by Zane Grey
“A real and present danger to the property of my company exists. Unless protection is given to us it will probably be burned and destroyed. Our lawful operations cannot be conducted because laborers who are willing to work are fearful of their lives and are subject to abuse, threats, and violence. Our camps, when in operation, are visited by individuals belonging to the said organization, and the men peaceably engaged in them threatened with death if they do not cease work. All sorts of injury to property by the driving of spikes in logs, the destruction of logs, and other similar acts are encouraged and recommended.
“As I pointed out to the sheriff of our county, the season is a very dry one and the woods are and will be, unless rain comes, in danger of disastrous fires. The organization and its members have openly and repeatedly asserted that they will burn the logs in the woods and burn the forests of this company and other timber-holders before they will permit logging operations to continue.
“Many individuals belonging to the organization are camped in the open in the timbered country, and their very presence is a fire menace. They are engaged in no business except to interfere with the industry and to interfere with the logging of this company and others who engaged in the logging business.
“We have done what we could in a lawful manner to continue our operations and to protect our employees. We are now helpless, and place the responsibility for the protection of our property and the protection of our employees upon the board of county commissioners and upon the officers of the county.”
Next President Riesinberg called upon a young reporter to read paragraphs of an I.W.W. speech he had heard made to a crowd of three hundred workmen. It was significant that several members of the Chamber of Commerce called for a certain paragraph to be reread. It was this:
“If you working-men could only stand together you could do in this country what has been done in Russia,” declared the I.W.W. orator. “You know what the working-men did there to the slimy curs, the gunmen, and the stool-pigeons of the capitalistic class. They bumped them off. They sent them up to say, ‘Good morning, Jesus.’”
After a moment of muttering and another silence the president again addressed the meeting:
“Gentlemen, we have Anderson of Golden Valley with us to-day. If there are any of you present who do not know him, you surely have heard of him. His people were pioneers. He was born in Washington. He is a type of the men who have made the Northwest. He fought the Indians in early days and packed a gun for the outlaws — and to-day, gentlemen, he owns a farm as big as Spokane County. We want to hear from him.”
When Anderson rose to reply it was seen that he was pale and somber. Slowly he gazed at the assembly of waiting men, bowed; then he began, impressively:
“Gentlemen an’ friends, I wish I didn’t have to throw a bomb into this here camp-fire talk. But I’ve got to. You’re all talkin’ I.W.W. Facts have been told showin’ a strange an’ sudden growth of this here four-flush labor union. We’ve had dealin’s with them for several years. But this year it’s different.… All at once they’ve multiplied and strengthened. There’s somethin’ behind them. A big unseen hand is stackin’ the deck.… An’, countrymen, that tremendous power is German gold!”
Anderson’s deep voice rang like a bell. His hearers sat perfectly silent. No surprise showed, but faces grew set and hard. After a pause of suspense, in which his denunciation had time to sink in, Anderson resumed:
“A few weeks ago a young man, a stranger, came to me an’ asked for a job. He could do anythin’, he said. An’ I hired him to drive my car. But he wasn’t much of a driver. We went up in the Bend country one day, an’ on that trip I got suspicious of him. I caught him talkin’ to what I reckoned was I.W.W. men. An’ then, back home again, I watched him an’ kept my ears open. It didn’t take long for me to find discontent among my farm-hands. I hire about a hundred hands on my ranches durin’ the long off season, an’ when harvest comes round a good many more. All I can get, in fact.… Well, I found my hands quittin’ me, which was sure onusual. An’ I laid it to that driver.
“One day not long ago I run across him hobnobbin’ with the strange man I’d seen talkin’ with him on the Bend trip. But my driver — Nash, he calls himself — didn’t see me. That night I put a cowboy to watch him. An’ what this cowboy heard, put together two an’ two, was that Nash was assistant to an I.W.W. leader named Glidden. He had sent for Glidden to come to look over my ranch. Both these I.W.W. men had more money than they could well carry — lots of it gold! The way they talked of this money proved that they did not know the source, but the supply was unlimited.
