by Frank Norris
And at times all these various sounds mingled in a single vague note, huge, clamorous, that rose up into the night from the colossal, reverberating compass of the barn and sent its echoes far off across the unbroken levels of the surrounding ranches, stretching out to infinity under the clouded sky, calm, mysterious, still.
Annixter, the punch bowl clasped in his arms, was pouring out the last spoonful of liquor into Caraher’s glass when he was aware that some one was pulling at the sleeve of his coat. He set down the punch bowl.
“Well, where did YOU come from?” he demanded.
It was a messenger from Bonneville, the uniformed boy that the telephone company employed to carry messages. He had just arrived from town on his bicycle, out of breath and panting.
“Message for you, sir. Will you sign?”
He held the book to Annixter, who signed the receipt, wondering.
The boy departed, leaving a thick envelope of yellow paper in Annixter’s hands, the address typewritten, the word “Urgent” written in blue pencil in one corner.
Annixter tore it open. The envelope contained other sealed envelopes, some eight or ten of them, addressed to Magnus Derrick, Osterman, Broderson, Garnett, Keast, Gethings, Chattern, Dabney, and to Annixter himself.
Still puzzled, Annixter distributed the envelopes, muttering to himself:
“What’s up now?”
The incident had attracted attention. A comparative quiet followed, the guests following the letters with their eyes as they were passed around the table. They fancied that Annixter had arranged a surprise.
Magnus Derrick, who sat next to Annixter, was the first to receive his letter. With a word of excuse he opened it.
“Read it, read it, Governor,” shouted a half-dozen voices. “No secrets, you know. Everything above board here to-night.”
Magnus cast a glance at the contents of the letter, then rose to his feet and read:
Magnus Derrick,
Bonneville, Tulare Co., Cal.
Dear Sir:
By regrade of October 1st, the value of the railroad land you
occupy, included in your ranch of Los Muertos, has been fixed at
$27.00 per acre. The land is now for sale at that price to any
one.
Yours, etc.,
CYRUS BLAKELEE RUGGLES,
Land Agent, P. and S. W. R. R.
S. BEHRMAN,
Local Agent, P. and S. W. R. R.
In the midst of the profound silence that followed, Osterman was heard to exclaim grimly:
“THAT’S a pretty good one. Tell us another.”
But for a long moment this was the only remark.
The silence widened, broken only by the sound of torn paper as Annixter, Osterman, old Broderson, Garnett, Keast, Gethings, Chattern, and Dabney opened and read their letters. They were all to the same effect, almost word for word like the Governor’s. Only the figures and the proper names varied. In some cases the price per acre was twenty-two dollars. In Annixter’s case it was thirty.
“And — and the company promised to sell to me, to — to all of us,” gasped old Broderson, “at TWO DOLLARS AND A HALF an acre.”
It was not alone the ranchers immediately around Bonneville who would be plundered by this move on the part of the Railroad. The “alternate section” system applied throughout all the San Joaquin. By striking at the Bonneville ranchers a terrible precedent was established. Of the crowd of guests in the harness room alone, nearly every man was affected, every man menaced with ruin. All of a million acres was suddenly involved.
Then suddenly the tempest burst. A dozen men were on their feet in an instant, their teeth set, their fists clenched, their faces purple with rage. Oaths, curses, maledictions exploded like the firing of successive mines. Voices quivered with wrath, hands flung upward, the fingers hooked, prehensile, trembled with anger. The sense of wrongs, the injustices, the oppression, extortion, and pillage of twenty years suddenly culminated and found voice in a raucous howl of execration. For a second there was nothing articulate in that cry of savage exasperation, nothing even intelligent. It was the human animal hounded to its corner, exploited, harried to its last stand, at bay, ferocious, terrible, turning at last with bared teeth and upraised claws to meet the death grapple. It was the hideous squealing of the tormented brute, its back to the wall, defending its lair, its mate and its whelps, ready to bite, to rend, to trample, to batter out the life of The Enemy in a primeval, bestial welter of blood and fury.
