osterman cut his wheat that summer before any of the other ranchers, and as soon as his harvest was over organized a jack-rabbit drive. like annixter's barn-dance, it was to be an event in which all the country-side should take part. the drive was to begin on the most western division of the osterman ranch, whence it would proceed towards the southeast, crossing into the northern part of quien sabe—on which annixter had sown no wheat—and ending in the hills at the headwaters of broderson creek, where a barbecue was to be held.

early on the morning of the day of the drive, as harran and presley were saddling their horses before the stables on los muertos, the foreman, phelps, remarked:

“i was into town last night, and i hear that christian has been after ruggles early and late to have him put him in possession here on los muertos, and delaney is doing the same for quien sabe.”

it was this man christian, the real estate broker, and cousin of s. behrman, one of the main actors in the drama of dyke's capture, who had come forward as a purchaser of los muertos when the railroad had regraded its holdings on the ranches around bonneville.

“he claims, of course,” phelps went on, “that when he bought los muertos of the railroad he was guaranteed possession, and he wants the place in time for the harvest.”

“that's almost as thin,” muttered harran as he thrust the bit into his horse's mouth, “as delaney buying annixter's home ranch. that slice of quien sabe, according to the railroad's grading, is worth about ten thousand dollars; yes, even fifteen, and i don't believe delaney is worth the price of a good horse. why, those people don't even try to preserve appearances. where would christian find the money to buy los muertos? there's no one man in all bonneville rich enough to do it. damned rascals! as if we didn't see that christian and delaney are s. behrman's right and left hands. well, he'll get 'em cut off,” he cried with sudden fierceness, “if he comes too near the machine.”

“how is it, harran,” asked presley as the two young men rode out of the stable yard, “how is it the railroad gang can do anything before the supreme court hands down a decision?”

“well, you know how they talk,” growled harran. “they have claimed that the cases taken up to the supreme court were not test cases as we claim they are, and that because neither annixter nor the governor appealed, they've lost their cases by default. it's the rottenest kind of sharp practice, but it won't do any good. the league is too strong. they won't dare move on us yet awhile. why, pres, the moment they'd try to jump any of these ranches around here, they would have six hundred rifles cracking at them as quick as how-do-you-do. why, it would take a regiment of u. s. soldiers to put any one of us off our land. no, sir; they know the league means business this time.”

as presley and harran trotted on along the county road they continually passed or overtook other horsemen, or buggies, carry-alls, buck-boards or even farm wagons, going in the same direction. these were full of the farming people from all the country round about bonneville, on their way to the rabbit drive—the same people seen at the barn-dance—in their sunday finest, the girls in muslin frocks and garden hats, the men with linen dusters over their black clothes; the older women in prints and dotted calicoes. many of these latter had already taken off their bonnets—the day was very hot—and pinning them in newspapers, stowed them under the seats. they tucked their handkerchiefs into the collars of their dresses, or knotted them about their fat necks, to keep out the dust. from the axle trees of the vehicles swung carefully covered buckets of galvanised iron, in which the lunch was packed. the younger children, the boys with great frilled collars, the girls with ill-fitting shoes cramping their feet, leaned from the sides of buggy and carry-all, eating bananas and “macaroons,” staring about with ox-like stolidity. tied to the axles, the dogs followed the horses' hoofs with lolling tongues coated with dust.

the california summer lay blanket-wise and smothering over all the land. the hills, bone-dry, were browned and parched. the grasses and wild-oats, sear and yellow, snapped like glass filaments under foot. the roads, the bordering fences, even the lower leaves and branches of the trees, were thick and grey with dust. all colour had been burned from the landscape, except in the irrigated patches, that in the waste of brown and dull yellow glowed like oases.

the wheat, now close to its maturity, had turned from pale yellow to golden yellow, and from that to brown. like a gigantic carpet, it spread itself over all the land. there was nothing else to be seen but the limitless sea of wheat as far as the eye could reach, dry, rustling, crisp and harsh in the rare breaths of hot wind out of the southeast. as harran and presley went along the county road, the number of vehicles and riders increased. they overtook and passed hooven and his family in the former's farm wagon, a saddled horse tied to the back board. the little dutchman, wearing the old frock coat of magnus derrick, and a new broad-brimmed straw hat, sat on the front seat with mrs. hooven. the little girl hilda, and the older daughter minna, were behind them on a board laid across the sides of the wagon. presley and harran stopped to shake hands. “say,” cried hooven, exhibiting an old, but extremely well kept, rifle, “say, bei gott, me, i tek some schatz at dose rebbit, you bedt. ven he hef shtop to run und sit oop soh, bei der hind laigs on, i oop mit der guhn und—bing! i cetch um.”

“the marshals won't allow you to shoot, bismarck,” observed presley, looking at minna.

hooven doubled up with merriment.

“ho! dot's hell of some fine joak. me, i'm one oaf dose mairschell mine-selluf,” he roared with delight, beating his knee. to his notion, the joke was irresistible. all day long, he could be heard repeating it. “und mist'r praicelie, he say, 'dose mairschell woand led you schoot, bismarck,' und me, ach gott, me, aindt i mine-selluf one oaf dose mairschell?”

as the two friends rode on, presley had in his mind the image of minna hooven, very pretty in a clean gown of pink gingham, a cheap straw sailor hat from a bonneville store on her blue black hair. he remembered her very pale face, very red lips and eyes of greenish blue,—a pretty girl certainly, always trailing a group of men behind her. her love affairs were the talk of all los muertos.

“i hope that hooven girl won't go to the bad,” presley said to harran.