“Next day Glidden could not be found. But my cowboy had learned enough to show his methods. If these proselyters could not coax or scare trusted men to join the I.W.W., they tried to corrupt them with money. An’ in most cases they’re successful. I’ve not yet sprung anythin’ on my driver, Nash. But he can’t get away, an’ meanwhile I’ll learn much by watchin’ him. Maybe through Nash I can catch Glidden. An’ so, gentlemen, here we have a plain case. An’ the menace is enough to chill the heart of every loyal citizen. Any way you put it, if harvests can’t be harvested, if wheat-fields an’ lumber forests are burned, if the state militia has to be called out — any way you put it our government will be hampered, our supplies kept from our allies — an’ so the cause of Germany will be helped.
“The I.W.W. have back of them an organized power with a definite purpose. There can hardly be any doubt that that power is Germany. The agitators an’ leaders throughout the country are well paid. Probably they, as individuals, do not know who pays them. Undoubtedly a little gang of men makes the deals, handles the money. We read that every U.S. attorney is investigating the I.W.W. The government has determined to close down on them. But lawyers an’ law are slow to act. Meanwhile the danger to us is at hand.
“Gentlemen, to finish let me say that down in my country we’re goin’ to rustle the I.W.W. in the good old Western way.”
CHAPTER V
GOLDEN VALLEY WAS the Garden of Eden of the Northwest. The southern slope rose to the Blue Mountains, whence flowed down the innumerable brooks that, uniting to form streams and rivers, abundantly watered the valley.
The black reaches of timber extended down to the grazing-uplands, and these bordered on the sloping golden wheat-fields, which in turn contrasted so vividly with the lower green alfalfa-pastures; then came the orchards with their ruddy, mellow fruit, and lastly the bottom-lands where the vegetable-gardens attested to the wonderful richness of the soil. From the mountain-side the valley seemed a series of colored benches, stepping down, black to gray, and gray to gold, and gold to green with purple tinge, and on to the perfectly ordered, many-hued floor with its innumerable winding, tree-bordered streams glinting in the sunlight.
The extremes of heat and cold never visited Golden Valley. Spokane and the Bend country, just now sweltering in a torrid zone, might as well have been in the Sahara, for all the effect it had on this garden spot of all the Inland Empire. It was hot in the valley, but not unpleasant. In fact, the greatest charm in this secluded vale was its pleasant climate all the year round. No summer cyclones, no winter blizzards, no cloudbursts or bad thunderstorms. It was a country that, once lived in, could never be left.
There were no poor inhabitants in that great area of twenty-five hundred miles; and there were many who were rich. Prosperous little towns dotted the valley floor; and the many smooth, dusty, much-used roads all led to Ruxton, a wealthy and fine city.
Anderson, the rancher, had driven his car to Spokane. Upon his return he had with him a detective, whom he expected to use in the I.W.W. investigations, and a neighbor rancher. They had left Spokane early and had endured almost insupportable dust and heat. A welcome change began as they slid down from the bare desert into the valley; and once across the Copper River, Anderson began to breathe freer and to feel he was nearing home.
“God’s country!” he said, as he struck the first low swell of rising land, w
here a cool wind from off the wooded and watered hills greeted his face. Dust there still was, but it seemed a different kind and smelled of apple-orchards and alfalfa-fields. Here were hard, smooth roads, and Anderson sped his car miles and miles through a country that was a verdant fragrant bower, and across bright, shady streams and by white little hamlets.
At Huntington he dropped his neighbor rancher, and also the detective, Hall, who was to go disguised into the districts overrun by the I.W.W. A further run of forty miles put him on his own property.
Anderson owned a string of farms and ranches extending from the bottom-lands to the timber-line of the mountains. They represented his life of hard work and fair dealing. Many of these orchard and vegetable lands he had tenant farmers work on shares. The uplands or wheat and grass he operated himself. As he had accumulated property he had changed his place of residence from time to time, at last to build a beautiful and permanent home farther up on the valley slope than any of the others.
It was a modern house, white, with a red roof. Situated upon a high level bench, with the waving gold fields sloping up from it and the green squares of alfalfa and orchards below, it appeared a landmark from all around, and could be plainly seen from Vale, the nearest little town, five miles away.
