never at a loss for a theme. But this
last time was a veritable ordeal. No sooner had Annixter
appeared than her heart leaped and quivered like that of
the hound-harried doe. Her speech failed her. Through-
out the whole brief interview she had been miserably
tongue-tied, stammering monosyllables, confused, hor-
ribly awkward, and when Annixter had gone away, she
had fled to her little room, and bolting the door, had
flung herself face downward on the bed and wept as
though her heart were breaking, she did not know why.

That Annixter had been overwhelmed with business
all through the winter was an inexpressible relief to
Hilma. His affairs took him away from the ranch con-
tinually. He was absent sometimes for weeks, making
trips to San Francisco, or to Sacramento, or to Bonne-
ville. Perhaps he was forgetting her, overlooking her;

A Story of California 327

and while, at first, she told herself that she asked nothing
better, the idea of it began to occupy her mind. She
began to wonder if it was really so.

She knew his trouble. Everybody did. The news of
the sudden forward movement of the Railroad's forces,
inaugurating the campaign, had flared white-hot and
blazing all over the country side. To Hilma's notion,
Annixter's attitude was heroic beyond all expression.
His courage in facing the Railroad, as he had faced De-
laney in the barn, seemed to her the pitch of sublimity.
She refused to see any auxiliaries aiding him in his fight.
To her imagination, the great League, which all the
ranchers were joining, was a mere form. Single-handed,
Annixter fronted the monster. But for him the corpora-
tion would gobble Quien Sabe, as a whale would a min-
now. He was a hero who stood between them all and de-
struction. He was a protector of her family. He was
her champion. She began to mention him in her prayers
every night, adding a further petition to the effect that
he would become a good man, and that he should not
swear so much, and that he should never meet Delaney
again.

However, as Hilma still debated the idea of bathing
her feet in the creek, a train did actually thunder past
overhead — the regular evening Overland, — the through
express, that never stopped between Bakersfield and
Fresno. It stormed by with a deafening clamour, and
a swirl of smoke, in a long succession of way-coaches,
and chocolate coloured Pullmans, grimy with the dust of
the great deserts of the Southwest. The quivering of the
trestle's supports set a tremble in the ground underfoot.
The thunder of wheels drowned all sound of the flowing
of the creek, and also the noise of the buckskin mare's
hoofs descending from the trail upon the gravel about
the creek, so that Hilma, turning about after the passage

328 The Octopus

of the train, saw Annixter close at hand, with the abrupt-
ness of a vision.

He was looking at her, smiling as he rarely did, the
firm line of his out-thrust lower lip relaxed good-
humouredly. He had taken off. his campaign hat to her,
and though his stiff, yellow hair was twisted into a
bristling mop, the little persistent tuft on the crown,
usually defiantly erect as an Apache's scalp-lock, was
nowhere in sight.

"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 irri-
gating 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, inexplic-
able 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 ex-
cited himself at this unexpected meeting. Never through
^11 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 Hilnia's face as he stood with one arm around

A Story of California 329

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, some-
how, 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, follow-
ing an instinct which warned him that this would bring
about a certain closeness of their relations, a certain in-
timacy.

" 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 ap-
pealed 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 ? "

330 The Octopus

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

Hilma's low-pitched, almost husky voice trembled a
little as she replied, " lighting — with guns — that's so ter-
rible. 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. Behr-
man 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

A Story of California 331

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 any-
thing that time when we stood there together and De-
laney 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. Behr-
man 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 some-
how, 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

33 2 The Octopus

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, put-
ting 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, littk girl," Annixter con-
tinued, " 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

A Story of California 333

some person — somebody beside myself. Understand? I
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 An-
nixter, 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 Annix-
ter 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 smell-
ing 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, mop-
ping 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."

334 The Octopus

" Delaney ? The idea ! Oh, dear ! I think it must al-
ways 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 re-
member— 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 ser-
vant 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:

A Story of California 335

" 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 Fran-
cisco. 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 pro-
tested. "And, then, so soon, too. Why must we have
a weddit-g 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 peo-
ple live, an«l 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 snap-
ping them carefully into the creek. He fell thoughtful.
Here was a phase of the affair he had not planned in the

336 The Octopus

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 Ouien
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 busi-
ness?"

" 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

A Story of California 337

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 disappear-
ing 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 mo-
ment 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

338 The Octopus

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 compli-
cated, the business transacted of the utmost moment,
and it was not until two o'clock that Annixter found him-
self 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 consign-
ment 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, indus-
trious, 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

A Story of California 339

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. Sid-
ney, 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 exag-
gerated carefulness.

340 The Octopus

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 sil-
houetted 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 euca-
lyptus 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 sur-
prised 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

A Story of California 341

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 vaga-
bond, 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 val-
ley. 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.

342 The Octopus

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 hill-
sides, but Vanamee no longer took him into his confi-
dence. 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 ro-
mance 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 charac-
ter, but, like many another of the country people, he ac-
counted 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 loung-
ing about the streets. It was seldom he got into town,
and when he did he permitted himself the luxury of en-
joying his evident popularity. He met friends every-
where, 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, pledg-
ing each other with punctilious ceremony. Dyke, how-

A Story of California 343

ever, 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 miscel-
laneous 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 out-
line figures of cows, ploughs, bunches of fruit and even
rural water mills that were printed on slips of paper un-
derneath.

" 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

344 The Octopus

know the crop is contracted for already. Sure, the fore-
man managed that. He's a daisy. Chap in San Fran-
cisco 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 plan-
ning 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 em-
ployee. 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

A Story of California 345

very red. Under the visor of his cap — relic of his en-
gineering 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 gar-
den 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 sur-
prised 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 inevita-
ble 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.

346 The Octopus

Dyke looked at him with attention. There was the
enemy, the representative of the Trust with which Der-
rick'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 inex-
haustible 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 multitudi-
nous 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 under-
taking.

A Story of California 347

" 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."

348 The Octopus

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. i."

" 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 i, and will remain in
force until superseded by a later tariff. Those quoted
beyond Stockton are subject to changes in traffic arrange-
ments 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 invest-
ment 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 un-
derstand? I won't make fifty cents. Make! Why, I
will owe, — I'll, be — be — That ruins me, do you un-
derstand?"

The other raised a shoulder.

A Story of California 349

" 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 sup-
pose 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 for-
ward. 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 ? " de-
manded Dyke, turning swiftly to him.

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

350 The Octopus

" Ail— 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 Rail-
road devour every morsel of his profits, but also it would
take from him his home ; at a blow he would be left pen-
niless 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 verita-
ble lady. For all that year he had talked of his ambition
for his little daughter to every one he met. All Bonne-
ville 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 hfm yet; no rousing of the blind,
white-hot wrath that leaps to the attack with prehensile
fingers, moved him. The blow merely crushed, stag-
gered, confused.

He stepped aside to give place to a coatless man in a
pink shirt, who entered, carrying in his hands an auto-
matic door-closing apparatus.

A Story of California 351

" 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 wit)/ many
errors.

S. Behrman, the clerk, and the man with tb? door-
closing apparatus involved themselves in a lor.'g argu-
ment, 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 oi:
the door, warning incomers that the door WcS seif-clos<-
ing. This sign would cost fifteen cents extra.

" But you didn't say anything about this when the
thing was ordered," declared S. Behrman. " '.Mo, 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," ex-

352 The Octopus

claimed 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 Muer-
tos and Osterman ranchos. They brushed by him, jost-
ling his elbow, and as he went out of the door he heard
them exchange jovial greetings with Delaney, Gen-
slinger, 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 unsuc-
cessful 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 in-
justice, 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 be-
neath his feet, coiling around his throat, throttling him,

A Story of California 353

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 him-
self, 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 them-
selves 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, blood-
shot; his face flamed vermilion, while his deep bass

354 The Octopus

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 excite-
ment, 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. Behr-
man," 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 worth-
less. 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 him-
self 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,

A Story of California 355

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, re-
alising 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, watch-
ing 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

356 The Octopus

Oh, if the people only knew their strength. Oh, if I
could wake 'em up. There's not only Shclgrim, 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, return-
ing to Los Mucrtos 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. Bchr-
man — 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.

A Story oi Calitbrnia 357

" 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 modera-
tion! 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. Behr-
man 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, muscu-
lar hands, lying open on the table before him, idle, their
occupation gone.

358 The Octopus

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 rat-
tles of little enterprises, expiring unobserved In far-off
counties, up in canons and arroyos of the foothills, for-
gotten 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 Guadala-
jara and Quien Sabe. Accordingly, he had accepted the
Governor's invitation to return with him on his buck-

A Story of California 359

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 be-
fore 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. u 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, ran-
corously; "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.

360 The Octopus

" 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 him-
self 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 direc-
tion 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 ven-
erable 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 court-
house 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 recollec-
tion of her had been the undercurrent of his thoughts.
At last he was alone. He could put all other things be-
hind him and occupy himself solely with her.

In that glory of the day's end, in that chaos of sun-
shine, he saw her again. Unimaginative, crude, direct,
his fancy, nevertheless, placed her before him, steeped in

A Scory of California 361

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 sugges-
tions of feminine daintiness he had so often remarke4
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 huski-
ness 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. An-
nixters mind went back to the scene of the previous even-
ing, 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 mis-
tress 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

The Octopus

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 conse-
quences ; if consequences came, they would do so natu-
rally 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. An-
nixter ate and drank and lighted a cigar, and after his

A Story of California 363

meal sat on the porch of his house, smoking and enjoy-
ing the twilight. The evening was beautiful, warm, the
sky one powder of stars. From the direction of the sta-
bles 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 build-
ings, with eye and ear alert. Possibly he might meet her
somewheres.

The Trees' little house, toward which inevitably An-
nixter 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 Annix-
ter 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?"

364 The Octopus

" Why, I thought you knew. Sure, they all left on
the afternoon train for San Francisco. Cleared out in a
hurry — took all their crunks. Yes, all three went — the
young lady, too. They gave me notice early this morn-
ing. 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

A Story of California 365

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 recollec-
tion 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 rilled 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 previ-
ous 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. An-
nixter still sat in his place, groping and battling in a con-
fusion 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 ex-
perience 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

366 The Octopus

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 han 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 hap-
pened 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 con-
sider 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 grow-

A Story of California 367

ing 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
new-found 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 com-
ing. 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 over-
whelming sense of his own umvorthiness 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 pic-
ture 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. In-
stantly, like the swift blending of beautiful colours, like

368 The Octopus

the harmony of beautiful chords of music, the two ideas
melted into one, and in that moment into his harsh, un-
lovely world a new idea was born. Annixter stood sud-
denly 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 re-
cesses of his being, something rose, expanding. He
opened his arms wide. An immense happiness overpow-
ered 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 na-
ture, 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 li-fe
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, utter-
ing a note of joy, acclaiming the new risen sun.

By now it was almost day. The east glowed opales-
cent. All about him Annixter saw the land inundated
with light. But there was a change. Overnight some-
thing 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

A Story of California 369

edge to edge of the horizon. The change was not fanci-
ful. 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, illimita-
ble, immeasurable. The winter brownness of the ground
was overlaid with a little shimmer of green. The prom-
ise 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 ex-
ulting earth gleaming transcendent with the radiant
magnificence of an inviolable pledge.
24

Ill

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 Mis-
sion 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 comforta-
ble 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

A Story of California 371

air of rigorous simplicity and freshness. He abhorred
cluttered bric-a-brac and meaningless objets cTart. Once
in so often he submitted his room to a vigorous inspec-
tion; 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 be-
tween 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,

372 The Octopus

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 end-
ing with a single majestic thought, simple, noble, digni-
fied, 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, imper-
sonal 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 im-
proving its rhythm. For the moment, he forgot the
People, forgot his rage, his agitation of the previous

A Story of California 373

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 pro-
foundly 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 Pres-
ley. " 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 sad-
dle 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 mam-
moth live oak, her foot in bandages; and then galloped

374 The Octopus

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 him-
self 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 oft' southeast-
erly 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
\\ire 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, cov-
ered only by wild oats. At long intervals, were isolated
live oaks. In the canons 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

A Story of California 375

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 Dur-
ham 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 il-
limitable 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."

376 The Octopus

" 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 pro-
pitious. The stillness of the vast, bare hills was pro-
found. 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."

A Story of California 377

" Don't publish it in the magazines at all events," Van-
amee 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 com-
mon, 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 pre-
vail,— 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 econo-
mist who laments the hardships of the poor, allows him-
self 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

The Octopus

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 Mis-
sion 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 happi-
ness, a dead romance, a perished idyl, — the Mission gar-
den 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

A Story of California 379

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 him-
self 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 in-
variably 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 in-
evitable 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, disen-
gaged a pungent aroma of fecundity.

Vanamee, following the road, passed through the col-
lection of buildings of Annixters home ranch. Every-
thing 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 la}!
down with a long breath.

380 The Octopus

Vanamee left the ranch house behind him and pro-
ceeded 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 care-
fully 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

A Story of California 381

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 van-
ished 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 danc-
ing shadows on- the pallid surface of the venerable
fagade.

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 mo-
ment, steeping himself in the mystery and romance of the
place, then raising he latch, pushed open the gate, en-

382 The Octopus

tered, and closed it softly behind him. He was in the
cloister garden.

The stars were outz 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 hallu-

A Story of California 383

cination 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, sur-
rendering 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, wander-
ing like a lost bird over the valley, touched upon some
thing again, touched and held it, and this time drew it a

384 The Octopus

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 ob-
scurity of the night, whose was the face now turned
towards his? Whose the footsteps that with such in-
finite 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, en-
during 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 ap-
pear. Under the moonlight, Vanamee saw them ex-
panding, 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, em-
phasising itself, breathing deeper, stronger. An ex-
quisite 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 deep-

A Story of California 385

ened, 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 glim-
mer of the flowers. He heard nothing but the drip of
the fountain. Nothing moved about him but the invisi-
ble, slow-passing breaths of perfume ; yet he felt the ap-
proach 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 cer-
tain 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
ai

386 The Octopus

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 blos-
som. It was a vibration merely, faint, elusive, impos-
sible 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 in-
creased. Distant objects, until now hidden, came into
view, and as the radiance brightened, Vanamee, looking
down upon the little valley, saw a spectacle of incom-
parable beauty. All the buds of the Seed ranch had
opened. The faint tints of the flowers had deepened, had

A Story of California 387

asserted themselves. They challenged the eye. Pink be-
came 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 search-
ing the shade at the foot of the hill, felt his heart sud-
denly 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 defini-
tion, 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 mani-
festation, 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

388 The Octopus

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 flow-
ers, 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, swoop-
ing 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 wpon 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.

A Story of California 389

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 verita-
ble caress. The infinite repose of the little garden,
sleeping under the night, was delicious beyond expres-
sion. 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,

The Octopus

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, reach-
ing 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 reshap-
ing itself, preparing to receive an impression never ex-
perienced 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, stead-
ily, 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

A Story of California 391

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 white-
ness of the lilies, the perfume of the lilies, and the lilies'
slender, balancing grace in her neck. Her hands disen-
gaged the scent of the heliotrope. The folds of her scar-
let 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 oi

392 The Octopus

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 differ-
ence with her. She was still young. It was the old purity
that returned, the deathless beauty, the ever-renascent
life, the eternal consecrated arid 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 van-
quished. 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 to-
ward 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 ranches, 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.

A Story of California 393

TThere 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 unconquer-
able, 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 ex-
cept 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 swal-
lowed up in Victory.

The sun rose. The night was over. The glory of the
terrestrial was one, and the glory of the celestial was an-
other. 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 enor-
mous 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 adula-
tion; assailed with the most violent condemnation. Edi-
torials were written upon it. Special articles, in literary
pamphlets, dissected its rhetoric and prosody. The
phrases were quoted, — were used as texts for revolution-
ary sermons, reactionary speeches. It was parodied; it
was distorted so as to read as an advertisement for pat-
ented cereals and infants' foods. Finally, the editor of
an enterprising monthly magazine reprinted the poem,
supplementing it by a photograph and biography of Pres-
ley 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 com-
position in a happy moment when words came easily to

A Story of California 395

him, and the elaboration of fine sentences was not diffi-
cult. 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 re-
ward. 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, rous-
ing their interest and stirring them up to action — ap-
pealed to him. It might do great good. To devote him-
self 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 griev-
ances. 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

396 The Octopus

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 QnienSabe, 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 sud-
den, 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. Cara-
her have talked over together, and I can't find out what

A Story of California 397

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 be-
ing 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, reassur-
ingly. " 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, venge-
ful, 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 over-
whelmed with sadness and trembling with anger. The
hop ranch that he had last seen in the full tide of pros-
perity was almost a ruin. Work had evidently been

398 The Octopus

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 him-
self, 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 yel-
lowed ivory knob of his cane, had an unwonted tremu-
lousness 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 bit-
terness in life. His success had come by devious methc
ods, had been reached by obscure means.

He was a briber. He could never forget that. To

A Story of California 399

further his ends, disinterested, public-spirited, even phil-
anthropic as those were, he had connived with knavery,
he, the politician of the old school, of such rigorous in-
tegrity, who had abandoned a ''career " rather than com-
promise 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 volu-
bility 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 char-
acter 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 Presi-
dent of the League, was called upon to make so
often, he now hesitated. He could no longer be arro-
gant, masterful, acting upon his own judgment, inde-
pendent 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.

400 The Octopus

He was on his way at this moment to the city to con-
sult with Lyman as to a certain issue of the contest be-
tween 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 ques-
tion. 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 Fran-
cisco had written to warn him that the Railroad might be
able to take advantage of a technicality, and by pretend-
ing that neither Quien Sabe nor Los Muertos were in-
cluded 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 al-
lowed 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 An-
nixter (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 them-
selves 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. Ann-
ixter 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

A Story of California 401

guesses. Guess right and you get a cigar. I guess
g-i-r-1 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 Mont-
gomery 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 con-
jecture 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

402 The Octopus

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 reconcilia-
tion 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, clean-
liness, 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 in-
finite 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

A Story of California 403

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 fash-
ion, 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 in-
stead 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

404 The Octopus

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 hus-
band."

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 mur-
mured.

" 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 rig-ht," she replied.

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

A Story of California 405

" 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 hus-
band?"

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 pleas-
ure 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

406 The Octopus

honeymoon at a small, family hotel on Sutter Street. As
a matter of course, they saw the sights of the city to-
gether. 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 Egyp-
tian 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 re-
painted, 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 consign-
ment 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

A Story of California 407

"set" of pure white enamel, three chairs, a washstand
and bureau, a marvellous bargain of thirty dollars, dis-
covered 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 aston-
ishing display, unable to offer a single suggestion him-
self, 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, photo-
graphs 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 " Ronget 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 bv the Overland, by Jingo," declared Ann-
ixter across the table to his wife, at their last meal in

408 The Octopus

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 Pull-
man'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 buy-
ing 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. Ann-
ixter 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 furi-
ously 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. In-
stantly he raised an outcry. Aha, a fine way to treat

A Story of California 409

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 mo-
ment. 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 has-
tened to exclaim, " to write every Sunday afternoon."

There came a prolonged creaking and groan of strain-
ing 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 hus-
band.

" Well," she said.

4 io The Octopus

" 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 un-
easily; "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 sea-
sickness 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 explana-
tion. 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
vou bother ? "

"Headache?"

" Not the least."

" You feel tired, then. That's it. No wonder, the way
I'v<j 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 He 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, re-
fusing 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

A Story of California 411

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 I look
like a sick lady? "

He scrutinized her face distressfully.

" Now, don't I look the picture of health ? " she chal-
lenged.

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

Hilma beat a tattoo with her heels upon the floor, shut-
ting 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

412 The Octopus

mountains grew higher, the land richer, and hy 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 for-
ever 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 read-
ing 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 pas-
senger 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. An-

A Story of California 413

nixter, 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 win-
dow 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. Every-
thing else was impenetrable blackness.

" I think sure we must have passed Fresno," he mut-
tered. 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 An-
nixter over his spectacles.

"What's the next stop?"

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

"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 vi-
brated with blinding rapidity in the long, sliding jar that

414 The Octopus

ran through the train from end to end, and the momen-
tum 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, catch-
ing 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 cur-
tain 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

A Story of California 415

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 drum-
mers.

"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 gen-
tleman'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 im-
mobilised and inert under the night. One of the drum-
mers, 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

4i 6 The Octopus

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 shooting1.
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 ? "

A Story of California 417

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 pro-
foundly.

" 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, an-
grily. " 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, allow-
ing 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

27

4i 8 The Octopus

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-Christ-
mas, 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 ex-
plosion. 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. How-
ever, 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.

A Story of California 419

" 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
6i\rly voice, " and the passengers in this car," he added,
turning back at the door and nodding his head menac-
ingly, " 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 en-
gine, a huge, decapitated monster it lay, half-way around
a curve, rained upon, abandoned.

There was more fear in this last condition of af-
fairs, 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 help-
less. What next was to happen ?

Nobody came near the car. Even the porter had dis-
appeared. 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.

420 The Octopus

But nobody slept. From berth to berth came the sound
of suppressed voices talking it all over, formulating con-
jectures. 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 pull-
ing the bell cord. A brakeman had attempted to inter-
fere 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 de-
lay, 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 con-
vinced 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 mo-

A Story of California 421

ments 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 mo-
ments it was tearing away through the dawn at a won-
derful speed, rocking around curves, roaring across cul-
verts, 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, gallop-
ing, 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 ex-
press 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.

422 The Octopus

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 brake-
man 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

A Story of California 423

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 enor-
mous 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, question-
ing, collecting facts for his extra. As Annixter de-
scended 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 ex-
citement, caught his elbow.

" Can I have your version of the affair, Mr. An-
nixter?"

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

424 The Octopus

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 Gen-
slinger, 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. How-
ever, they could not at once start for the ranch, Annix-
ter 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 Bonne-
ville.

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 east-
ward, 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

A Story of California 425

amongst them ; somewhere, in all that pile of blue crests
and purple canons he was hidden away. Now for
weeks of searching, false alarms, clews, trailings, watch-
ings, 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 por-
tion 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 un-
derneath the scant, half -grown trees near by, and as An-
nixter 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 fur-
ther one is Archie Moore's. He's the sheriff. He came
down from Visalia on a special engine this morning.1'

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.

426 The Octopus

" It came here last night, addressed to you, sir/' ex-
claimed 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 sit-
ting-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. An-
nixter 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 try-
ing to restrain her busy hands. " It isn't anything. Just
some machinery. Let it go."

But already she had pulled away the excelsior. Un-
derneath, in temporary racks, were two dozen Winches-
ter 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,

A Story of California 427

bewildered. " You wanted to make believe it was ma-
chinery. 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 fear-
fully 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 mur-
der, into this atmosphere of alarms, a man-hunt organ-
ising, 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 per-
functory meeting at Los Muertos at which nothing but
routine business was transacted. A scheme put forward
by Osterman for a conference with the railroad man-
agers fell through because of the refusal of the company
to treat with the ranchers upon any other basis than

428 The Octopus

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 Guad-
lajara. One after another of these returned, empty-
handed, covered with dust and mud, their horses ex-
hausted, 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 accom-
panying the searching bands. Horse hoofs clattered over
the roads at night ; bells were rung, the " Mercury " is-
sued extra after extra ; the bloodhounds bayed, gun butts
clashed on the asphalt pavements of Bonneville ; acci-
dental 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 quar-
ter of a mile of the foot-hills and there irretrievably lost.
Three days after the hold-up, a sheep-herder was found

A Story of California 429

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 trans-
pired to bring the pursuers and pursued any closer to-
gether. 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 some-
where near the southern part of the San Joaquin,
near Bakersfield. Thus, the sheriffs, marshals, and depu-
ties 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 ap-
pearance. 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 read-
ing " 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

430 The Octopus

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 sun-
light. 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. Annix-
ter, 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 sur-
prised 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?"

A Story of California 431

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 high-
wayman's mother, worn out, abandoned and forgotten,
slept through the stillness of the Sunday afternoon.

432 The Octopus

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 ques-
tion of Dyke's capture. She did not answer their ques-
tions 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 splen-
did 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 un-

A Story of California 433

clerstand 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 un-
bound. " 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, implor-
ing 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.

434 The Octopus

" I hope S. Behrman is satisfied with all this," he mut-
tered. " 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.

A Story of California 435

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 sup-
per 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 tele-
phoned to Los Muertos at once. Magnus answered the
call. There was a special meeting of the Executive Com-
mittee 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.

436 The Octopus

Annixter, curious for details, forbore, nevertheless, to
question. The connection from Los Muertos to Quien
Sabe was made through Bonneville, and in those trouble-
some 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 Com-
mittee 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 but-
toned 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 cigar-
ettes, 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

A Story of California 437

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 mem-
bers, 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 over-
coat over his arm. Before being introduced to the Com-
mittee, 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
lor 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 bring-
ing 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, compli-
menting Osterman, whom he already knew, upon his

43 8 The Octopus

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 sched-
ule of reduced rates, and that Mr. Derrick had been oblig-
ing 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 Os-

A Story of California 439

terman himself, he, nevertheless, had at his command a
vast number of ready-made phrases, the staples of a po-
litical speaker, the stock in trade of the commercial law-
yer, which rolled off his tongue with the most persuasive
fluency. By degrees, in the course of his speech, he be-
gan 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 in-
augurated/' 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 aver-
age 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

440 The Octopus

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 ad-
vance, 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 rea-
son 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 commis-
sion 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 Stpte 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

A Story of California 441

upper Sacramento Valley; also the rate from lone 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 low-
ered 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 gentle-
men 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 be-
tween 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/'

442 The Octopus

" 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 Oster-
man and Gethings, also getting to their feet.

" Order, order, gentlemen/' cried Magnus, remem-
bering the duties of his office and rapping his knuckles
on the table. " This meeting has been allowed to de-
generate 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 ques-
tion of transportation was difficult. You would not wish
to put rates so low that the action would amount to con-
fiscation of property."

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

A Story of California 443

"That was not a prominent issue in the affair," re-
sponded 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 "

444 The Octopus

" 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 Rail-
road 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 Com-
mission 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 pos-
sible ? Was it possible ?

" Have you done your best ? " For a second he com-
pelled Lyman's eye. The glances of father and son
met, and, in spite of his best efforts, Lyman's eyes wav-
ered. 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 unbeliev-
able 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

A Story of California 445

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 un-
derstand the gravity of this crisis; do you realise the
responsibility of your position; do you not see the im-
portance 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 tide-
water?"

" 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

446 The Octopus

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, Til 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," re-
torted 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,

A Story of California 447

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 An-
nixter 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 Sac-
ramento 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 conven-
tion."

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 deli-
cious, and its vast silence, after the noise and fury of
the committee meeting, descended from the stars like a

448 The Octopus

benediction. Presley stepped to the edge of the porch,
looking off to southward.

And there before him, mile after mile, illimitable, cov-
ering 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, shimmer-
ing 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 insignifi-
cance 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 colos-
sal 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.