“oh, she's all right,” the other answered. “there's nothing vicious about minna, and i guess she'll marry that foreman on the ditch gang, right enough.”

“well, as a matter of course, she's a good girl,” presley hastened to reply, “only she's too pretty for a poor girl, and too sure of her prettiness besides. that's the kind,” he continued, “who would find it pretty easy to go wrong if they lived in a city.”

around caraher's was a veritable throng. saddle horses and buggies by the score were clustered underneath the shed or hitched to the railings in front of the watering trough. three of broderson's portuguese tenants and a couple of workmen from the railroad shops in bonneville were on the porch, already very drunk.

continually, young men, singly or in groups, came from the door-way, wiping their lips with sidelong gestures of the hand. the whole place exhaled the febrile bustle of the saloon on a holiday morning.

the procession of teams streamed on through bonneville, reenforced at every street corner. along the upper road from quien sabe and guadalajara came fresh auxiliaries, spanish-mexicans from the town itself,—swarthy young men on capering horses, dark-eyed girls and matrons, in red and black and yellow, more portuguese in brand-new overalls, smoking long thin cigars. even father sarria appeared.

“look,” said presley, “there goes annixter and hilma. he's got his buckskin back.” the master of quien sabe, in top laced boots and campaign hat, a cigar in his teeth, followed along beside the carry-all. hilma and mrs. derrick were on the back seat, young vacca driving. harran and presley bowed, taking off their hats.

“hello, hello, pres,” cried annixter, over the heads of the intervening crowd, standing up in his stirrups and waving a hand, “great day! what a mob, hey? say when this thing is over and everybody starts to walk into the barbecue, come and have lunch with us. i'll look for you, you and harran. hello, harran, where's the governor?”

“he didn't come to-day,” harran shouted back, as the crowd carried him further away from annixter. “left him and old broderson at los muertos.”

the throng emerged into the open country again, spreading out upon the osterman ranch. from all directions could be seen horses and buggies driving across the stubble, converging upon the rendezvous. osterman's ranch house was left to the eastward; the army of the guests hurrying forward—for it began to be late—to where around a flag pole, flying a red flag, a vast crowd of buggies and horses was already forming. the marshals began to appear. hooven, descending from the farm wagon, pinned his white badge to his hat brim and mounted his horse. osterman, in marvellous riding clothes of english pattern, galloped up and down upon his best thoroughbred, cracking jokes with everybody, chaffing, joshing, his great mouth distended in a perpetual grin of amiability.

“stop here, stop here,” he vociferated, dashing along in front of presley and harran, waving his crop. the procession came to a halt, the horses' heads pointing eastward. the line began to be formed. the marshals perspiring, shouting, fretting, galloping about, urging this one forward, ordering this one back, ranged the thousands of conveyances and cavaliers in a long line, shaped like a wide open crescent. its wings, under the command of lieutenants, were slightly advanced. far out before its centre osterman took his place, delighted beyond expression at his conspicuousness, posing for the gallery, making his horse dance.

“wail, aindt dey gowun to gommence den bretty soohn,” exclaimed mrs. hooven, who had taken her husband's place on the forward seat of the wagon.

“i never was so warm,” murmured minna, fanning herself with her hat. all seemed in readiness. for miles over the flat expanse of stubble, curved the interminable lines of horses and vehicles. at a guess, nearly five thousand people were present. the drive was one of the largest ever held. but no start was made; immobilized, the vast crescent stuck motionless under the blazing sun. here and there could be heard voices uplifted in jocular remonstrance.

“oh, i say, get a move on, somebody.”

“all aboard.”

“say, i'll take root here pretty soon.”

some took malicious pleasure in starting false alarms.

“ah, here we go.”

“off, at last.”

“we're off.”

invariably these jokes fooled some one in the line. an old man, or some old woman, nervous, hard of hearing, always gathered up the reins and started off, only to be hustled and ordered back into the line by the nearest marshal. this manoeuvre never failed to produce its effect of hilarity upon those near at hand. everybody laughed at the blunderer, the joker jeering audibly.

“hey, come back here.”

“oh, he's easy.”

“don't be in a hurry, grandpa.”

“say, you want to drive all the rabbits yourself.”

later on, a certain group of these fellows started a huge “josh.”

“say, that's what we're waiting for, the 'do-funny.'”

“the do-funny?”

“sure, you can't drive rabbits without the 'do-funny.'”

“what's the do-funny?”

“oh, say, she don't know what the do-funny is. we can't start without it, sure. pete went back to get it.”

“oh, you're joking me, there's no such thing.”

“well, aren't we waiting for it?”

“oh, look, look,” cried some women in a covered rig. “see, they are starting already 'way over there.”

in fact, it did appear as if the far extremity of the line was in motion. dust rose in the air above it.

“they are starting. why don't we start?”

“no, they've stopped. false alarm.”

“they've not, either. why don't we move?”

but as one or two began to move off, the nearest marshal shouted wrathfully:

“get back there, get back there.”

“well, they've started over there.”

“get back, i tell you.”

“where's the 'do-funny?'”

“say, we're going to miss it all. they've all started over there.”

a lieutenant came galloping along in front of the line, shouting:

“here, what's the matter here? why don't you start?”

there was a great shout. everybody simultaneously uttered a prolonged “oh-h.”

“we're off.”

“here we go for sure this time.”