Anderson had always loved the open, and he wanted a place where he could see the sun rise over the distant valley gateway, and watch it set beyond the bold black range in the west. He could sit on his front porch, wide and shady, and look down over two thousand acres of his own land. But from the back porch no eye could have encompassed the limit of his broad, swelling slopes of grain and grass.
From the main road he drove up to the right of the house, where, under a dip of wooded slope, clustered barns, sheds, corrals, granaries, engine and machinery houses, a store, and the homes of hired men — a little village in itself.
The sounds he heard were a welcome home — the rush of swift water not twenty yards from where he stopped the car in the big courtyard, the pound of hoofs on the barn floor, the shrill whistle of a stallion that saw and recognized him, the drawling laugh of his cowboys and the clink of their spurs as they became aware of his return.
Nash, the suspected driver, was among those who hurried to meet the car.
Anderson’s keen, covert glance made note of the driver’s worried and anxious face.
“Nash, she’ll need a lookin’ over,” he said, as he uncovered bundles in the back seat and lifted them out.
“All right, sir,” replied Nash, eagerly. A note of ended strain was significant in his voice.
“Here, you Jake,” cheerily called Anderson to a raw-boned, gaunt-faced fellow who wore the garb of a cowboy.
“Boss, I’m powerful glad to see you home,” replied Jake, as he received bundle after bundle until he was loaded down. Then he grinned. “Mebbe you want a pack-boss.”
“You’re hoss enough for me. Come on,” he said, and, waving the other men aside, he turned toward the green, shady hill above which the red and white of the house just showed.
A bridge crossed the rushing stream. Here Jake dropped some of the bundles, and Anderson recovered them. As he straightened up he looked searchingly at the cowboy. Jake’s yellow-gray eyes returned the gaze. And that exchange showed these two of the same breed and sure of each other.
“Nawthin’ come off, boss,” he drawled, “but I’m glad you’re home.”
“Did Nash leave the place?” queried Anderson.
“Twice, at night, an’ he was gone long. I didn’t foller him because I seen he didn’t take no luggage, an’ thet boy has some sporty clothes. He was sure comin’ back.”
“Any sign of his pard — that Glidden?”
“Nope. But there’s been more’n one new feller snookin’ round.”
“Have you heard from any of the boys with the cattle?”
“Yep. Bill Weeks rode down. He said a bunch of I.W.W.’s were campin’ above Blue Spring. Thet means they’ve moved on down to the edge of the timber an’ oncomfortable near our wheat. Bill says they’re killin’ our stock fer meat.”
“Hum!… How many in the gang?” inquired Anderson, darkly. His early dealings with outlaw rustlers had not left him favorably inclined toward losing a single steer.
“Wal, I reckon we can’t say. Mebbe five hundred, countin’ all along the valley on this side. Then we hear there’s more on the other… Boss, if they git ugly we’re goin’ to lose stock, wheat, an’ mebbe some blood.”
“So many as that!” ejaculated the rancher, in amaze.
“They come an’ go, an’ lately they’re most comin’,” replied Jake.
“When do we begin cuttin’ grain?”
“I reckon to-morrow. Adams didn’t want to start till you got back. It’ll be barley an’ oats fer a few days, an’ then the wheat — if we can git the men.”
“An’ has Adams hired any?”
“Yes, a matter of twenty or so. They swore they wasn’t I.W.W.’s, but Adams says, an’ so do I, thet some of them are men who first claimed to our old hands thet they did belong to the I.W.W.”
“An’ so we’ve got to take a chance if we’re goin’ to harvest two thousand acres of wheat?”
“I reckon, boss.”
“Any reports from Ruxton way?”
“Wal, yes. But I reckon you’d better git your supper ‘fore I tell you, boss.”
“Jake, you said nothin’ had come off.”
“Wal, nawthin’ has around here. Come on now, boss. Miss Lenore says I was to keep my mouth shut.”
“Jake, who’s your boss? Me or Lenore?”
“Wal, you air. But I ain’t disobeyin’ Miss Lenore.”