Jack-rabbits were a pest that year and Presley occa-
sionally found amusement in hunting them with Harran's
half-dozen greyhounds, following the chase on horse-
back. 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 mem-
bers 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 be-
tween 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 re-
ceived 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

450 The Octopus

first of many false alarms, but it had stimulate^ the
League to unusual activity, and some three or fourtiun-
dred men were furnished with arms and from time to
time were drilled in secret.

Among themselves, the ranchers said that if the Rail-
road 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 Gensling-
er'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, dis-
mounted 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

A Story of California 451

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

452 The Octopus

him. At length, Genslinger began again. He did not
look at Magnus, except at long intervals.

" About the present Railroad Commission," he re-
marked. " That was an interesting campaign you con-
ducted in Sacramento and San Francisco."

Magnus held his peace, his hands shut tight. Did Gen-
slinger 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. Der-
rick, 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 hap-
pen 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 ? "

A Story of California 453

" Why, Governor," returned the editor, blandly, " I'm
not insinuating anything. Fm 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. Gov-
ernor, 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 sub-
stantiated, every statistic verified with Genslinger's
meticulous love for exactness. Besides all that, it had the
ring of truth. It was exposure, ruin, absolute annihila-
tion.

" That's about correct, isn't it ? " commented Gen-
slinger, as Derrick finished reading. Magnus did not

454 l^e Octopus

reply. " I think it is correct enough," the editor con-
tinued. " 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 sug-
gestion 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 gal-
ley. " 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 posi-
tion 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 Val-
ley, 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,

A Story of California 455

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 corpora-
tion don't use swch amateurish methods as that. Con-
fidentially 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 cam-
paign for Governor. It's too bad/' he continued, drop-
ping 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. Gen-
slinger ? " remarked Magnus, bestirring himself. " I am
rather occupied to-day."

" Well," returned the other, " you know what the pub-
lication 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 en-
larging the scope of the ' Mercury.' You see, I'm mid-
way between the two big centres of the State, San Fran-
cisco and Los Angeles, and I want to extend the ' Mer-

456 The Octopus

cury'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 under-
stand?"

Magnus understood. An overwhelming desire sud-
denly 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

A Story of California 457

to be. Only its righteousness had made his wrath ter-
rible ; 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 Sat-
urday morning ' Mercury,' Mr. Derrick."

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

The following morning brought a letter to Magnus
from Gethings, of the San Pueblo ranch, which was situ-
ated 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

458 The Octopus

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 disaf-
fected, 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 con-
fidence.

Magnus was alone when he read this. He put it care-
fully 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?"

A Story of California 459

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 im-
paired, 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 pre-
tences that kept up appearances, the lies, the bluster, the
pose, the strut, the gasconade, where once was iron au-
thority; 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 uneasi-
ness 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, in-
domitable, 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 si-
lenced, though Lyman should be crushed, though even
the League should overcome the Railroad, though he
should be the acknowledged leader of a resplendent vic-
tory, yet the plague-spot would remain. There was no

460 The Octopus

success for him now. However conspicuous the outward
achievement, he, he himself, Magnus Derrick, had failed,
miserably and irredeemably.

Petty, material complications intruded, sordid consid-
erations. Even if Genslinger was to be paid, where was
the money to come from ? His legal battles with the Rail-
road, 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 heav-
ily upon his account. All along he had been relying upon
a " bonanza crop " to reimburse him. It was not believ-
able that the Railroad would " jump " Los Muertos, but
if this should happen, he would be left without re-
sources. 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 sin-
gle means of redress! Would it not cripple him finan-
cially? Genslinger could do his worst. He, Magnus,
would brave it out. Was not his character above sus-
picion ?

Was it ? This letter of Gethings's. Already the mur-
mur of uneasiness made itself heard. Was this not the
thin edge of the wedge? How the publication of Gen-
slinger's btory 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 investiga-
tion. Magnus groaned aloud, covering his head with his
clasped hands. Briber, corrupter of government, ballot-
box stuffer, descending to the level of back-room politi-
cians, of bar-room heelers, he, Magnus Derrick, statesman
of the old school, Roman in his iron integrity, abandon-
ing a career rather than enter the " new politics," had, in
one moment of weakness, hazarding all, even honour, on

A Story of California 461

a single stake, taking great chances to achieve great re-
sults, 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 defec-
tion had not so upset him. The morning after the com-
mittee meeting, Magnus had called Harran and Annie
Derrick into the office, and, after telling his wife of Ly-
man'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, Pres-
ley 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

462 The Octopus

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 Anmx-
ter — 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, Pres-
ley 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 ususal 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

A Story of California 463

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 busi-
ness dealings with each other. I thought it as well just
now, considering that we are so openly opposed, to ter-
minate 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, Pres-
ley. 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 Cara-
her'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

464 The Octopus

a more favourable light. He found, to his immense aston-
ishment, that Caraher knew something of Mill and Ba-
kounin, not, however, from their books, but from ex-
tracts 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 prac-
tice, 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 hur-
ried 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

A Story of California 465

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 inconsis-
tency, 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 be-
hind 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 sand-
wiches 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 "

30

466 The Octopus

" 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 disfa-
vour at his suspenders.

" Why is it," he observed, " that as soon as a man is
about to get married, he buys himself pale blue sus-
penders, 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 An-
nixter 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

A Story of California 467

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 con-
tinued. " 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

468 The Octopus

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. Fve 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.

A Story of California 469

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 Vacea, 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

470 The Octopus

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, An-
nixter, Billy the stable-man, and Dyke himself, darting
hither and thither about the yellow mare, buckling, strap-
ping, 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."

A Story of California 471

" 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, clamber-
ing 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. Any-
thing there ? "

472 The Octopus

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 an-
other 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 mo-
ment. One started to follow the highwayman's trail to-
wards 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 exult-
ing 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 hoofc,
and streaming manes.

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

A Story of California 473

" 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 An-
nixter.

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, bewil-
dered, ignorant of what had happened. But on the porch
of the Ranch house itself, alone, forgotten in the excite-
ment, 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

474 The Octopus

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 Bonne-
ville. 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 steam-
ing 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.

A Story of California 475

" 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 gather-
ing 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 ;
but 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, blot-
ting 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.

476 The Octopus

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 coun-
try. 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

A Story of California 477

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 in-
dicator 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 sema-
phore, 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 auto-
matic semaphore that worked simultaneously with the
movement of the rails. To go forward was certain de-

478 The Octopus

struction. 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 re-
verse, 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 ex-

A Story of California 479

plosion. 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 pow-
der 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 coun-
try between the two ranches of Los Muertos and Quien
Sabe.

But to go on to Bonneville meant certain death. Be-

480 The Octopus

fore, 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 re-
volver, 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 aban-
donment, 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 Rail-
road, 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. Behr-
man 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,

A Story of California 481

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 be-
tween 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 look-
ing 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. Behr-
man 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.

482 The Octopus

" 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 ex-
cited.

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, rilled 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 draw-

A Story of California 483

ing nearer, then, turning back, disappeared in the chapar-
ral. 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 ram-
part, 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

484 The Octopus

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 careless-
ness 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 consider-
ations, 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

A Story of California 485

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, clutch-
ing, 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, strug-
gling group, through that maze of twisting bodies, twin-
ing 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 in-
stant, 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

486 The Octopus

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 lengtn, 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 brace-
lets 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, hold-
ing his broken jaw in both hands. The sheriff's horse,
with its splintered foreleg, would have to be shot. De-
laney'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-unconscious-
ness, unable to walk. They sat him on the buckskin, S.

A Story of California 487

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 or-
ganized 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 Har-
ran 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 re-
graded 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 guar-
anteed 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 An-

A Story of California 489

nixter s Home ranch. That slice of Quien Sabe, accord-
ing 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 ras-
cals! 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 ap-
pealed, they've lost their cases by default. It's the rotten-
est 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 hun-
dred 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 Bonne-
ville, on their way to the rabbit drive — the same people
seen at the barn-dance — in their Sunday finery, the girls

490 The Octopus

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 chil-
dren, 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 smother-
ing 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 over-
took and passed Hooven and his family in the former's

A Story of California 491

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 extreme-
ly 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 ! / 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, beat-
ing 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 Bonne-
ville 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."

49 2 The Octopus

" Well, as a matter of course, she's a good girl," Pres-
ley 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 under-
neath 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 ges-
tures of the hand. The whole place exhaled the febrile
bustle of the saloon on a holiday morning.

The procession of teams streamed on through Bonne-
ville, reenforced at every street corner. Along the Upper
Road from Quien Sabe and Guadalajara came fresh aux-
iliaries, Spanish-Mexicans from the town itself, — swarthy
young men on capering horses, dark-eyed girls and ma-
trons, 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

A Story of California 493

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 direc-
tions 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 mar-
shals 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 per-
petual 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 be-
yond 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.

494 The Octopus

" 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."

A Story of California 495

" 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 mar-
shal 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 lieu-
tenant. " 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 to-
gether 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

496 The Octopus

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 dis-
turbed 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 sim-
plicity of her maiden days came back to her. It was
no longer a simplicity of ignorance, but of supreme

A Story of California 497

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 gentle-
ness 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 atmos-
phere 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 en-
circled 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 gentle-
ness and of love, the instincts of a father already clutch-
ing 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 compul-
sory 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
32

498 The Octopus

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

A Story of California 499

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, sit-
ting 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 ex-
panse 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

500 The Octopus

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 de-
pended on the issue of the instant. Once even, a bewil-
dered 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 excite-
ment, 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 Annix-
ter'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 be-
hind, 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 in-
creased. It was no longer thousands, it was tens of thou-
sands. 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 con-

A Story of California 501

tract. Far off the corral came into sight. The disinte-
grated mass of rabbits commenced, as it were, to solidify,
to coagulate. At first, each jack was some three feet dis-
tant 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 di-
minished, 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 look 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 ex-
claimed.

The corral, a really large enclosure, had proved all too

502 The Octopus

small for the number of rabbits collected by the drive.
Inside it was a living, moving, leaping, breathing, twist-
ing mass. The rabbits were packed two, three, and four
feet deep. They were in constant movement; those be-
neath struggling to the top, those on top sinking and dis-
appearing 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 re-
porters 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 Hilrna
away, and, indeed, most of the people set about the bar-
becue at once.

In the corral, however, the killing went forward.
Armed with a club in each hand, the young fellows from
Guadalajara and Bonne ville, and the farm boys from the
ranches, leaped over the rails of the corral. They walked
unsteadily upon the myriad of crowding bodies under-
foot, 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 hotr
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

A Story of California 503

to look on. All the guests betook themselves some quar-
ter 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 oc-
casion 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 her-
self, whom he had not seen for more than two months.

504 The Octopus

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 support-
ing 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 un-
consciously 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, em-
barrassment 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 ab-
stracted, serious, lost in thought.

By now everyone was eating. It was the feeding of
the People, elemental, gross, a great appeasing of appe-
tite, 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 multi-
tude. 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

A Story of California 505

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 sim-
plicity 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 di-

506 The Octopus

rection. Evidently something of moment was in the
wind.

" What's all up ? " demanded Annixter, as he and Har-
ran, 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, under-
stand. 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."

A Story of California 507

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 mo-
ments. 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 num-
ber 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?" exclahned 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 con-
fusion. Ah, no, they were not going to stand up and be
shot at just to save Derrick's land. They were not armed.
Wrhat 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 sur-
prise. 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

508 The Octopus

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. Bro-
derson 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 ut-
most. 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. Oster-
man's thoroughbred took the second crossing of Broder-
son'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 bleed-
ing 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 enor-
mous 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,

A Story of California 509

" 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," ex-
plained Magnus, "came down early this morning and!
stopped at Guadalajara. We learned it all through our
friends in Bonneville about an hour ago. They tele-
phoned 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 Up-
per 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."

510 The Octopus

" 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 urn. 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 trenchy
admirably suited to the purpose, crossing both roads as
Hooven pointed out and barring approach from Guadala-
jara to all the ranches save Annixter's — which had al-
ready 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 mar-
shal's approach from that direction.

After the outposts had left them, the party in Hooven's
cottage looked to their weapons. Long since, every mem-
ber of the League had been in the habit of carrying his
revolver with him. They were all armed and, in addi-
tion, 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 vocif-
erously on a shelf. In one corner was a bed, with a
patched, faded quilt. In the centre of the room, strad-
dling 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,

A Story of California 511

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 o£ 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 Annix-
ter, 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 dan-
ger 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 hi the wrong — driven to it, though ; the Railroad did
drive him to it I want to be fair and just to every-
body "

" There's a team coming up the road from Los Muer-
tos," announced Presley from the door.

" Fair and just to everybody," murmured old Broder-
son, wagging his head, frowning perplexedly. " I don't
want to — to — to harm anybody unless they harm me."

512 The Octopus

"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 Os-
terman. " 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 leav-
ing 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."

A Story of California 513

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 po-
sition 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, watch-
ful, waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the white shim-
mer 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 Har-
ran. " 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, af-
ter all. He wanted to watch them a little longer. But he
ought to be here now."

514 The Octopus

" 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 Har-
ran, 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 Guadala-
jara."

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.

A Story of California 51$

" 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 butchef
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 oi
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.

516 The Octopus

" 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 rap-
idly, 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.

A Story of California 5 1 7

Osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound si-
lence that had fallen upon the scene, the click was plainly
audible from end to end of the line.

" Remember our agreement, gentlemen," cried Mag-
nus, 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 motion-
less 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 horse-
men, 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 :

518 The Octopus

*' 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 mar-
shal reply quietly enough and the two shook hands. De-
laney 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 dis-

A Story of California 519

cussion 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 ether 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 gath-
ered 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. Be-
sides 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 sur-
rounded 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."

520 The Octopus

"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 An-
nixter, 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, catch-
ing 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, misun-
derstanding 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 Har-
ran in front, Dabney, Phelps, and Cutter coming up from
behind.

" Keep back, you," cried the deputy again.

A Story of California 521

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 con-
tinued.

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 for-
ward. 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 misinter-
preted.

Garnett had not yet risen when Hooven raised a great
shout :

" Hoch, dcr 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 con-
fused 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 still-
ness.

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 back-
ward from the saddle toward the buggy, and hung sus-
pended in that position, his head and shoulders on the
wheel, one stiff leg still across his saddle. Hooven, in

522 The Octopus

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 irri-
gating 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, groan-
ing 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 Mr.
Vacca says."

" Sure," repeated young Vacca.

" Drive to Hooven's/' commanded Hilma. " If you

524 The Octopus

won't, I'll walk there." She threw off the lap-robes,
preparing to descend. " And you," she exclaimed, turn-
ing 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 Guadala-
jara, 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, spill-
ing 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

A Story of California 525

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 inti-
macy 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 pos-
session 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 to-
wards 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

526 The Octopus

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 Guada-
lajara.

" 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 for-
ward, " 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 in-
struments, 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

A Story of California 527

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. Gar-
nett, 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 compas-
sion 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

528 The Octopus

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 ad-
joining 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, trem-
bling from head to foot.

The surviving members of both Leaguers and depu-
ties— the warring factions of the Railroad and the Peo-
ple— 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 Oster-
man was attended to. The horror of that dreadful busi-
ness had driven all other considerations from the mind.
The sworn foes of the last hour had no thought of any-
thing 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

A Story of California 529

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 ar-
rived, 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 prob-
ing 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 bring-
ing 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

53° The Octopus

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 look-
ing 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 ad-
vance stopped so suddenly that those following car-
romed against them. There was an outburst of ex-
clamation.

" 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.

A Story of California 531

"/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 inter-
rogating 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

532 The Octopus

Hilda in her arms. The crowd bore back as they ad-
vanced, staring at them in silence.

" Eh, whadt has happun, whadt has happun ? " wailed
Mrs. Hooven, as she hurried on, her two hands out be-
fore 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 occa-
sion. 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 re-
mained the least noted, obtruded themselves the least
upon the world's observation. They were, for the mo-
ment, 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, towns-
people, ranchers, railroad employees, Mexicans, Span-
iards, 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

A Story of California 533

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 sun-
light, 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 precau-
tions, 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 ex-
clamations, hurried movements. The doctor uttered a
sharp command and a man ran back to the house, return-
ing 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.

534 The Octopus

" 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 breath-
ing. 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\>
side, one of his hands in hers, fanning his face continu-
ally with the crumpled sheet of an old newspaper.

Presley on tip-toes joined the group, looking on atten-
tively. 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.

A Story of California 535

" 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 Har-
ran 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

536 The Octopus

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 dis-
tress, 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 hospi-
tality at the best."

Until late, Mrs. Dyke had sat up with Hilma, com-
forting 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 terri-
ble 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 bv the sounds of a distress

A Story of California 537

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 Pres-
ley 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. Mon-
strous 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 im-
perious. 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

538 The Octopus

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 hence-
forth 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 ingeni-
ous 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 Hoo-
ven is dead, that Osterman is dying, and that S. Behrman
is alive, successful, triumphant; that he has ridden into
possession of a principality over the dead bodies of five
men shot down by his hired associates.

" I can see the outcome. The Railroad will prevail.
The Trust will overpower us. Here in this corner of a
great nation, here, on the edge of the continent, here, in
this valley of the West, far from the great centres, iso-
lated, remote, lost, the great iron hand crushes life from
us, crushes liberty and the pursuit of happiness from us,
and our little struggles, our moment's convulsion of
death agony causes not one jar in the vast, clashing ma-
chinery of the nation's life ; a fleck of grit in the wheels,
perhaps, a grain of sand in the cogs — the momentary

A Story of California 539

creak of the axle is the mother's wail of bereavement,
the wife's cry of anguish — and the great wheel turns,
spinning smooth again, even again, and the tiny impedi-
ment of a second, scarce noticed, is forgotten. Make the
people believe that the faint tremour in their great en-
gine is a menace to its function ? What a folly to think of
it. Tell them of the danger and they will laugh at you.
Tell them, five years from now, the story of the fight be-
tween the League of the San Joaquin and the Railroad
and it will not be believed. What! a pitched battle be-
tween Farmer and Railroad, a battle that cost the lives of
seven men? Impossible, it could not have happened.
Your story is fiction — is exaggerated.

" Yet it is Lexington — God help us, God enlighten us,
God rouse us from our lethargy — it is Lexington ; farm-
ers with guns in their hands fighting for Liberty. Is
our State of California the only one that has its ancient
and hereditary foe? Are there no other Trusts between
the oceans than this of the Pacific and Southwestern
Railroad ? Ask yourselves, you of the Middle West, ask
yourselves, you of the North, ask yourselves, you of the
East, ask yourselves, you of the South — ask yourselves,
every citizen of every State from Maine to Mexico, from
the Dakotas to the Carolinas, have you not the mon-
ster in your boundaries ? If it is not a Trust of transpor-
tation, it is only another head of the same Hydra. Is not
our death struggle typical? Is it not one of many, is it
not symbolical of the great and terrible conflict that is
going on everywhere in these United States? Ah, you
people, blind, bound, tricked, betrayed, can you not see
it? Can you not see how the monsters have plundered
your treasures and holding them in the grip of their iron
claws, dole them out to you only at the price of your
blood, at the price of the lives of your wives and your
little children? You give your babies to Moloch for the

540 The Octopus

loaf of bread you have kneaded yourselves. You offer
your starved wives to Juggernaut for the iron nail you
have yourselves compounded."

He spent the night over his journal, writing down such
thoughts as these or walking the floor from wall to wall,
or, seized at times with unreasoning horror and blind
rage, flinging himself face downward upon his bed, vow-
ing with inarticulate cries that neither S. Behrman nor
Shelgrim should ever live to consummate their triumph.

Morning came and with it the daily papers and news.
Presley did not even glance at the " Mercury." Bonne-
ville published two other daily journals that professed to
voice the will and reflect the temper of the people and
these he read eagerly.

Osterman was yet alive and there were chances of his
recovery. The League — some three hundred of its mem-
bers had gathered at Bonneville over night and were
patrolling the streets and, still resolved to keep the peace,
were even guarding the railroad shops and buildings.
Furthermore, the Leaguers had issued manifestoes, urg-
ing all citizens to preserve law and order, yet summoning
an indignation meeting to be convened that afternoon at
the City Opera House.

It appeared from the newspapers that those who ob-
structed the marshal in the discharge of his duty could
be proceeded against by the District Attorney on informa-
tion or by bringing the matter before the Grand Jury.
But the Grand Jury was not at that time in session, and
it was known that there were no funds in the marshal's
office to pay expenses for the summoning of jurors or
the serving of processes. S. Behrman and Ruggles in
interviews stated that the Railroad withdrew entirely
from the fight ; the matter now, according to them, was
between the Leaguers and the United States Govern-
ment; they washed their hands of the whole business.

A Story of California 541

The ranchers could settle with Washington. But it
seemed that Congress had recently forbade the use of
troops for civil purposes; the whole matter of the
League-Railroad contest was evidently for the moment
to be left in statu quo.

But to Presley's mind the most important piece of news
that morning was the report of the action of the Railroad
upon hearing of the battle.

Instantly Bonneville had been isolated. Not a single
local train was running, not one of the through trains
made any halt at the station. The mails were not moved.
Further than this, by some arrangement difficult to un-
derstand, the telegraph operators at Bonneville and
Guadalajara, acting under orders, refused to receive any
telegrams except those emanating from railway officials.
The story of the fight, the story creating the first impres-
sion, was to be told to San Francisco and the outside
world by S. Behrman, Ruggles, and the local P. and S.
W. agents.

An hour before breakfast, the undertakers arrived and
took charge of the bodies of Harran and Annixter.
Presley saw neither Hilma, Magnus, nor Mrs. Derrick.
The doctor came to look after Hilma. He breakfasted
with Mrs. Dyke and Presley, and from him Presley
learned that Hilma would recover both from the shock
of her husband's death and from her miscarriage of the
previous night.

" She ought to have her mother with her," said the
physician. " She does nothing but call for her -or beg to
be allowed to go to her. I have tried to get a wire
through to Mrs. Tree, but the company will not take it,
and even if I could get word to her, how could she get
down here? There are no trains/'

But Presley found that it was impossible for him to
stay at Los Muertos that day. Gloom and the shadow,

542 The Octopus

of tragedy brooded heavy over the place. A great
silence pervaded everything, a silence broken only by
the subdued coming and going of the undertaker and his
assistants. When Presley, having resolved to go into
Bonneville, came out through the doorway of the house,
he found the undertaker tying a long strip of crape to
the bell-handle.

Presley saddled his pony and rode into town. By this
time, after long hours of continued reflection upon one
subject, a sombre brooding malevolence, a deep-seated
desire of revenge, had grown big within his mind. The
first numbness had passed off ; familiarity with what had
been done had blunted the edge of horror, and now the
impulse of retaliation prevailed. At first, the sullen
anger of defeat, the sense of outrage, had only smouldered,
but the more he brooded, the fiercer flamed his rage.
Sudden paroxysms of wrath gripped him by the throat ;
abrupt outbursts of fury injected his eyes with blood.
He ground his teeth, his mouth filled with curses, his
hands clenched till they grew white and bloodless. Was
the Railroad to triumph then in the end ? After all those
months of preparation, after all those grandiloquent reso-
lutions, after all the arrogant presumption of the League !
The League ! what a farce ; what had it amounted to when
the crisis came? Was the Trust to crush them all so
easily? Was S. Behrman to swallow Los Muertos? S.
Behrman ! Presley saw him plainly, huge, rotund, white ;
saw his jowl tremulous and obese, the roll of fat over his
collar sprinkled with sparse hairs, the great stomach with
its brown linen vest and heavy watch chain of hollow
links, clinking against the buttons of imitation pearl.
And this man was to crush Magnus Derrick — had already
stamped the life from such men as Harran and Annixter.
This man, in the name of the Trust, was to grab Los
Muertos as he had grabbed Quien Sabe, and after Los

A Story of California 543

Muertos, Broderson's ranch, then Osterman's, then others,
and still others, the whole valley, the whole State.

Presley beat his forehead with his clenched fist as he
rode on.

" No," he cried, " no, kill him, kill him, kill him with
my hands."

The idea of it put him beside himself. Oh, to sink his
fingers deep into the white, fat throat of the man, to
clutch like iron into the great puffed jowl of him, to
wrench out the life, to batter it out, strangle it out, to
pay him back for the long years of extortion and oppres-
sion, to square accounts for bribed jurors, bought judges,
corrupted legislatures, to have justice for the trick of the
Ranchers' Railroad Commission, the charlatanism of the
" ten per cent, cut," the ruin of Dyke, the seizure of
Quien Sabe, the murder of Harran, the assassination of
Annixter !

It was in such mood that he reached Caraher's. The
saloon-keeper had just opened his place and was stand-
ing in his doorway, smoking his pipe. Presley dis-
mounted and went in and the two had a long talk.

When, three hours later, Presley came out of the saloon
and rode on towards Bonncville, his face was very pale,
his lips shut tight, resolute, determined. His manner was
that of a man whose mind is made up.

The hour for the mass meeting at the Opera House
had been set for one o'clock, but long before noon the
street in front of the building and, in fact, all the streets
in its vicinity, were packed from side to side with a
shifting, struggling, surging, and excited multitude.
There were few women in the throng, but hardly a single
male inhabitant of either Bonneville or Guadalajara was
absent. Men had even come from Visalia and Pixley. It
was no longer the crowd of curiosity seekers that had
thronged around Hooven's place by the irrigating ditch;

544 The Octopus

the People were no longer confused, bewildered. A full
realisation of just what had been done the day before
was clear now in the minds of all. Business was sus-
pended; nearly all the stores were closed. Since early
morning the members of the League had put in an ap-
pearance and rode from point to point, their rifles across
their saddle pommels. Then, by ten o'clock, the streets
had begun to fill up, the groups on the corners grew and
merged into one another; pedestrians, unable to find
room on the sidewalks, took to the streets. Hourly the
crowd increased till shoulders touched and elbows, till
free circulation became impeded, then congested, then
impossible. The crowd, a solid mass, was wedged tight
from store front to store front. And from all this
throng, this single unit, this living, breathing organism —
the People — there rose a droning, terrible note. It was
not yet the wild, fierce clamour of riot and insurrection,
shrill, high pitched; but it was a beginning, the growl
of the awakened brute, feeling the iron in its flank, heav-
ing up its head with bared teeth, the throat vibrating to
the long, indrawn snarl of wrath.

Thus the forenoon passed, while the people, their bulk
growing hourly vaster, kept to the streets, moving slowly
backward and forward, oscillating in the grooves of the
thoroughfares, the steady, low-pitched growl rising con-
tinually into the hot, still air.

