Presley was delighted with it all. It was Homeric, this feasting, this vast consuming of meat and bread and wine, followed now by games of strength. An epic simplicity and directness, an honest Anglo-Saxon mirth and innocence, commended it. Crude it was; coarse it was, but no taint of viciousness was here. These people were good people, kindly, benignant even, always readier to give than to receive, always more willing to help than to be helped. They were good stock. Of such was the backbone of the nation—sturdy Americans everyone of them. Where else in the world round were such strong, honest men, such strong, beautiful women?
Annixter, Harran, and Presley climbed to the level plateau where the games were to be held, to lay out the courses, and mark the distances. It was the very place where once Presley had loved to lounge entire afternoons, reading his books of poems, smoking and dozing. From this high point one dominated the entire valley to the south and west. The view was superb. The three men paused for a moment on the crest of the hill to consider it.
Young Vacca came running and panting up the hill after them, calling for Annixter.
“Well, well, what is it?”
“Mr. Osterman’s looking for you, sir, you and Mr. Harran. Vanamee, that cowboy 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. Nearby him was Vanamee holding by the bridle an animal that was one lather of sweat. A few of the picnickers were turning their heads curiously in that direction. Evidently something of moment was in the wind.
“What’s all up?” demanded Annixter, as he and Harran, followed by Presley, drew near.
“There’s hell to pay,” exclaimed Osterman under his breath. “Read that. Vanamee just brought it.”
He handed Annixter a sheet of note paper, and turned again to the cinching of his saddle.
“We’ve got to be quick,” he cried. “They’ve stolen a march on us.”
Annixter read the note, Harran and Presley looking over his shoulder.
“Ah, it’s them, is it,” exclaimed Annixter.
Harran set his teeth. “Now for it,” he exclaimed. “They’ve been to your place already, Mr. Annixter,” said Vanamee. “I passed by it on my way up. They have put Delaney in possession, and have set all your furniture out in the road.”
Annixter turned about, his lips white. Already Presley and Harran had run to their horses.
“Vacca,” cried Annixter, “where’s Vacca? Put the saddle on the buckskin, quick. Osterman, get as many of the League as are here together at this spot, understand. I’ll be back in a minute. I must tell Hilma this.”
Hooven ran up as Annixter disappeared. His little eyes were blazing, he was dragging his horse with him.
“Say, dose fellers come, hey? Me, I’m alretty, see I hev der guhn.”
“They’ve jumped the ranch, little girl,” said Annixter, putting one arm around Hilma. “They’re in our house now. I’m off. Go to Derrick’s and wait for me there.”
She put her arms around his neck.
“You’re going?” she demanded.
“I must. Don’t be frightened. It will be all right. Go to Derrick’s and—goodbye.”
She said never a word. She looked once long into his eyes, then kissed him on the mouth.
Meanwhile, the news had spread. The multitude rose to its feet. Women and men, with pale faces, looked at each other speechless, or broke forth into inarticulate exclamations. A strange, unfamiliar murmur took the place of the tumultuous gaiety of the previous moments. A sense of dread, of confusion, of impending terror weighed heavily in the air. What was now to happen?
When Annixter got back to Osterman, he found a number of the Leaguers already assembled. They were all mounted. Hooven was there and Harran, and besides these, Garnett of the Ruby ranch and Gethings of the San Pablo, Phelps the foreman of Los Muertos, and, last of all, Dabney, silent as ever, speaking to no one. Presley came riding up.
“Best keep out of this, Pres,” cried Annixter.
“Are we ready?” exclaimed Gethings.
“Ready, ready, we’re all here.”
“All. Is this all of us?” cried Annixter. “Where are the six hundred men who were going to rise when this happened?”
They had wavered, these other Leaguers. Now, when the actual crisis impended, they were smitten with confusion. Ah, no, they were not going to stand up and be shot at just to save Derrick’s land. They were not armed. What did Annixter and Osterman take them for? No, sir; the Railroad had stolen a march on them. After all his big talk Derrick had allowed them to be taken by surprise. The only thing to do was to call a meeting of the Executive Committee. That was the only thing. As for going down there with no weapons in their hands, no, sir. That was asking a little too much.
“Come on, then, boys,” shouted Osterman, turning his back on the others. “The Governor says to meet him at Hooven’s. We’ll make for the Long Trestle and strike the trail to Hooven’s there.”
They set off. It was a terrible ride. Twice during the scrambling descent from the hills, Presley’s pony fell beneath him. Annixter, on his buckskin, and Osterman, on his thoroughbred, good horsemen both, led the others, setting a terrific pace. The hills were left behind. Broderson Creek was crossed and on the levels of Quien Sabe, straight through the standing wheat, the nine horses, flogged and spurred, stretched out to their utmost. Their passage through the wheat sounded like the rip and tear of a gigantic web of cloth. The landscape on either hand resolved itself into a long blur. Tears came to the eyes, flying pebbles, clods of earth,