Anderson walked the rest of the way up the shady path to the house without saying any more to Jake. The beautiful white house stood clear of the grove, bright in the rays of the setting sun. A barking of dogs greeted Anderson, and then the pattering of feet. His daughters appeared on the porch. Kathleen, who was ten, made a dive for him, and Rose, who was fourteen, came flying after her. Both girls were screaming joyously. Their sunny hair danced. Lenore waited for him at the step, and as he mounted the porch, burdened by the three girls, his anxious, sadly smiling wife came out to make perfect the welcome home. No — not perfect, for Anderson’s joy held a bitter drop, the absence of his only son!
“Oh, dad, what-all did you fetch me?” cried Kathleen, and she deserted her father for the bundle-laden Jake.
“And me!” echoed Rose.
Even Lenore, in the happiness of her father’s return, was not proof against the wonder and promise of those many bundles.
They all went within, through a hall to a great, cozy living-room. Mrs. Anderson’s very first words, after her welcoming smile, were a half-faltered:
“Any — news of — Jim?”
“Why — yes,” replied Anderson, hesitatingly.
Suddenly the three sisters were silent. How closely they resembled one another then — Lenore, a budding woman; Rose, a budding girl; and Kathleen, a rosy, radiant child! Lenore lost a little of her bloom.
“What news, father?” she asked.
“Haven’t you heard from him?” returned Anderson.
“Not for a whole week. He wrote the day he reached Spokane. But then he hardly knew anything except that he’d enlisted.”
“I’m sure glad Jim didn’t wait for the draft,” replied the father. “Well, mother an’ girls, Jim was gone when I got to Spokane. All I heard was that he was well when he left for Frisco an’ strong for the aviation corps.”
“Then he means to — to be an aviator,” said Lenore, with quivering lips.
“Sure, if he can get in. An’ he’s wise. Jim knows engines. He has a knack for machinery. An’ nerve! No boy ever had more. He’ll make a crack flier.”
“But — the danger!” whispered the boy’s mother, with a shudder.
“I reckon there’ll be a little danger, mother,” replied Anderson, cheerfully. “We’ve got to take our chance on Jim. There’s one sure bet
. If he had stayed home he’d been fightin’ I.W.W.’s!”
That trying moment passed. Mrs. Anderson said that she would see to supper being put on the table at once. The younger girls began untying the bundles. Lenore studied her father’s face a moment.
“Jake, you run along,” she said to the waiting cowboy. “Wait till after supper before you worry father.”
“I’ll do thet, Miss Lenore,” drawled Jake, “an’ if he wants worryin’ he’ll hev to look me up.”
“Lass, I’m only tired, not worried,” replied Anderson, as Jake shuffled out with jingling spurs.
“Did anything serious happen in Spokane?” she asked anxiously.
“No. But Spokane men are alive to serious trouble ahead,” replied her father. “I spoke to the Chamber of Commerce — sure exploded a bomb in that camp. Then I had conferences with a good many different men. Fact is they ran me pretty hard. Couldn’t have slept much, anyhow, in that heat. Lass, this is the place to live!… I’d rather die here than live in Spokane, in summer.”
“Did you see the Governor?”
“Yes, an’ he wasn’t as anxious about the Golden Valley as the Bend country. He’s right, too. We’re old Westerners here. We can handle trouble. But they’re not Americans up there in the Bend.”
“Father, we met one American,” said Lenore, dreamily.
“By George! we did!… An’ that reminds me. There was a government official from Washington, come out to Spokane to investigate conditions. I forget his name. He asked to meet me an’ he was curious about the Bend — its loyalty to the U.S. I told him all I knew an’ what I thought. An’ then he said he was goin’ to motor through that wheat-belt an’ talk to what Americans he could find, an’ impress upon them that they could do as much as soldiers to win the war. Wheat — bread — that’s our great gun in this war, Lenore!… I knew this, but I was made pretty blamed sober by that government man. I told him by all means to go to Palmer an’ to have a talk with young Dorn. I sure gave that boy a good word. Poor lad! He’s true blue. An’ to think of him with that old German devil. Old Dorn has always had a hard name. An’ this war has brought out the German cussedness.”