Then, at length, about twelve o'clock, the movement of
the throng assumed definite direction. It set towards the
Opera House. Presley, who had left his pony at the City
livery stable, found himself caught in the current and
carried slowly forward in its direction. His arms were
pinioned to his sides by the press, the crush against his
body was all but rib-cracking, he could hardly draw his
breath. All around him rose and fell wave after wave
of faces, hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thou-

A Story of California 545

sands, red, lowering, sullen. All were set in one direc-
tion and slowly, slowly they advanced, crowding closer, till
they almost touched one another. For reasons that were
inexplicable, great, tumultuous heavings, like ground-
swells of an incoming tide, surged over and through the
multitude. At times, Presley, lifted from his feet, was
swept back, back, back, with the crowd, till the entrance
of the Opera House was half a block away; then, the
returning billow beat back again and swung him along,
gasping, staggering, clutching, till he was landed once
more in the vortex of frantic action in front of the foyer.
Here the waves were shorter, quicker, the crushing pres-
sure on all sides of his body left him without strength to
utter the cry that rose to his lips; then, suddenly the
whole mass of struggling, stamping, fighting, writhing
men about him seemed, as it were, to rise, to lift, multi-
tudinous, swelling, gigantic. A mighty rush dashed
Presley forward in its leap. There was a moment's whirl
of confused sights, congested faces, opened mouths,
bloodshot eyes, clutching hands ; a moment's outburst of
furious sound, shouts, cheers, oaths; a moment's jam
wherein Presley veritably believed his ribs must snap
like pipestems and he was carried, dazed, breathless,
helpless, an atom on the crest of a storm-driven wave,
up the steps of the Opera House, on into the vestibule,
through the doors, and .at last into the auditorium of the
house itself.

There was a mad rush for places ; men disdaining the
aisle, stepped from one orchestra chair to another, strid-
ing over the backs of seats, leaving the print of dusty
feet upon the red plush cushions. In a twinkling the
house was filled from stage to topmost gallery. The
aisles were packed solid, even on the edge of the stage
itself men were sitting, a black fringe on either side of
the footlights.
35

546 The Octopus

The curtain was up, disclosing a half-set scene, — the
flats, leaning at perilous angles, — that represented some
sort of terrace, the pavement, alternate squares of black
and white marble, while red, white, and yellow flowers
were represented as growing from urns and vases. A
long, double row of chairs stretched across the scene from
wing to wing, flanking a table covered with a red cloth,
on which was set a pitcher of water and a speaker's
gavel.

Promptly these chairs were filled up with members of
the League, the audience cheering as certain well-known
figures made their appearance — Garnett of the Ruby
ranch, Gethings of the San Pablo, Keast of the ranch of
the same name, Chattern of the Bonanza, elderly men,
bearded, slow of speech, deliberate.

Garnett opened the meeting; his speech was plain,
straightforward, matter-of-fact. He simply told what
had happened. He announced that certain resolutions
were to be drawn up. He introduced the next speaker.

This one pleaded for moderation. He was conserva-
tive. All along he had opposed the idea of armed resist-
ance except as the very last resort. He " deplored " the
terrible affair of yesterday. He begged the people to
wait in patience, to attempt no more violence. He in-
formed them that armed guards of the League were, at
that moment, patrolling Los Muertos, Broderson's, and
Osterman's. It was well known that the United States
marshal confessed himself powerless to serve the writs.
There would be no more bloodshed.

" We have had," he continued, " bloodshed enough, and
I want to say right here that I am not so sure but what
yesterday's terrible affair might have been avoided. A
gentleman whom we all esteem, who from the first has
been our recognised leader, is, at this moment, mourning
the loss of a young son, killed before his eyes. God

A Story of California 547

knows that I sympathise, as do we all, in the affliction
of our President. I am sorry for him. My heart goes
out to him in this hour of distress, but, at the same time,
the position of the League must be defined. We owe it
to ourselves, we owe it to the people of this county. The
League armed for the very purpose of preserving the
peace, not of breaking it. We believed that with six
hundred armed and drilled men at our disposal, ready to
muster at a moment's call, we could so overawe any
attempt to expel us from our lands that such an attempt
would not be made until the cases pending before the
Supreme Court had been decided. If when the enemy
appeared in our midst yesterday they had been met by six
hundred rifles, it is not conceivable that the issue would
have been forced. No fight would have ensued, and to-
day we would not have to mourn the deaths of four of
our fellow-citizens. A mistake has been made and we of
the League must not be held responsible."

The speaker sat down amidst loud applause from the
Leaguers and less pronounced demonstrations on the part
of the audience.

A second Leaguer took his place, a tall, clumsy man,
half-rancher, half-politician.

" I want to second what my colleague has just said,"
he began. " This matter of resisting the marshal when
he tried to put the Railroad dummies in possession on the
ranches around here, was all talked over in the commit-
tee meetings of the League long ago. It never was our
intention to fire a single shot. No such absolute author-
ity as was assumed yesterday was delegated to anybody.
Our esteemed President is all right, but we all know that
he is a man who loves authority and who likes to go his
own gait without accounting to anybody. We — the rest
of us Leaguers — never were informed as to what was
going on. We supposed, of course, that watch was being

548 The Octopus

kept on the Railroad so as we wouldn't be taken by sur-
prise as we were yesterday. And it seems no watch was
kept at all, or if there was, it was mighty ineffective.
Our idea was to forestall any movement on the part of
the Railroad and then when we knew the marshal was
coming down, to call a meeting of our Executive Com-
mittee and decide as to what should be done. We ought
to have had time to call out the whole League. Instead
of that, what happens? While we're all off chasing rab-
bits, the Railroad is allowed to steal a march on us and
when it is too late, a handful of Leaguers is got together
and a fight is precipitated and our men killed. I'm sorry
for our President, too. No one is more so, but I want to
put myself on record as believing he did a hasty and in-
considerate thing. If he had managed right, he could
have had six hundred men to oppose the Railroad and
there would not have been any gun fight or any killing.
He didn't manage right and there zuas a killing and I
don't see as how the League ought to be held responsible.
The idea of the League, the whole reason why it was
organised, was to protect all the ranches of this valley
from the Railroad, and it looks to me as if the lives of our
fellow-citizens had been sacrificed, not in defending all
of our ranches, but just in defence of one of them — Los
Muertos — the one that Mr. Derrick owns."

The speaker had no more than regained his seat when
a man was seen pushing his way from the back of the
stage towards Garnett. He handed the rancher a note,
at the same time whispering in his ear. Garnett read the
note, then came forward to the edge of the stage, holding
up his hand. When the audience had fallen silent he
said :

" I have just received sad news. Our friend and
fellow-citizen, Mr. Osterman, died this morning between
eleven and twelve o'clock."

A Story of California 549

Instantly there was a roar. Every man in the building
rose to his feet, shouting, gesticulating. The roar in-
creased, the Opera House trembled to it, the gas jets in
the lighted chandeliers vibrated to it. It was a raucous
howl of execration, a bellow of rage, inarticulate, deaf-
ening.

A tornado of confusion swept whirling from wall to
wall and the madness of the moment seized irresistibly
upon Presley. He forgot himself; he no longer was
master of his emotions or his impulses. All at once he
found himself upon the stage, 'facing the audience, flam-
ing with excitement, his imagination on fire, his arms
uplifted in fierce, wild gestures, words leaping to his mind
in a torrent that could not be withheld.

" One more dead," he cried, " one more. Harran dead,
Annixter dead, Broderson dead, Dabney dead, Osterman
dead, Hooven dead; shot down, killed, killed in the
defence of their homes, killed in the defence of their
rights, killed for the sake of liberty. How long must it
go on ? How long must we suffer ? Where is the end ;
what is the end ? How long must the iron-hearted mon-
ster feed on our life's blood? How long must this terror
of steam and steel ride upon our necks ? Will you never
be satisfied, will you never relent, you, our masters, you,
our lords, you, our kings, you, our task-masters, you, our
Pharoahs. Will you never listen to that command ' Let
My people go ' ? Oh, that cry ringing down the ages.
Hear it, hear it. It is the voice of the Lord God speaking
in his prophets. Hear it, hear it — ' Let My people go ! '
Rameses heard it in his pylons at Thebes, Csesar heard
it on the Palatine, the Bourbon Louis heard it at Ver-
sailles, Charles Stuart heard it at Whitehall, the white
Czar heard it in the Kremlin, — ' Let My people go.1 It is
the cry of the nations, the great voice of the centuries;
everywhere it is raised. The voice of God is the voice

550 The Octopus

of the People. The people cry out 'Let us, the People,
God's people, go/ You, our masters, you, our kings,
you, our tyrants, don't you hear us ? Don't you hear God
speaking in us? Will you never let us go? How long
at length will you abuse our patience? How long will
you drive us ? How long will you harass us ? Will noth-
ing daunt you? Does nothing check you? Do you not
know that to ignore our cry too long is to wake the Red
Terror? Rameses refused to listen to it and perished
miserably. Caesar refused to listen and was stabbed in
the Senate House. The Bourbon Louis refused to listen
and died on the guillotine ; Charles Stuart refused to
listen and died on the block; the white Czar refused to
listen and was blown up in his own capital. Will you
let it come to that? Will you drive us to it? We who
boast of our land of freedom, we who live in the country
of liberty?

" Go on as you have begun and it will come to that.
Turn a deaf ear to that cry of ' Let My people go ' too long
and another cry will be raised, that you cannot choose but
hear, a cry that you cannot shut out. It will be the cry of
the man on the street, the ' a la Bastille ' that wakes the
Red Terror and unleashes Revolution. Harassed, plun-
dered, exasperated, desperate, the people will turn at
last as they have turned so many, many times before.
You, our lords, you, our task-masters, you, our kings;
you have caught your Samson, you have made his
strength your own. You have shorn his head ; you have
put out his eyes; 'you have set him to turn your mill-
stones, to grind the grist for your mills ; you have made
him a shame and a mock. Take care, oh, as you love your
lives, take care, lest some day calling upon the Lord his
God he reach not out his arms for the pillars of your
temples."

The audience, at first bewildered, confused by this un*

A Story of California 551

expected invective, suddenly took fire at his last words.
There was a roar of applause; then, more significant
than mere vociferation, Presley's listeners, as he began to
speak again, grew suddenly silent His next sentences
were uttered in the midst of a profound stillness.

" They own us, these task-masters of ours ; they own
our homes, they own our legislatures. We cannot es-
cape from them. There is no redress. We are told we
can defeat them by the ballot-box. They own the ballot-
box. We are told that we must look to the courts for
redress ; they own the courts. We know them for what
they are, — ruffians in politics, ruffians in finance, ruffians
in law, ruffians in trade, bribers, swindlers, and tricksters.
No outrage too great to daunt them, no petty larceny too
small to shame them; despoiling a government treasury
of a million dollars, yet picking the pockets of a farm
hand of the price of a loaf of bread.

" They swindle a nation of a hundred million and call
it Financiering; they levy a blackmail and call it Com-
merce; they corrupt a legislature and call it Politics;
they bribe a judge and call it Law; they hire blacklegs
to carry out their plans and call it Organisation; they,
prostitute the honour of a State and call it Competition.

" And this is America. We fought Lexington to free
ourselves ; we fought Gettysburg to free others. Yet the
yoke remains ; we have only shifted it to the other shoul-
der. We talk of liberty — oh, the farce of it, oh, the folly
of it ! We tell ourselves and teach our children that we
have achieved liberty, that we no longer need fight for it.
Why, the fight is just beginning and so long as our con-
ception of liberty remains as it is to-day, it will continue.

" For we conceive of Liberty in the statues we raise to
her as a beautiful woman, crowned, victorious, in bright
armour and white robes, a light in her uplifted hand — a
serene, calm, conquering goddess. Oh, the farce of it,

552 The Octopus

oh, the folly of it! Liberty is not a crowned goddess,
beautiful, in spotless garments, victorious, supreme. Lib-
erty is the Man In the Street, a terrible figure, rushing
through powder smoke, fouled with the mud and ordure
of the gutter, bloody, rampant, brutal, yelling curses, in
one hand a smoking rifle, in the other, a blazing torch.

"Freedom is not given free to any who ask; Liberty
is not born of the gods-. She is a child of the People,
born in the very height and heat of battle, born from
death, stained with blood, grimed with powder. And
she grows to be not a goddess, but a Fury, a fearful
figure, slaying friend and foe alike, raging, insatiable,
merciless, the Red Terror."

Presley ceased speaking. Weak, shaking, scarcely
knowing what he was about, he descended from the stage.
A prolonged explosion of applause followed, the Opera
House roaring to the roof, men cheering, stamping, wav-
ing their hats. But it was not intelligent applause. In-
stinctively as he made his way out, Presley knew that,
after all, he had not once held the hearts of his audience.
He had talked as he would have written ; for all his
scorn of literature, he had been literary. The men who
listened to him, ranchers, country people, store-keepers,
attentive though they were, were not once sympathetic.
Vaguely they had felt that here was something which
other men — more educated — would possibly consider elo-
quent. They applauded vociferously but perfunctorily, in
order to appear to understand.

Presley, for all his love of the people, saw clearly for
one moment that he was an outsider to their minds. He
had not helped them nor their cause in the least ; he never
would.

Disappointed, bewildered, ashamed, he made his way
slowly from the Opera House and stood on the steps out-
side, thoughtful, his head bent.

A Story of California 553

He had failed, thus he told himself. In that moment of
crisis, that at the time he believed had been an inspira-
tion, he had failed. The people would not consider him,
would not believe that he could do them service. Then
suddenly he seemed to remember. The resolute set of
his lips returned once more. Pushing" his way through
the crowded streets, he went on towards the stable where
he had left his pony.

Meanwhile, in the Opera House, a great commotion
had occurred. Magnus Derrick had appeared.

Only a sense of enormous responsibility, of gravest
duty could have prevailed upon Magnus to have left his
house and the dead body of his son that day. But he
was the President of the League, and never since its
organisation had a meeting of such importance as this
one been held. He had been in command at the irrigating
ditch the day before. It was he who had gathered the
handful of Leaguers together. It was he who must bear
the responsibility of the fight.

When he had entered the Opera House, making hfe
way down the central aisle towards the stage, a loud
disturbance had broken out, partly applause, partly a
meaningless uproar. Many had pressed forward to shake
his hand, but others were not found wanting who, for-
merly his staunch supporters, now scenting opposition in
the air, held back, hesitating, afraid to compromise them-
selves by adhering to the fortunes of a man whose actions
might be discredited by the very organisation of which
he was the head.

Declining to take the chair of presiding officer which
Garnett offered him, the Governor withdrew to an angle
of the stage, where he was joined by Keast.

This one, still unalterably devoted to Magnus, ac-
quainted him briefly with the tenor of the speeches that
had been made.

551 The Octopus

" I am ashamed of them, Governor/' he protested in-
dignantly, " to lose their nerve now ! To fail you now I
it makes my blood boil. If you had succeeded yester-
day, if all had gone well, do you think we would have
heard of any talk of ' assumption of authority,' or ' acting
without advice and consent ' ? As if there was any time
to call a meeting of the Executive Committee. If you
hadn't acted as you did, the whole county would have
been grabbed by the Railroad. Get up, Governor, and
bring 'em all up standing. Just tear 'em all to pieces,
show 'em that you are the head, the boss. That's what
they need. That killing yesterday has shaken the nerve
clean out of them."

For the instant the Governor was taken all aback.
What, his lieutenants were failing him ? What, he was to
be questioned, interpolated upon yesterday's *'* irrepres-
sible conflict"? Had disaffection appeared in the ranks
of the League — at this, of all moments ? He put from him
his terrible grief. The cause was in danger. At the in-
stant he was the President of the League only, the chief,
the master. A royal anger surged within him, a wide,
towering scorn of opposition. He would crush this dis-
affection in its incipiency, would vindicate himself and
strengthen the cause at one and the same time. He
stepped forward and stood in the speaker's place, turning
partly toward the audience, partly toward the assembled
Leaguers.

" Gentlemen of the League," he began, " citizens of
Bonneville "

But at once the silence in which the Governor had
begun to speak was broken by a shout. It was as though
his words had furnished a signal. In a certain quarter
of the gallery, directly opposite, a man arose, and in a
voice partly of derision, partly of defiance, cried out :

"How about the bribery of those two delegates at

A Story of California 555

Sacramento? Tell us about that. That's what we want
to hear about."

A great confusion broke out. The first cry was re-
peated not only by the original speaker, but by a whole
group of which he was but a part. Others in the audi-
ence, however, seeing in the disturbance only the
clamour of a few Railroad supporters, attempted to howl
them down, hissing vigorously and exclaiming:

" Put 'em out, put 'em out."

"Order, order," called Garnett, pounding with his
gavel. The whole Opera House was in an uproar.

But the interruption of the Governor's speech was evi-
dently not unpremeditated. It began to look like a de-
liberate and planned attack. Persistently, doggedly, the
group in the gallery vociferated :

" Tell us how you bribed the delegates at Sacramento.
Before you throw mud at the Railroad, let's see if you
are clean yourself."

" Put 'em out, put 'em out."

" Briber, briber — Magnus Derrick, unconvicted briber !
Put him out."

Keast, beside himself with anger, pushed down the
aisle underneath where the recalcitrant group had its
place and, shaking his fist, called up at them :

" You were paid to break up this meeting. If you
have anything to say, you will be afforded the oppor-
tunity, but if you do not let the gentleman proceed, the
police will be called upon to put you out."

But at this, the man who had raised the first shout
leaned over the balcony rail, and, his face flaming with
wrath, shouted:

" Yah! talk to me of your police. Look out we don't
call on them first to arrest your President for bribery.
You and your howl about law and justice and corruption!
Here " — he turned to the audience — " read about him,

556 The Octopus

read the story of how the Sacramento convention was
bought by Magnus Derrick, President of the San
Joaquin League. Here's the facts printed and proved."

With the words, he stooped down and from under his
seat dragged forth a great package of extra editions of
the " Bonneville Mercury," not an hour off the presses.
Other equally large bundles of the paper appeared in
the hands of the surrounding group. The strings were
cut and in handfuls and armfuls the papers were flung
out over the heads of the audience underneath. The air
was full of the flutter of the newly printed sheets. They
swarmed over the rim of the gallery like clouds of mon-
strous, winged insects, settled upon the heads and into
the hands of the audience, were passed swiftly from man
to man, and within five minutes of the first outbreak
every one in the Opera House had read Genslinger's de-
tailed and substantiated account of Magnus Derrick's
" deal " with the political bosses of the Sacramento con-
vention.

Genslinger, after pocketing the Governor's hush money,
had "sold him out."

Keast, one quiver of indignation, made his way back
upon the stage. The Leaguers were in wild confusion.
Half the assembly of them were on their feet, bewildered,
shouting vaguely. From proscenium wall to foyer, the
Opera House was a tumult of noise. The gleam of the
thousands of the " Mercury " extras was like the flash of
white caps on a troubled sea.

Keast faced the audience.

"Liars," he shouted, striving with all the power of
his voice to dominate the clamour, " liars and slanderers.
Your paper is the paid organ of the corporation. You
have not one shadow of proof to back you up. Do you
choose this, of all times, to heap your calumny upon
the head of an honourable gentleman, already prostrated

A Story of California 557

by your murder of his son? Proofs — we demand your
proofs ! "

" We've got the very assemblymen themselves," came
back the answering shout. " Let Derrick speak. Where
is he hiding? If this is a lie, let him deny it. Let him
disprove the charge."

" Derrick, Derrick," thundered the Opera House.

Keast wheeled about. Where was Magnus? He was
not in sight upon the stage. He had disappeared.
Crowding through the throng of Leaguers, Keast got
from off the stage into the wings. Here the crowd
was no lees dense. Nearly every one had a copy of the
" Mercury." It was being read aloud to groups here and
there, and once Keast overheard the words, " Say, I won-
der if this is true, after all?"

" Well, and even if it was," cried Keast, turning upon
the speaker, " we should be the last ones to kick. In
any case, it was done for our benefit. It elected the
Ranchers' Commission."

" A lot of benefit we got out of the Ranchers' Com-
mission," retorted the other.

" And then," protested a third speaker, " that ain't the
way to do — if he did do it — bribing legislatures. Why,
we were bucking against corrupt politics. We couldn't
afford to be corrupt."

Keast turned away with a gesture of impatience. He
pushed his way farther on. At last, opening a small
door in a hallway back of the stage, he came upon
Magnus.

The room was tiny. It was a dressing-room. Only
two nights before it had been used by the leading actress
of a comic opera troupe which had played for three
nights at Bonneville. A tattered sofa and limping toilet
table occupied a third of the space. The air was heavy
with the smell of stale grease paint, ointments, and sachet

558 The Octopus

Faded photographs of young women in tights and gauzes
ornamented the mirror and the walls. Underneath the
sofa was an old pair of corsets. The spangled skirt of a
pink dress, turned inside out, hung against the wall.

And in the midst of such environment, surrounded by
an excited group of men who gesticulated and shouted
in his very face, pale, alert, agitated, his thin lips pressed
tightly together, stood Magnus Derrick.

" Here," cried Keast, as he entered, closing the door
behind him, " where's the Governor ? Here, Magnus,
I've been looking for you. The crowd has gone wild
out there. You've got to talk 'em down. Come out
there and give those blacklegs the lie. They are saying
you are hiding."

But before Magnus could reply, Garnett turned to
Keast.

"Well, that's what we want him to do, and he won't
do it."

" Yes, yes," cried the half-dozen men who crowded
around Magnus, "yes, that's what we want him to do."

Keast turned to Magnus.

" Why, what's all this, Governor ? " he exclaimed.
" You've got to answer that. Hey ? why don't you give
'em the lie?"

" I — I," Magnus loosened the collar about his throat,
" it is a lie. I will not stoop — I would not — would be — •
it would be beneath my — my — it would be beneath me."

Keast stared in amazement. Was this the Great Man,
the Leader, indomitable, of Roman integrity, of Roman
valour, before whose voice whole conventions had
quailed? Was it possible he was afraid to face those
hired villifiers?

" Well, how about this ? " demanded Garnett suddenly.
" It is a lie, isn't it? That Commission was elected hon-
estly, wasn't it?"

A Story of California 559

" How dare you, sir ! " Magnus burst out. " How dare
you question me — call me to account! Please under-
stand, sir, that I tolerate "

" Oh, quit it ! " cried a voice from the group. " You
can't scare us, Derrick. That sort of talk was well
enough once, but it don't go any more. We want a yes
or no answer."

It was gone — that old-time power of mastery, that
faculty of command. The ground crumbled beneath his
feet. Long since it had been, by his own hand, under-
mined. Authority was gone. Why keep up this miser-
able sham any longer? Could they not read the lie in
his face, in his voice? What a folly to maintain the
wretched pretence ! He had failed. He was ruined.
Harran was gone. His ranch would soon go ; his money
was gone. Lyman was worse than dead. His own.
honour had been prostituted. Gone, gone, everything he
held dear, gone, lost, and swept away in that fierce strug-
gle. And suddenly and all in a moment the last remain-
ing shells of the fabric of his being, the sham that had
stood already wonderfully long, cracked and collapsed.

" Was the Commission honestly elected ? " insisted
Garnett. " Were the delegates — did you bribe the dele-
gates?"

" We were obliged to shut our eyes to means," faltered
Magnus. " There was no other way to — " Then sud-
denly and with the last dregs of his resolution, he con-
cluded with : " Yes, I gave them two thousand dollars
each."

" Oh, hell ! Oh, my God ! " exclaimed Keast, sitting
swiftly down upon the ragged sofa.

There was a long silence. A sense of poignant em-
barrassment descended upon those present. No one knew
what to say or where to look. Garnett, with a laboured
attempt at nonchalance, murmured:

560 The Octopus

" I see. Well, that's what I was trying to get at. Yes,
I see."

" Well," said Gethings at length, bestirring himself,
" I guess /'// go home."

There was a movement. The group broke up, the men
making for the door. One by one they went out. The
last to go was Keast. He came up to Magnus and shook
the Governor's limp hand.

" Good-bye, Governor," he said. " I'll see you again
pretty soon. Don't let this discourage you. They'll
come around all right after a while. So long."

He went out, shutting the door.

And seated in the one chair of the room, Magnus Der-
rick remained a long time, looking at his face in the
cracked mirror that for so many years had reflected the
painted faces of soubrettes, in this atmosphere of stale
perfume and mouldy rice powder.

It had come — his fall, his ruin. After so many years
of integrity and honest battle, his life had ended here —
in an actress's dressing-room, deserted by his friends, his
son murdered, his dishonesty known, an old man, broken,
discarded, discredited, and abandoned.

Before nightfall of that day, Bonneville was further ex-
cited by an astonishing bit of news. S. Behrman lived
in a detached house at some distance from the town, sur-
rounded by a grove of live oak and eucalyptus trees. At
a little after half-past six, as he was sitting down to his
supper, a bomb was thrown through the window of his
dining-room, exploding near the doorway leading into
the hall. The room was wrecked and nearly every win-
dow of the house shattered. By a miracle, S. Behrman,
himself, remained untouched.

VIII

On a certain afternoon in the early part of July, about
a month after the fight at the irrigating ditch and the
mass meeting at Bonneville, Cedarquist, at the moment
opening his mail in his office in San Francisco, vvas gen-
uinely surprised to receive a visit from Presley.

" Well, upon my word, Pres," exclaimed the manu-
facturer, as the young man came in through the door
that the office boy held open for him, "upon my word,
have you been sick? Sit down, my boy. Have a glass
of sherry. I always keep a bottle here."

Presley accepted the wine and sank into the depths of
a great leather chair near by.

" Sick ? " he answered. " Yes, I have been sick. I'm
sick now. I'm gone to pieces, sir."

His manner was the extreme of listlessness — the list-
lessness of great fatigue. "Well, well," observed the
other. "I'm right sorry to hear that. What's the
trouble, Pres ? "

" Oh, nerves mostly, I suppose, and my head, and
insomnia, and weakness, a general collapse all along the
line, the doctor tells me. ' Over-cerebration,' he says ;
' over-excitement.' I fancy I rather narrowly missed
brain fever."

" Well, I can easily suppose it," answered Cedarquist
gravely, " after all you have been through."

Presley closed his eyes — they were sunken in circles of
dark brown flesh — and pressed a thin hand to the back
of his head.
36

562 The Octopus

" It is a nightmare," he murmured. " A frightful night-
mare, and it's not over yet. You have heard of it all
only through the newspaper reports. But down there, at
Bonneville, at Los Muertos — oh, you can have no idea
of it, of the misery caused by the defeat of the ranchers
and by this decision of the Supreme Court that dis-
possesses them all. We had gone on hoping to the last
that we would win there. We had thought that in the
Supreme Court of the United States, at least, we could
find justice. And the news of its decision was the worst,
last blow of all. For Magnus it was the last — positively
the very last."

" Poor, poor Derrick," murmured Cedarquist. " Tell
me about him, Pres. How does he take it? What is he
going to do ? "

" It beggars him, sir. He sunk a great deal more than
any of us believed in his ranch, when he resolved to
turn off most of the tenants and farm the ranch himself.
Then the fight he made against the Railroad in the Courts
and the political campaign he went into, to get Lyman on
the Railroad Commission, took more of it. The money
that Genslinger blackmailed him of, it seems, was about
all he had left. He had been gambling — you know the
Governor — on another bonanza crop this year to recoup
him. Well, the bonanza came right enough — just in
time for S. Behrman and the Railroad to grab it. Mag-
nus is ruined."

"What a tragedy! what a tragedy!" murmured the
other. " Lyman turning rascal, Harran killed, and now
this ; and all within so short a time — all at the same time,
you might almost say."

