the Desert Of Wheat (2001) Page 24

  "All right--I go," he said, gruffly, and without a word to his men he started off.

  Jake followed him. Neuman made a short cut to the gate, thus avoiding a meeting with any of his family. At the road, however, some men observed him and called in surprise, but he waved them back.

  "Bill, you an' Andy collect yourselves an' give Mr. Neuman a seat," said Jake, as he opened the door to allow the farmer to enter.

  The two cowboys gave Neuman the whole of the back seat, and they occupied the smaller side seats. Jake took his place beside the driver.

  "Burn her up!" was his order.

  The speed of the car made conversation impossible until the limits of a town necessitated slowing down. Then the cowboys talked. For all the attention they paid to Neuman, he might as well not have been present.

  Before long the driver turned into a road that followed a railroad track for several miles and then crossed it to enter a good-sized town. The streets were crowded with people and the car had to be driven slowly. At this juncture Jake suggested.

  "Let's go down by the bridge."

  "Sure," agreed his allies.

  Then the driver turned down a still more peopled street that sloped a little and evidently overlooked the railroad tracks. Presently they came in sight of a railroad bridge, around which there appeared to be an excited yet awestruck throng. All faces were turned up toward the swaying form of a man hanging by a rope tied to the high span of the bridge.

  "Wal, Glidden's hangin' there yet," remarked Jake, cheerfully.

  With a violent start Neuman looked out to see the ghastly placarded figure, and then he sank slowly back in his seat. The cowboys apparently took no notice of him. They seemed to have forgotten his presence.

  "Funny they'd cut all the other I. W. W.'s down an' leave Glidden hangin' there," observed Bill.

  "Them vigilantes sure did it up brown," added Andy. "I was dyin' to join the band. But they didn't ask me."

  "Nor me," replied Jake, regretfully. "An' I can't understand why, onless it was they was afeared I couldn't keep a secret."

  "Who is them vigilantes, anyhow?" asked Bill, curiously.

  "Wal, I reckon nobody knows. But I seen a thousand armed men this mornin'. They sure looked bad. You ought to have seen them poke the I. W. W.'s with cocked guns."

  "Was any one shot?" queried Andy.

  "Not in the daytime. Nobody killed by this Citizens' Protective League, as they call themselves. They just rounded up all the suspicious men an' herded them on to thet cattle-train an' carried them off. It was at night when the vigilantes worked--masked an' secret an' sure bloody.

  Jest like the old vigilante days! ... An' you can gamble they ain't through yet."

  "Uncle Sam won't need to send any soldiers here."

  "Wal, I should smile not. Thet'd be a disgrace to the Northwest. It was a bad time fer the I. W. W. to try any tricks on us."

  Jake shook his lean head and his jaw bulged. He might have been haranguing, cowboy-like, for the benefit of the man they feigned not to notice, but it was plain, nevertheless, that he was angry.

  "What gits me wuss 'n them I. W. W.'s is the skunks thet give Uncle Sam the double-cross," said Andy, with dark face. "I'll stand fer any man an' respect him if he's aboveboard an' makes his fight in the open. But them coyotes thet live off the land an' pretend to be American when they ain't--they make me pisen mad."

  "I heerd the vigilantes has marked men like thet," observed Bill.

  "I'll give you a hunch, fellers," replied Jake, grimly. "By Gawd! the West won't stand fer traitors!"

  All the way to "Many Waters," where it was possible to talk and be heard, the cowboys continued in like strain. And not until the driver halted the car before Anderson's door did they manifest any awareness of Neuman.

  "Git out an' come in," said Jake to the pallid, sweating rancher.

  He led Neuman into the hall and knocked upon Anderson's study door. It was opened by Dorn.

  "Wal, hyar we are," announced Jake, and his very nonchalance attested to pride.

  Anderson was standing beside his desk. He started, and his hand flashed back significantly as he sighted his rival and enemy.

  "No gun-play, boss, was your orders," said Jake. "An' Neuman ain't packin' no gun."

  It was plain that Anderson made a great effort at restraint. But he failed. And perhaps the realization that he could not kill this man liberated his passion. Then the two big ranchers faced each other--Neuman livid and shaking, Anderson black as a thunder-cloud.