“remember to keep the alignment,” roared the lieutenant. “don't go too fast.”

and the marshals, rushing here and there on their sweating horses to points where the line bulged forward, shouted, waving their arms: “not too fast, not too fast....keep back here....here, keep closer together here. do you want to let all the rabbits run back between you?”

a great confused sound rose into the air,—the creaking of axles, the jolt of iron tires over the dry clods, the click of brittle stubble under the horses' hoofs, the barking of dogs, the shouts of conversation and laughter.

the entire line, horses, buggies, wagons, gigs, dogs, men and boys on foot, and armed with clubs, moved slowly across the fields, sending up a cloud of white dust, that hung above the scene like smoke. a brisk gaiety was in the air. everyone was in the best of humor, calling from team to team, laughing, skylarking, joshing. garnett, of the ruby rancho, and gethings, of the san pablo, both on horseback, found themselves side by side. ignoring the drive and the spirit of the occasion, they kept up a prolonged and serious conversation on an expected rise in the price of wheat. dabney, also on horseback, followed them, listening attentively to every word, but hazarding no remark.

mrs. derrick and hilma sat in the back seat of the carry-all, behind young vacca. mrs. derrick, a little disturbed by such a great concourse of people, frightened at the idea of the killing of so many rabbits, drew back in her place, her young-girl eyes troubled and filled with a vague distress. hilma, very much excited, leaned from the carry-all, anxious to see everything, watching for rabbits, asking innumerable questions of annixter, who rode at her side.

the change that had been progressing in hilma, ever since the night of the famous barn-dance, now seemed to be approaching its climax; first the girl, then the woman, last of all the mother. conscious dignity, a new element in her character, developed. the shrinking, the timidity of the girl just awakening to the consciousness of sex, passed away from her. the confusion, the troublous complexity of the woman, a mystery even to herself, disappeared. motherhood dawned, the old simplicity of her maiden days came back to her. it was no longer a simplicity of ignorance, but of supreme knowledge, the simplicity of the perfect, the simplicity of greatness. she looked the world fearlessly in the eyes. at last, the confusion of her ideas, like frightened birds, re-settling, adjusted itself, and she emerged from the trouble calm, serene, entering into her divine right, like a queen into the rule of a realm of perpetual peace.

and with this, with the knowledge that the crown hung poised above her head, there came upon hilma a gentleness infinitely beautiful, infinitely pathetic; a sweetness that touched all who came near her with the softness of a caress. she moved surrounded by an invisible atmosphere of love. love was in her wide-opened brown eyes, love—the dim reflection of that descending crown poised over her head—radiated in a faint lustre from her dark, thick hair. around her beautiful neck, sloping to her shoulders with full, graceful curves, love lay encircled like a necklace—love that was beyond words, sweet, breathed from her parted lips. from her white, large arms downward to her pink finger-tips—love, an invisible electric fluid, disengaged itself, subtle, alluring. in the velvety huskiness of her voice, love vibrated like a note of unknown music.

annixter, her uncouth, rugged husband, living in this influence of a wife, who was also a mother, at all hours touched to the quick by this sense of nobility, of gentleness and of love, the instincts of a father already clutching and tugging at his heart, was trembling on the verge of a mighty transformation. the hardness and inhumanity of the man was fast breaking up. one night, returning late to the ranch house, after a compulsory visit to the city, he had come upon hilma asleep. he had never forgotten that night. a realization of his boundless happiness in this love he gave and received, the thought that hilma trusted him, a knowledge of his own unworthiness, a vast and humble thankfulness that his god had chosen him of all men for this great joy, had brought him to his knees for the first time in all his troubled, restless life of combat and aggression. he prayed, he knew not what,—vague words, wordless thoughts, resolving fiercely to do right, to make some return for god's gift thus placed within his hands.

where once annixter had thought only of himself, he now thought only of hilma. the time when this thought of another should broaden and widen into thought of others, was yet to come; but already it had expanded to include the unborn child—already, as in the case of mrs. dyke, it had broadened to enfold another child and another mother bound to him by no ties other than those of humanity and pity. in time, starting from this point it would reach out more and more till it should take in all men and all women, and the intolerant selfish man, while retaining all of his native strength, should become tolerant and generous, kind and forgiving.

for the moment, however, the two natures struggled within him. a fight was to be fought, one more, the last, the fiercest, the attack of the enemy who menaced his very home and hearth, was to be resisted. then, peace attained, arrested development would once more proceed.

hilma looked from the carry-all, scanning the open plain in front of the advancing line of the drive.

“where are the rabbits?” she asked of annixter. “i don't see any at all.”

“they are way ahead of us yet,” he said. “here, take the glasses.”

he passed her his field glasses, and she adjusted them.

“oh, yes,” she cried, “i see. i can see five or six, but oh, so far off.”

“the beggars run 'way ahead, at first.”

“i should say so. see them run,—little specks. every now and then they sit up, their ears straight up, in the air.”

“here, look, hilma, there goes one close by.”

from out of the ground apparently, some twenty yards distant, a great jack sprang into view, bounding away with tremendous leaps, his black-tipped ears erect. he disappeared, his grey body losing itself against the grey of the ground.

“oh, a big fellow.”

“hi, yonder's another.”

“yes, yes, oh, look at him run.” from off the surface of the ground, at first apparently empty of all life, and seemingly unable to afford hiding place for so much as a field-mouse, jack-rabbits started up at every moment as the line went forward. at first, they appeared singly and at long intervals; then in twos and threes, as the drive continued to advance. they leaped across the plain, and stopped in the distance, sitting up with straight ears, then ran on again, were joined by others; sank down flush to the soil—their ears flattened; started up again, ran to the side, turned back once more, darted away with incredible swiftness, and were lost to view only to be replaced by a score of others.

gradually, the number of jacks to be seen over the expanse of stubble in front of the line of teams increased. their antics were infinite. no two acted precisely alike. some lay stubbornly close in a little depression between two clods, till the horses' hoofs were all but upon them, then sprang out from their hiding-place at the last second. others ran forward but a few yards at a time, refusing to take flight, scenting a greater danger before them than behind. still others, forced up at the last moment, doubled with lightning alacrity in their tracks, turning back to scuttle between the teams, taking desperate chances. as often as this occurred, it was the signal for a great uproar.