"If it had only killed him," continued Presley; "but
that is the worst of it."

"How the worst?"

" I'm afraid, honestly, I'm afraid it is going to turn

A Story of California 563

his wits, sir. It's broken him; oh, you should see him,
you should see him. A shambling, stooping, trembling
old man, in his dotage already. He sits all day in the
dining-room, turning over papers, sorting them, tying
them up, opening them again, forgetting them — all
fumbling and mumbling and confused. And at table
sometimes he forgets to eat. And, listen, you know, from
the house we can hear the trains whistling for the Long
Trestle. As often as that happens the Governor seems
to be — oh, I don't know, frightened. He will sink his
head between his shoulders, as though he were dodging
something, and he won't fetch a long breath again till
the train is out of hearing. He seems to have conceived
an abject, unreasoned terror of the Railroad."

" But he will have to leave Los Muertos now, of
course ? "

"Yes, they will all have to leave. They have a fortnight
more. The few tenants that were still on Los Muertos
are leaving. That is one thing that brings me to the
city. The family of one of the men who was killed —
Hooven was his name — have come to the city to find
work. I think they are liable to be in great distress,
unless they have been wonderfully lucky, and I am trying
to find them in order to look after them."

" You need looking after yourself, Pres."

" Oh, once away from Bonneville and the sight of the
ruin there, I'm better. But I intend to go away. And
that makes me think, I came to ask you if you could
help me. If you would let me take passage on one of
your wheat ships. The Doctor says an ocean voyage
would set me up."

"Why, certainly, Pres," declared Cedarquist. "But
I'm sorry you'll have to go. We expected to have you
down in the country with us this winter."

Presley shook his head.

564 The Octopus

" No," he answered. " I must go. Even if I had all
my health, I could not bring myself to stay in California
just now. If you can introduce me to one of your
captains "

" With pleasure. When do you want to go ? You
may have to wait a few weeks. Our first ship won't
clear till the end of the month."

" That would do very well. Thank you, sir."

But Cedarquist was still interested in the land troubles
of the Bonneville farmers, and took the first occasion
to ask:

" So, the Railroad are in possession on most of the
ranches ? "

"On all of them," returned Presley. "The League
went all to pieces, so soon as Magnus was forced to
resign. The old story — they got quarrelling among
themselves. Somebody started a compromise party, and
upon that issue a new president was elected, Then there
were defections. The Railroad offered to lease the lands
in question to the ranchers — the ranchers who owned
them," he exclaimed bitterly, "and because -the terms
were nominal — almost nothing — plenty of the men took
the chance of saving themselves. And, of course, once
signing the lease, they acknowledged the Railroad's title.
But the road would not lease to Magnus. S. Behrman
takes over Los Muertos in a few weeks now."

" No doubt, the road made over their title in the prop-
erty to him," observed Cedarquist, "as a reward of his
services."

"No doubt/' murmured Presley wearily. He rose
to go.

" By the way," said Cedarquist, " what have you on
hand for, let us say, Friday evening? Won't you dine
with us then? The girls are going to the country Mon-
day of next week, and you probably won't see them

A Story of California 565

again for some time if you take that ocean voyage of
yours."

" I'm afraid I shall be very poor company, sir,"
hazarded Presley. " There's no ' go,' no life in me at
all these days. I am like a clock with a broken spring."

" Not broken, Pres, my boy," urged the other, " only
run down. Try and see if we can't wind you up a bit.
Say that we can expect you. We dine at seven/'

" Thank you, sir. Till Friday at seven, then."

Regaining the street, Presley sent his valise to his club
(where he had engaged a room) by a messenger boy,
and boarded a Castro Street car. Before^leaving Bonne-
ville, he had ascertained, by strenuous enquiry, Mrs.
Hooven's address in the city, and thitherward he now
directed his steps.

When Presley had told Cedarquist that he was ill, that
he was jaded, worn out, he had only told half the truth.
Exhausted he was, nerveless, weak, but this apathy was
still invaded from time to time with fierce incursions of
a spirit of unrest and revolt, reactions, momentary re-
turns of the blind, undirected energy that at one time had
prompted him to a vast desire to acquit himself of some
terrible deed of readjustment, just what, he could not
say, some terrifying martyrdom, some awe-inspiring im-
molation, consummate, incisive, conclusive. He fancied
himself to be fired with the purblind, mistaken heroism
of the anarchist, hurling his victim to destruction with
full knowledge that the catastrophe shall sweep him also
into the vortex it creates.

But his constitutional irresoluteness obstructed his path
continually; brain-sick, weak of will, emotional, timid
even, he temporised, procrastinated, brooded ; came to de-
cisions in the dark hours of the night, only to abandon
them in the morning.

Once only he had acted. And at this moment, as he

566 The Octopus

was carried through the windy, squalid streets, he trem-
bled at the remembrance of it. The horror of " what
might have been " incompatible with the vengeance whose
minister he fancied he was, oppressed him. The scene
perpetually reconstructed itself in his imagination. He
saw himself under the shade of the encompassing trees
and shrubbery, creeping on his belly toward the house,
in the suburbs of Bonneville, watching his chances, seizing
opportunities, spying upon the lighted windows where
the raised curtains afforded a view of the interior. Then
had come the appearance in the glare of the gas of the
figure of the man for whom he waited. He saw himself
rise and run forward. He remembered the feel and
weight in his hand of Caraher's bomb — the six inches of
plugged gas pipe. His upraised arm shot forward.
There was a shiver of smashed window-panes, then — a
void — a red whirl of confusion, the air rent, the ground
rocking, himself flung headlong, flung off the spinning
circumference of things out into a place of terror and
vacancy and darkness. And then after a long time the
return of reason, the consciousness that his feet were
set upon the road to Los Muertos, and that he was fleeing
terror-stricken, gasping, all but insane with hysteria.
Then the never-to-be-forgotten night that ensued, when
he descended into the pit, horrified at what he supposed
he had done, at one moment ridden with remorse, at an-
other raging against his own feebleness, his lack of cour-
age, his wretched, vacillating spirit. But morning had
come, and with it the knowledge that he had failed, and
the baser assurance that he was not even remotely sus-
pected. His own escape had been no less miraculous
than that of his enemy, and he had fallen on his knees
in inarticulate prayer, weeping, pouring out his thanks
to God for the deliverance from the gulf to the very
brink of which his feet had been drawn.

A Story of California 567

After this, however, there had come to Presley a deep-
rooted suspicion that he was — of all human beings, the
most wretched — a failure. Everything to which he had
set his mind failed — his great epic, his efforts to help
the people who surrounded him, even his attempted de-
struction of the enemy, all these had come to nothing.
Girding his shattered strength together, he resolved upon
one last attempt to live up to the best that was in him,
and to that end had set himself to lift out of the despair
into which they had been thrust, the bereaved family of
the German, Hooven.

After all was over, and Hooven, together with the
seven others who had fallen at the irrigating ditch, was
buried in the Bonneville cemetery, Mrs. Hooven, asking
no one's aid or advice, and taking with her Minna and
little Hilda, had gone to San Francisco — had gone to find
work, abandoning Los Muertos and her home forever.
Presley only learned of the departure of the family after
fifteen days had elapsed.

At once, however, the suspicion forced itself upon him
that Mrs. Hooven — and Minna, too for the matter of that
— country-bred, ignorant of eity ways, might easily come
to grief in the hard, huge struggle of city life. This
stispicion had swiftly hardened to a conviction, acting
at last upon which Presley had followed them to San
Francisco, bent upon finding and assisting them.

The house to which Presley was led by the address
in his memorandum book was a cheap but fairly decent
hotel near the power house of the Castro Street cable.
He inquired for Mrs. Hooven.

The landlady recollected the Hoovens perfectly.

" German woman, with a little girl-baby, and an older
daughter, sure. The older daughter was main pretty.
Sure I remember them, but they ain't here no more.
They left a week ago. I had to ask them for their room.

568 The Octopus

As it was, they owed a week's room-rent. Mister, I
can't afford "

" Well, do you know where they went? Did you hear
what address they had their trunk expressed to?"

" Ah, yes, their trunk," vociferated the woman, clap-
ping her hands to her hips, her face purpling. " Their
trunk, ah, sure. I got their trunk, and what are you go-
ing to do about it ? I'm holding it till I get my money.
What have you got to say about it ? Let's hear it."

Presley turned away with a gesture of discouragement,
his heart sinking. On the street corner he stood for a
long time, frowning in trouble and perplexity. His sus-
picions had been only too well founded. So long ago
as a week, the Hoovens had exhausted all their little
store of money. For seven days now they had been
without resources, unless, indeed, work had been found ;
" and what," he asked himself, " what work in God's
name could they find to do here in the city ? "

Seven days ! He quailed at the thought of it. Seven
days without money, knowing not a soul in all that
swarming city. Ignorant of city life as both Minna and
her mother were, would they even realise that there were
institutions built and generously endowed for just such
as they? He knew them to have their share of pride,
the dogged sullen pride of the peasant; even if they knew
of charitable organisations, would they, could they bring
themselves to apply there? A poignant anxiety thrust
itself sharply into Presley's heart. Where were they
now? Where had they slept last night? Where break-
fasted this morning? Had there even been any break-
fast this morning ? Had there even been any bed last
night? Lost, and forgotten in the plexus of the city's
life, what had befallen them? Towards what fate was
the ebb tide of the streets drifting them?

Was this to be still another theme wrought out by iron

A Story ot California 569

hands upon the old, the world-old, world-wide keynote?
How far were the consequences of that dreadful day's
work at the irrigating ditch to reach? To what length
was the tentacle of the monster to extend?

Presley returned toward the central, the business quar-
ter of the city, alternately formulating and dismissing
from his mind plan after plan for the finding and aiding
of Mrs. Hooven and her daughters. He reached Mont-
gomery Street, and turned toward his club, his imagina-
tion once more reviewing all the causes and circumstances
of the great battle of which for the last eighteen months
he had been witness.

All at once he paused, his eye caught by a sign affixed
to the wall just inside the street entrance of i. huge office
building, and smitten with an idea, stood for an instant
motionless, upon the sidewalk, his eyes wide, his fists
shut tight.

The building contained the General Office of the Pacific
and Southwestern Railroad. Large though it was, it
nevertheless, was not pretentious, and during his visits
to the city, Presley must have passed it, unheeding, many
times.

But for all that it was the stronghold of the enemy—
the centre of all that vast ramifying system of arteries
that drained the life-blood of the State; the nucleus of
the web in which so many lives, so many fortunes, so
many destinies had been enmeshed. From this place — •
so he told himself — had emanated that policy of extor-
tion, oppression and injustice that little by little had
shouldered the ranchers from their rights, till, their backs
to the wall, exasperated and despairing they had turned
and fought and died. From here had come the orders
to S. Behrman, to Cyrus Ruggles and to Genslinger, the
orders that had brought Dyke to a prison, that had killed
Annixter, that had ruined Magnus, that had corrupted

570 The Octopus

Lyman. Here was the keep of the castle, and here, be-
hind one of those many windows, in one of those many
offices, his hand upon the levers of his mighty engine,
sat the master, Shelgrim himself.

Instantly, upon the realisation of this fact an ungovern-
able desire seized upon Presley, an inordinate curiosity.
Why not see, face to face, the man whose power was
so vast, whose will was so resistless, whose potency for
evil so limitless, the man who for so long and so hope-
lessly they had all been righting. By reputation he knew
him to be approachable ; why should he not then approach
him? Presley took his resolution in both hands. If he
failed to act upon this impulse, he knew he would never
act at all. His heart beating, his breath coming short,
he entered the building, and in a few moments found him-
self seated in an ante-room, his eyes fixed with hypnotic
intensity upon the frosted pane of an adjoining door,
whereon in gold letters was inscribed the word, " Presi-
dent."

In the end, Presley had been surprised to find that
Shelgrim was still in. It was already very late, after six
o'clock, and the other offices in the building were in the
act of closing. Many of them were already deserted.
At every instant, through the open door of the ante-
room, he caught a glimpse of clerks, office boys, book-
keepers, and other employees hurrying towards the stairs
and elevators, quitting business for the day. Shelgrim,
it seemed, still remained at his desk, knowing no fatigue,
requiring no leisure.

" What time does Mr. Shelgrim usually go home ? "
inquired Presley of the young man who sat ruling forms
at the table in the ante-room.

" Anywhere between half-past six and seven," the
other answered, adding, " Very often he comes back in
the evening:."

A Story of California 571

And the man was seventy years old. Presley could not
repress a murmur of astonishment. Not only mentally,
then, was the President of the P. and S. W. a giant. Sev-
enty years of age and still at his post, holding there with
the energy, with a concentration of purpose that would
have wrecked the health and impaired the mind of many
men in the prime of their manhood.

But the next instant Presley set his teeth.

" It is an ogre's vitality," he said to himself. " Just
so is the man-eating tiger strong. The man should have
energy who has sucked the life-blood from an entire
People."

A little electric bell on the wall near at hand trilled
a warning. The young man who was ruling forms laid
down his pen, and opening the door of the President's
office, thrust in his head, then after a word exchanged
with the unseen occupant of the room, he swung the door
wide, saying to Presley :

" Mr. Shelgrim will see you, sir."

Presley entered a large, well lighted, but singularly
barren office. A well-worn carpet was on the floor, two
steel engravings hung against the wall, an extra chair
or two stood near a large, plain, littered table. That
was absolutely all, unless he excepted the corner wash-
stand, on which was set a pitcher of ice water, covered
with a clean, stiff napkin. " A man, evidently some sort
of manager's assistant, stood at the end of the table,
leaning on the back of one of the chairs. Shelgrim him-
self sat at the table.

He was large, almost to massiveness. An iron-grey
beard and a mustache that completely hid the mouth
covered the lower part of his face. His eyes were a
pale blue, and a little watery ; here and there upon his
face were moth spots. But the enormous breadth of the
shoulders was what, at first, most vividly forced itself

572 The Octopus

upon Presley's notice. Never had he seen a broader
man; the neck, however, seemed in a manner to have
settled into the shoulders, and furthermore they were
humped and rounded, as if to bear great responsibilities,
and great abuse.

At the moment he was wearing a silk skull-cap, pushed
to one side and a little awry, a frock coat of broadcloth,
with long sleeves, and a waistcoat from the lower buttons
of which the cloth was worn and, upon the edges, rubbed
away, showing the metal underneath. At the top this
waistcoat was unbuttoned and in the shirt front disclosed
were two pearl studs.

Presley, uninvited, unnoticed apparently, sat down.
The assistant manager was in the act of making a report.
His voice was not lowered, and Presley heard every word
that was spoken.

The report proved interesting. It concerned a book-
keeper in the office of the auditor of disbursements. It
seems he was at most times thoroughly reliable, hard-
working, industrious, ambitious. But at long intervals
the vice of drunkenness seized upon the man and for
three days rode him like a hag. Not only during the
period of this intemperance, but for the few days imme-
diately following, the man was useless, his work un-
trustworthy. He was a family man and earnestly strove
to rid himself of his habit ; he was, when sober, valuable.
In consideration of these facts, he had been pardoned
again and again.

" You remember, Mr. Shelgrim," observed the man-
ager, "that you have more than once interfered in his
behalf, when we were disposed to let him go. I don't
think we can do anything with him, sir. He promises
to reform continually, but it is the same old story. This
last time we saw nothing of him for four days. Hon-
estly, Mr. Shelgrim, I think we ought to let Tentell out.

A Story of California 573

We can't afford to keep him. He is really losing us too
much money. Here's the order ready now, if you care
to let it go."

There was a pause. Presley all attention, listened
breathlessly. The assistant manager laid before his
President the typewritten order in question. The silence
lengthened ; in the hall outside, the wrought-iron door of
the elevator cage slid to with a clash. Shelgrim did
not look at the order. He turned his swivel chair about
and faced the windows behind him, looking out with
unseeing eyes. At last he spoke :

" Tentell has a family, wife and three children. . . ,
How much do we pay him ? "

" One hundred and thirty."

"Let's double that, or say two hundred and fifty*
Let's see how that will do."

" Why — of course — if you say so, but really, Mr. Shel-
grim «-"

" Well, we'll try that, anyhow."

Presley had not time to readjust his perspective to this
new point of view of the President of the P. and S. W.
before the assistant manager had withdrawn. Shelgrim
wrote a few memoranda on his calendar pad, and signed
a couple of letters before turning his attention to Presley.
At last, he looked up and fixed the young man with a
direct, grave glance. He did not smile. It was some
time before he spoke. At last, he said :

" Well, sir."

Presley advanced and took a chair nearer at hand.
Shelgrim turned and from his desk picked up and con-
sulted Presley's card. Presley observed that he read
without the use of glasses.

"You," he said, again facing about, "you are the
young man who wrote the poem called ' The Toilers/ "

"Yes, sir."

574 The Octopus

"It seems to have made a great deal of talk. I've
read it, and I've seen the picture in Cedarquist's house,
the picture you took the idea from."

Presley, his senses never more alive, observed that,
curiously enough, Shelgrim did not move his body. His
arms moved, and his head, but the great bulk of the man
remained immobile in its place, and as the interview
proceeded and this peculiarity emphasised itself, Presley
began to conceive the odd idea that Shelgrim had, as it
were, placed his body in the chair to rest, while his head
and brain and hands went on working independently.
A saucer of shelled filberts stood near his elbow, and
from time to time he picked up one of these in a great
thumb and forefinger and put it between his teeth.

" I've seen the picture called ' The Toilers/ " continued
Shelgrim, " and of the two, I like the picture better than
the poem."

"The picture is by a master," Presley hastened to
interpose.

" And for that reason," said Shelgrim, " it leaves noth-
ing more to be said. You might just as well have kept
quiet. There's only one best way to say anything. And
what has made the picture of ' The Toilers ' great is that
the artist said in it the best that could be said on the
subject."

" I had never looked at it in just that light," observed
Presley. He was confused, all at sea, embarrassed.
What he had expected to find in Shelgrim, he could not
have exactly said. But he had been prepared to come
upon an ogre, a brute, a terrible man of blood and iron,
and instead had discovered a sentimentalist and an art
critic. No standards of measurement in his mental equip-
ment would apply to the actual man, and it began to
dawn upon him that possibly it was not because these
standards were different in kind, but that they were

A Story of California 575

lamentably deficient in size. He began to see that here
was the man not only great, but large; many-sided, of
vast sympathies, who understood with equal intelligence,
the human nature in an habitual drunkard, the ethics
of a masterpiece of painting, and the financiering and
operation of ten thousand miles of railroad.

" I had never looked at it in just that light," repeated
Presley. " There is a great deal in what you say."

" If I am to listen," continued Shelgrim, " to that kind
of talk, I prefer to listen to it first hand. I would rather
listen to what the great French painter has to say, than
to what you have to say about what he has already
said."

His speech, loud and emphatic at first, when the idea
of what he had to say was fresh in his mind, lapsed and
lowered itself at the end of his sentences as though he
had already abandoned and lost interest in that thought,
so that the concluding words were indistinct, beneath the
grey beard and mustache. Also at times there was the
faintest suggestion of a lisp.

" I wrote that poem," hazarded Presley, " at a time
when I was terribly upset. I live," he concluded, " or did
live on the Los Muertos ranch in Tulare County — Mag-
nus Derrick's ranch."

" The Railroad's ranch leased to Mr. Derrick," ob-
served Shelgrim.

Presley spread out his hands with a helpless, resigned
gesture.

" And," continued the President of the P. and S. W.
with grave intensity, looking at Presley keenly, " I sup-
pose you believe I am a grand old rascal."

" I believe," answered Presley, " I am persuaded "

He hesitated, searching for his words.

" Believe this, young man," exclaimed Shelgrim, lay-
ing a thick powerful forefinger on the table to emphasise

576 The Octopus

his words, " try to believe this — to begin with — tMt Rail-
roads build themselves. Where there is a demand sooner
or later there will be a supply. Mr. Derrick, does he
grow his wheat? The Wheat grows itself. What does
he count for? Does he supply the force? What do I
count for? Do I build the Railroad? You are dealing
with forces, young man, when you speak of Wheat and
the Railroads, not with men. There is the Wheat, the
supply. It must be carried to feed the People. There
is the demand. The Wheat is one force, the Railroad,
another, and there is the law that governs them — supply
and demand. Men have only little to do in the whole
business. Complications may arise, conditions that bear
hard on the individual — crush him maybe — but the Wheat
will be carried to feed the people as inevitably as it will
grow. If you want to fasten the blame of the affair at
Los Muertos on any one person, you will make a mistake.
Blame conditions, not men."

" But — but," faltered Presley, " you are the head, you
control the road/'

" You are a very young man. Control the road ! Can
I stop it? I can go into bankruptcy if you like. But
otherwise if I run my road, as a business proposition,
I can do nothing. I can not control it. It is a force
born out of certain conditions, and I — no man — can stop
it or control it. Can your Mr. Derrick stop the Wheat
growing? He can burn his crop, or he can give it away,
or sell it for a cent a bushel — just as I could go into
bankruptcy — but otherwise his Wheat must grow. Can
any one stop the Wheat ? Well, then no more can I stop
the Road."

Presley regained the street stupefied, his brain in a
whirl. This new idea, this new conception dumfounded
him. Somehow, he could not deny it. It rang with the
clear reverberation of truth. Was no one, then, to blame

A Story of California 577

for the horror at the irrigating ditch? Forces, condi-
tions, laws of supply and demand — were these then the
enemies, after all? Not enemies; there was no malevo-
lence in Nature. Colossal indifference only, a vast trend
toward appointed goals. Nature was, then, a gigantic
engine, a vast cyclopean power, huge, terrible, a leviathan
with a heart of steel, knowing no compunction, no for-
giveness, no tolerance; crushing out the human atom
standing in its way, with nirvanic calm, the agony of de-
struction sending never a jar, never the faintest tremour
through all that prodigious mechanism of wheels and
cogs.

He went to his club and ate his supper alone, in gloomy
agitation. He was sombre, brooding, lost in a dark maze
of gloomy reflections. However, just as he was rising
from the table an incident occurred that for the moment
roused him and sharply diverted his mind.

His table had been placed near a window and as he was
sipping his after-dinner coffee, he happened to glance
across the street. His eye was at once caught by the sight
of a familiar figure. Was it Minna Hooven? The figure
turned the street corner and was lost to sight ; but it had
been strangely like. On the moment, Presley had risen
from the table and, clapping on his hat, had hurried into
the streets, where the lamps were already beginning to
shine.

But search though he would, Presley could not again
come upon the young woman, in whom he fancied he
had seen the daughter of the unfortunate German. At
last, he gave up the hunt, and returning to his club — at
this hour almost deserted — smoked a few cigarettes,
vainly attempted to read from a volume of essays in the
library, and at last, nervous, distraught, exhausted,
retired to his bed.

But none the less, Preslev had not been mistaken. The

578 The Octopus

girl whom he had tried to follow had been indeed Minna
Hooven.

When Minna, a week before this time, had returned
to the lodging house on Castro Street, after a day's un-
successful effort to find employment, and was told that
her mother and Hilda had gone, she was struck speech-
less with surprise and dismay. She had never before
been in any town larger than Bonneville, and now knew
not which way to turn nor how to account for the dis-
appearance of her mother and little Hilda. That the
landlady was on the point of turning them out, she un-
derstood, but it had been agreed that the family should
be allowed to stay yet one more day, in the hope that
Minna would find work. Of this she reminded the land-
lady. But this latter at once launched upon her such a
torrent of vituperation, that the girl was frightened to
speechless submission.

"Oh, oh," she faltered, "I know. I am sorry. I
know we owe you money, but where did my mother go ?
I only want to find her."

" Oh, I ain't going to be bothered/' shrilled the other.
"How do I know?"

The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Hooven, afraid
to stay in the vicinity of the house, after her eviction,
and threatened with arrest by the landlady if she per-
sisted in hanging around, had left with the woman a note
scrawled on an old blotter, to be given to Minna when she
returned. This the landlady had lost. To cover her con-
fusion, she affected a vast indignation, and a turbulent,
irascible demeanour.

" I ain't going to be bothered with such cattle as you,"
she vociferated in Minna's face. " I don't know where
your folks is. Me, I only have dealings with honest peo-
ple. I ain't got a word to say so long as the rent is paid.
But when I'm soldiered out of a week's lodging, then

A Story of California 579

I'm done. You get right along now. / don't know you.
I ain't going to have my place get a bad name by having
any South of Market Street chippies hanging around.
You get along, or I'll call an officer."

Minna sought the street, her head in a whirl. It was
about five o'clock. In her pocket was thirty-five cents,
all she had in the world. What now?

All at once, the Terror of the City, that blind, unrea-
soned fear that only the outcast knows, swooped upon
her, and clutched her vulture-wise, by the throat.

Her first few days' experience in the matter of finding
employment, had taught her just what she might expect
from this new world upon which she had been thrown.
What was to become of her ? What was she to do, where
was she to go ? Unanswerable, grim questions, and now
she no longer had herself to fear for. Her mother and
the baby, little Hilda, both of them equally unable to look
after themselves, what was to become of them, where
were they gone? Lost, lost, all of them, herself as well.
But she rallied herself, as she walked along. The idea
of her starving, of her mother and Hilda starving, was
out of all reason. Of course, it would not come to that,
of course not. It was not thus that starvation came.
Something would happen, of course, it would — in time.
But meanwhile, meanwhile, how to get through this ap-
proaching night, and the next few days. That was the
thing to think of just now.

The suddenness of it all was what most unnerved her.
During all the nineteen years of her life, she had never
known what it meant to shift for herself. Her father
had always sufficed for the family ; he had taken care of
her, then, all of a sudden, her father had been killed,
her mother snatched from her. Then all of a sudden
there was no help anywhere. Then all of a sudden a
terrible voice demanded of her, " Now just what can

580 The Octopus

you do to keep yourself alive?" Life faced her; she
looked the huge stone image squarely in the lustreless
eyes.

It was nearly twilight. Minna, for the sake of avoid-
ing observation — for it seemed to her that now a thou-
sand prying glances followed her — assumed a matter-of-
fact demeanour, and began to walk briskly toward the
business quarter of the town.

She was dressed neatly enough, in a blue cloth skirt
with a blue plush belt, fairly decent shoes, once her moth-
er *s, a pink shirt waist, and jacket and a straw sailor. She
was, in an unusual fashion, pretty. Even her troubles
had not dimmed the bright light of her pale, greenish-
blue eyes, nor faded the astonishing redness of her lips,
nor hollowed her strangely white face. Her blue-black
hair was trim. She carried her well-shaped, well-round-
ed figure erectly. Even in her distress, she observed that
men looked keenly at her, and sometimes after her as
she went along. But this she noted with a dim sub-con-
scious faculty. The real Minna, harassed, terrified,
lashed with a thousand anxieties, kept murmuring under
her breath:

" What shall I do, what shall I do, oh, what shall I
do, now ? "

After an interminable walk, she gained Kearney
Street, and held it till the well-lighted, well-kept neigh-
bourhood of the shopping district gave place to the vice-
crowded saloons and concert halls of the Barbary Coast.
She turned aside in avoidance of this, only to plunge into
the purlieus of Chinatown, whence only she emerged,
panic-stricken and out of breath, after a half hour of
never-to-be-forgotten terrors, and at a time when it had
grown quite dark.