  "Neuman, you hatched up a plot with Glidden to kill me," said Anderson, bitterly.

  Neuman, in hoarse, brief answer, denied it.

  "Sure! Deny it. What do we care? ... We've got you, Neuman," burst out Anderson, his heavy voice ringing with passion. "But it's not your low-down plot thet's r'iled me. There's been a good many men who've tried to do away with me. I've outplayed you in many a deal. So your personal hate for me doesn't count. I'm sore--an' you an' me can't live in the same place, because you're a damned traitor. You've lived here for twenty years. You've grown rich off the country. An' you'd sell us to your rotten Germany. What I think of you for that I'm goin' to tell you."

  Anderson paused to take a deep breath. Then he began to curse Neuman.

  All the rough years of his frontier life, as well as the quieter ones of his ranching days, found expression in the swift, thunderous roll of his terrible scorn. Every vile name that had ever been used by cowboy, outlaw, gambler, leaped to Anderson's stinging tongue. All the keen, hard epithets common to the modern day he flung into Neuman's face. And he ended with a profanity that was as individual in character as its delivery was intense.

  "I'm callin' you for my own relief," he concluded, "an' not that I expect to get under your hide."

  Then he paused. He wiped the beaded drops from his forehead, and he coughed and shook himself. His big fists unclosed. Passion gave place to dignity.

  "Neuman, it's a pity you an' men like you can't see the truth. That's the mystery to me--why any one who had spent half a lifetime an' prospered here in our happy an' beautiful country could ever hate it. I never will understand that. But I do understand that America will never harbor such men for long. You have your reasons, I reckon. An' no doubt you think you're justified. That's the tragedy. You run off from hard-ruled Germany. You will not live there of your own choice. You succeed here an' live in peace an' plenty.... An', by God! you take up with a lot of foreign riffraff an' double-cross the people you owe so much!... What's wrong with your mind?... Think it over.... An' that's the last word I have for you."

  Anderson, turning to his desk, took up a cigar and lighted it. He was calm again. There was really sadness where his face had shown only fury.

  Then he addressed Dorn.

  "Kurt, it's up to you now," he said. "As my superintendent an' some-day partner, what you'll say goes with me.... I don't know what bein' square would mean in relation to this man."

  Anderson sat down heavily in his desk chair and his face became obscured in cigar smoke.

  "Neuman, do you recognize me?" asked Dorn, with his flashing eyes on the rancher.

  "No," replied Neuman.

  "I'm Chris Dorn's son. My father died a few days ago. He overtaxed his heart fighting fire in the wheat ... Fire set by I. W. W. men. Glidden's men! ... They burned our wheat. Ruined us!"

  Neuman showed shock at the news, at the sudden death of an old friend, but he did not express himself in words.

  "Do you deny implication in Glidden's plot to kill Anderson?" demanded Dorn.

  "Yes," replied Neuman.

  "Well, you're a liar!" retorted Dorn. "I saw you with Glidden and my father. I followed you at Wheatly--out along the railroad tracks. I slipped up and heard the plot. It was I who snatched the money from my father."

  Neuman's nerve was gone, but with his stupid and stubborn process of thought he still denied, stuttering incoherently.

  "Glidden has been hanged," went on Dorn. "A vigilante band ha
s been organized here in the valley. Men of your known sympathy will not be safe, irrespective of your plot against Anderson. But as to that, publicity alone will be enough to ruin you.... Americans of the West will not tolerate traitors.... Now the question you've got to decide is this. Will you take the risks or will you sell out and leave the country?"

  "I'll sell out," replied Neuman.

  "What price do you put on your ranch as it stands?"

  "One hundred thousand dollars."

  Dorn turned to Anderson and asked, "Is it worth that much?"

  "No. Seventy-five thousand would be a big price," replied the rancher.

  "Neuman, we will give you seventy-five thousand for your holdings. Do you accept?"

  "I have no choice," replied Neuman, sullenly.

  "Choice!" exclaimed Dorn. "Yes, you have. And you're not being cheated.

  I've stated facts. You are done in this valley. You're ruined _now!_ And Glidden's fate stares you in the face.... Will you sell and leave the country?"

  "Yes," came the deep reply, wrenched from a stubborn breast.