“don't let him get through; don t let him get through.”

“look out for him, there he goes.”

horns were blown, bells rung, tin pans clamorously beaten. either the jack escaped, or confused by the noise, darted back again, fleeing away as if his life depended on the issue of the instant. once even, a bewildered rabbit jumped fair into mrs. derrick's lap as she sat in the carry-all, and was out again like a flash.

“poor frightened thing,” she exclaimed; and for a long time afterward, she retained upon her knees the sensation of the four little paws quivering with excitement, and the feel of the trembling furry body, with its wildly beating heart, pressed against her own.

by noon the number of rabbits discernible by annixter's field glasses on ahead was far into the thousands. what seemed to be ground resolved itself, when seen through the glasses, into a maze of small, moving bodies, leaping, ducking, doubling, running back and forth—a wilderness of agitated ears, white tails and twinkling legs. the outside wings of the curved line of vehicles began to draw in a little; osterman's ranch was left behind, the drive continued on over quien sabe.

as the day advanced, the rabbits, singularly enough, became less wild. when flushed, they no longer ran so far nor so fast, limping off instead a few feet at a time, and crouching down, their ears close upon their backs. thus it was, that by degrees the teams began to close up on the main herd. at every instant the numbers increased. it was no longer thousands, it was tens of thousands. the earth was alive with rabbits.

denser and denser grew the throng. in all directions nothing was to be seen but the loose mass of the moving jacks. the horns of the crescent of teams began to contract. far off the corral came into sight. the disintegrated mass of rabbits commenced, as it were, to solidify, to coagulate. at first, each jack was some three feet distant from his nearest neighbor, but this space diminished to two feet, then to one, then to but a few inches. the rabbits began leaping over one another.

then the strange scene defined itself. it was no longer a herd covering the earth. it was a sea, whipped into confusion, tossing incessantly, leaping, falling, agitated by unseen forces. at times the unexpected tameness of the rabbits all at once vanished. throughout certain portions of the herd eddies of terror abruptly burst forth. a panic spread; then there would ensue a blind, wild rushing together of thousands of crowded bodies, and a furious scrambling over backs, till the scuffing thud of innumerable feet over the earth rose to a reverberating murmur as of distant thunder, here and there pierced by the strange, wild cry of the rabbit in distress.

the line of vehicles was halted. to go forward now meant to trample the rabbits under foot. the drive came to a standstill while the herd entered the corral. this took time, for the rabbits were by now too crowded to run. however, like an opened sluice-gate, the extending flanks of the entrance of the corral slowly engulfed the herd. the mass, packed tight as ever, by degrees diminished, precisely as a pool of water when a dam is opened. the last stragglers went in with a rush, and the gate was dropped.

“come, just have a lock in here,” called annixter.

hilma, descending from the carry-all and joined by presley and harran, approached and looked over the high board fence.

“oh, did you ever see anything like that?” she exclaimed.

the corral, a really large enclosure, had proved all too small for the number of rabbits collected by the drive. inside it was a living, moving, leaping, breathing, twisting mass. the rabbits were packed two, three, and four feet deep. they were in constant movement; those beneath struggling to the top, those on top sinking and disappearing below their fellows. all wildness, all fear of man, seemed to have entirely disappeared. men and boys reaching over the sides of the corral, picked up a jack in each hand, holding them by the ears, while two reporters from san francisco papers took photographs of the scene. the noise made by the tens of thousands of moving bodies was as the noise of wind in a forest, while from the hot and sweating mass there rose a strange odor, penetrating, ammoniacal, savouring of wild life.

on signal, the killing began. dogs that had been brought there for that purpose when let into the corral refused, as had been half expected, to do the work. they snuffed curiously at the pile, then backed off, disturbed, perplexed. but the men and boys—portuguese for the most part—were more eager. annixter drew hilma away, and, indeed, most of the people set about the barbecue at once.

in the corral, however, the killing went forward. armed with a club in each hand, the young fellows from guadalajara and bonneville, and the farm boys from the ranches, leaped over the rails of the corral. they walked unsteadily upon the myriad of crowding bodies underfoot, or, as space was cleared, sank almost waist deep into the mass that leaped and squirmed about them. blindly, furiously, they struck and struck. the anglo-saxon spectators round about drew back in disgust, but the hot, degenerated blood of portuguese, mexican, and mixed spaniard boiled up in excitement at this wholesale slaughter.

but only a few of the participants of the drive cared to look on. all the guests betook themselves some quarter of a mile farther on into the hills.

the picnic and barbecue were to be held around the spring where broderson creek took its rise. already two entire beeves were roasting there; teams were hitched, saddles removed, and men, women, and children, a great throng, spread out under the shade of the live oaks. a vast confused clamour rose in the air, a babel of talk, a clatter of tin plates, of knives and forks. bottles were uncorked, napkins and oil-cloths spread over the ground. the men lit pipes and cigars, the women seized the occasion to nurse their babies.

osterman, ubiquitous as ever, resplendent in his boots and english riding breeches, moved about between the groups, keeping up an endless flow of talk, cracking jokes, winking, nudging, gesturing, putting his tongue in his cheek, never at a loss for a reply, playing the goat.