The roar subsided to intermittent clamour, in the pauses of which the sounds of music and dancing made themselves audible once more.
“S. Behrman again,” vociferated Harran Derrick.
“Chose his moment well,” muttered Annixter. “Hits his hardest when we’re all rounded up having a good time.”
“Gentlemen, this is ruin.”
“What’s to be done now?”
“FIGHT! My God! do you think we are going to stand this? Do you think we CAN?”
The uproar swelled again. The clearer the assembly of ranchers understood the significance of this move on the part of the Railroad, the more terrible it appeared, the more flagrant, the more intolerable. Was it possible, was it within the bounds of imagination that this tyranny should be contemplated? But they knew — past years had driven home the lesson — the implacable, iron monster with whom they had to deal, and again and again the sense of outrage and oppression lashed them to their feet, their mouths wide with curses, their fists clenched tight, their throats hoarse with shouting.
“Fight! How fight? What ARE you going to do?”
“If there’s a law in this land”
“If there is, it is in Shelgrim’s pocket. Who owns the courts in California? Ain’t it Shelgrim?”
“God damn him.”
“Well, how long are you going to stand it? How long before you’ll settle up accounts with six inches of plugged gas-pipe?”
“And our contracts, the solemn pledges of the corporation to sell to us first of all — —”
“And now the land is for sale to anybody.”
“Why, it is a question of my home. Am I to be turned out? Why, I have put eight thousand dollars into improving this land.”
“And I six thousand, and now that I have, the Railroad grabs it.”
“And the system of irrigating ditches that Derrick and I have been laying out. There’s thousands of dollars in that!”
“I’ll fight this out till I’ve spent every cent of my money.”
“Where? In the courts that the company owns?”
“Think I am going to give in to this? Think I am to get off my land? By God, gentlemen, law or no law, railroad or no railroad, I — WILL — NOT.”
“Nor I.”
“Nor I.”
“Nor I.”
“This is the last. Legal means first; if those fail — the shotgun.”
“They can kill me. They can shoot me down, but I’ll die — die fighting for my home — before I’ll give in to this.”
At length Annixter made himself heard:
“All out of the room but the ranch owners,” he shouted. “Hooven, Caraher, Dyke, you’ll have to clear out. This is a family affair. Presley, you and your friend can remain.”
Reluctantly the others filed through the door. There remained in the harness room — besides Vanamee and Presley — Magnus Derrick, Annixter, old Broderson Harran, Garnett from the Ruby rancho, Keast from the ranch of the same name, Gethings of the San Pablo, Chattern of the Bonanza, about a score of others, ranchers from various parts of the county, and, last of all, Dabney, ignored, silent, to whom nobody spoke and who, as yet, had not uttered a word. But the men who had been asked to leave the harness room spread the news throughout the barn. It was repeated from lip to lip. One by one the guests dropped out of the dance. Groups were formed. By swift degrees the gayety lapsed away. The Virginia reel broke up. The musicians ceased playing, and in the place of the noisy, effervescent revelry of the previo
us half hour, a subdued murmur filled all the barn, a mingling of whispers, lowered voices, the coming and going of light footsteps, the uneasy shifting of positions, while from behind the closed doors of the harness room came a prolonged, sullen hum of anger and strenuous debate. The dance came to an abrupt end. The guests, unwilling to go as yet, stunned, distressed, stood clumsily about, their eyes vague, their hands swinging at their sides, looking stupidly into each others’ faces. A sense of impending calamity, oppressive, foreboding, gloomy, passed through the air overhead in the night, a long shiver of anguish and of terror, mysterious, despairing.
In the harness room, however, the excitement continued unchecked. One rancher after another delivered himself of a torrent of furious words. There was no order, merely the frenzied outcry of blind fury. One spirit alone was common to all — resistance at whatever cost and to whatever lengths.
Suddenly Osterman leaped to his feet, his bald head gleaming in the lamp-light, his red ears distended, a flood of words filling his great, horizontal slit of a mouth, his comic actor’s face flaming. Like the hero of a melodrama, he took stage with a great sweeping gesture.