  "Go draw up your deeds, then notify us," said Dorn, with finality.

  Jake opened the door. Stolidly and slowly Neuman went out, precisely as he had entered, like a huge man in conflict with unintelligible thoughts.

  "Send him home in the car," called Anderson.

  Chapter XXIII

  For two fleeting days Lenore Anderson was happy when she forgot, miserable when she remembered. Then the third morning dawned.

  At the breakfast-table her father had said, cheerily, to Dorn: "Better take off your coat an' come out to the fields. We've got some job to harvest that wheat with only half-force.... But, by George! my trouble's over."

  Dorn looked suddenly blank, as if Anderson's cheery words had recalled him to the realities of life. He made an incoherent excuse and left the table.

  "Ah-huh!" Anderson's characteristic exclamation might have meant little or much. "Lenore, what ails the boy?"

  "Nothing that I know of. He has been as--as happy as I am," she replied.

  "Then it's all settled?"

  "Father, I--I--"

  Kathleen's high, shrill, gleeful voice cut in: "Sure it's settled! Look at Lenorry blush!"

  Lenore indeed felt the blood stinging face and neck. Nevertheless, she laughed.

  "Come into my room," said Anderson.

  She followed him there, and as he closed the door she answered his questioning look by running into his arms and hiding her face.

  "Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" the rancher ejaculated, with emotion. He held her and patted her shoulder with his big hand. "Tell me, Lenore."

  "There's little to tell," she replied, softly. "I love him--and he loves me so--so well that I've been madly happy--in spite of--of--"

  "Is that all?" asked Anderson, dubiously.

  "Is not that enough?"

  "But Dorn's lovin' you so well doesn't say he'll not go to war."

  And it was then that forgotten bitterness returned to poison Lenore's cup of joy.

  "Ah!"... she whispered.

  "Good Lord! Lenore, you don't mean you an' Dorn have been alone all the time these few days--an' you haven't settled that war question?" queried Anderson, in amaze.

  "Yes.... How strange!... But since--well, since something happened--we--we forgot," she replied, dreamily.

  "Wal, go back to it," said Anderson, forcibly. "I want Dorn to help me.... Why, he's a wonder!... He's saved the situation for us here in the valley. Every rancher I know is praisin' him high. An' he sure treated Neuman square. An' here I am with three big wheat-ranches on my hands!... Lenore, you've got to keep him home."

  "Dad!... I--I could not!" replied Lenore. She was strangely realizing an indefinable change in herself. "I can't try to keep him from going to war. I never thought of that since--since we confessed our love.... But it's made some difference.... It'll kill me, I think, to let him go--but I'd die before I'd ask him to stay home."

  "Ah-huh!" sighed Anderson, and, releasing her, he began to pace the room. "I don't begin to understand you, girl. But I respect your feelin's. It's a hell of a muddle!... I'd forgotten the war myself while chasin' off them I. W. W.'s.... But this war has _got_ to be reckoned with!... Send Dorn to me!"

  Lenore found Dorn playing with Kathleen. These two had become as brother and sister.

  "Kurt, dad wants to see you," said Lenore seriously.

  Dorn looked startled, and the light of fun on his face changed to a sober concern.

  "You told him?"

  "Yes, Kurt, I told him what little I had to tell."

  He gave her a strange glance and then slowly went toward her father's study. Lenore made a futile attempt to be patient. She heard her father's deep voice, full and earnest, and she heard Dorn's quick, passionate response. She wondered what this interview meant. Anderson was not one to give up easily. He had set his heart upon holding this capable young man in the great interests of the wheat business. Lenore could not understand why she was not praying that he be successful. But she was not. It was inexplicable and puzzling--this change in her--this end of her selfishness. Yet she shrank in terror from an impinging sacrifice. She thrust the thought from her with passionate physical gesture and with stern effort of will.

  Dorn was closeted with her father for over an hour. When he came out he was white, but apparently composed. Lenore had never seen his eyes so piercing as when they rested upon her.

  "Whew!" he exclaimed, and wiped his face. "Your father has my poor old dad--what does Kathleen say?--skinned to a frazzle!"

  "What did he say?" asked Lenore, anxiously.