On the corner of California and Dupont streets, she
stood a long moment, pondering.

A Story of California 581

" I must do something/' she said to herself. " I must
do something."

She was tired out by now, and the idea occurred to
her to enter the Catholic church in whose shadow she
stood, and sit down and rest. This she did. The even-
ing service was just being concluded. But long after
the priests and altar boys had departed from the chancel,
Minna still sat in the dim, echoing interior, confronting
her desperate situation as best she might.

Two or three hours later, the sexton woke her. The
church was being closed; she must leave. Once more,
chilled with the sharp night air, numb with long sitting
in the same attitude, still oppressed with drowsiness, con-
fused, frightened, Minna found herself on the pavement.
She began to be hungry, and, at length, yielding to the
demand that every moment grew more imperious, bought
and eagerly devoured a five-cent bag of fruit. Then,
once more she took up the round of walking.

At length, in an obscure street that branched from
Kearney Street, near the corner of the Plaza, she came
upon an illuminated sign, bearing the inscription, "Beds
for the Night, 15 and 25 cents."

Fifteen cents! Could she afford it? It would leave
her with only that much more, that much between her-
self and a state of privation of which she dared not think ;
and, besides, the forbidding look of the building fright-
ened her. It was dark, gloomy, dirty, a place sugges-
tive of obscure crimes and hidden terrors. For twenty
minutes or half an hour, she hesitated, walking twice and
three times around the block. At last, she made up her
mind. Exhaustion such as she had never known, weighed
like lead upon her shoulders and dragged at her heels.
She must sleep. She could not walk the streets all
night. She entered the door-way under the sign, and
found her way up a filthy flight of stairs. At the top,

582 The Octopus

a man in a blue checked " jumper " was filling a lamp be-
hind a high desk. To him Minna applied.

" I should like," she faltered, " to have a room — a bed
for the night. One of those for fifteen cents will be good
enough, I think."

" Well, this place is only for men," said the man, look-
ing up from the lamp.

" Oh," said Minna, " oh— I— I didn't know."

She looked at him stupidly, and he, with equal stu-
pidity, returned the gaze. Thus, for a long moment, they
held each other's eyes.

" I — I didn't know," repeated Minna.

" Yes, it's for men," repeated the other.

She slowly descended the stairs, and once more came
out upon the streets.

And upon those streets that, as the hours advanced,
grew more and more deserted, more and more silent,
more and more oppressive with the sense of the bitter
hardness of life towards those who have no means of
living, Minna Hooven spent the first night of her strug-
gle to keep her head above the ebb-tide of the city's sea,
into which she had been plunged.

Morning came, and with it renewed hunger. At this
time, she had found her way uptown again, and towards
ten o'clock was sitting upon a bench in a little park full
of nurse-maids and children. A group of the maids
drew their baby-buggies to Minna's bench, and sat
down, continuing a conversation they had already be-
gun. Minna listened. A friend of one of the maids had
suddenly thrown up her position, leaving her " madame "
in what would appear to have been deserved embarrass-
ment.

" Oh," said Minna, breaking in, and lying with sudden
unwonted fluency, " I am a nurse-girl. I am out of a
place. Do you think I could get that one ? "

A Story of California 583

The group turned and fixed her — so evidently a coun-
try girl — with a supercilious indifference.

" Well, you might try/* said one of them. " Got good
references ? "

"References?" repeated Minna blankly. She did not
know what this meant.

" Oh, Mrs. Field ain't the kind to stick about refer-
ences," spoke up the other, " she's that soft. Why, any-
body could work her."

"I'll go there," said Minna. "Have you the ad-
dress ? " It was told to her.

" Lorin," she murmured. "Is that out of town?"

" Well, it's across the Bay."

"Across the Bay."

"Um. You're from the country, ain't you?"

" Yes. How— how do I get there? Is it far ? "

" Well, you take the ferry at the foot of Market Street,
and then the train on the other side. No, it ain't very
far. Just ask any one down there. They'll tell you."

It was a chance ; but Minna, after walking down to the
ferry slips, found that the round trip would cost her
twenty cents. If the journey proved fruitless, only a
dime would stand between her and the end of every-
thing. But it was a chance; the only one that had, as
yet, presented itself. She made the trip.

And upon the street-railway cars, upon the ferryboats,
on the locomotives and way-coaches of the local trains,
she was reminded of her father's death, and of the giant
power that had reduced her to her present straits, by the
letters, P. and S. W. R. R. To her mind, they occurred
everywhere. She seemed to see them in every direction.
She fancied herself surrounded upon every hand by the
long arms of the monster.

Minute after minute, her hunger gnawed at her. She
could not keep her mind from it. As she sat on the boat,

584 The Octopus

she found herself curiously scanning the faces of the
passengers, wondering how long since such a one had
breakfasted, how long before this other should sit down
to lunch.

When Minna descended from the train, at Lorin on the
other side of the Bay, she found that the place was one
of those suburban towns, .not yet become fashionable,
such as may be seen beyond the outskirts of any large
American city. All along the line of the railroad there-
abouts, houses, small villas — contractors' ventures —
were scattered, the advantages of suburban lots and sites
for homes being proclaimed in seven-foot letters upon
mammoth bill-boards close to the right of way.

Without much trouble, Minna found the house to which
she had been directed, a pretty little cottage, set back
from the street and shaded by palms, live oaks, and the in-
evitable eucalyptus. Her heart warmed at the sight of it.
Oh, to find a little niche for herself here, a home, a ref-
uge from those horrible city streets, from the rat of fam-
ine, with its relentless tooth. How she would work, how
strenuously she would endeavour tt> please, how patient
of rebuke she would be, how faithful, how conscientious.
Nor were her pretensions altogether false; upon her,
while at home, had devolved almost continually the care
of the baby Hilda, her little sister. She knew the wants
and needs of children.

Her heart beating, her breath failing, she rang the bell
set squarely in the middle of the front door.

The lady of the house herself, an elderly lady, with
pleasant, kindly face, opened the door. Minna stated her
errand.

" But I have already engaged a girl," she said.

" Oh," murmured Minna, striving with all her might
to maintain appearances. " Oh — I thought perhaps — "
She turned away.

A Story of California 585

" I'm sorry," said the lady. Then she added, " Would
you care to look after so many as three little children,
and help around in light housework between whiles ? "

" Yes, ma'am."

" Because my sister — she lives in North Berkeley, above
here — she's looking for a girl. Have you had lots of ex-
perience? Got good references?"

" Yes, ma'am."

" Well, I'll give you the address. She lives up in North
Berkeley."

She turned back into the house a moment, and re-
turned, handing Minna a card.

" That's where she lives — careful not to blot it, child,
the ink's wet yet — you had better see her."

" Is it far? Could I walk there? "

" My, no ; you better take the electric cars, about six
blocks above here."

When Minna arrived in North Berkeley, she had no
money left. By a cruel mistake, she had taken a car go-
ing in the wrong direction, and though her error was rec-
tified easily enough, it had cost her her last five-cent piece.
She was now to try her last hope. Promptly it crumbled
away. Like the former, this place had been already filled,
and Minna left the door of the house with the certainty
that her chance had come to naught, and that now she en-
tered into the last struggle with life — the death struggle
— shorn of her last pitiful defence, her last safeguard,
her last penny.

As she once more resumed her interminable walk, she
realised she was weak, faint ; and she knew that it was
the weakness of complete exhaustion, and the faintness
of approaching starvation. Was this the end coming
on? Terror of death aroused her.

" I must, I must do something, oh, anything. I must
have something to eat."

586 The Octopus

At this late hour, the idea of pawning her little jacket
occurred to her, but now she was far away from the city
and its pawnshops, and there was no getting back.

She walked on. An hour passed. She lost her sense
of direction, became confused, knew not where she was
going, turned corners and went up by-streets without
knowing why, anything to keep moving, for she fancied
that so soon as she stood still, the rat in the pit of her
stomach gnawed more eagerly.

At last, she entered what seemed to be, if not a park,
at least some sort of public enclosure. There were many
trees ; the place was beautiful ; well-kept roads and walks
led sinuously and invitingly underneath the shade.
Through the trees upon the other side of a wide expanse
of turf, brown and sear under the summer sun, she caught
a glimpse of tall buildings and a flagstaff. The whole
place had a vaguely public, educational appearance, and
Minna guessed, from certain notices affixed to the trees,
warning the public against the picking of flowers, that
she had found her way into the grounds of the State Uni-
versity. She went on a little further. The path she was
following led her, at length, into a grove of gigantic live
oaks, whose lower branches all but swept the ground.
Here the grass was green, the few flowers in bloom, the
shade very thick. A more lovely spot she had seldom
seen. Near at hand was a bench, built around the trunk
of the largest live oak, and here, at length, weak from
hunger, exhausted to the limits of her endurance, despair-
ing, abandoned, Minna Hooven sat down to enquire of
herself what next she could do.

But once seated, the demands of the animal — so she
could believe — became more clamorous, more insistent.
To eat, to rest, to be safely housed against another night,
above all else, these were the things she craved ; and the
craving within her grew so mighty that she crisped her

A Story of California 587

poor, starved hands into little fists, in an agony of desire,
while the tears ran from her eyes, and the sobs rose thick
from her breast and struggled and strangled in her aching
throat.

But in a few moments Minna was aware that a woman,
apparently of some thirty years of age, had twice passed
along the walk in front of the bench where she sat, and
now, as she took more notice of her, she remembered
that she had seen her on the ferry-boat coming over
from the city.

The woman was gowned in silk, tightly corseted, and
wore a hat of rather ostentatious smartness. Minna be-
came convinced that the person was watching her, but
before she had a chance to act upon this conviction she
was surprised out of all countenance by the stranger
coming up to where she sat and speaking to her.

" Here is a coincidence," exclaimed the new-comer, as
she sat down ; " surely you are the young girl who sat
opposite me on the boat. Strange I should come across
you again. I've had you in mind ever since."

On this nearer view Minna observed that the woman's
face bore rather more than a trace of enamel and that the
atmosphere about was impregnated with sachet. She was
not otherwise conspicuous, but there was a certain hard-
ness about her mouth and a certain droop of fatigue in
her eyelids which, combined with an indefinite self-con-
fidence of manner, held Minna's attention.

" Do you know," continued the woman, " I believe you
are in trouble. I thought so when I saw you on the boat,
and I think so now. Are you? Are you in trouble?
You're from the country, ain't you ? "

Minna, glad to find a sympathiser, even in this
chance acquaintance, admitted that she was in distress ;
that she had become separated from her mother, and that
she was indeed from the country.

588 The Octopus

" I've been trying to find a situation," she hazarded in
conclusion, " but I don't seem to succeed. I've never been
in a city before, except Bonneville."

" Well, it is a coincidence/' said the other. " I know I
wasn't drawn to you for nothing. I am looking for just
such a young girl as you. You see, I live alone a good
deal and I've been wanting to find a nice, bright, socia-
ble girl who will be a sort of companion to me. Under-
stand? And there's something about you that I like. I
took to you the moment I saw you on the boat. Now
shall we talk this over ? "

Towards the end of the week, one afternoon, as Presley
was returning from his club, he came suddenly face to
face with Minna upon a street corner.

"Ah," he cried, coming toward her joyfully. "Upon
my word, I had almost given you up. I've been looking
everywhere for you. I was afraid you might not be get-
ting along, and I wanted to see if there was anything I
could do. How are your mother and Hilda? Where
are you stopping ? Have you got a good place ? "

" I don't know where mamma is," answered Minna.
" We got separated, and I never have been able to find
her again."

Meanwhile, Presley had been taking in with a quick eye
the details of Minna's silk dress, with its garniture of lace,
its edging of velvet, its silver belt-buckle. Her hair was
arranged in a new way and on her head was a wide hat
with a flare to one side, set off with a gilt buckle and a
puff of bright blue plush. He glanced at her sharply.

"Well, but — but how are you getting on?" he de-
manded.

Minna laughed scornfully.

"I?" she cried. "Oh, I've gone to hell. It was
either that or starvation."

Presley regained his room at the club, white and trem-

A Story of California 589

bling. Worse than the worst he had feared had hap-
pened. He had not been soon enough to help. He had
failed again. A superstitious fear assailed him that he
was, in a manner, marked; that he was foredoomed to
fail. Minna had come — had been driven to this ; and he,
acting too late upon his tardy resolve, had not been able
to prevent it. Were the horrors, then, never to end?
Was the grisly spectre of consequence to forever dance
in his vision? Were the results, the far-reaching re-
sults of that battle at the irrigating ditch to cross his path
forever ? When would" the affair be terminated, the inci-
dent closed? Where was that spot to which the tentacle
of the monster could not reach ?

By now, he was sick with the dread of it all. He want-
ed to get away, to be free from that endless misery, so
that he might not see what he could no longer help.
Cowardly he now knew himself to be. He thought of
himself only with loathing.

Bitterly self -contemptuous that he could bring himself
to a participation in such trivialities, he began to dress to
keep his engagement to dine with the Cedarquists.

He arrived at the house nearly half an hour late, but
before he could take off his overcoat, Mrs. Cedarquist
appeared in the doorway of the drawing-room at the end
of the hall. She was dressed as if to go out.

" My dear Presley," she exclaimed, her stout, over-
dressed body bustling toward him with a great rustle of
silk. " I never was so glad. You poor, dear poet, you
are thin as a ghost. You need a better dinner than I can
give you, and that is just what you are to have."

" Have I blundered ? " Presley hastened to exclaim.
"Did not Mr. Cedarquist mention Friday evening?"

" No, no, no," she cried ; " it was he who blundered.
You blundering in a social amenity ! Preposterous ! No ;
Mr. Cedarquist forgot that we were dining out ourselves

59° The Octopus

to-night, and when he told me he had asked you here for
the same evening, I fell upon the man, my dear, I did
actually, tooth and nail. But I wouldn't hear of his wir-
ing you. I just dropped a note to our hostess, asking if
I could not bring you, and when I told her who you were,
she received the idea with, oh, empressement. So, there
it is, all settled. Cedarquist and the girls are gone on
ahead, and you are to take the old lady like a dear, dear
poet. I believe I hear the carnage. Allans! En voi-
ture!"

Once settled in the cool gloom of the coupe, odorous
of leather and upholstery, Mrs. Cedarquist exclaimed :

" And I've never told you who you were to dine with ;
oh, a personage, really. Fancy, you will be in the camp
of your dearest foes. You are to dine with the Gerard
people, one of the Vice-Presidents of your bete noir, the
P. and S. W. Railroad."

Presley started, his fists clenching so abruptly as to all
but split his white gloves. He was not conscious of what
he said in reply, and Mrs. Cedarquist was so taken up
with her own endless stream of talk that she did not ob-
serve his confusion.

" Their daughter Honora is going to Europe next
week; her mother is to take her, and Mrs. Gerard is to
have just a few people to dinner — very informal, you
know — ourselves, you and, oh, I don't know, two or three
others. Have you ever seen Honora? The prettiest lit-
tle thing, and will she be rich? Millions, I would not
dare say how many. Tiens. Nous void."

The coupe drew up to the curb, and Presley followed
Mrs. Cedarquist up the steps to the massive doors of the
great house. In a confused daze, he allowed one of the
footmen to relieve him of his hat and coat ; in a daze he
rejoined Mrs. Cedarquist in a room with a glass roof,
hung with pictures, the art gallery, no doubt, and in a

A Story of California 591

daze heard their names announced at the entrance of an-
other room, the doors of which were hung with thick,
blue curtains.

He entered, collecting his wits for the introductions
and presentations that he foresaw impended.

The room was very large, and of excessive loftiness.
Flat, rectagonal pillars of a rose-tinted, variegated marble,
rose from the floor almost flush with the walls, finishing
off at the top with gilded capitals of a Corinthian design,
which supported the ceiling. The ceiling itself, instead
of joining the walls at right angles, curved to meet them,
a device that produced a sort of dome-like effect. This
ceiling was a maze of golden involutions in very high re-
lief, that adjusted themselves to form a massive framing
for a great picture, nymphs and goddesses, white doves,
golden chariots and the like, all wreathed about with
clouds and garlands of roses. Between the pillars around
the sides of the room were hangings of silk, the design —
of a Louis Quinze type — of beautiful simplicity and fault-
less taste. The fireplace was a marvel. It reached from
floor to ceiling ; the lower parts, black marble, carved in-
to crouching Atlases, with great muscles that upbore
the superstructure. The design of this latter, of a kind
of purple marble, shot through with white veinings, was
in the same style as the design of the silk hangings. In
its midst was a bronze escutcheon, bearing an undeci-
pherable monogram and a Latin motto. Andirons of
brass, nearly six feet high, flanked the hearthstone.

The windows of the room were heavily draped in som-
bre brocade and ecru lace, in which the initials of the
family were very beautifully worked. But directly oppo-
site the fireplace, an extra window, lighted from the ad-
joining conservatory, threw a wonderful, rich light into
the apartment. It was a Gothic window of stained glass,
very large, the centre figures being armed warriors, Par-

592 The Octopus

sifal and Lohengrin ; the one with a banner, the other with
a swan. The effect was exquisite, the window a verita-
ble masterpiece, glowing, flaming, and burning with a
hundred tints and colours — opalescent, purple, wine-
red, clouded pinks, royal blues, saffrons, violets so dark
as to be almost black.

Under foot, the carpet had all the softness of texture of
grass; skins (one of them of an enormous polar bear)
and rugs of silk velvet were spread upon the floor. A
Renaissance cabinet of ebony, many feet taller than Pres-
ley's head, and inlaid with ivory and silver, occupied one
corner of the room, while in its centre stood a vast table
of Flemish oak, black, heavy as iron, massive. A faint
odour of sandalwood pervaded the air. From the con-
servatory near-by, came the splashing of a fountain. A
row of electric bulbs let into the frieze of the walls be-
tween the golden capitals, and burning dimly behind hem-
ispheres of clouded glass, threw a subdued light over the
whole scene.

Mrs. Gerard came forward.

" This is Mr. Presley, of course, our new poet of whom
we are all sp proud. I was so afraid you would be una-
ble to come. You have given me a real pleasure in allow-
ing me to welcome you here."

The footman appeared at her elbow.

" Dinner is served, madame," he announced.

When Mrs. Hooven had left the boarding-house on
Castro Street, she had taken up a position on a neigh-
bouring corner, to wait for Minna's reappearance. Lit-
tle Hilda, at this time hardly more than six years of age,
was with her, holding to her hand.

Mrs. Hooven was by no means an old woman, but
hard work had aged her. She no longer had any claim
to good looks. She no longer took much interest in her

A Story of California 593

personal appearance. At the time of her eviction from
the Castro Street boarding-house, she wore a faded black
bcnnet, garnished with faded artificial flowers of dirty
pink. A plaid shawl was about her shoulders. But this day
of misfortune had set Mrs. Hooven adrift in even worse
condition than her daughter. Her purse, containing a
miserable handful of dimes and nickels, was in her trunk,
and her trunk was in the hands of the landlady. Minna
had been allowed such reprieve as her thirty-five cents
would purchase. The destitution of Mrs. Hooven and
her little girl had begun from the very moment of her
eviction.

While she waited for Minna, watching every street car
and every approaching pedestrian, a policeman appeared,
asked what she did, and, receiving no satisfactory reply,
promptly moved her on.

Minna had had little assurance in facing the life strug-
gle of the city. Mrs. Hooven had absolutely none. In
her, grief, distress, the pinch of poverty, and, above all, the
nameless fear of the turbulent, fierce life of the streets,
had produced a numbness, an embruted, sodden, silent,
speechless condition of dazed mind, and clogged, unin-
telligent speech. She was dumb, bewildered, stupid, ani-
mated but by a single impulse. She clung to life, and
to the life of her little daughter Hilda, with the blind
tenacity of purpose of a drowning cat.

Thus, when ordered to move on by the officer, she had
silently obeyed, not even attempting to explain her situa-
tion. She walked away to the next street-crossing.
Then, in a few moments returned, taking up her place
on the corner near the boarding-house, spying upon the
approaching cable cars, peeping anxiously down the
length of the sidewalks.

Once more, the officer ordered her away, and once
more, unprotesting, she complied. But when for the
18

594 The Octopus

third time the policeman found her on the forbidden spot,
he had lost his temper. This time when Mrs. Hooven
departed, he had followed her, and when, bewildered,
persistent, she had attempted to turn back, he caught
her by the shoulder.

" Do you want to get arrested, hey ? " he demanded.
" Do you want me to lock you up ? Say, do you, speak
up?"

The ominous words at length reached Mrs. Hooven's
comprehension. Arrested ! She was to be arrested. The
countrywoman's fear of the Jail nipped and bit eagerly
at her unwilling heels. She hurried off, thinking to re-
turn to her post after the policeman should have gone
away. But when, at length, turning back, she tried to
find the boarding-house, she suddenly discovered that she
was on an unfamiliar street. Unwittingly, no doubt, she
had turned a corner. She could not retrace her steps.
She and Hilda were lost.

" Mammy, I'm tired," Hilda complained.

Her mother picked her up.

"Mammy, where're we gowun, mammy?"

Where, indeed? Stupefied, Mrs. Hooven looked about
her at the endless blocks of buildings, the endless proces-
sion of vehicles in the streets, the endless march of pe-
destrians on the sidewalks. Where was Minna; where
was she and her baby to sleep that night? How was
Hilda to be fed?

She could not stand still. There was no place to sit
down ; but one thing was left, walk.

Ah, that via dolorosa of the destitute, that chemin de
la croix of the homeless. Ah, the mile after mile of
granite pavement that must be, must be traversed. Walk
they must. Move, they must ; onward, forward, whither
they cannot tell; why, they do not know. Walk, walk,
walk with bleeding feet and smarting joints; walk with

A Story of California 595

aching back and trembling knees; walk, though the
senses grow giddy with fatigue, though the eyes droop
with sleep, though every nerve, demanding rest, sets in
motion its tiny alarm of pain. Death is at the end of
that devious, winding maze of paths, crossed and re-
crossed and crossed again. There is but one goal to the
via dolorosa; there is no escape from the central chamber
of that labyrinth. Fate guides the feet of them that are
set therein. Double on their steps though they may,
weave in and out of the myriad corners of the city's
streets, return, go forward, back, from side to side, here,
there, anywhere, dodge, twist, wind, the central chamber
where Death sits is reached inexorably at the end.

Sometimes leading and sometimes carrying Hilda,
Mrs. Hooven set off upon her objectless journey. Block
after block she walked, street after street. She was
afraid to stop, because of the policemen. As often as
she so much as slackened her pace, she was sure to see
one of these terrible figures in the distance, watching her,
so it seemed to her, waiting for her to halt for the frac-
tion of a second, in order that he might have an excuse
to arrest her.

Hilda fretted incessantly.

" Mammy, where're we gowun ? Mammy, I'm tired."
Then, at last, for the first time, that plaint that stabbed
the mother's heart:

" Mammy, I'm hungry."

" Be qui-ut, den," said Mrs. Hooven. " Bretty soon
we'll hev der subber."

Passers-by on the sidewalk, men and women in the
great six o'clock homeward march, jostled them as they
went along. With dumb, dull curiousness, she looked
into one after another of the limitless stream of faces,
and she fancied she saw in them every emotion but pity.
The faces were gay, were anxious, were sorrowful, were

596 The Octopus

mirthful, were lined with thought, or were merely flat
and expressionless, but not one was turned toward her
in compassion. The expressions of the faces might be
various, but an underlying callousness was discoverable
beneath every mask. The people seemed removed from
her immeasurably ; they were infinitely above her. What
was she to them, she and her baby, the crippled outcasts
of the human herd, the unfit, not able to survive, thrust
out on the heath to perish?

To beg from these people did not yet occur to her.
There was no pride, however, in the matter. She would
have as readily asked alms of so many sphinxes.

She went on. Without willing it, her feet carried her
in a wide circle. Soon she began to recognise the houses ;
she had been in that street before. Somehow, this was
distasteful to her; so, striking off at right angles, she
walked straight before her for over a dozen blocks. By
now, it was growing darker. The sun had set. The
hands of a clock on the power-house of a cable line
pointed to seven. No doubt, Minna had come long before
this time, had found her mother gone, and had — just
what had she done, just what could she do? Where was
her daughter now? Walking the streets herself, no
doubt. What was to become of Minna, pretty girl that
she was, lost, houseless and friendless in the maze of
these streets? Mrs. Hooven, roused from her lethargy,
could not repress an exclamation of anguish. Here was
misfortune indeed ; here was calamity. She bestirred her-
self, and remembered the address of the boarding-house.
She might inquire her way back thither. No doubt, by
now the policeman would be gone home for the night.
She looked about. She was in the district of modest
residences, and a young man was coming toward her,
carrying a new garden hose looped around his shoulder.

"Say, Meest'r; say, blease "

A Story of California 597

The young man gave her a quick look and passed on,
hitching the coil of hose over his shoulder. But a few
paces distant, he slackened in his walk and fumbled in
his vest pocket with his fingers. Then he came back to
Mrs. Hooven and put a quarter into her hand.

Mrs. Hooven stared at the coin stupefied. The young
man disappeared. He thought, then, that she was beg-
ging. It had come to that ; she, independent all her life,
whose husband had held five hundred acres of wheat
land, had been taken for a beggar. A flush of shame
shot to her face. She was about to throw the money
after its giver. But at the moment, Hilda again ex-
claimed :

" Mammy, I'm hungry."

With a movement of infinite lassitude and resigned
acceptance of the situation, Mrs. Hooven put the coin in
her pocket. She had no right to be proud any longer.
Hilda must have food.

That evening, she and her child had supper at a cheap
restaurant in a poor quarter of the town, and passed the
night on the benches of a little uptown park.

Unused to the ways of the town, ignorant as to the
customs and possibilities of eating-houses, she spent the
whole of her quarter upon supper for herself and Hilda,
and had nothing left wherewith to buy a lodging.

The night was dreadful ; Hilda sobbed herself to sleep
on her mother's shoulder, waking thereafter from hour to
hour, to protest, though wrapped in her mother's shawl,
that she was cold, and to enquire why they did not go
to bed. Drunken men snored and sprawled near at
hand. Towards morning, a loafer, reeking of alcohol,
sat down beside her, and indulged in an incoherent
soliloquy, punctuated with oaths and obscenities. It was
not till far along towards daylight that she fell asleep.

She awoke to find it broad day. Hilda — mercifully—

598 The Octopus

slept. Her mother's limbs were stiff and lame with cold
and damp; her head throbbed. She moved to another
bench which stood in the rays of the sun, and for a long
two hours sat there in the thin warmth, till the moisture
of the night that clung to her clothes was evaporated.

A policeman came into view. She woke Hilda, and
carrying her in her arms, took herself away.

