When Bob left the Mexican cotton gin after the interview with Reedy
Jenkins he had the feeling of furious futility which many a brave man
has felt under similar circumstances. Yonder, two hundred yards away,
he could see American soldiers patrolling the border; yet so little
influence and so little fear did that big benign government wield over
here that he knew that scoundrel and his villainous Mexican
confederates could ruin his fields, throw him in jail and, even as
Reedy threatened, bleach his bones on the sand, and no help come from
over there--not in time to save him.
And yet there must be ways. There were other Mexican officials than
the thieving one that Reedy had bribed to protect his movements and
robberies. There were some fair Mexicans; and there were others, even
if unfair, on whom the pressure of self-interest could surely be
brought to bear.
It was unfortunate, Bob reflected, that Jim Crill had bought up all the
debts against Jenkins' cotton. If these debts had been left scattered
among the banks and stores and implement dealers, there would have been
some influential cooperation in his effort to get action from the
Mexican officials.
Bob went across the line and filed a long telegram to the State
Department at Washington outlining the situation and asking for
assistance. Then he caught the train for Los Angeles, where he had
learned the American consul at the nearest Mexican port, whom he knew,
was on a vacation.
The consul was very indignant at the treatment Rogeen was receiving and
promised to investigate.
"Investigate!" Bob ran his fingers through his thick, sweaty hair, and
unconsciously gave it a jerk. "But, man, I need water right now! It's
the most critical time of the whole crop. Every day of delay means a
loss of ten, fifteen, twenty thousand dollars."
"I know," said the consul; "but don't you see no officer can act merely
on the word of one man. We have to get evidence and forward it to the
department. If only I had the authority to act on my own initiative, I
could bring them to time in twenty-four hours."
"If you wired to the department for authority," suggested Bob,
"couldn't you get it?"
The consul shook his head doubtfully. He really was impressed by Bob's
desperate situation. "I'll try it, and I'll be down to-morrow to see
what I can do."
Bob returned to Calexico with a little hope--not much but a little.
Anyway, he was anxious to see the department's reply to his own appeal.
But it had not replied. The Western Union operator was almost insulted
that Bob should imagine there was a message there for him.
Bob wrote another appeal, a little longer, and if possible more urgent,
and fired that into Washington.
The consul came the following day. He interviewed the other ranchers
and verified Bob's statements. He took affidavits, and made up quite a
bulky report and dispatched it by mail to Washington. In the meantime
he wired, briefly outlining the substance of his letter, and asked for
temporary authority to take measures that would force the Mexican
officials to act.
Bob was fairly hopeful over this. He waited anxiously for twenty-four
hours for some answer. None came. This was the third day since his
cotton began to need water. The thermometer went to 131 at two
o'clock. No green plant could survive long without water.
He rode all day enlisting the cooperation of influential men in the
valley on the American side, and got several of them to send wires to
Washington. Every night when he returned to Calexico he went eagerly
to the telegraph office; but each time the operator emphatically shook
his head. Then Bob laboured over another long telegram, begging for
haste; he paid nine dollars and forty cents toll and urged that the
message be rushed.
By the fifth day Rogeen was getting desperate. He returned to Calexico
at seven o'clock, jumped out of his car, and hurried into the telegraph
office.
A message! A telegram for him at last! He had got action. Maybe even
yet he could save most of his crop. The message was collect--$1.62.
He dropped two silver dollars on the counter and without noticing the
change tore open the message. It was from the department at Washington
and was brief:
DEAR SIR:
If you file your complaints in writing, they will be referred to the
proper department for consideration.
R. P. M., _Ass't to Sec. of State._
Then Bob gave up, turned about gloomily, and went out to his machine,
and started south toward the Chandler ranch.