“ORGANISATION,” he shouted, “that must be our watch-word. The curse of the ranchers is that they fritter away their strength. Now, we must stand together, now, NOW. Here’s the crisis, here’s the moment. Shall we meet it? I CALL FOR THE LEAGUE. Not next week, not to-morrow, not in the morning, but now, now, now, this very moment, before we go out of that door. Every one of us here to join it, to form the beginnings of a vast organisation, banded together to death, if needs be, for the protection of our rights and homes. Are you ready? Is it now or never? I call for the League.”
Instantly there was a shout. With an actor’s instinct, Osterman had spoken at the precise psychological moment. He carried the others off their feet, glib, dexterous, voluble. Just what was meant by the League the others did not know, but it was something, a vague engine, a machine with which to fight. Osterman had not done speaking before the room rang with outcries, the crowd of men shouting, for what they did not know.
“The League! The League!”
“Now, to-night, this moment; sign our names before we leave.”
“He’s right. Organisation! The League!”
“We have a committee at work already,” Osterman vociferated. “I am a member, and also Mr. Broderson, Mr. Annixter, and Mr. Harran Derrick. What our aims are we will explain to you later. Let this committee be the nucleus of the League — temporarily, at least. Trust us. We are working for you and with you. Let this committee be merged into the larger committee of the League, and for President of the League” — he paused the fraction of a second— “for President there can be but one name mentioned, one man to whom we all must look as leader — Magnus Derrick.”
The Governor’s name was received with a storm of cheers. The harness room reechoed with shouts of:
“Derrick! Derrick!”
“Magnus for President!”
“Derrick, our natural leader.”
“Derrick, Derrick, Derrick for President.”
Magnus rose to his feet. He made no gesture. Erect as a cavalry officer, tall, thin, commanding, he dominated the crowd in an instant. There was a moment’s hush. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if organisation is a good word, moderation is a better one. The matter is too grave for haste. I would suggest that we each and severally return to our respective homes for the night, sleep over what has happened, and convene again to-morrow, when we are calmer and can approach this affair in a more judicious mood. As for the honour with which you would inform me, I must affirm that that, too, is a matter for grave deliberation. This League is but a name as yet. To accept control of an organisation whose principles are not yet fixed is a heavy responsibility. I shrink from it—”
But he was allowed to proceed no farther. A storm of protest developed. There were shouts of:
“No, no. The League to-night and Derrick for President.”
“We have been moderate too long.”
“The League first, principles afterward.”
“We can’t wait,” declared Osterman. “Many of us cannot attend a meeting to-morrow. Our business affairs would prevent it. Now we are all together. I propose a temporary chairman and secretary be named and a ballot be taken. But first the League. Let us draw up a set of resolutions to stand together, for the defence of our homes, to death, if needs be, and each man present affix his signature thereto.”
He subsided amidst vigorous applause. The next quarter of an hour was a vague confusion, every one talking at once, conversations going on in low tones in various corners of the room. Ink, pens, and a sheaf of foolscap were brought from the ranch house. A set of resolutions was draughted, having the force of a pledge, organising the League of Defence. Annixter was the first to sign. Others followed, only a few holding back, refusing to join till they had thought the matter over. The roll grew; the paper circulated about the table; each signature was welcomed by a salvo of cheers. At length, it reached Harran Derrick, who signed amid tremendous uproar. He released the pen only to shake a score of hands.
“Now, Magnus Derrick.”
“Gentlemen,” began the Governor, once more rising, “I beg of you to allow me further consideration. Gentlemen—”
He was interrupted by renewed shouting.
“No, no, now or never. Sign, join the League.”
“Don’t leave us. We look to you to help.”
