“Well, well, we shall know in a few hours now,” remarked Magnus.
“Oh,” exclaimed Lyman, surprised, “it is for this morning, then. Why aren’t you at the court?”
“It seemed undignified, boy,” answered the Governor. “We shall know soon enough.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Harran abruptly, “when I think of what is involved. Why, Lyman, it’s our home, the ranch house itself, nearly all Los Muertos, practically our whole fortune, and just now when there is promise of an enormous crop of wheat. And it is not only us. There are over half a million acres of the San Joaquin involved. In some cases of the smaller ranches, it is the confiscation of the whole of the rancher’s land. If this thing goes through, it will absolutely beggar nearly a hundred men. Broderson wouldn’t have a thousand acres to his name. Why, it’s monstrous.”
“But the corporations offered to lease these lands,” remarked Lyman. “Are any of the ranchers taking up that offer—or are any of them buying outright?”
“Buying! At the new figure!” exclaimed Harran, “at twenty and thirty an acre! Why, there’s not one in ten that can. They are land-poor. And as for leasing—leasing land they virtually own—no, there’s precious few are doing that, thank God! That would be acknowledging the railroad’s ownership right away—forfeiting their rights for good. None of the Leaguers are doing it, I know. That would be the rankest treachery.”
He paused for a moment, drinking the rest of the mineral water, then interrupting Lyman, who was about to speak to Presley, drawing him into the conversation through politeness, said: “Matters are just romping right along to a crisis these days. It’s a make or break for the wheat growers of the State now, no mistake. Here are the land cases and the new grain tariff drawing to a head at about the same time. If we win our land cases, there’s your new freight rates to be applied, and then all is beer and skittles. Won’t the San Joaquin go wild if we pull it off, and I believe we will.”
“How we wheat growers are exploited and trapped and deceived at every turn,” observed Magnus sadly. “The courts, the capitalists, the railroads, each of them in turn hoodwinks us into some new and wonderful scheme, only to betray us in the end. Well,” he added, turning to Lyman, “one thing at least we can depend on. We will cut their grain rates for them, eh, Lyman?”
Lyman crossed his legs and settled himself in his office chair.
“I have wanted to have a talk with you about that, sir,” he said. “Yes, we will cut the rates—an average 10 percent cut throughout the State, as we are pledged. But I am going to warn you, Governor, and you, Harran; don’t expect too much at first. The man who, even after twenty years’ training in the operation of railroads, can draw an equitable, smoothly working schedule of freight rates between shipping point and common point, is capable of governing the United States. What with main lines, and leased lines, and points of transfer, and the laws governing common carriers, and the rulings of the Interstate Commerce Commission, the whole matter has become so confused that Vanderbilt himself couldn’t straighten it out. And how can it be expected that railroad commissions who are chosen—well, let’s be frank—as ours was, for instance, from out a number of men who don’t know the difference between a switching charge and a differential rate, are going to regulate the whole business in six months’ time? Cut rates; yes, any fool can do that; any fool can write one dollar instead of two, but if you cut too low by a fraction of one percent and if the railroad can get out an injunction, tie you up and show that your new rate prevents the road being operated at a profit, how are you any better off?”
“Your conscientiousness does you credit, Lyman,” said the Governor. “I respect you for it, my son. I know you will be fair to the railroad. That is all we want. Fairness to the corporation is fairness to the farmer, and we won’t expect you to readjust the whole matter out of hand. Take your time. We can afford to wait.”
“And suppose the next commission is a railroad board, and reverses all our figures?”
The onetime mining king, the most redoubtable poker player of Calaveras County, permitted himself a momentary twinkle of his eyes.
“By then it will be too late. We will, all of us, have made our fortunes by then.”
The remark left Presley astonished out of all measure He never could accustom himself to these strange lapses in the Governor’s character. Magnus was by nature a public man, judicious, deliberate, standing firm for principle, yet upon rare occasion, by some such remark as this, he would betray the presence of a sub-nature of recklessness, inconsistent, all at variance with his creeds and tenets.
At the very bottom, when all was said and done, Magnus remained the Forty-niner. Deep down in his heart the spirit of the Adventurer yet persisted. “We will all of us have made fortunes by then.” That was it precisely. “After us the deluge.” For all his public spirit, for all his championship of justice and truth, his respect for law, Magnus remained the gambler, willing to play for colossal stakes, to hazard a fortune on the chance of winning a million. It was the true California spirit that found expression through him, the spirit of the West, unwilling to occupy itself with details, refusing to wait, to be patient, to achieve by legitimate plodding; the miner’s instinct of wealth acquired in a single night prevailed, in spite of all. It was in this frame of mind that Magnus and the multitude of other ranchers of whom he was a type, farmed their ranches. They had no love for their land. They were not attached to the