" Mammy," began Hilda as soon as she was well
awake ; " Mammy, I'm hungry. I want mein breakfest."

" Sure, sure, soon now,, leedle tochter."

She herself was hungry, but she had but little thought
of that. How was Hilda to be fed? She remembered
her experience of the previous day, when the young
man with the hose had given her money. Was it so
easy, then, to beg ? Could charity be had for the asking ?
So it seemed; but all that was left of her sturdy inde-
pendence revolted at the thought. She beg! She hold
out the hand to strangers!

" Mammy, I'm hungry."

There was no other way. It must come to that in the
end. Why temporise, why put off the inevitable? She
sought out a frequented street where men and women
were on their way to work. One after another, she let
them go by, searching their faces, deterred at the very
last moment by some trifling variation of expression, a
firm set mouth, a serious, level eyebrow, an advancing
chin. Then, twice, when she had made a choice, and
brought her resolution to the point of speech, she
quailed, shrinking, her ears tingling, her whole being
protesting against the degradation. Every one must be
looking at her. Her shame was no doubt the object of
an hundred eyes.

" Mammy, I'm hungry," protested Hilda again.

She made up her mind. What, though, was she to
say? In what words did beggars ask for assistance?

A Story of California 599

She tried to remember how tramps who had appeared
at her back door on Los Muertos had addressed her ; how
and with what formula certain mendicants of Bonneville
had appealed to her. Then, having settled upon a
phrase, she approached a whiskered gentleman with a
large stomach, walking briskly in the direction of the town.

" Say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."

The gentleman passed on.

" Perhaps he doand hear me," she murmured.

Two well-dressed women advanced, chattering gayly.

" Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."

One of the women paused, murmuring to her compan-
ion, and from her purse extracted a yellow ticket which she
gave to Mrs. Hooven with voluble explanations. But
Mrs.Hooven was confused, she did not understand. What
could the ticket mean ? The women went on their way.

The next person to whom she applied was a young
girl of about eighteen, very prettily dressed.

" Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."

In evident embarrassment, the young girl paused and
searched in her little pocketbook.

" I think I have — I think — I have just ten cents here
somewhere," she murmured again and again.

In the end, she found a dime, and dropped it into Mrs.
Hooven's palm.

That was the beginning. The first step once taken, the
others became easy. All day long, Mrs. Hooven and
Hilda followed the streets, begging, begging. Here it
was a nickel, there a dime, here a nickel again. But she
was not expert in the art, nor did she know where to buy
food the cheapest ; and the entire day's work resulted only
in barely enough for two meals of bread, milk, and a
wretchedly cooked stew. Tuesday night found the pair
once more shelterless.

Once more, Mrs. Hooven and her baby passed the

6oo The Octopus

night on the park benches. But early on Wednesday
morning, Mrs. Hooven found herself assailed by sharp
pains and cramps in her stomach. What was the cause
she could not say ; but as the day went on, the pains in-
creased, alternating with hot flushes over all her body,
and a certain weakness and faintness. As the day went
on, the pain and the weakness increased. When she tried
to walk, she found she could do so only with the greatest
difficulty. Here was fresh misfortune. To beg, she
must walk. Dragging herself forward a half-block at a
time, she regained the street once more. She succeeded
in begging a couple of nickels, bought a bag of apples
from a vender, and, returning to the park, sank ex-
hausted upon a bench.

Here she remained all day until evening, Hilda alter-
nately whimpering for her bread and milk, or playing lan-
guidly in the gravel walk at her feet. In the evening,
she started out again. This time, it was bitter hard.
Nobody seemed inclined to give. Twice she was " moved
on " by policemen. Two hours' begging elicited but a
single dime. With this, she bought Hilda's bread and
milk, and refusing herself to eat, returned to the bench —
the only home she knew — and spent the night shivering
with cold, burning with fever.

From Wednesday morning till Friday evening, with
the exception of the few apples she had bought, and a
quarter of a loaf of hard bread that she found in a
greasy newspaper — scraps of a workman's dinner — Mrs.
Hooven had nothing to eat. In her weakened condition,
begging became hourly more difficult, and such little
money as was given her, she resolutely spent on Hilda's
bread and milk in the morning and evening.

By Friday afternoon, she was very weak, indeed. Her
eyes troubled her. She could no longer see distinctly,
and at times there appeared to her curious figures, huge

A Story of California 60 1

crystal goblets of the most graceful shapes, floating and
swaying in the air in front of her; almost within arm's
reach. Vases of elegant forms, made of shimmering
glass, bowed and courtesied toward her. Glass bulbs
took graceful and varying shapes before her vision, now
rounding into globes, now evolving into hour-glasses,
now twisting into pretzel-shaped convolutions.

" Mammy, I'm hungry," insisted Hilda, passing her
hands over her face. Mrs. Hooven started and woke.
It was Friday evening. Already the street lamps were
being lit.

" Gome, den, leedle girl/' she said, rising and taking
Hilda's hand. " Gome, den, we go vind subber, hey ? "

She issued from the park and took a cross street, di-
rectly away from the locality where she had begged the
previous days. She had had no success there of late.
She would try some other quarter of the town. After a
weary walk, she came out upon Van Ness Avenue, near
its junction with Market Street. She turned into the
avenue, and went on toward the Bay, painfully travers-
ing block after block, begging of all whom she met (for
she no longer made any distinction among the passers-by) .

" Say, say, den, blease hellup a boor womun."

" Mammy, mammy, I'm hungry."

It was Friday night, between seven and eight. The
great deserted avenue was already dark. A sea fog was
scudding overhead, and by degrees descending lower.
The warmth was of the meagerest, and the street lamps,
birds of fire in cages of glass, fluttered and danced in the
prolonged gusts of the trade wind that threshed and
weltered in the city streets from off the ocean.

Presley entered the dining-room of the Gerard man-
sion with little Miss Gerard on his arm. The other
guests had preceded them — Cedarquist with Mrs.

602 The Octopus

Gerard; a pale-faced, languid young man (introduced to
Presley as Julian Lambert) with Presley's cousin Bea-
trice, one of the twin daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Cedar-
quist ; his brother Stephen, whose hair was straight as an
Indian's, but of a pallid straw color, with Beatrice's
sister; Gerard himself, taciturn, bearded, rotund, loud of
breath, escorted Mrs. Cedarquist. Besides these, there
were one or two other couples, whose names Presley did
not remember.

The dining-room was superb in its appointments. On
three sides of the room, to the height of some ten feet,
ran a continuous picture, an oil painting, divided into
long sections by narrow panels of black oak. The paint-
ing represented the personages in the Romaunt de la
Rose, and was conceived in an atmosphere of the most
delicate, most ephemeral allegory. One saw young che-
valiers, blue-eyed, of elemental beauty and purity ; women
with crowns, gold girdles, and cloudy wimples; young
girls, entrancing in their loveliness, wearing snow-white
kerchiefs, their golden hair unbound and flowing, dressed
in white samite, bearing armfuls of flowers; the whole
procession defiling against a background of forest glades,
venerable oaks, half-hidden fountains, and fields of aspho-
del and roses.

Otherwise, the room was simple. Against the side
of the wall unoccupied by the picture stood a sideboard of
gigantic size, that once had adorned the banquet hall of
an Italian palace of the late Renaissance. It was black
with age, and against its sombre surfaces glittered an
array of heavy silver dishes and heavier cut-glass bowls
and goblets.

The company sat down to the first course of raw Blue
Point oysters, served upon little pyramids of shaved ice,
and the two butlers at once began filling the glasses of
the guests with cool Haut Sauterne.

A Story of California 603

Mrs. Gerard, who was very proud of her dinners, and
never able to resist the temptation of commenting upon
them to her guests, leaned across to Presley and Mrs.
Cedarquist, murmuring, " Mr. Presley, do you find that
Sauterne too cold ? I always believe it is so bourgeois to
keep such a delicate wine as Sauterne on the ice, and to
ice Bordeaux or Burgundy — oh, it is nothing short of a
crime."

" This is from your own vineyard, is it not ? " asked
Julian Lambert. " I think I recognise the bouquet."

He strove to maintain an attitude of fin gourmet, un-
able to refrain from comment upon the courses as they
succeeded one another.

Little Honora Gerard turned to Presley:
" You know," she explained, " Papa has his own vine-
yards in southern France. He is so particular about his
wines ; turns up his nose at California wines. And I
am to go there next summer. Ferrieres is the name of
the place where our vineyards are, the dearest village ! "

She was a beautiful little girl of a dainty porcelain
type, her colouring low in tone. She wore no jewels, but
her little, undeveloped neck and shoulders, of an exquisite
immaturity, rose from the tulle bodice of her first
decollete gown.

" Yes," she continued ; " I'm to go to Europe for the
first time. Won't it be gay? And I am to have my
own bonne, and Mamma and I are to travel — so many
places, Baden, Homburg, Spa, the Tyrol. Won't it be
gay?"

Presley assented in meaningless words. He sipped his
wine mechanically, looking about that marvellous room,
with its subdued saffron lights, its glitter of glass and
silver, its beautiful women in their elaborate toilets, its
deft, correct servants ; its array of tableware — cut glass,
chased silver, and Dresden crockery. It was Wealth, in

604 The Octopus

all its outward and visible forms, the signs of an opu-
lence so great that it need never be husbanded. It was
the home of a railway " Magnate," a Railroad King.
For this, then, the farmers paid. It was for this that S.
Behrman turned the screw, tightened the vise. It was for
this that Dyke had been driven to outlawry and a jail.
It was for this that Lyman Derrick had been bought,
the Governor ruined and broken, Annixter shot down,
Hooven killed.

The soup, puree a la Derby, was served, and at the
same time, as Iwrs d'auvres, ortolan patties, together
with a tiny sandwich made of browned toast and thin
slices of ham, sprinkled over with Parmesan cheese. The
wine, so Mrs. Gerard caused it to be understood, was
Xeres, of the 1815 vintage.

Mrs. Hooven crossed the avenue. It was growing
late. Without knowing it, she had come to a part of the
city that experienced beggars shunned. There was no-
body about. Block after block of residences stretched
away on either hand, lighted, full of people. But the
sidewalks were deserted.

" Mammy/' whimpered Hilda. " I'm tired, carry me."

Using all her strength, Mrs. Hooven picked her up
and moved on aimlessly.

Then again that terrible cry, the cry of the hungry
child appealing to the helpless mother:

" Mammy, I'm hungry."

" Ach, Gott, leedle girl," exclaimed Mrs. Hooven, hold-
ing her close to her shoulder, the tears starting from her
eyes. " Ach, leedle tochter. Doand, doand, doand. You
praik my hairt. I cen't vind any subber. We got nod-
dings to eat, noddings, noddings."

"When do we have those bread'n milk again,
Mammy? "

A Story of California 605

" To-morrow — soon — py-and-py, Hilda. I doand
know what pecome oaf us now, what pecome oaf my
leedle babby."

She went on, holding Hilda against her shoulder with
one arm as best she might, one hand steadying herself
against the fence railings along the sidewalk. At last, a
solitary pedestrian came into view, a young man in a top
hat and overcoat, walking rapidly. Mrs. Hooven held
out a quivering hand as he passed her.

" Say, say, den, Meest'r, blease hellup a boor womun."

The other hurried on.

The fish course was grenadins of bass and small sal-
mon, the latter stuffed, and cooked in white wine and
mushroom liquor.

" I have read your poem, of course, Mr. Presley," ob-
served Mrs. Gerard. " ' The Toilers/ I mean. What a
sermon you read us, you dreadful young man. I felt
that I ought at once to ' sell all that I have and give to the
poor/ Positively, it did stir me up. You may con-
gratulate yourself upon making at least one convert.
Just because of that poem Mrs. Cedarquist and I have
started a movement to send a whole shipload of wheat
to the starving people in India. Now, you horrid
reactionnaire, are you satisfied ? "

" I am very glad," murmured Presley.

" But I am afraid," observed Mrs. Cedarquist, " that
we may be too late. They are dying so fast, those poor
people. By the time our ship reaches India the famine
may be all over."

" One need never be afraid of being ' too late * in the
matter of helping the destitute/7 answered Presley.
" Unfortunately, they are always a fixed quantity. ' The
poor ye have always with you/ "

" How very clever that is/' said Mrs. Gerard.

606 The Octopus

Mrs. Cedarquist tapped the table with her fan in mild
applause.

" Brilliant, brilliant," she murmured, " epigram-
matical."

" Honora/' said Mrs. Gerard, turning to her daughter,
at that moment in conversation with the languid Lam-
bert, " Honora, entends-tu, ma chcrie, I'esprit de noire
jeune Lamartine."

Mrs. Hooven went on, stumbling from street to street,
holding Hilda to her breast. Famine gnawed incessantly
at her stomach; walk though she might, turn upon her
tracks up and down the streets, back to the avenue again,
incessantly and relentlessly the torture dug into her
vitals. She was hungry, hungry, and if the want of food
harassed and rended her, full-grown woman that she was,
what must it be in the poor, starved stomach of her little
girl? Oh, for some helping hand now, oh, for one little
mouthful, one little nibble ! Food, food, all her wrecked
body clamoured for nourishment ; anything to numb those
gnawing teeth — an abandoned loaf, hard, mouldered; a
half-eaten fruit, yes, even the refuse of the gutter, even
the garbage of the ash heap. On she went, peering into
dark corners, into the areaways, anywhere, everywhere,
watching the silent prowling of cats, the intent rovings
of stray dogs. But she was growing weaker ; the pains
and cramps in her stomach returned. Hilda's weight
bore her to the pavement. More than once a great giddi-
ness, a certain wheeling faintness all but overcame her.
Hilda, however, was asleep. To wake her would only
mean to revive her to the consciousness of hunger; yet
how to carry her further? Mrs. Hooven began to fear
that she would fall with her child in her arms. The
terror of a collapse upon those cold pavements glistening
with fog-damp roused her ; she must make an effort to

A Story of California 607

get through the night. She rallied all her strength, and
pausing a moment to shift the weight of her baby to the
other arm, once more set off through the night. A little
while later she found on the edge of the sidewalk the
peeling of a banana. It had been trodden upon and it
was muddy, but joyfully she caught it up.

" Hilda," she cried, " wake oop, leedle girl. See, loog
den, dere's somedings to eat. Look den, hey? Dat's
goot, ain't it? Zum bunaner."

But it could not be eaten. Decayed, dirty, all but rot-
ting, the stomach turned from the refuse, nauseated.

" No, no," cried Hilda, " that's not good. I can't eat it.
Oh, Mammy, please gif me those bread'n milk."

By now the guests of Mrs. Gerard had come to the
entrees — Londonderry pheasants, escallops of duck, and
rissole ties a la pompadour. The wine was Chateau
Latour.

All around the table conversations were going forward
gayly. The good wines had broken up the slight re-
straint of the early part of the evening and a spirit of
good humour and good fellowship prevailed. Young
Lambert and Mr. Gerard were deep in reminiscences of
certain mutual duck-shooting expeditions. Mrs. Gerard
and Mrs. Cedarquist discussed a novel — a strange min-
gling of psychology, degeneracy, and analysis of erotic
conditions — which had just been translated from the Ital-
ian. Stephen Lambert and Beatrice disputed over the
merits of a Scotch collie just given to the young lady.
The scene was gay, the electric bulbs sparkled, the wine
flashing back the light. The entire table was a vague
glow of white napery, delicate china, and glass as brilliant
as crystal. Behind the guests the serving-men came and
went, filling the glasses continually, changing the covers,
serving the entrees, managing the dinner without in-

6o8 The Octopus

terruption, confusion, or the slightest unnecessary
noise.

But Presley could find no enjoyment in the occasion.
From that picture of feasting, that scene of luxury, that
atmosphere of decorous, well-bred refinement, his
thoughts went back to Los Muertos and Quien Sabe and
the irrigating ditch at Hooven's. He saw them fall, one
by one, Harran, Annixter, Osterman, Broderson, Hooven.
The clink of the wine glasses was drowned in the ex-
plosion of revolvers. The Railroad might indeed be a
force only, which no man could control and for which no
man was responsible, but his friends had been killed, but
years of extortion and oppression had wrung money
from all the San Joaquin, money that had made possible
this very scene in which he found himself. Because
Magnus had been beggared, Gerard had become Railroad
King ; because the farmers of the valley were poor, these
men were rich.

The fancy grew big in his mind, distorted, caricatured,
terrible. Because the farmers had been killed at the irri-
gation ditch, these others, Gerard and his family, fed full.
They fattened on the blood of the People, on the blood
of the men who had been killed at the ditch. It was a
half-ludicrous, half-horrible " dog eat dog," an unspeak-
able cannibalism. Harran, Annixter, and Hooven were
being devoured there under his eyes. These dainty
women, his cousin Beatrice and little Miss Gerard, frail,
delicate ; all these fine ladies with their small fingers and
slender necks, suddenly were transfigured in his tortured
mind into harpies tearing human flesh. His head swam
with the horror of it, the terror of it. Yes, the People
would turn some day, and turning, rend those who now
preyed upon them. It would be " dog eat dog " again,
with positions reversed, and he saw for one instant of
time that splendid house sacked to its foundations, the

A Story of California 609

tables overturned, the pictures torn, the hangings blaz-
ing, and Liberty, the red-handed Man in the Street,
grimed with powder smoke, foul with the gutter, rush
yelling, torch in hand, through every door.

At ten o'clock Mrs. Hooven fell.

Luckily she was leading Hilda by the hand at the time
and the little girl was not hurt. In vain had Mrs.
Hooven, hour after hour, walked the streets. After a
while she no longer made any attempt to beg; nobody
was stirring, nor did she even try to hunt for food with
the stray dogs and cats. She had made up her mind to
return to the park in order to sit upon the benches there,
but she had mistaken the direction, and following up
Sacramento Street, had come out at length, not upon the
park, but upon a great vacant lot at the very top of the
Clay Street hill. The ground was unfenced and rose
above her to form the cap of the hill, all overgrown with
bushes and a few stunted live oaks. It was in trying to
cross this piece of ground that she fell. She got upon
her feet again.

" Ach, Mammy, did you hurt yourself ? " asked Hilda.

" No, no."

" Is that house where we get those bread'n milk ? "

Hilda pointed to a single rambling building just visi-
ble in the night, that stood isolated upon the summit of
the hill in a grove of trees.

" No, no, dere aindt no braid end miluk, leedle tochter."

Hilda once more began to sob.

" Ach, Mammy, please, please, I want it. I'm hungry."

The jangled nerves snapped at last under the tension,
and Mrs. Hooven, suddenly shaking Hilda roughly, cried
out:

" Stop, stop. Doand say ut egen, you. My Gott, you
kill me yet."

610 The Octopus

But quick upon this came the reaction. The mother
caught her little girl to her, sinking down upon her
knees, putting her arms around her, holding her close.

" No, no, gry all so mudge es you want. Say dot you
are hongry. Say ut egen, say ut all de dime, ofer end
ofer egen. Say ut, poor, starfing, leedle babby. Oh,
mein poor, leedle tochter. My Gott, oh, I go crazy
bretty soon, I guess. I cent hellup you. I cen't ged
you noddings to eat, noddings, noddings. Hilda, we
gowun to die togedder. Put der arms roundt me, soh,
tighd, leedle babby. We gowun to die, we gowun
to vind Popper. We aindt gowun to be hongry eny
more."

" Vair we go now ? " demanded Hilda.

" No places. Mommer's soh tiredt. We stop heir,
leedle while, end rest."

Underneath a large bush that afforded a little shelter
from the wind, Mrs. Hooven lay down, taking Hilda in
her arms and wrapping her shawl about her. The infi-
nite, vast night expanded gigantic all around them. At
this elevation they were far above the city. It was still.
Close overhead whirled the chariots of the fog, galloping
landward, smothering lights, blurring outlines. Soon all
sight of the town was shut out ; even the solitary house on
the hilltop vanished. There was nothing left but grey,
wheeling fog, and the mother and child, alone, shivering,
in a little strip of damp ground, an island drifting aim-
lessly in empty space.

Hilda's fingers touched a leaf from the bush and in-
stinctively closed upon it and carried it to her mouth.

" Mammy," she said, " I'm eating those leaf. Is those
good?"

Her mother did not reply.

" You going to sleep, Mammy ? " inquired Hilda,
touching her face

A Story of California 6 1 1

Mrs. Hooven roused herself a little.

" Hey ? Vat you say ? Asleep ? Yais, I guess I wass
asleep."

Her voice trailed unintelligibly to silence again. She
was not, however, asleep. Her eyes were open. A grate-
ful numbness had begun to creep over her, a pleasing
semi-insensibility. She no longer felt the pain and
cramps of her stomach, even the hunger was ceasing to
bite.

" These stuffed artichokes are delicious, Mrs. Gerard,""
murmured young Lambert, wiping his lips with a corner
of his napkin. " Pardon me for mentioning it, but your
dinner must be my excuse."

" And this asparagus — since Mr. Lambert has set the
bad example," observed Mrs. Cedarquist, " so delicate,
such an exquisite flavour. How do you manage ? "

" We get all our asparagus from the southern part of
the State, from one particular ranch," explained Mrs.
Gerard. " We order it by wire and get it only twenty
hours after cutting. My husband sees to it that it is
put on a special train. It stops at this ranch just to take
on our asparagus. Extravagant, isn't it, but I simply
cannot eat asparagus that has been cut more than a
day."

" Nor I," exclaimed Julian Lambert, who posed as an
epicure. " I can tell to an hour just how long asparagus
has been picked."

" Fancy eating ordinary market asparagus," said Mrs.
Gerard, " that has been fingered by Heaven knows how
many hands."

" Mammy, mammy, wake up," cried Hilda, trying to
push open Mrs. Hooven's eyelids, at last closed. " Mam-
my, don't. You're just trying to frighten me."

612 The Octopus

Feebly Hilda shook her by the shoulder. At last Mrs.
Hooven's lips stirred. Putting her head down, Hilda
distinguished the whispered words :

" I'm sick. Go to schleep. . . . Sick. . . .
Noddings to eat."

The dessert was a wonderful preparation of alternate
layers of biscuit glaces, ice cream, and candied chestnuts.

" Delicious, is it not? " observed Julian Lambert, partly
to himself, partly to Miss Cedarquist. " This Moscovite
fouette — upon my word, I have never tasted its equal."

" And you should know, shouldn't you ? " returned the
young lady.

" Mammy, mammy, wake up," cried Hilda. " Don't
sleep so. I'm frightenedt."

Repeatedly she shook her ; repeatedly she tried to raise
the inert eyelids with the point of her ringer. But her
mother no longer stirred. The gaunt, lean body, with its
bony face and sunken eye-sockets, lay back, prone upon
the ground, the feet upturned and showing the ragged,
worn soles of the shoes, the forehead and grey hair
beaded with fog, the poor, faded bonnet awry, the poor,
faded dress soiled and torn.

Hilda drew close to her mother, kissing her face, twin-
ing her arms around her neck. For a long time, she lay
that way, alternately sobbing and sleeping. Then, after
a long time, there was a stir. She woke from a doze to
find a police officer and two or three other men bending
over her. Some one carried a lantern. Terrified, smitten
dumb, she was unable to answer the questions put to her.
Then a woman, evidently a mistress of the house on the
top of the hill, arrived and took Hilda in her arms and
cried over her.

" I'll take the little girl," she said to the police officer.

A Story of California 613

But the mother, can you save her? Is she too far

me?"

" I've sent for a doctor," replied the other.

gone?

Just before the ladies left the table, young Lambert
raised his glass of Madeira. Turning towards the wife
of the Railroad King, he said :

" My best compliments for a delightful dinner."

The doctor who had been bending over Mrs. Hooven,
rose.

" It's no use/' he said ; " she has been dead some time—
exhaustion from starvation."

IX

On Division Number Three of the Los Muertos ranch
the wheat had already been cut, and S. Behrman on a
certain morning in the first week of August drove across
the open expanse of stubble toward the southwest, his
eyes searching the horizon for the feather of smoke that
would mark the location of the steam harvester. How-
ever, he saw nothing. The stubble extended onward
apparently to the very margin of the world.

At length, S. Behrman halted his buggy and brought
out his field glasses from beneath the seat. He stood
up in his place and, adjusting the lenses, swept the pros-
pect to the south and west. It was the same as though
the sea of land were, in reality, the ocean, and he, lost in
an open boat, were scanning the waste through his
glasses, looking for the smoke of a steamer, hull down,
below the horizon. " Wonder," he muttered, " if they're
working on Four this morning ? "

At length, he murmured an " Ah " of satisfaction. Far
to the south into the white sheen of sky, immediately over
the horizon, he made out a faint smudge — the harvester
beyond doubt.

Thither S. Behrman turned his horse's head It was
all of an hour's drive over the uneven ground and
through the crackling stubble, but at length he readied
the harvester. He found, however, that it had been
halted. The sack sewers, together with the header-man,
were stretched on the ground in the shade of the ma-
chine, while the engineer and separator-man were potter-
ing about a portion of the works.

A Story of California 615

"What's the matter, Billy?" demanded S. Behrman
reining up.

The engineer turned about.

" The grain is heavy in here. We thought we'd better
increase the speed of the cup-carrier, and pulled up to
put in a smaller sprocket."

S. Behrman nodded to say that was all right, and
added a question.

" How is she going? "

"Anywheres from twenty-five to thirty sacks to the
acre right along here; nothing the matter with that I
guess."

" Nothing in the world, Bill."

One of the sack sewers interposed :

" For the last half hour we've been throwing off three
bags to the minute."

" That's good, that's good."

It was more than good ; it was " bonanza," and all that
division of the great ranch was thick with just such
wonderful wheat. Never had Los Muertos been more
generous, never a season more successful. S. Behrman
drew a long breath of satisfaction. He knew just how
great was his share in the lands which had just been
absorbed by the corporation he served, just how many
thousands of bushels of this marvellous crop were his
property. Through all these years of confusion, bicker-
ings, open hostility and, at last, actual warfare he had
waited, nursing his patience, calm with the firm assurance
of ultimate success. The end, at length, had come ; he
had entered into his reward and saw himself at last in-
stalled in the place he had so long, so silently coveted ;
saw himself chief of a principality, the Master of the
Wheat.

The sprocket adjusted, the engineer called up the gang
and the men took their places. The fireman stoked

616 The Octopus

vigorously, the two sack sewers resumed their posts on
the sacking platform, putting on the goggles that kept
the chaff from their eyes. The separator-man and
header-man gripped their levers.

The harvester, shooting a column of thick smoke
straight upward, vibrating to the top of the stack, hissed,
clanked, and lurched forward. Instantly, motion sprang
to life in all its component parts ; the header knives, cut-
ting a thirty-six foot swath, gnashed like teeth ; beltings
slid and moved like smooth flowing streams; the sepa-
rator whirred, the agitator jarred and crashed; cylinders,
augers, fans, seeders and elevators, drapers and chaff-
carriers clattered, rumbled, buzzed, and clanged. The
steam hissed and rasped; the ground reverberated a
hollow note, and the thousands upon thousands of wheat
stalks sliced and slashed in the clashing shears of the
header, rattled like dry rushes in a hurricane, as they fell
inward, and were caught up by an endless belt, to dis-
appear into the bowels of the vast brute that devoured
them.