“that josher, osterman, always at his monkey-shines, but a good fellow for all that; brainy too. nothing stuck up about him either, like magnus derrick.”

“everything all right, buck?” inquired osterman, coming up to where annixter, hilma and mrs. derrick were sitting down to their lunch.

“yes, yes, everything right. but we've no cork-screw.”

“no screw-cork—no scare-crow? here you are,” and he drew from his pocket a silver-plated jack-knife with a cork-screw attachment. harran and presley came up, bearing between them a great smoking, roasted portion of beef just off the fire. hilma hastened to put forward a huge china platter.

osterman had a joke to crack with the two boys, a joke that was rather broad, but as he turned about, the words almost on his lips, his glance fell upon hilma herself, whom he had not seen for more than two months.

she had handed presley the platter, and was now sitting with her back against the tree, between two boles of the roots. the position was a little elevated and the supporting roots on either side of her were like the arms of a great chair—a chair of state. she sat thus, as on a throne, raised above the rest, the radiance of the unseen crown of motherhood glowing from her forehead, the beauty of the perfect woman surrounding her like a glory.

and the josh died away on osterman's lips, and unconsciously and swiftly he bared his head. something was passing there in the air about him that he did not understand, something, however, that imposed reverence and profound respect. for the first time in his life, embarrassment seized upon him, upon this joker, this wearer of clothes, this teller of funny stories, with his large, red ears, bald head and comic actor's face. he stammered confusedly and took himself away, for the moment abstracted, serious, lost in thought.

by now everyone was eating. it was the feeding of the people, elemental, gross, a great appeasing of appetite, an enormous quenching of thirst. quarters of beef, roasts, ribs, shoulders, haunches were consumed, loaves of bread by the thousands disappeared, whole barrels of wine went down the dry and dusty throats of the multitude. conversation lagged while the people ate, while hunger was appeased. everybody had their fill. one ate for the sake of eating, resolved that there should be nothing left, considering it a matter of pride to exhibit a clean plate.

after dinner, preparations were made for games. on a flat plateau at the top of one of the hills the contestants were to strive. there was to be a footrace of young girls under seventeen, a fat men's race, the younger fellows were to put the shot, to compete in the running broad jump, and the standing high jump, in the hop, skip, and step and in wrestling.

presley was delighted with it all. it was homeric, this feasting, this vast consuming of meat and bread and wine, followed now by games of strength. an epic simplicity and directness, an honest anglo-saxon mirth and innocence, commended it. crude it was; coarse it was, but no taint of viciousness was here. these people were good people, kindly, benignant even, always readier to give than to receive, always more willing to help than to be helped. they were good stock. of such was the backbone of the nation—sturdy americans everyone of them. where else in the world round were such strong, honest men, such strong, beautiful women?

annixter, harran, and presley climbed to the level plateau where the games were to be held, to lay out the courses, and mark the distances. it was the very place where once presley had loved to lounge entire afternoons, reading his books of poems, smoking and dozing. from this high point one dominated the entire valley to the south and west. the view was superb. the three men paused for a moment on the crest of the hill to consider it.

young vacca came running and panting up the hill after them, calling for annixter.

“well, well, what is it?”

“mr. osterman's looking for you, sir, you and mr. harran. vanamee, that cow-boy over at derrick's, has just come from the governor with a message. i guess it's important.”

“hello, what's up now?” muttered annixter, as they turned back.

they found osterman saddling his horse in furious haste. near-by him was vanamee holding by the bridle an animal that was one lather of sweat. a few of the picnickers were turning their heads curiously in that direction. evidently something of moment was in the wind.

“what's all up?” demanded annixter, as he and harran, followed by presley, drew near.

“there's hell to pay,” exclaimed osterman under his breath. “read that. vanamee just brought it.”

he handed annixter a sheet of note paper, and turned again to the cinching of his saddle.

“we've got to be quick,” he cried. “they've stolen a march on us.”

annixter read the note, harran and presley looking over his shoulder.

“ah, it's them, is it,” exclaimed annixter.

harran set his teeth. “now for it,” he exclaimed. “they've been to your place already, mr. annixter,” said vanamee. “i passed by it on my way up. they have put delaney in possession, and have set all your furniture out in the road.”

annixter turned about, his lips white. already presley and harran had run to their horses.

“vacca,” cried annixter, “where's vacca? put the saddle on the buckskin, quick. osterman, get as many of the league as are here together at this spot, understand. i'll be back in a minute. i must tell hilma this.”

hooven ran up as annixter disappeared. his little eyes were blazing, he was dragging his horse with him.

“say, dose fellers come, hey? me, i'm alretty, see i hev der guhn.”

“they've jumped the ranch, little girl,” said annixter, putting one arm around hilma. “they're in our house now. i'm off. go to derrick's and wait for me there.”

she put her arms around his neck.

“you're going?” she demanded.

“i must. don't be frightened. it will be all right. go to derrick's and—good-bye.”

she said never a word. she looked once long into his eyes, then kissed him on the mouth.

meanwhile, the news had spread. the multitude rose to its feet. women and men, with pale faces, looked at each other speechless, or broke forth into inarticulate exclamations. a strange, unfamiliar murmur took the place of the tumultuous gaiety of the previous moments. a sense of dread, of confusion, of impending terror weighed heavily in the air. what was now to happen?

when annixter got back to osterman, he found a number of the leaguers already assembled. they were all mounted. hooven was there and harran, and besides these, garnett of the ruby ranch and gethings of the san pablo, phelps the foreman of los muertos, and, last of all, dabney, silent as ever, speaking to no one. presley came riding up.

“best keep out of this, pres,” cried annixter.

