“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.”
“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 Annixter, 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, catching 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, misunderstanding 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 Harran in front, Dabney, Phelps, and Cutter coming up from behind.
“Keep back, you,” cried the deputy again.
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 continued.
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 forward. 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 misinterpreted.
Garnett had not yet risen when Hooven raised a great shout:
“Hoch, der 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 confused 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 stillness.
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 backward from the saddle toward the buggy, and hung suspended in that position, his head and shoulders on the wheel, one stiff leg still across his saddle. Hooven, in 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 irrigating 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, groaning 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 carryall 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
