“Say, how about those paintings, Pres?” inquired Annixter a little uneasily. “I don’t know whether they’re good or not. They were painted by a three-fingered Chinaman in Monterey, and I got the lot for thirty dollars, frames thrown in. Why, I think the frames alone are worth thirty dollars.”
“Well, so do I,” declared Presley. He hastened to change the subject.
“Buck,” he said, “I hear you’ve brought Mrs. Dyke and Sidney to live with you. You know, I think that’s rather white of you.”
“Oh, rot, Pres,” muttered Annixter, turning abruptly to his shaving.
“And you can’t fool me, either, old man,” Presley continued. “You’re giving this picnic as much for Mrs. Dyke and the little tad as you are for your wife, just to cheer them up a bit.”
“Oh, pshaw, you make me sick.”
“Well, that’s the right thing to do, Buck, and I’m as glad for your sake as I am for theirs. There was a time when you would have let them all go to grass, and never so much as thought of them. I don’t want to seem to be officious, but you’ve changed for the better, old man, and I guess I know why. She—” Presley caught his friend’s eye, and added gravely, “She’s a good woman, Buck.”
Annixter turned around abruptly, his face flushing under its lather.
“Pres,” he exclaimed, “she’s made a man of me. I was a machine before, and if another man, or woman, or child got in my way, I rode ’em down, and I never dreamed of anybody else but myself. But as soon as I woke up to the fact that I really loved her, why, it was glory hallelujah all in a minute, and, in a way, I kind of loved everybody then, and wanted to be everybody’s friend. And I began to see that a fellow can’t live for himself any more than he can live by himself. He’s got to think of others. If he’s got brains, he’s got to think for the poor ducks that haven’t ’em, and not give ’em a boot in the backsides because they happen to be stupid; and if he’s got money, he’s got to help those that are busted, and if he’s got a house, he’s got to think of those that ain’t got anywhere to go. I’ve got a whole lot of ideas since I began to love Hilma, and just as soon as I can, I’m going to get in and help people, and I’m going to keep to that idea the rest of my natural life. That ain’t much of a religion, but it’s the best I’ve got, and Henry Ward Beecher couldn’t do any more than that. And it’s all come about because of Hilma, and because we cared for each other.”
Presley jumped up, and caught Annixter about the shoulders with one arm, gripping his hand hard. This absurd figure, with dangling silk suspenders, lathered chin, and tearful eyes, seemed to be suddenly invested with true nobility. Beside this blundering struggle to do right, to help his fellows, Presley’s own vague schemes, glittering systems of reconstruction, collapsed to ruin, and he himself, with all his refinement, with all his poetry, culture, and education, stood, a bungler at the world’s workbench.
“You’re all right, old man,” he exclaimed, unable to think of anything adequate. “You’re all right. That’s the way to talk, and here, by the way, I brought you a box of cigars.”
Annixter stared as Presley laid the box on the edge of the washstand.
“Old fool,” he remarked, “what in hell did you do that for?”
“Oh, just for fun.”
“I suppose they’re rotten stinkodoras, or you wouldn’t give ’em away.”
“This cringing gratitude—” Presley began.
“Shut up,” shouted Annixter, and the incident was closed.
Annixter resumed his shaving, and Presley lit a cigarette.
“Any news from Washington?” he queried.
“Nothing that’s any good,” grunted Annixter. “Hello,” he added, raising his head, “there’s somebody in a hurry for sure.”
The noise of a horse galloping so fast that the hoof-beats sounded in one uninterrupted rattle, abruptly made itself heard. The noise was coming from the direction of the road that led from the Mission to Quien Sabe. With incredible swiftness, the hoof-beats drew nearer. There was that in their sound which brought Presley to his feet. Annixter threw open the window.
“Runaway,” exclaimed Presley.
Annixter, with thoughts of the Railroad, and the “jumping” of the ranch, flung his hand to his hip pocket.
“What is it, Vacca?” he cried.
Young Vacca, turning in his seat in the carryall, was looking up the road. All at once, he jumped from his place, and dashed towards the window. “Dyke,” he shouted. “Dyke, it’s Dyke.”
While the words were yet in his mouth, the sound of the hoof-beats rose to a roar, and a great, bell-toned voice shouted:
“Annixter, Annixter, Annixter!”
It was Dyke’s voice, and the next instant he shot into view in the open square in front of the house.
“Oh, my God!” cried Presley.
The ex-engineer threw the horse on its haunches, springing from the saddle; and, as he did so, the beast collapsed, shuddering, to the ground. Annixter sprang from the window, and ran forward, Presley following.
There was Dyke, hatless, his pistol in his hand, a gaunt terrible figure the beard immeasurably long, the cheeks fallen in, the eyes sunken. His clothes ripped and torn by weeks of flight and hiding in the chaparral, were ragged beyond words, the boots were
