Among themselves, the ranchers said that if the Railroad managers did not believe they were terribly in earnest in the stand they had taken, they were making a fatal mistake.
Harran reasserted this statement to Presley on the way home to the ranch house that same day. Harran had caught up with him by the time he reached the Lower Road, and the two jogged homeward through the miles of standing wheat.
“They may jump the ranch, Pres,” he said, “if they try hard enough, but they will never do it while I am alive. By the way,” he added, “you know we served notices yesterday upon S. Behrman and Cy. Ruggles to quit the country. Of course, they won’t do it, but they won’t be able to say they didn’t have warning.”
About an hour later, the two reached the ranch house, but as Harran rode up the driveway, he uttered an exclamation.
“Hello,” he said, “something is up. That’s Genslinger’s buckboard.”
In fact, the editor’s team was tied underneath the shade of a giant eucalyptus tree near by. Harran, uneasy under this unexpected visit of the enemy’s friend, dismounted without stabling his horse, and went at once to the dining-room, where visitors were invariably received. But the dining-room was empty, and his mother told him that Magnus and the editor were in the “office.” Magnus had said they were not to be disturbed.
Earlier in the afternoon, the editor had driven up to the porch and had asked Mrs. Derrick, whom he found reading a book of poems on the porch, if he could see Magnus. At the time, the Governor had gone with Phelps to inspect the condition of the young wheat on Hooven’s holding, but within half an hour he returned, and Genslinger had asked him for a “few moments’ talk in private.”
The two went into the “office,” Magnus locking the door behind him. “Very complete you are here, Governor,” observed the editor in his alert, jerky manner, his black, bead-like eyes twinkling around the room from behind his glasses. “Telephone, safe, ticker, account-books—well, that’s progress, isn’t it? Only way to manage a big ranch these days. But the day of the big ranch is over. As the land appreciates in value, the temptation to sell off small holdings will be too strong. And then the small holding can be cultivated to better advantage. I shall have an editorial on that some day.”
“The cost of maintaining a number of small holdings,” said Magnus, indifferently, “is, of course, greater than if they were all under one management.”
“That may be, that may be,” rejoined the other.
There was a long pause. Genslinger leaned back in his chair and rubbed a knee. Magnus, standing erect in front of the safe, waited for him to speak.
“This is an unfortunate business, Governor,” began the editor, “this misunderstanding between the ranchers and the Railroad. I wish it could be adjusted. Here are two industries that must be in harmony with one another, or we all go to pot.”
“I should prefer not to be interviewed on the subject, Mr. Genslinger,” said Magnus.
“Oh, no, oh, no. Lord love you, Governor, I don’t want to interview you. We all know how you stand.”
Again there was a long silence. Magnus wondered what this little man, usually so garrulous, could want of him. At length, Genslinger began again. He did not look at Magnus, except at long intervals.
“About the present Railroad Commission,” he remarked. “That was an interesting campaign you conducted in Sacramento and San Francisco.”
Magnus held his peace, his hands shut tight. Did Genslinger know of Lyman’s disgrace? Was it for this he had come? Would the story of it be the leading article in tomorrow’s Mercury?
“An interesting campaign,” repeated Genslinger, slowly; “a very interesting campaign. I watched it with every degree of interest. I saw its every phase, Mr. Derrick.”
“The campaign was not without its interest,” admitted Magnus.
“Yes,” said Genslinger, still more deliberately, “and some phases of it were—more interesting than others, as, for instance, let us say the way in which you—personally—secured the votes of certain chairmen of delegations—need I particularise further? Yes, those men—the way you got their votes. Now, that I should say, Mr. Derrick, was the most interesting move in the whole game—to you. Hm, curious,” he murmured, musingly. “Let’s see. You deposited two one-thousand dollar bills and four five-hundred dollar bills in a box—three hundred and eight was the number—in a box in the Safety Deposit Vaults in San Francisco, and then—let’s see, you gave a key to this box to each of the gentlemen in question, and after the election the box was empty. Now, I call that interesting—curious, because it’s a new, safe, and highly ingenious method of bribery. How did you happen to think of it, Governor?”
“Do you know what you are doing, sir?” Magnus burst forth. “Do you know what you are insinuating, here, in my own house?”
“Why, Governor,” returned the editor, blandly, “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m talking about what I know.”
“It’s a lie.”
Genslinger rubbed his chin reflectively.
“Well,” he answered, “you can have a chance to prove it before the Grand Jury, if you want to.”
“My character is known all over the State,” blustered Magnus. “My politics are pure politics. My—”
“No one needs a better reputation for pure politics than the man who sets out to be a briber,” interrupted Genslinger, “and I might as well tell you, Governor, that you can’t shout me down. I can put my hand on the two chairmen you bought before it’s dark today. I’ve had their depositions in my safe for the last six weeks. We could make the arrests tomorrow, if we wanted. Governor, you sure did a risky thing when you