But presently the excited throng that turned their faces towards the Governor were aware of a new face at his elbow. The door of the harness room had been left unbolted and Mrs. Derrick, unable to endure the heart-breaking suspense of waiting outside, had gathered up all her courage and had come into the room. Trembling, she clung to Magnus’s arm, her pretty light-brown hair in disarray, her large young girl’s eyes wide with terror and distrust. What was about to happen she did not understand, but these men were clamouring for Magnus to pledge himself to something, to some terrible course of action, some ruthless, unscrupulous battle to the death with the iron-hearted monster of steel and steam. Nerved with a coward’s intrepidity, she, who so easily obliterated herself, had found her way into the midst of this frantic crowd, into this hot, close room, reeking of alcohol and tobacco smoke, into this atmosphere surcharged with hatred and curses. She seized her husband’s arm imploring, distraught with terror.
“No, no,” she murmured; “no, don’t sign.”
She was the feather caught in the whirlwind. En masse, the crowd surged toward the erect figure of the Governor, the pen in one hand, his wife’s fingers in the other, the roll of signatures before him. The clamour was deafening; the excitement culminated brusquely. Half a hundred hands stretched toward him; thirty voices, at top pitch, implored, expostulated, urged, almost commanded. The reverberation of the shouting was as the plunge of a cataract.
It was the uprising of The People; the thunder of the outbreak of revolt; the mob demanding to be led, aroused at last, imperious, resistless, overwhelming. It was the blind fury of insurrection, the brute, many-tongued, red-eyed, bellowing for guidance, baring its teeth, unsheathing its claws, imposing its will with the abrupt, resistless pressure of the relaxed piston, inexorable, knowing no pity.
“No, no,” implored Annie Derrick. “No, Magnus, don’t sign.”
“He must,” declared Harran, shouting in her ear to make himself heard, “he must. Don’t you understand?”
Again the crowd surged forward, roaring. Mrs. Derrick was swept back, pushed to one side. Her husband no longer belonged to her. She paid the penalty for being the wife of a great man. The world, like a colossal iron wedge, crushed itself between. She was thrust to the wall. The throng of men, stamping, surrounded Magnus; she could no longer see him, but, terror-struck, she listened. There was a moment’s lull, then a vast thunder of savage jubilation. Magnus had signed.
Harran found his mother leaning against the wall, her hands shut over her ears; her eyes, dilated with fear, brimm
ing with tears. He led her from the harness room to the outer room, where Mrs. Tree and Hilma took charge of her, and then, impatient, refusing to answer the hundreds of anxious questions that assailed him, hurried back to the harness room. Already the balloting was in progress, Osterman acting as temporary chairman on the very first ballot he was made secretary of the League pro tem., and Magnus unanimously chosen for its President. An executive committee was formed, which was to meet the next day at the Los Muertos ranch house.
It was half-past one o’clock. In the barn outside the greater number of the guests had departed. Long since the musicians had disappeared. There only remained the families of the ranch owners involved in the meeting in the harness room. These huddled in isolated groups in corners of the garish, echoing barn, the women in their wraps, the young men with their coat collars turned up against the draughts that once more made themselves felt.
For a long half hour the loud hum of eager conversation continued to issue from behind the door of the harness room. Then, at length, there was a prolonged scraping of chairs. The session was over. The men came out in groups, searching for their families.
At once the homeward movement began. Every one was worn out. Some of the ranchers’ daughters had gone to sleep against their mothers’ shoulders.
Billy, the stableman, and his assistant were awakened, and the teams were hitched up. The stable yard was full of a maze of swinging lanterns and buggy lamps. The horses fretted, champing the bits; the carry-alls creaked with the straining of leather and springs as they received their loads. At every instant one heard the rattle of wheels as vehicle after vehicle disappeared in the night.
A fine, drizzling rain was falling, and the lamps began to show dim in a vague haze of orange light.
Magnus Derrick was the last to go. At the doorway of the barn he found Annixter, the roll of names — which it had been decided he was to keep in his safe for the moment — under his arm. Silently the two shook hands. Magnus departed. The grind of the wheels of his carry-all grated sharply on the gravel of the driveway in front of the ranch house, then, with a hollow roll across a little plank bridge, gained the roadway. For a moment the beat of the horses’ hoofs made itself heard on the roadway. It ceased. Suddenly there was a great silence.