“are we ready?” exclaimed gethings.

“ready, ready, we're all here.”

“all. is this all of us?” cried annixter. “where are the six hundred men who were going to rise when this happened?”

they had wavered, these other leaguers. now, when the actual crisis impended, they were smitten with confusion. ah, no, they were not going to stand up and be shot at just to save derrick's land. they were not armed. what did annixter and osterman take them for? no, sir; the railroad had stolen a march on them. after all his big talk derrick had allowed them to be taken by surprise. the only thing to do was to call a meeting of the executive committee. that was the only thing. as for going down there with no weapons in their hands, no, sir. that was asking a little too much. “come on, then, boys,” shouted osterman, turning his back on the others. “the governor says to meet him at hooven's. we'll make for the long trestle and strike the trail to hooven's there.”

they set off. it was a terrible ride. twice during the scrambling descent from the hills, presley's pony fell beneath him. annixter, on his buckskin, and osterman, on his thoroughbred, good horsemen both, led the others, setting a terrific pace. the hills were left behind. broderson creek was crossed and on the levels of quien sabe, straight through the standing wheat, the nine horses, flogged and spurred, stretched out to their utmost. their passage through the wheat sounded like the rip and tear of a gigantic web of cloth. the landscape on either hand resolved itself into a long blur. tears came to the eyes, flying pebbles, clods of earth, grains of wheat flung up in the flight, stung the face like shot. osterman's thoroughbred took the second crossing of broderson's creek in a single leap. down under the long trestle tore the cavalcade in a shower of mud and gravel; up again on the further bank, the horses blowing like steam engines; on into the trail to hooven's, single file now, presley's pony lagging, hooven's horse bleeding at the eyes, the buckskin, game as a fighting cock, catching her second wind, far in the lead now, distancing even the english thoroughbred that osterman rode.

at last hooven's unpainted house, beneath the enormous live oak tree, came in sight. across the lower road, breaking through fences and into the yard around the house, thundered the leaguers. magnus was waiting for them.

the riders dismounted, hardly less exhausted than their horses.

“why, where's all the men?” annixter demanded of magnus.

“broderson is here and cutter,” replied the governor, “no one else. i thought you would bring more men with you.”

“there are only nine of us.”

“and the six hundred leaguers who were going to rise when this happened!” exclaimed garnett, bitterly.

“rot the league,” cried annixter. “it's gone to pot—went to pieces at the first touch.”

“we have been taken by surprise, gentlemen, after all,” said magnus. “totally off our guard. but there are eleven of us. it is enough.”

“well, what's the game? has the marshal come? how many men are with him?”

“the united states marshal from san francisco,” explained magnus, “came down early this morning and stopped at guadalajara. we learned it all through our friends in bonneville about an hour ago. they telephoned me and mr. broderson. s. behrman met him and provided about a dozen deputies. delaney, ruggles, and christian joined them at guadalajara. they left guadalajara, going towards mr. annixter's ranch house on quien sabe. they are serving the writs in ejectment and putting the dummy buyers in possession. they are armed. s. behrman is with them.”

“where are they now?”

“cutter is watching them from the long trestle. they returned to guadalajara. they are there now.”

“well,” observed gethings, “from guadalajara they can only go to two places. either they will take the upper road and go on to osterman's next, or they will take the lower road to mr. derrick's.”

“that is as i supposed,” said magnus. “that is why i wanted you to come here. from hooven's, here, we can watch both roads simultaneously.”

“is anybody on the lookout on the upper road?”

“cutter. he is on the long trestle.”

“say,” observed hooven, the instincts of the old-time soldier stirring him, “say, dose feller pretty demn schmart, i tink. we got to put some picket way oudt bei der lower roadt alzoh, und he tek dose glassus mist'r ennixt'r got bei um. say, look at dose irregation ditsch. dot ditsch he run righd across both dose road, hey? dat's some fine entrenchment, you bedt. we fighd um from dose ditsch.”

in fact, the dry irrigating ditch was a natural trench, admirably suited to the purpose, crossing both roads as hooven pointed out and barring approach from guadalajara to all the ranches save annixter's—which had already been seized.

gethings departed to join cutter on the long trestle, while phelps and harran, taking annixter's field glasses with them, and mounting their horses, went out towards guadalajara on the lower road to watch for the marshal's approach from that direction.

after the outposts had left them, the party in hooven's cottage looked to their weapons. long since, every member of the league had been in the habit of carrying his revolver with him. they were all armed and, in addition, hooven had his rifle. presley alone carried no weapon.

the main room of hooven's house, in which the leaguers were now assembled, was barren, poverty-stricken, but tolerably clean. an old clock ticked vociferously on a shelf. in one corner was a bed, with a patched, faded quilt. in the centre of the room, straddling over the bare floor, stood a pine table. around this the men gathered, two or three occupying chairs, annixter sitting sideways on the table, the rest standing.

“i believe, gentlemen,” said magnus, “that we can go through this day without bloodshed. i believe not one shot need be fired. the railroad will not force the issue, will not bring about actual fighting. when the marshal realises that we are thoroughly in earnest, thoroughly determined, i am convinced that he will withdraw.”

there were murmurs of assent.

“look here,” said annixter, “if this thing can by any means be settled peaceably, i say let's do it, so long as we don't give in.”

the others stared. was this annixter who spoke—the hotspur of the league, the quarrelsome, irascible fellow who loved and sought a quarrel? was it annixter, who now had been the first and only one of them all to suffer, whose ranch had been seized, whose household possessions had been flung out into the road?