  "A lot--and just as if I didn't know it all better than he knows," replied Dorn, sadly. "The importance of wheat; his three ranches and nobody to run them; his growing years; my future and a great opportunity as one of the big wheat men of the Northwest; the present need of the government; his only son gone to war, which was enough for his family.... And then he spoke of you--heiress to 'Many Waters'--what a splendid, noble girl you were--like your mother! What a shame to ruin your happiness--your future!... He said you'd make the sweetest of wives--the truest of mothers!... Oh, my God!"

  Lenore turned away her face, shocked to her heart by his tragic passion.

  Dorn was silent for what seemed a long time.

  "And--then he cussed me--hard--as no doubt I deserved," added Dorn.

  "But--what did you say?" she whispered.

  "I said a lot, too," replied Dorn, remorsefully.

  "Did--did you--?" began Lenore, and broke off, unable to finish.

  "I arrived--to where I am now--pretty dizzy," he responded, with a smile that was both radiant and sorrowful. He took her hands and held them close. "Lenore!... if I come home from the war--still with my arms and legs--whole--will you marry me?"

  "Only come home _alive_, and no matter what you lose, yes!--yes!" she whispered, brokenly.

  "But it's a conditional proposal, Lenore," he insisted. "You must never marry half a man."

  "I will marry _you_!" she cried, passionately.

  It seemed to her that she loved him all the more, every moment, even though he made it so hard for her. Then through blurred, dim eyes she saw him take something from his pocket and felt him put a ring on her finger.

  "It fits! Isn't that lucky," he said, softly. "My mother's ring, Lenore...."

  He kissed her hand.

  Kathleen was standing near them, open-eyed and open-mouthed, in an ecstasy of realization.

  "Kathleen, your sister has promised to marry me--when I come from the war," said Dorn to the child.

  She squealed with delight, and, manifestly surrendering to a long-considered temptation, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close.

  "It's perfectly grand!" she cried. "But what a chump you are for going at all--when you could marry Lenorry!"

  That was Kathleen's point of view, and it must have coincided somewhat with Mr. Anderson's.

  "Kathleen, you wouldn't h
ave me be a slacker?" asked Dorn, gently.

  "No. But we let Jim go," was her argument.

  Dorn kissed her, then turned to Lenore. "Let's go out to the fields."

  * * * * *

  It was not a long walk to the alfalfa, but by the time she got there Lenore's impending woe was as if it had never been. Dorn seemed strangely gay and unusually demonstrative; apparently he forgot the war-cloud in the joy of the hour. That they were walking in the open seemed not to matter to him.

  "Kurt, some one will see you," Lenore remonstrated.

  "You're more beautiful than ever to-day," he said, by way of answer, and tried to block her way.

  Lenore dodged and ran. She was fleet, and eluded him down the lane, across the cut field, to a huge square stack of baled alfalfa. But he caught her just as she got behind its welcome covert. Lenore was far less afraid of him than of laughing eyes. Breathless, she backed up against the stack.

  "You're--a--cannibal!" she panted. But she did not make much resistance.

  "You're--a goddess!" he replied.

  "Me!... Of what?"

  "Why, of 'Many Waters'!... Goddess of wheat!... The sweet, waving wheat, rich and golden--the very spirit of life!"

  "If anybody sees you--mauling me--this way--I'll not seem a goddess to him.... My hair is down--my waist--Oh, Kurt!"

  Yet it did not very much matter how she looked or what happened. Beyond all was the assurance of her dearness to him. Suddenly she darted away from him again. Her heart swelled, her spirit soared, her feet were buoyant and swift. She ran into the uncut alfalfa. It was thick and high, tangling round her feet. Here her progress was retarded. Dorn caught up with her. His strong hands on her shoulders felt masterful, and the sweet terror they inspired made her struggle to get away.

  "You shall--not--hold me!" she cried.

  "But I will. You must be taught--not to run," he said, and wrapped her tightly in his arms.

  "Now surrender your kisses meekly!"

  "I--surrender!... But, Kurt, someone will see... Dear, we'll go back--or--somewhere--"

  "Who can see us here but the birds?" he said, and the strong hands held her fast. "You will kiss me--enough--right now--even if the whole world--looked on!" he said, ringingly. "Lenore, my soul!... Lenore, I love you!"