It was that and no less. It was the feeding of some
prodigious monster, insatiable, with iron teeth, gnashing
and threshing into the fields of standing wheat ; devour-
ing always, never glutted, never satiated, swallowing an
entire harvest, snarling and slobbering in a welter of
warm vapour, acrid smoke, and blinding, pungent clouds
of chaff. It moved belly-deep in the standing grain, a
hippopotamus, half-mired in river ooze, gorging rushes,
snorting, sweating; a dinosaur wallowing through
thick, hot grasses, floundering there, crouching, grovel-
ling there as its vast jaws crushed and tore, and its
enormous gullet swallowed, incessant, ravenous, and
inordinate.

S. Behrman, very much amused, changed places with
one of the sack sewers, allowing him to hold his horse

A Story of California 6 1 7

while he mounted the sacking platform and took his
place. The trepidation and jostling of the machine shook
him till his teeth chattered in his head. His ears were
shocked and assaulted by a myriad-tongued clamour,
clashing steel, straining belts, jarring woodwork, while
the impalpable chaff powder from the separators settled
like dust in his hair, his ears, eyes, and mouth.

Directly in front of where he sat on the platform was
the chute from the cleaner, and from this into the mouth
of a half-full sack spouted an unending gush of grain,
winnowed, cleaned, threshed, ready for the mill.

The pour from the chute of the cleaner had for S.
Behrman an immense satisfaction. Without an instant's
pause, a thick rivulet of wheat rolled and dashed tumul-
tuous into the sack. In half a minute — sometimes in
twenty seconds — the sack was full, was passed over to
the second sewer, the mouth reeved up, and the sack
dumped out upon the ground, to be picked up by the
wagons and hauled to the railroad.

S. Behrman, hypnotised, sat watching that river of
grain. All that shrieking, bellowing machinery, all fhat
gigantic organism, all the months of labour, the plough-
ing, the planting, the prayers for rain, the years of prep-
aration, the heartaches, the anxiety, the foresight, all
the whole business of the ranch, the work of horses, of
steam, of men and boys, looked to this spot — the grain
chute from the harvester into the sacks. Its volume was
the index of failure or success, of riches or poverty.
And at this point, the labour of the rancher ended. Here,
at the lip of the chute, he parted company with his grain,
and from here the wheat streamed forth to feed the world.
The yawning mouths of the sacks might well stand for
the unnumbered mouths of the People, all agape for
food ; and here, into these sacks, at first so lean, so flaccid,
attenuated like starved stomachs, rushed the living stream

618 The Octopus

of food, insistent, interminable, filling the empty, fatten*
ing the shrivelled, making it sleek and heavy and solid.

Half an hour later, the harvester stopped again. The
men on the sacking platform had used up all the sacks.
But S. Belirman's foreman, a new man on Los Muertos,
put in an appearance with the report that the wagon
bringing a fresh supply was approaching.

" How is the grain elevator at Port Costa getting on,
sir?"

" Finished," replied S. Behrman.

The new master of Los Muertos had decided upon
Accumulating his grain in bulk in a great elevator at the
tide-water port, where the grain ships for Liverpool and
the East took on their cargoes. To this end, he had
bought and greatly enlarged a building at Port Costa,
that was already in use for that purpose, and to this
elevator all the crop of Los Muertos was to be carried.
The P. and S. W. made S. Behrman a special rate.

" By the way," said S. Behrman to his superintendent,
" we're in luck. Fallen's buyer was in Bonneville yes-
terday. He's buying for Fallen and for Holt, too. I
happened to run into him, and I've sold a ship load."

" A ship load ! "

. " Of Los Muertos wheat. He's acting for some Indian
Famine Relief Committee — lot of women people up in
the city — and wanted a whole cargo. I made a deal with
him. There's about fifty thousand tons of disengaged
shipping in San Francisco Bay right now, and ships are
fighting for charters. I wired McKissick and got a long
distance telephone from him this morning. He got me a
barque, the ' Swanhilda.' She'll dock day after to-
morrow, and begin loading."

" Hadn't I better take a run up," observed the superin-
tendent, " and keep an eye on things ? "

" No," answered S. Behrman, " I want you to stop

A Story of California 619

down here, and see that those carpenters hustle the work
in the ranch house. Derrick will be out by then. You
see this deal is peculiar. I'm not selling to any middle-
man— not to Fallon's buyer. He only put me on to the
thing. I'm acting direct with these women people, and
I've got to have some hand in shipping this stuff myself.
But I made my selling figure cover the price of a charter.
It's a queer, mixed-up deal, and I don't fancy it much,
but there's boodle in it. I'll go to Port Costa myself."

A little later on in the day, when S. Behrman had satis-
fied himself that his harvesting was going forward fa-,
vourably, he reentered his buggy and driving to the
County Road turned southward towards the Los
Muertos ranch house. He had not gone far, however,
before he became aware of a familiar figure on horse-
back, jogging slowly along ahead of him. He recognised
Presley; he shook the reins over his horse's back and
very soon ranging up by the side of the young man
passed the time of day with him.

" Well, what brings you down here again, Mr. Pres-
ley ? " he observed. " I thought we had seen the last of
you."

" I came down to say good-bye to my friends/5 an^
swered Presley shortly.

" Going away ? "

« Yes— to India."

"Well, upon my word. For your health, hey?"

" Yes."

" You look knocked up," asserted the other. " By the
way," he added, " I suppose you've heard the news ? "

Presley shrank a little. Of late the reports of disasters
had followed so swiftly upon one another that he had
begun to tremble and to quail at every unexpected bit of
information.

" What news do you mean ? " he asked.

620 The Octopus

"About Dyke. He has been convicted. The judge
sentenced him for life."

For life ! Riding on by the side of this man through
the ranches by the County Road, Presley repeated these
words to himself till the full effect of them burst at last
upon him.

Jailed for life ! No outlook. No hope for the future.
Day after day, year after year, to tread the rounds of the
same gloomy monotony. He saw the grey stone walls,
the iron doors ; the flagging of the " yard " bare of grass
or trees — the cell, narrow, bald, cheerless; the prison
garb, the prison fare, and round all the grim granite of
insuperable barriers, shutting out the world, shutting in
the man with outcasts, with the pariah dogs 'of society,
thieves, murderers, men below the beasts, lost to all de-
cency, drugged with opium, utter reprobates. To this,
Dyke had been brought, Dyke, than whom no man had
been more honest, more courageous, more jovial. This
was the end of him, a prison ; this was his final estate, a
criminal.

Presley found an excuse for riding on, leaving S.
Behrman behind him. He did not stop at Caraher's
saloon, for the heat of his rage had long since begun to
cool, and dispassionately, he saw things in their true
light. For all the tragedy of his wife's death, Caraher
was none the less an evil influence among the ranchers,
an influence that worked only to the inciting of crime.
Unwilling to venture himself, to risk his own life, the
anarchist saloon-keeper had goaded Dyke and Presley
both to murder ; a bad man, a plague spot in the world
of the ranchers, poisoning the farmers' bodies with alco-
hol and their minds with discontent.

At last, Presley arrived at the ranch house of Los
Muertos. The place was silent; the grass on the lawn
was half dead and over a foot high; the beginnings of

A Story of California 621

weeds showed here and there in the driveway. He tied
his horse to a ring in the trunk of one of the larger
eucalyptus trees and entered the house.

Mrs. Derrick met him in the dining-room. The old
look of uneasiness, almost of terror, had gone from her
wide-open brown eyes. There was in them instead, .the
expression of one to whom a contingency, long dreaded,
has arrived and passed. The stolidity of a settled grief,
of an irreparable calamity, of a despair from which there
was no escape was in her look, her manner, her voice.
She was listless, apathetic, calm with the calmness of a
woman who knows she can suffer no further.

" We are going away/' she told Presley, as the two
sat down at opposite ends of the dining table. "Just
Magnus and myself — all there is left of us. There is
very little money left; Magnus can hardly take care of
himself, to say nothing of me. I must look after him
now. We are going to Marysville."

"Why there?"

" You see," she explained, " it happens that my old
place is vacant in the Seminary there. I am going back
to teach — literature." She smiled wearily. " It is be-
ginning all over again, isn't it ? Only there is nothing to
look forward to now. Magnus is an old man already,
and I must take care of him."

" He will go with you, then," Presley said, " that will
be some comfort to you at least."

" I don't know," she said slowly, " you have not seen
Magnus lately."

" Is he — how do you mean? Isn't he any better? "

"Would you like to see him? He is in the office.
You can go right in."

Presley rose. He hesitated a moment, then :

" Mrs. Annixter," he asked, " Hilma — is she still with
you ? I should like to see her before I go."

622 The Octopus

" Go in and see Magnus," said Mrs. Derrick. " I will
tell her you are here."

Presley stepped across the stone-paved hallway with
the glass roof, and after knocking three times at the
office door pushed it open and entered.

Magnus sat in the chair before the desk and did not
look up as Presley entered. He had the appearance of a
man nearer eighty than sixty. All the old-time erect-
ness was broken and bent. It was as though the muscles
that once had held the back rigid, the chin high, "had
softened and stretched. A certain fatness, the obesity
of inertia, hung heavy around the hips and abdomen, the
eye was watery and vague, the cheeks and chin unshaven
and unkempt, the grey hair had lost its forward
curl towards the temples and hung thin and ragged
around the ears. The hawk-like nose seemed hooked
to meet the chin; the lips were slack, the mouth half-
opened.

Where once the Governor had been a model of neat-
ness in his dress, the frock coat buttoned, the linen clean,
he now sat in his shirt sleeves, the waistcoat open and
showing the soiled shirt. His hands were stained with
ink, and these, the only members of his body that yet
appeared to retain their activity, were busy with a great
pile of papers, — oblong, legal documents, that littered the
table before him. Without a moment's cessation, these
hands of the Governor's came and went among the
papers, deft, nimble, dexterous.

Magnus was sorting papers. From the heap upon his
left hand he selected a document, opened it, glanced over
it, then tied it carefully, and laid it away upon a second
pile on his right hand. When all the papers were in
one pile, he reversed the process, taking from his right
hand to place upon his left, then back from left to
right again, then once more from right to left. He spoke

A Story of California 623

no word, he sat absolutely still, even his eyes did not
move, only his hands, swift, nervous, agitated, seemed
alive.

" Why, how are you, Governor ? " said Presley, coming
forward. Magnus turned slowly about and looked at
him and at the hand in which he shook his own.

" Ah," he said at length, " Presley . . . yes."

Then his glance fell, and he looked aimlessly about
upon the floor.

" I've come to say good-bye, Governor," continued
Presley, " I'm going away."

" Going away . . . yes, why it's Presley. Good-
day, Presley."

" Good-day, Governor. I'm going away. I've come to
say good-bye."

" Good-bye ? " Magnus bent his brows, " what are you
saying good-bye for ? "

" I'm going away, sir."

The Governor did not answer. Staring at the ledge of
the desk, he seemed lost in thought. There was a long
silence. Then, at length, Presley said :

" How are you getting on, Governor ? "

Magnus looked up slowly.

"Why it's Presley," he said. "How do you do,
Presley."

" Are you getting on all right, sir ? "

" Yes/' said Magnus after a while, " yes, all right. I
am going away. I've come to say good-bye. No —
He interrupted himself with a deprecatory smile, " you
said that, didn't you ? "

" Well, you are going away, too, your wife tells me."

" Yes, I'm going away. I can't stay on ...
he hesitated a long time, groping for the right word, " I
can't stay on — on — what's the name of this place? "

" Los Muertos/' put in Presley.

624 The Octopus

" No, it isn't. Yes, it is, too, that's right, Los Muer-
tos. I don't know where my memory has gone to of
late."

" Well, I hope you will be better soon, Governor."

As Presley spoke the words, S. Behrman entered the
room, and the Governor sprang up with unexpected
agility and stood against the wall, drawing one long
breath after another, watching the railroad agent with
intent eyes.

S. Behrman saluted both men affably and sat down
near the desk, drawing the links of his heavy watch chain
through his fat fingers.

" There wasn't anybody outside when I knocked, but I
heard your voice in here, Governor, so I came right in. I
wanted to ask you, Governor, if my carpenters can begin
work in here day after to-morrow. I want to take down
that partition there, and throw this room and the next
into one. I guess that will be O. K., won't it ? You'll be
out of here by then, won't you ? "

There was no vagueness about Magnus's speech or
manner now. There was that same alertness in his
demeanour that one sees in a tamed lion in the presence
of its trainer.

" Yes, yes," he said quickly, " you can send your men
here. I will be gone by to-morrow."

" I don't want to seem to hurry you, Governor."

" No, you will not hurry me. I am ready to go now."

"Anything I can do for you, Governor? "

" Nothing/'

" Yes, there is, Governor," insisted S. Behrman. " I
think now that all is over we ought to be good friends.
I think I can do something for you. We still want an
assistant in the local freight manager's office. Now,
what do you say to having a try at it? There's a salary
of fifty a month goes with it. I guess you must be in

A Story of California 625

need of money now, and there's always the wife to sup-
port ; what do you say ? Will you try the place ? "

Presley could only stare at the man in speechless
wonder. What was he driving at? What reason was
there back of this new move, and why should it be made
thus openly and in his hearing ? An explanation occurred
to him. Was this merely a pleasantry on the part of S.
Behrman, a way of enjoying to the full his triumph ; was
he testing the completeness of his victory, trying to see
just how far he could go, how far beneath his feet he
could push his old-time enemy?

" What do you say ? " he repeated. " Will you try the
place?"

" You — you insist? " inquired the Governor.

" Oh, I'm not insisting on anything," cried S. Behr-
man. " I'm offering you a place, that's all. Will you
take it?"

" Yes, yes, I'll take it."

" You'll come over to our side ? "

" Yes, I'll come over."

" You'll have to turn ' railroad,' understand ? "

" I'll turn railroad."

" Guess there may be times when you'll have to take
orders from me."

" I'll take orders from you."

" You'll have to be loyal to railroad, you know. No
funny business."

" I'll be loyal to the railroad."

"You would like the place then?"

" Yes."

S. Behrman turned from Magnus, who at once resumed
his seat and began again to sort his papers.

" Well, Presley," said the railroad agent : " I guess I
won't see you again."

" I hope not," answered the other.

626 The Octopus

" Trt, tut, Presley, you know you can't make me
angry."

He put on his hat of varnished straw and wiped his
fat forehead with his handkerchief. Of late, he had
grown fatter than ever, and the linen vest, stamped with
a multitude of interlocked horseshoes, strained tight its
imitation pearl buttons across the great protuberant
stomach.

Presley looked at the man a moment before replying.
But a few weeks ago he could not thus have faced the
great enemy of the farmers without a gust of blind rage
blowing tempestuous through all his bones. Now, how-
ever, he found to his surprise that his fury had lapsed to
a profound contempt, in which there was bitterness, but
no truculence. He was tired, tired to death of the whole
business.

" Yes," he answered deliberately, " I am going away.
You have ruined this place for me. I couldn't live here
where I should have to see you, or the results of what
you have done, whenever I stirred out of doors."

" Nonsense, Presley," answered the other, refusing to
become angry. " That's foolishness, that kind of talk ;
though, of course, I understand how you feel. I guess it
was you, wasn't it, who threw that bomb into my house ?"

" It was."

" Well, that don't show any common sense, Presley,"
returned S. Behrman with perfect aplomb. " What could
you have gained by killing me ? "

" Not so much probably as you have gained by killing
Harran and Annixter. But that's all passed now. You're
safe from me" The strangeness of this talk, the oddity
of the situation burst upon him and he laughed aloud.
" It don't seem as though you could be brought to book,
S. Behrman, by anybody, or by any means, does it ? Thev
can't get at you through the courts, — the law can't get

A Story of California 627

you, Dyke's pistol missed fire for just your benefit, and
you even escaped Caraher's six inches of plugged gas
pipe. Just what are we going to do with you ? "

" Best give it up, Pres, my boy," returned the other.
" I guess there ain't anything can touch me. Well, Mag-
nus," he said, turning once more to the Governor. " Well,
I'll think over what you say, and let you know if I can
get the place for you in a day or two. You see," he
idded, " you're getting pretty old, Magnus Derrick."

Presley flung himself from the room, unable any longer
to witness the depths into which Magnus had fallen.
What other scenes of degradation were enacted in that
room, how much further S. Behrman carried the humilia-
tion, he did not know. He suddenly felt that the air of
the office was choking him.

He hurried up to what once had been his own room.
On his way he could not but note that much of the house
was in disarray, a great packing-up was in progress ;
trunks, half-full, stood in the hallways, crates and cases
in a litter of straw encumbered the rooms. The servants
came and went with armfuls of bookst ornaments,
articles of clothing.

Presley took from his room only a few manuscripts
and note-books, and a small valise full of his personal
effects ; at the doorway he paused and, holding the knob
of the door in his hand, looked back into the room a very
long time.

He descended to the lower floor and entered the din-
ing-room. Mrs. Derrick had disappeared. Presley stood
for a long moment in front of the fireplace, looking
about the room, remembering the scenes that he had
witnessed there — the conference when Osterman had first
suggested the fight for Railroad Commissioner and then
later the attack on Lyman Derrick and the sudden revela-
tion of that inconceivable treachery. But as he stood

628 The Octopus

considering these things a door to his right opened and
Hilma entered the room.

Presley came forward, holding out his hand, all un-
able to believe his eyes. It was a woman, grave, digni-
fied, composed, who advanced to meet him. Hilma was
dressed in black, the cut and fashion of the gown severe,
almost monastic. All the little feminine and contradic-
tory daintinesses were nowhere to be seen. Her statu-
esque calm evenness of contour yet remained, but it was
the calmness of great sorrow, of infinite resignation.
Beautiful she still remained, but she was older. The seri-
ousness of one who has gained the knowledge of the
world — knowledge of its evil — seemed to envelope her.
The calm gravity of a great suffering past, but not for-
gotten, sat upon her. Not yet twenty-one, she exhibited
the demeanour of a woman of forty.

The one-time amplitude of her figure, the fulness of
hip and shoulder, the great deep swell from waist to
throat were gone. She had grown thinner and, in conse-
quence, seemed unusually, almost unnaturally tall. Her
neck was slender, the outline of her full lips and round
chin was a little sharp ; her arms, those wonderful, beau-
tiful, arms of hers, were a little shrunken. But her eyes
were as wide open as always, rimmed as ever by the thin,
intensely black line of the lashes and her brown, fragrant
hair was still thick, still, at times, glittered and corus-
cated in the sun. When she spoke, it was with the old-
time velvety huskiness of voice that Annixter had learned
to love so well.

" Oh, it is you/' she said, giving him her hand. " You
were good to want to see me before you left. I hear that
you are going away."

She sat down upon the sofa.

" Yes/' Presley answered, drawing a chair near to her,
"yes, I felt I could not stay — down here any longer. I

A Story of California 629

am going to take a long ocean voyage. My ship sails in
a few days. But you, Mrs. Annixter, what are you going
to do ? Is there any way I can serve you? "

" No," she answered, " nothing. Papa is doing well.
We are living here now."

"You are well?"

She made a little helpless gesture with both her hands,
smiling very sadly.

" As you see," she answered.

As he talked, Presley was looking at her intently. Her
dignity was a new element in her character and the cer-
tain slender effect of her figure, emphasised now by the
long folds of the black gown she wore, carried it almost
superbly. She conveyed something of the impression of
a queen in exile. But she had lost none of her woman-
liness ; rather, the contrary. Adversity had softened her,
as well as deepened her. Presley saw that very clearly.
Hilma had arrived now at her perfect maturity ; she had
known great love and she had known great grief, and
the woman that had awakened in her with her affection
for Annixter had been strengthened and infinitely en-
nobled by his death.

What if things had been different? Thus, as he con-
versed with her, Presley found himself wondering. Her
sweetness, her beautiful gentleness, and tenderness were
almost like palpable presences. It was almost as if a
caress had been laid softly upon his cheek, as if a gentle
hand closed upon his. Here, he knew, was sympathy;
here, he knew, was an infinite capacity for love.

Then suddenly all the tired heart of him went out to-
wards her. A longing to give the best that was in him
to the memory of her, to be strong and noble because of
her, to reshape his purposeless, half-wasted life with her
nobility and purity and gentleness for his inspiration
leaped all at once within him, leaped and stood firm,

630 The Octopus

hardening to a resolve stronger than any he had ever
known.

For an instant he told himself that the suddenness of
this new emotion must be evidence of its insincerity. He
was perfectly well aware that his impulses were abrupt
and of short duration. But he knew that this was not
sudden. Without realising it, he had been from the first
drawn to Hilma, and all through these last terrible days,
since the time he had seen her at Los Muertos, just after
the battle at the ditch, she had obtruded continually upon
his thoughts. The sight of her to-day, more beautiful
than ever, quiet, strong, reserved, had only brought mat-
ters to a culmination.

" Are you/' he asked her, " are you so unhappy, Hil-
ma, that you can look forward to no more brightness in
your life?"

" Unless I could forget — forget my husband," she
answered, " how can I be happy ? I would rather be un-
happy in remembering him than happy in forgetting
him. He was my whole world, literally and truly. Noth-
ing seemed to count before I knew him, and nothing can
count for me now, after I have lost him."

" You think now," he answered, " that in being happy
again you would be disloyal to him. But you will find
after a while — years from now — that it need not be so.
The part of you that belonged to your husband can
always keep him sacred, that part of you belongs to him
and he to it. But you are young; you have all your life
to live yet. Your sorrow need not be a burden to you.
If you consider it as you should — as you will some day,
believe me — it will only be a great help to you. It will
make you more noble, a truer woman, more generous."

" I think I see," she answered, " and I never thought
about it in that light before."

" I want to help you," he answered, " as you have

A Story of California 631

helped me. I want to be your friend, and above all things
I do not want to see your life wasted. I am going away
and it is quite possible I shall never see you again, but
you will always be a help to me."

" I do not understand," she answered, "but I know you
mean to be very, very kind to me. Yes, I hope when you
come back — if you ever do — you will still be that. I do
not know why you should want to be so kind, unless —
yes, of course — you were my husband's dearest friend."

They talked a little longer, and at length Presley rose.

" I cannot bring myself to see Mrs. Derrick again," he
said. " It would only serve to make her very unhappy.
Will you explain that to her? I think she will under-
stand."

" Yes," answered Hilma. " Yes, I will."

There was a pause. There seemed to be nothing more
for either of them to say. Presley held out his hand.

" Good-bye," she said, as she gave him hers.

He carried it to his lips.

" Good-bye," he answered. " Good-bye and may God
bless you."

He turned away abruptly and left the room.

Bat as he was quietly making his way out of the
house, hoping to get to his horse unobserved, he came
suddenly upon Mrs. Dyke and Sidney on the porch of
the house. He had forgotten that since the affair at the
ditch, Los Muertos had been a home to the engineer's
mother and daughter.

" And you, Mrs. Dyke," he asked as he took her hand,
" in this break-up of everything, where do you go ? "

" To the city," she answered, " to San Francisco. I
have a sister there who will look after the little tad."

"But you, how about yourself, Mrs. Dyke?"

She answered him in a quiet voice, monotonous, ex-
pressionless :

632 The Octopus

" I am going to die very soon, Mr. Presley. There is
no reason why I should live any longer. My son is in
prison for life, everything is over for me, and I am tired,
worn out."

" You mustn't talk like that, Mrs. Dyke," protested
Presley, " nonsense ; you will live long enough to see the
little tad married." He tried to be cheerful. But he knew
his words lacked the ring of conviction. Death already
overshadowed the face of the engineer's mother. He felt
that she spoke the truth, and as he stood there speaking
to her for the last time, his arm about little Sidney's
shoulder, he knew that he was seeing the beginnings of
the wreck of another family and that, like Hilda Hooven,
another baby girl was to be started in life, through no
fault of hers, fearfully handicapped, weighed down at the
threshold of existence with a load of disgrace. Hilda
Hooven and Sidney Dyke, what was to be their his-
tories? the one, sister of an outcast; the other, daughter
of a convict. And he thought of that other young girl,
the little Honora Gerard, the heiress of millions, petted,
loved, receiving adulation from all who came near to her,,
whose only care was to choose from among the multitude
of pleasures that the world hastened to present to her
consideration.

" Good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.

" Good-bye."

" Good-bye, Sidney."

He kissed the little girl, clasped Mrs. Dyke's hand a
moment with his ; then, slinging his satchel about his
shoulders by the long strap with which it was provided,
left the house, and mounting his horse rode away from
Los Muertos never to return.

Presley came out upon the County Road. At a little
distance to his left he could see the group of buildings
where once Broderson had lived. These were being re-

A Story of California 633

modelled, at length, to suit the larger demands of the
New Agriculture. A strange man came out by the road
gate ; no doubt, the new proprietor. Presley turned away,
hurrying northwards along the County Road by the
mammoth watering-tank and the long wind-break of
poplars.

He came to Caraher's place. There was no change
here. The saloon had weathered the storm, indispen-
sable to the new as well as to the old regime. The same
dusty buggies and buckboards were tied under the shed,
and as Presley hurried by he could distinguish Cara-
her's voice, loud as ever, still proclaiming his creed of
annihilation.

Bonneville Presley avoided. He had no associations
with the town. He turned aside from the road, and cross-
ing the northwest corner of Los Muertos and the line of
the railroad, turned back along the Upper Road till he
came to the Long Trestle and Annixter's, — Silence, deso-
lation, abandonment.

A vast stillness, profound, unbroken, brooded low over
all the place. No living thing stirred. The rusted wind-
mill on the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well was
motionless ; the great barn empty ; the windows of the
ranch house, cook house, and dairy boarded up. Nailed
upon a tree near the broken gateway was a board, white
painted, with stencilled letters, bearing the inscription :

"Warning. ALL PERSONS FOUND TRESPASS-
ING ON THESE PREMISES WILL BE PROSE-
CUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE
LAW. By order P. and S. W. R. R."

As he had planned, Presley reached the hills by the
head waters of Broderson's Creek late in the afternoon.
Toilfully he climbed them, reached the highest crest, and
turning about, looked long and for the last time at all
the reach of the valley unrolled beneath him. The land

634 The Octopus

of the ranches opened out forever and forever under the
stimulus of that measureless range of vision. The whole
gigantic sweep of the San Joaquin expanded Titanic be-
fore the eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering
and shimmering under the sun's red eye. It was the
season after the harvest, and the great earth, the mother,
after its period of reproduction, its pains of labour, de-
livered of the fruit of its loins, slept the sleep of exhaus-
tion in the infinite repose of the colossus, benignant, eter-
nal, strong, the "nourisher of nations, the feeder of an
entire world.