“when you come right down to it,” he continued, “killing a man, no matter what he's done to you, is a serious business. i propose we make one more attempt to stave this thing off. let's see if we can't get to talk with the marshal himself; at any rate, warn him of the danger of going any further. boys, let's not fire the first shot. what do you say?”

the others agreed unanimously and promptly; and old broderson, tugging uneasily at his long beard, added:

“no—no—no violence, no unnecessary violence, that is. i should hate to have innocent blood on my hands—that is, if it is innocent. i don't know, that s. behrman—ah, he is a—a—surely he had innocent blood on his head. that dyke affair, terrible, terrible; but then dyke was in the wrong—driven to it, though; the railroad did drive him to it. i want to be fair and just to everybody.”

“there's a team coming up the road from los muertos,” announced presley from the door.

“fair and just to everybody,” murmured old broderson, wagging his head, frowning perplexedly. “i don't want to—to—to harm anybody unless they harm me.”

“is the team going towards guadalajara?” enquired garnett, getting up and coming to the door.

“yes, it's a portuguese, one of the garden truck men.”

“we must turn him back,” declared osterman. “he can't go through here. we don't want him to take any news on to the marshal and s. behrman.”

“i'll turn him back,” said presley.

he rode out towards the market cart, and the others, watching from the road in front of hooven's, saw him halt it. an excited interview followed. they could hear the portuguese expostulating volubly, but in the end he turned back.

“martial law on los muertos, isn't it?” observed osterman. “steady all,” he exclaimed as he turned about, “here comes harran.”

harran rode up at a gallop. the others surrounded him.

“i saw them,” he cried. “they are coming this way. s. behrman and ruggles are in a two-horse buggy. all the others are on horseback. there are eleven of them. christian and delaney are with them. those two have rifles. i left hooven watching them.”

“better call in gethings and cutter right away,” said annixter. “we'll need all our men.”

“i'll call them in,” presley volunteered at once. “can i have the buckskin? my pony is about done up.”

he departed at a brisk gallop, but on the way met gethings and cutter returning. they, too, from their elevated position, had observed the marshal's party leaving guadalajara by the lower road. presley told them of the decision of the leaguers not to fire until fired upon.

“all right,” said gethings. “but if it comes to a gun-fight, that means it's all up with at least one of us. delaney never misses his man.”

when they reached hooven's again, they found that the leaguers had already taken their position in the ditch. the plank bridge across it had been torn up. magnus, two long revolvers lying on the embankment in front of him, was in the middle, harran at his side. on either side, some five feet intervening between each man, stood the other leaguers, their revolvers ready. dabney, the silent old man, had taken off his coat.

“take your places between mr. osterman and mr. broderson,” said magnus, as the three men rode up. “presley,” he added, “i forbid you to take any part in this affair.”

“yes, keep him out of it,” cried annixter from his position at the extreme end of the line. “go back to hooven's house, pres, and look after the horses,” he added. “this is no business of yours. and keep the road behind us clear. don't let any one come near, not any one, understand?”

presley withdrew, leading the buckskin and the horses that gethings and cutter had ridden. he fastened them under the great live oak and then came out and stood in the road in front of the house to watch what was going on.

in the ditch, shoulder deep, the leaguers, ready, watchful, waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the white shimmer of the road leading to guadalajara.

“where's hooven?” enquired cutter.

“i don't know,” osterman replied. “he was out watching the lower road with harran derrick. oh, harran,” he called, “isn't hooven coming in?”

“i don't know what he is waiting for,” answered harran. “he was to have come in just after me. he thought maybe the marshal's party might make a feint in this direction, then go around by the upper road, after all. he wanted to watch them a little longer. but he ought to be here now.”

“think he'll take a shot at them on his own account?”

“oh, no, he wouldn't do that.”

“maybe they took him prisoner.”

“well, that's to be thought of, too.”

suddenly there was a cry. around the bend of the road in front of them came a cloud of dust. from it emerged a horse's head.

“hello, hello, there's something.”

“remember, we are not to fire first.”

“perhaps that's hooven; i can't see. is it? there only seems to be one horse.”

“too much dust for one horse.”

annixter, who had taken his field glasses from harran, adjusted them to his eyes.

“that's not them,” he announced presently, “nor hooven either. that's a cart.” then after another moment, he added, “the butcher's cart from guadalajara.”

the tension was relaxed. the men drew long breaths, settling back in their places.

“do we let him go on, governor?”

“the bridge is down. he can't go by and we must not let him go back. we shall have to detain him and question him. i wonder the marshal let him pass.”

the cart approached at a lively trot.

“anybody else in that cart, mr. annixter?” asked magnus. “look carefully. it may be a ruse. it is strange the marshal should have let him pass.”

the leaguers roused themselves again. osterman laid his hand on his revolver.

“no,” called annixter, in another instant, “no, there's only one man in it.”

the cart came up, and cutter and phelps, clambering from the ditch, stopped it as it arrived in front of the party.

“hey—what—what?” exclaimed the young butcher, pulling up. “is that bridge broke?”

but at the idea of being held, the boy protested at top voice, badly frightened, bewildered, not knowing what was to happen next.

“no, no, i got my meat to deliver. say, you let me go. say, i ain't got nothing to do with you.”

he tugged at the reins, trying to turn the cart about. cutter, with his jack-knife, parted the reins just back of the bit.

“you'll stay where you are, m' son, for a while. we're not going to hurt you. but you are not going back to town till we say so. did you pass anybody on the road out of town?”

in reply to the leaguers' questions, the young butcher at last told them he had passed a two-horse buggy and a lot of men on horseback just beyond the railroad tracks. they were headed for los muertos.

