“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 anyone who would listen from now on, week after week, year after year, all the rest of his life—“And I based my calculations on a two-cent rate. So soon as they saw I was to make money they doubled the tariff—all the traffic would bear—and I mortgaged to S. Behrman—ruined me with a turn of the hand—stuck, cinched, and not one thing to be done.”
As he talked, he drank glass after glass of whiskey, and the honest rage, the open, aboveboard fury of his mind coagulated, thickened, and sunk to a dull, evil hatred, a wicked, oblique malevolence. Caraher, sure now of winning a disciple, replenished his glass.
“Do you blame us now,” he cried, “us others, the Reds? Ah, yes, it’s all very well for your middle class to preach moderation. I could do it, too. You could do it, too, if your belly was fed, if your property was safe, if your wife had not been murdered if your children were not starving. Easy enough then to preach law-abiding methods, legal redress, and all such rot. But how about us?” he vociferated. “Ah, yes, I’m a loud-mouthed rum-seller, ain’t I? I’m a wild-eyed striker, ain’t I? I’m a bloodthirsty anarchist, ain’t I? Wait till you’ve seen your wife brought home to you with the face you used to kiss smashed in by a horse’s hoof—killed by the Trust, as it happened to me. Then talk about moderation! And you, Dyke, blacklisted engineer, discharged employee, ruined agriculturist, wait till you see your little tad and your mother turned out of doors when S. Behrman forecloses. Wait till you see ’em getting thin and white, and till you hear your little girl ask you why you all don’t eat a little more and that she wants her dinner and you can’t give it to her. Wait till you see—at the same time that your family is dying for lack of bread—a hundred thousand acres of wheat—millions of bushels of food—grabbed and gobbled by the Railroad Trust, and then talk of moderation. That talk is just what the Trust wants to hear. It ain’t frightened of that. There’s one thing only it does listen to, one thing it is frightened of—the people with dynamite in their hands—six inches of plugged gaspipe. That talks.”
Dyke did not reply. He filled another pony of whiskey and drank it in two gulps. His frown had lowered to a scowl, his face was a dark red, his head had sunk, bull-like, between his massive shoulders; without winking he gazed long and with troubled eyes at his knotted, muscular hands, lying open on the table before him, idle, their occupation gone.
Presley forgot his black lead. He listened to Caraher. Through the open door he caught a glimpse of Dyke’s back, broad, muscled, bowed down, the great shoulders stooping.
The whole drama of the doubled freight rate leaped salient and distinct in the eye of his mind. And this was but one instance, an isolated case. Because he was near at hand he happened to see it. How many others were there, the length and breadth of the State? Constantly this sort of thing must occur—little industries choked out in their very beginnings, the air full of the death rattles of little enterprises, expiring unobserved in far-off counties, up in canyons and arroyos of the foothills, forgotten by everyone but the monster who was daunted by the magnitude of no business, however great, who overlooked no opportunity of plunder, however petty, who with one tentacle grabbed a hundred thousand acres of wheat, and with another pilfered a pocketful of growing hops.
He went away without a word, his head bent, his hands clutched tightly on the cork grips of the handle bars of his bicycle. His lips were white. In his heart a blind demon of revolt raged tumultuous, shrieking blasphemies.
At Los Muertos, Presley overtook Annixter. As he guided his wheel up the driveway to Derrick’s ranch house, he saw the master of Quien Sabe and Harran in conversation on the steps of the porch. Magnus stood in the doorway, talking to his wife.
Occupied with the press of business and involved in the final conference with the League’s lawyers on the eve of the latter’s departure for Washington, Annixter had missed the train that was to take him back to Guadalajara and Quien Sabe. Accordingly, he had accepted the Governor’s invitation to return with him on his buckboard to Los Muertos, and before leaving Bonneville had telephoned to his ranch to have young Vacca bring the buckskin, by way of the Lower Road, to meet him at Los Muertos. He found her waiting there for him, but before going on, delayed a few moments to tell Harran of Dyke’s affair.
“I wonder what he will do now?” observed Harran when his first outburst of indignation had subsided.
“Nothing,” declared Annixter. “He’s stuck.”
“That eats up every cent of Dyke’s earnings,” Harran went on. “He has been ten years saving them. Oh, I told him to make sure of the Railroad when he first spoke to me about growing hops.”
“I’ve just seen him,” said Presley, as he joined the others. “He was at Caraher’s. I only saw his back. He was drinking at a table and his back was towards me. But the man looked broken—absolutely crushed. It is terrible, terrible.”
“He was at Caraher’s, was he?” demanded Annixter.
“Yes.”
“Drinking, hey?”
“I think so. Yes,