And as Presley looked there came to him strong and
true the sense and the significance of all the enigma of
growth. He seemed for one instant to touch the explana-
tion of existence. Men were nothings, mere animalcule,
mere ephemerides that fluttered and fell and were for-
gotten between dawn and dusk. Vanamee had said there
was no death. But for one second Presley could go one
step further. Men were naught, death was naught, life
was naught ; FORCE only existed — FORCE that brought men
into the world, FORCE that crowded them out of it to make
way for the succeeding generation, FORCE that made the
wheat grow, FORCE that garnered it from the soil to give
place to the succeeding crop.

It was the mystery of creation, the stupendous miracle
of re-creation ; the vast rhythm of the seasons, measured,
alternative, the sun and the stars keeping time as the
eternal symphony of reproduction swung in its tre-
mendous cadences like the colossal pendulum of an al-
mighty machine — primordial energy flung out from the
hand of the Lord God himself, immortal, calm, infinitely
strong.

But as he stood thus looking down upon the great val-
ley he was aware of the figure of a man, far in the dis-
tance, moving steadily towards the Mission of San Juan.

A Story of California 635

The man was hardly more than a dot, but there was
something unmistakably familiar in his gait; and be-
sides this, Presley could fancy that he was hatless. He
touched his pony with his spur. The man was Vanamee
beyond all doubt, and a little later Presley, descending
the maze of cow-paths and cattle-trails that led down to-
wards the Broderson Creek, overtook his friend.

Instantly Presley was aware of an immense change.
Vanamee's face was still that of an ascetic, still glowed
with the rarefied intelligence of a young seer, a half-
inspired shepherd-prophet of Hebraic legends ; but the
shadow of that great sadness which for so long had
brooded over him was gone; the grief that once he had
fancied deathless was, indeed, dead, or rather swallowed
up in a victorious joy that radiated like sunlight at dawn
from the deep-set eyes, and the hollow, swarthy cheeks.
They talked together till nearly sundown, but to Pres-
ley's questions as to the reasons for Vanamee's happiness,
the other would say nothing. Once only he allowed him-
self to touch upon the subject.

"Death and grief are little things," he said. "They
are transient. Life must be before death, and joy before
grief. Else there are no such things as death or grief.
These are only negatives. Life is positive. Death is only
the absence of life, just as night is only the absence of
day, and if this is so, there is no such thing as death.
There is only life, and the suppression of life, that we,
foolishly, say is death. 'Suppression/ I say, not extinc-
tion. I do not say that life returns. Life never departs.
Life simply is. For certain seasons, it is hidden in the
dark, but is that death, extinction, annihilation? I take
it, thank God, that it is not. Does the grain of wheat,
hidden for certain seasons in the dark, die? The grain
we think is dead resumes again; but how? Not as one
grain, but as twenty. So all life. Death is only real for

636 The Octopus

all the detritus of the world, for all the sorrow, for all
the injustice, for all the grief. Presley, the good never
dies; evil dies, cruelty, oppression, selfishness, greed — •
these die ; but nobility, but love, but sacrifice, but generos-
ity, but truth, thank God for it, small as they are, difficult
as it is to discover them — these live forever, these are eter-
nal. You are all broken, all cast down by what you have
seen in this valley, this hopeless struggle, this apparently
hopeless despair. Well, the end is not yet. What is it
that remains after all is over, after the dead are buried
and the hearts are broken? Look at it all from the vast
height of humanity — 'the greatest good to the greatest
numbers/ What remains? Men perish, men are cor-
rupted, hearts are rent asunder, but what remains un-
touched, unassailable, undefiled? Try to find that, not
only in this, but in every crisis of the world's life, and
you will find, if your view be large enough, that it is not
evil, but good, that in the end remains."

There was a long pause. Presley, his mind full of
new thoughts, held his peace, and Vanamee added at
length :

" I believed Angele dead. I wept over her grave ;
mourned for her as dead in corruption. She has come
back to me, more beautiful than ever. Do not ask me
any further. To put this story, this idyl, into words,
would, for me, be a profanation. This must suffice you.
Angele has returned to me, and I am happy. Adios."

He rose suddenly. The friends clasped each other's
hands.

" We shall probably never meet again/ 'said Vanamee;
" but if these are the last words I ever speak to you, listen
to them, and remember them, because I know I speak the
truth. Evil is short-lived. Never judge of the whole
round of life by the mere segment you can see. The
whole is, in the end, perfect."

A Story of California 637

Abruptly he took himself away. He was gone. Pres-
ley, alone, thoughtful, his hands clasped behind him,
passed on through the ranches — here teeming with
ripened wheat — his face set from them forever.

Not so Vanamee. For hours he roamed the country-
side, now through the deserted cluster of buildings that
had once been Annixter's home; now through the
rustling and, as yet, uncut wheat of Quien Sabe ! now
treading the slopes of the hills far to the north, and again
following the winding courses of the streams. Thus he
spent the night.

At length, the day broke, resplendent, cloudless. The
night was passed. There was all the sparkle and effer-
vescence of joy in the crystal sunlight as the dawn ex-
panded roseate, and at length flamed dazzling to the
zenith when the sun moved over the edge of the world
and looked down upon all the earth like the eye of God
the Father.

At the moment, Vanamee stood breast-deep in the
wheat in a solitary corner of the Quien Sabe rancho. He
turned eastward, facing the celestial glory of the day and
sent his voiceless call far from him across the golden
grain out towards the little valley of flowers.

Swiftly the answer came. It advanced to meet him.
The flowers of the Seed ranch were gone, dried and
parched by the summer's sun, shedding their seed by
handfuls to be sown again and blossom yet another time.
The Seed ranch was no longer royal with colour. The
roses, the lilies, the carnations, the hyacinths, the pop-
pies, the violets, the mignonette, all these had vanished,
the little valley was without colour ; where once it had ex-
haled the most delicious perfume, it was now odourless.
Under the blinding light of the day it stretched to its
hillsides, bare, brown, unlovely. The romance of the
place had vanished, but with it had vanished the Vision.

638 The Octopus

It was no longer a figment of his imagination, a creature
of dreams that advanced to meet Vanamee. It was Real-
ity— it was Angele in the flesh, vital, sane, material, who
at last issued forth from the entrance of the little valley.
Romance had vanished, but better than romance was
here. Not a manifestation, not a dream, but her very
self. The night was gone, but the sun had risen; the
flowers had disappeared, but strong, vigorous, noble, the
wheat had come.

In the wheat he waited for her. He saw her coming.
She was simply dressed. No fanciful wreath of tube-
roses was about her head now, no strange garment of
red and gold enveloped her now. It was no longer an
ephemeral illusion of the night, evanescent, mystic, but
a simple country girl coming to meet her lover. The
vision of the night had been beautiful, but what was it
compared to this? Reality was better than Romance.
The simple honesty of a loving, trusting heart was better
than a legend of flowers, an hallucination of the moon-
light. She came nearer. Bathed in sunlight, he saw her
face to face, saw her hair hanging in two straight plaits
on either side of her face, saw the enchanting fulness of
her lips, the strange, balancing movement of her head
upon her slender neck. But now she was no longer
asleep. The wonderful eyes, violet blue, heavy-lidded,
with their perplexing, oriental slant towards the temples,
were wide open and fixed upon his.

From out the world of romance, out of the moonlight
and the star sheen, out of the faint radiance of the lilies
and the still air heavy with perfume, she had at last come
to him. The moonlight, the flowers, and the dream were
all vanished away. Angele was realised in the Wheat.
She stood forth in the sunlight, a fact, and no longer a
fancy.

He ran forward to meet her and she held out her arms

A Story of California 639

to him. He caught her to him, and she, turning her face
to his, kissed him on the mouth.

" I love you, I love you/' she murmured.

Upon descending from his train at Port Costa, S.
Behrman asked to be directed at once to where the bark
" Swanhilda " was taking on grain. Though he had
bought and greatly enlarged his new elevator at this port,
he had never seen it. The work had been carried on
through agents, S. Behrman having far too many and
more pressing occupations to demand his presence and
attention. Now, however, he was to see the concrete
evidence of his success for the first time.

He picked his way across the railroad tracks to the
line of warehouses that bordered the docks, numbered
with enormous Roman numerals and full of grain in
bags.

The sight of these bags of grain put him in mind of
the fact that among all the other shippers he was prac-
tically alone in his way of handling his wheat. They
handled the grain in bags; he, however, preferred it in
the bulk. Bags were sometimes four cents apiece, and
he had decided to build his elevator and bulk his grain
therein, rather than to incur this expense. Only a small
part of his wheat — that on Number Three division —
had been sacked. All the rest, practically two-thirds
of the entire harvest of Los Muertos, now found
itself warehoused in his enormous elevator at Port
Costa.

To a certain degree it had been the desire of observing
the working of his system of handling the wheat in bulk
that had drawn S. Behrman to Port Costa. But the more
powerful motive had been curiosity, not to say down-
right sentiment. So long had he planned for this day of
triumph, so eagerly had he looked forward to it, that

640 The Octopus

now, when it had come, he wished to enjoy it to its full-
est extent, wished to miss no feature of the disposal of
the crop. He had watched it harvested, he had watched
it hauled to the railway, and now would watch it as it
poured into the hold of the ship, would even watch the
ship as she cleared and got under way.

He passed through the warehouses and came out upon
the dock that ran parallel with the shore of the bay. A
great quantity of shipping was in view, barques for the
most part, Cape Homers, great, deep sea tramps, whose
iron-shod forefeet had parted every ocean the world
round from Rangoon to Rio Janeiro, and from Mel-
bourne to Christiania. Some were still in the stream,
loaded with wheat to the Plimsoll mark, ready to depart
with the next tide. But many others laid their great
flanks alongside the docks and at that moment were
being filled by derrick and crane with thousands upon
thousands of bags of wheat. The scene was brisk; the
cranes creaked and swung incessantly with a rattle of
chains ; stevedores and wharfingers toiled and perspired ;
boatswains and dock-masters shouted orders, drays rum-
bled, the water lapped at the piles; a group of sailors,
painting the flanks of one of the great ships, raised an
occasional chanty; the trade wind sang seolian in the
cordages, filling1 the air with the nimble taint of salt.
All around were the noises of ships and the feel and
flavor of the sea.

S. Behrman soon discovered his elevator. It was the
largest structure discernible, and upon its red roof, in
enormous white letters, was his own name. Thither, be-
tween piles of grain bags, halted drays, crates and boxes
of merchandise, with an occasional pyramid of salmon
cases, S. Behrman took his way. Cabled to the dock,
close under his elevator, lay a great ship with lofty masts
and great spars. Her stern was toward him as he ap-

A Story of California 641

preached, and upon it, in raised golden letters, he could
read the words " Swanhilda — Liverpool."

He went aboard by a very steep gangway and found
the mate on the quarter deck. S. Behrman introduced
himself.

" Well," he added, " how are you getting on? "

" Very fairly, sir," returned the mate, who was an
Englishman. "We'll have her all snugged down tight by
this time, day after to-morrow. It's a great saving of
time shunting the stuff in her like that, and three men
can do the work of seven/'

" I'll have a look 'round, I believe," returned S. Behr-
man.

" Right — oh," answered the mate with a nod.

S. Behrman went forward to the hatch that opened
down into the vast hold of the ship. A great iron chute
connected this hatch with the elevator, and through it was
rushing a veritable cataract of wheat.

It came from some gigantic bin within the elevator
itself, rushing down the confines of the chute to plunge
into the roomy, gloomy interior of the hold with an in-
cessant, metallic roar, persistent, steady, inevitable. No
men were in sight. The place was deserted. No human
agency seemed to be back of the movement of the wheat.
Rather, the grain seemed impelled with a force of its own,
a resistless, huge force, eager, vivid, impatient for the
sea.

S. Behrman stood watching, his ears deafened with the
roar of the hard grains against the metallic lining of
the chute. He put his hand once into the rushing tide,
and the contact rasped the flesh of his fingers and
like an undertow drew his hand after it in its impetuous
dash.

Cautiously he peered down into the hold. A musty
odour rose to his nostrils', the vigorous, pungent aroma
41

642 The Octopus

of the raw cereal. It was dark. He could see nothing;
but all about and over the opening of the hatch the air
was full of a fine, impalpable dust that blinded the eyes
and choked the throat and nostrils.

As his eyes became used to the shadows of the cavern
below him, he began to distinguish the grey mass of the
wheat, a great expanse, almost liquid in its texture,
which, as the cataract from above plunged into it, moved
and shifted in long, slow eddies. As he stood there, this
cataract on a sudden increased in volume. He turned
about, casting his eyes upward toward the elevator to
discover the cause. His foot caught in a coil of rope, and
he fell headforemost into the hold.

The fall was a long one and he struck the surface of
the wheat with the sodden impact of a bundle of damp
clothes. For the moment he was stunned. All the breath
was driven from his body. He could neither move nor
cry out. But, by degrees, his wits steadied themselves
and his breath returned to him. He looked about and
above him. The daylight in the hold was dimmed and
clouded by the thick, chaff-dust thrown off by the pour
of grain, and even this dimness dwindled to twilight at a
short distance from the opening of the hatch, while the
remotest quarters were lost in impenetrable blackness.
He got upon his feet only to find that he sunk ankle deep
in the loose packed mass underfoot.

" Hell," he muttered, "here's a fix."

Directly underneath the chute, the wheat, as it poured
in, raised itself in a conical mound, but from the sides
of this mound it shunted away incessantly in thick lay-
ers, flowing in all directions with the nimbleness of water.
Even as S. Behrman spoke, a wave of grain poured
around his legs and rose rapidly to the level of his knees.
He stepped quickly back. To stay near the chute would
soon bury him to the waist.

A Story of California 643

No doubt, there was some other exit from the hold,
some companion ladder that led up to the deck. He
scuffled and waded across the wheat, groping in the
dark with outstretched hands. With every inhalation he
choked, filling his mouth and nostrils more with dust than
with air. At times he could not breathe at all, but gagged
and gasped, his lips distended. But search as he would,
he could find no outlet to the hold, no stairway, no com-
panion ladder. Again and again, staggering along in the
black darkness, he bruised his knuckles and forehead
against the iron sides of the ship. He gave up the at-
tempt to find any interior means of escape and returned
laboriously to the space under the open hatchway.
Already he could see that the level of the wheat was
raised.

" God," he said, " this isn't going to do at all." He
uttered a great shout. " Hello, on deck there, somebody.
For God's sake."

The steady, metallic roar of the pouring wheat
drowned out his voice. He could scarcely hear it himself
above the rush of the cataract. Besides this, he found it
impossible to stay under the hatch. The flying grains of
wheat, spattering as they fell, stung his face like wind-
driven particles of ice. It was a veritable torture; his
hands smarted with it. Once he was all but blinded.
Furthermore, the succeeding waves of wheat, rolling
from the mound under the chute, beat him back, swirling
and dashing against his legs and knees, mounting
swiftly higher, carrying him off his feet.

Once more he retreated, drawing back from beneath
the hatch. He stood still for a moment and shouted
again. It was in vain. His voice returned upon him,
unable to penetrate the thunder of the chute, and horri-
fied, he discovered that so soon as he stood motionless
upon the wheat., he sank into it. Before he knew it, he

644 The Octopus

was knee-deep again, and a long swirl of grain sweeping
outward from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming pyramid
below the chute, poured around his thighs, immobolising
him.

A frenzy of terror suddenly leaped to life within him.
The horror of death, the Fear of The Trap, shook him
like a dry reed. Shouting, he tore himself free of the
wheat and once more scrambled and struggled towards
the hatchway. He stumbled as he reached it and fell di-
rectly beneath the pour. Like a storm of small shot, mer-
cilessly, pitilessly, the unnumbered multitude of hurtling
grains flagellated and beat and tore his flesh. Blood
streamed from his forehead and, thickening with the
powder-like chaff-dust, blinded his eyes. He struggled
to his feet once more. An avalanche from the cone of
wheat buried him to his thighs. He was forced back and
back and back, beating the air, falling, rising, howling
for aid. He could no longer see ; his eyes, crammed with
dust, smarted as if transfixed with needles whenever he
opened them. His mouth was full of the dust, his lips
were dry with it; thirst tortured him, while his outcries
choked and gagged in his rasped throat.

And all the while without stop, incessantly, inexorably,
the wheat, as if moving with a force all its own, shot
downward in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevi-
table.

He retreated to a far corner of the hold and sat down
with his back against the iron hull of the ship and tried
to collect his thoughts, to calm himself. Surely there
must be some way of escape; surely he was not to die
like this, die in this dreadful substance that was neither
solid nor fluid. What was he to do? How make himself
heard?

But even as he thought about this, the cone under the
chute broke again and sent a great layer of grain rippling

A Story of California 645

and tumbling toward him. It reached him where he sat
and buried his hand and one foot.

He sprang up trembling and made for another corner.

"By God," he cried, "by God, I must think of some-
thing pretty quick ! "

Once more the level of the wheat rose and the grains
began piling deeper about him. Once more he retreated.
Once more he crawled staggering to the foot of the cata-
ract, screaming till his ears sang and his eyeballs strained
in their sockets, and once more the relentless tide drove
him back.

Then began that terrible dance of death; the man
dodging, doubling, squirming, hunted from one corner to
another, the wheat slowly, inexorably flowing, rising,
spreading to every angle, to every nook and cranny. It
reached his middle. Furious and with bleeding hands
and broken nails, he dug his way out to fall backward,
all but exhausted, gasping for breath in the dust-
thickened air. Roused again by the slow advance of the
tide, he leaped up and stumbled away, blinded with the
agony in his eyes, only to crash against the metal hull
of the vessel. He turned about, the blood streaming from
his face, and paused to collect his senses, and with a
rush, another wave swirled about his ankles and knees.
Exhaustion grew upon him. To stand still meant to sink ;
to lie or sit meant to be buried the quicker ; and all this
in the dark, all this in an air that could scarcely be
breathed, all this while he fought an enemy that could
not be gripped, toiling in a sea that could not be stayed.

Guided by the sound of the falling wheat, S. Behrman
crawled on hands and knees toward the hatchway. Once
more he raised his voice in a shout for help. His bleeding
throat and raw, parched lips refused to utter but a wheez-
ing moan. Once more he tried to look toward the one
patch of faint light above him. His eye-lids, clogged with

646 The Octopus

chaff, could no longer open. The Wheat poured about
his waist as he raised himself upon his knees.

Reason fled. Deafened with the roar of the grain,
blinded and made dumb with its chaff, he threw himself
forward with clutching ringers, rolling upon his back, and
lay there, moving feebly, the head rolling from side to
side. The Wheat, leaping continuously from the chute,
poured around him. It rilled the pockets of the coat, it
crept up the sleeves and trouser legs, it covered the
great, protuberant stomach, it ran at last in rivulets
into the distended, gasping mouth. It covered the face.

Upon the surface of the Wheat, under the chute, noth-
ing moved but the Wheat itself. There was no sign of
life. Then, for an instant, the surface stirred. A hand,
fat, with short fingers and swollen veins, reached up,
clutching, then fell limp and prone. In another instant it
was covered. In the hold of the " Swanhilda " there was
no movement but the widening ripples that spread flow-
ing from the ever-breaking, ever-reforming cone ; no
sound, but the rushing of the Wheat that continued to
plunge incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged
roar, persistent, steady, inevitable.

CONCLUSION

The "Swanhilda" cast off from the docks at Port Costa
two days after Presley had left Bonneville and the
ranches and made her way up to San Francisco, anchor-
ing in the stream off the City front. A few hours after
her arrival, Presley, waiting at his club, received a de-
spatch from Cedarquist to the effect that she would clear
early the next morning and that he must be aboard of
her before midnight.

He sent his trunks aboard and at once hurried to
Cedafquist's office to say good-bye. He found the manu-
facturer in excellent spirits.

"What do you think of Lyman Derrick now, Pres-
ley ? " he said, when Presley had sat down. " He's in the
new politics with a vengeance, isn't he? And our own
dear Railroad openly acknowledges him as their candi-
date. You've heard of his canvass."

" Yes, yes," answered Presley. " Well, he knows his
business best."

But Cedarquist was full of another idea : his new ven-
ture— the organizing of a line of clipper wheat ships for
Pacific and Oriental trade — was prospering.

"The ' Swanhilda ' is the mother of the fleet, Pres. I
had to buy her, but the keel of her sister ship will be laid
by the time she discharges at Calcutta. We'll carry our
wheat into Asia yet. The Anglo-Saxon started from there
at the beginning of everything and it's manifest destiny
that he must circle the globe and fetch up where he be-
gan his march. You are up with procession, Pres, going
to India this way in a wheat ship that flies American

648 The Octopus

colours. By the way, do you know where the money is to
come from to build the sister ship of the ' Swanhilda ' ?
From the sale of the plant and scrap iron of the Atlas
Works. Yes, I've given it up definitely, that business.
The people here would not back me up. But I'm working
off on this new line now. It may break me, but we'll try
it on. You know the ' Million Dollar Fair ' was formally
opened yesterday. There is," he added with a wink, "a
Midway Pleasance in connection with the thing. Mrs.
Cedarquist and our friend Hartrath ' got up a subscrip-
tion ' to construct a figure of California — heroic size — •
out of dried apricots. I assure you," he remarked with
prodigious gravity, " it is a real work of art and quite
a ' feature ' of the Fair. Well, good luck to you, Pres.
Write to me from Honolulu, and bon voyage. My re-
spects to the hungry Hindoo. Tell him ' we're coming,
Father Abraham, a hundred thousand more.' Tell the
men of the East to look out for the men of the West.
The irrepressible Yank is knocking at the doors of their
temples and he will want to sell 'em carpet-sweepers for
their harems and electric light plants for their temple
shrines. Good-bye to you."

" Good-bye, sir."

" Get fat yourself while you're about it, Presley," he
observed, as the two stood up and shook hands.

" There shouldn't be any lack of food on a wheat ship.
Bread enough, surely."

" Little monotonous, though. ' Man cannot live by
bread alone/ Well, you're really off. Good-bye."

" Good-bye, sir."

And as Presley issued from the building and stepped
out into the street, he was abruptly aware of a great
wagon shrouded in white cloth, inside of which a bass
drum was being furiously beaten. On the cloth, in great
letters, were the words :

A Story of California 649

" Vote for Lyman Derrick, Regular Republican Nomi-
nee for Governor of California."

******

The " Swanhilda " lifted and rolled slowly, majestically
on the ground swell of the Pacific, the water hissing and
boiling under her forefoot, her cordage vibrating and
droning in the steady rush of the trade winds. It was
drawing towards evening and her lights had just been
set. The master passed Presley, who was leaning over
the rail smoking a cigarette, and paused long enough to
remark :

" The land yonder, if you can make it out, is Point
Gordo, and if you were to draw a line from our position
now through that point and carry it on about a hundred
miles further, it would just about cross Tulare County
not very far from where you used to live."

" I see," answered Presley, " I see. Thanks. I am glad
to know that."

The master passed on, and Presley, going up to the
quarter deck, looked long and earnestly at the faint line
of mountains that showed vague and bluish above the
waste of tumbling water.

Those were the mountains of the Coast range and be-
yond them was what once had been his home. Bonne-
ville was there, and Guadalajara and Los Muertos and
Quien Sabe, the Mission of San Juan, the Seed ranch,
Annixter's desolated home and Dyke's ruined hop-fields.

Well, it was all over now, that terrible drama through
which he had lived. Already it was far distant from him ;
but once again it rose in his memory, portentous, sombre,
ineffaceable. He passed it all in review from the day of
his first meeting with Vanamee to the day of his parting
with Hilma. He saw it all — the great sweep of country
opening to view from the summit of the hills at the head
waters of Broderson's Creek; the barn dance at Annix-

650 The Octopus

ter's, the harness room with its jam of furious men; the
quiet garden of the Mission; Dyke's house, his flight
upon the engine, his brave fight in the chaparral; Ly-
man Derrick at bay in the dining-room of the ranch
house ; the rabbit drive ; the fight at the irrigating ditch,
the shouting mob in the Bonneville Opera House.

The drama was over. The fight of Ranch and Rail-
road had been wrought out to its dreadful close. It was
true, as Shelgrim had said, that forces rather than men
had locked horns in tHat struggle, but for all that the
men of the Ranch and not the men of the Railroad had
suffered. Into the prosperous valley, into the quiet com-
munity of farmers, that galloping monster, that terror
of steel and steam had burst, shooting athwart the hori-
zons, flinging the echo of its thunder over all the ranches
of the valley, leaving blood and destruction in its path.

Yes, the Railroad had prevailed. The ranches had been
seized in the tentacles of the octopus ; the iniquitous bur-
den of extortionate freight rates had been imposed like a
yoke of iron. The monster had killed Harran, had killed
Osterman, had killed Broderson, had killed Hooven. It
had beggared Magnus and had driven him to a state of
semi-insanity after he had wrecked his honour in the vain
attempt to do evil that good might come. It had enticed
Lyman into its toils to pluck from him his manhood and
his honesty, corrupting him and poisoning him beyond
redemption; it had hounded Dyke from his legitimate
employment and had made of him a highwayman and
criminal. It had cast forth Mrs. Hooven to starve to
death upon the City streets. It had driven Minna to pros-
titution. It had slain Annixter at the very moment when
painfully and manfully he had at last achieved his own
salvation and stood forth resolved to do right, to act un-
selfishly and to live for others. It had widowed Hilma
in the very dawn of her happiness. It had killed the very

A Story of California 651

babe within the mother's womb, strangling life ere yet it
had been born, stamping out the spark ordained by God
to burn through all eternity.

What then was left ? Was there no hope, no outlook for
the future, no rift in the black curtain, no glimmer
through the night? Was good to be thus overthrown?
Was evil thus to be strong and to prevail ? Was nothing
left?

Then suddenly Vanamee's words came back to his
mind. What was the larger view, what contributed the
greatest good to the greatest numbers ? What was the
full round of the circle whose segment only he beheld ?
In the end, the ultimate, final end of all, what was left?
Yes, good issued from this crisis, untouched, unassail-
able, undefiled.

Men — motes in the sunshine — perished, were shot
down in the very noon of life, hearts were broken, little
children started in life lamentably handicapped; young
girls were brought to a life of shame; old women died
in the heart of life for lack of food. In that little, isolated
group of human insects, misery, death, and anguish spun
like a wheel of fire.

But the WHEAT remained. Untouched, unassailable,
undefiled, that mighty world-force, that nourisher of na-
tions, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, indifferent to the human
swarm, gigantic, resistless, moved onward in its ap-
pointed grooves. Through the welter of blood at the irri-
gation ditch, through the sham charity and shallow phi-
lanthropy of famine relief committees, the great harvest
of Los Muertos rolled like a flood from the Sierras to
the Himalayas to feed thousands of starving scarecrows
on the barren plains of India.

Falseness dies; injustice and oppression in the end
of Everything fade and vanish away. Greed, cruelty, sel-
fishness, and inhumanity are short-lived; the individual

652 The Octopus

suffers, but the race goes on. Annixter dies, but in a far
distant corner of the world a thousand lives are saved.
The larger view always and through all shams, all
wickednesses, discovers the Truth that will, in the end,
prevail, and all things, surely, inevitably, resistlessly work
together for good.