“that's them, all right,” muttered annixter. “they're coming by this road, sure.”

the butcher's horse and cart were led to one side of the road, and the horse tied to the fence with one of the severed lines. the butcher, himself, was passed over to presley, who locked him in hooven's barn.

“well, what the devil,” demanded osterman, “has become of bismarck?”

in fact, the butcher had seen nothing of hooven. the minutes were passing, and still he failed to appear.

“what's he up to, anyways?”

“bet you what you like, they caught him. just like that crazy dutchman to get excited and go too near. you can always depend on hooven to lose his head.”

five minutes passed, then ten. the road towards guadalajara lay empty, baking and white under the sun.

“well, the marshal and s. behrman don't seem to be in any hurry, either.”

“shall i go forward and reconnoitre, governor?” asked harran.

but dabney, who stood next to annixter, touched him on the shoulder and, without speaking, pointed down the road. annixter looked, then suddenly cried out:

“here comes hooven.”

the german galloped into sight, around the turn of the road, his rifle laid across his saddle. he came on rapidly, pulled up, and dismounted at the ditch.

“dey're commen,” he cried, trembling with excitement. “i watch um long dime bei der side oaf der roadt in der busches. dey shtop bei der gate oder side der relroadt trecks and talk long dime mit one n'udder. den dey gome on. dey're gowun sure do zum monkey-doodle pizeness. me, i see gritschun put der kertridges in his guhn. i tink dey gowun to gome my blace first. dey gowun to try put me off, tek my home, bei gott.”

“all right, get down in here and keep quiet, hooven. don't fire unless——”

“here they are.”

a half-dozen voices uttered the cry at once.

there could be no mistake this time. a buggy, drawn by two horses, came into view around the curve of the road. three riders accompanied it, and behind these, seen at intervals in a cloud of dust were two—three—five—six others.

this, then, was s. behrman with the united states marshal and his posse. the event that had been so long in preparation, the event which it had been said would never come to pass, the last trial of strength, the last fight between the trust and the people, the direct, brutal grapple of armed men, the law defied, the government ignored, behold, here it was close at hand.

osterman cocked his revolver, and in the profound silence that had fallen upon the scene, the click was plainly audible from end to end of the line.

“remember our agreement, gentlemen,” cried magnus, in a warning voice. “mr. osterman, i must ask you to let down the hammer of your weapon.”

no one answered. in absolute quiet, standing motionless in their places, the leaguers watched the approach of the marshal.

five minutes passed. the riders came on steadily. they drew nearer. the grind of the buggy wheels in the grit and dust of the road, and the prolonged clatter of the horses' feet began to make itself heard. the leaguers could distinguish the faces of their enemies.

in the buggy were s. behrman and cyrus ruggles, the latter driving. a tall man in a frock coat and slouched hat—the marshal, beyond question—rode at the left of the buggy; delaney, carrying a winchester, at the right. christian, the real estate broker, s. behrman's cousin, also with a rifle, could be made out just behind the marshal. back of these, riding well up, was a group of horsemen, indistinguishable in the dust raised by the buggy's wheels.

steadily the distance between the leaguers and the posse diminished.

“don't let them get too close, governor,” whispered harran.

when s. behrman's buggy was about one hundred yards distant from the irrigating ditch, magnus sprang out upon the road, leaving his revolvers behind him. he beckoned garnett and gethings to follow, and the three ranchers, who, with the exception of broderson, were the oldest men present, advanced, without arms, to meet the marshal.

magnus cried aloud:

“halt where you are.”

from their places in the ditch, annixter, osterman, dabney, harran, hooven, broderson, cutter, and phelps, their hands laid upon their revolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for anything.

at the governor's words, they saw ruggles pull sharply on the reins. the buggy came to a standstill, the riders doing likewise. magnus approached the marshal, still followed by garnett and gethings, and began to speak. his voice was audible to the men in the ditch, but his words could not be made out. they heard the marshal reply quietly enough and the two shook hands. delaney came around from the side of the buggy, his horse standing before the team across the road. he leaned from the saddle, listening to what was being said, but made no remark. from time to time, s. behrman and ruggles, from their seats in the buggy, interposed a sentence or two into the conversation, but at first, so far as the leaguers could discern, neither magnus nor the marshal paid them any attention. they saw, however, that the latter repeatedly shook his head and once they heard him exclaim in a loud voice:

“i only know my duty, mr. derrick.”

then gethings turned about, and seeing delaney close at hand, addressed an unheard remark to him. the cow-puncher replied curtly and the words seemed to anger gethings. he made a gesture, pointing back to the ditch, showing the intrenched leaguers to the posse. delaney appeared to communicate the news that the leaguers were on hand and prepared to resist, to the other members of the party. they all looked toward the ditch and plainly saw the ranchers there, standing to their arms.

but meanwhile ruggles had addressed himself more directly to magnus, and between the two an angry discussion was going forward. once even harran heard his father exclaim:

“the statement is a lie and no one knows it better than yourself.”

“here,” growled annixter to dabney, who stood next him in the ditch, “those fellows are getting too close. look at them edging up. don't magnus see that?”

the other members of the marshal's force had come forward from their places behind the buggy and were spread out across the road. some of them were gathered about magnus, garnett, and gethings; and some were talking together, looking and pointing towards the ditch. whether acting upon signal or not, the leaguers in the ditch could not tell, but it was certain that one or two of the posse had moved considerably forward. besides this, delaney had now placed his horse between magnus and the ditch, and two others riding up from the rear had followed his example. the posse surrounded the three ranchers, and by now, everybody was talking at once.

“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.