It seemed that Kurt did not altogether lose consciousness, for he had
vague sensations of being dragged along the ground. Presently the
darkness cleared from his mind and he opened his eyes. He lay on his
back. Looking up, he saw stars through the thin, broken clouds of smoke.
A huge pile of railroad ties loomed up beside him.
He tried to take note of his situation. His hands were tied in front of
him, not so securely, he imagined, that he could not work them free. His
legs had not been tied. Both his head and shoulder, on the left side,
pained him severely. Upon looking around, Kurt presently made out the
dark form of a man. He appeared rigid with attention, but that evidently
had no relation to Kurt. The man was listening and watching for his
comrades. Kurt heard no voices or shots. After a little while, however,
he thought he heard distant footsteps on the gravel. He hardly knew what
to make of his predicament. If there was only one guard over him, escape
did not seem difficult, unless that guard had a gun.
"Hello, you!" he called.
"Hello, yourself" replied the man, jerking up in evident surprise.
"What's your name?" inquired Kurt, amiably.
"Well, it ain't J.J. Hill or Anderson," came the gruff response.
Kurt laughed. "But you would be one of those names if you could, now
wouldn't you?" went on Kurt.
"My name is Dennis," gloomily returned the man.
"It certainly is. _That_ is the name of all I.W.W.'s," said Kurt.
"Say, are you the fellow who had the shot-gun?"
"I sure am," replied Kurt.
"I ought to knock you on the head."
"Why?"
"Because I'll have to eat standing up for a month."
"Yes?" queried Kurt.
"The seat of my pants must have made a good target, for you sure pasted
it full of birdshot."
Kurt smothered a laugh. Then he felt the old anger leap up. "Didn't you
burn my wheat?"
"Are you that young Dorn?"
"Yes, I am," replied Kurt, hotly.
"Well, I didn't burn one damn straw of your old wheat."
"You didn't! But you're with these men? You're an I.W.W. You've been
fighting these farmers here."
"If you want to know, I'm a tramp," said the man, bitterly. "Years ago I
was a prosperous oil-producer in Ohio. I had a fine oil-field. Along
comes a big fellow, tries to buy me out, and, failing that, he shot off
dynamite charges into the ground next my oil-field.... Choked my wells!
Ruined me!... I came west--went to farming. Along comes a corporation,
steals my water for irrigation--and my land went back to desert.... So I
quit working and trying to be honest. It doesn't pay. The rich men are
getting all the richer at the expense of the poor. So now I'm a tramp."
"Friend, that's a hard-luck story," said Kurt. "It sure makes me
think.... But I'll tell you what--you don't belong to this I.W.W.
outfit, even if you are a tramp."
"Why not?"
"Because you're American! That's why."
"Well, I know I am. But I can be American and travel with a labor union,
can't I?"
"No. This I.W.W. is no labor union. It never was. Their very first rule
is to abolish capital. They're anarchists. And now they're backed by
German money. The I.W.W. is an enemy to America. All this hampering of
railroads, destruction of timber and wheat, is an aid to Germany in the
war. The United States is at war! My God! man, can't you see it's your
own country that must suffer for such deals as this wheat-burning
to-night?"
"The hell you say!" ejaculated the man, in amaze.
"This Glidden is a German agent--perhaps a spy. He's no labor leader.
What does he care for the interests of such men as you?"
"Young man, if you don't shut up you'll give me a hankering to go back
to real work."
"I hope I do. Let me give you a hunch. Throw down this I.W.W. outfit. Go
to Ruxton and get Anderson of 'Many Waters' ranch to give you a job.
Tell him who you are and that I sent you."
"Anderson of 'Many Waters,' hey? Well, maybe it'll surprise you to know
that Glidden is operating there, has a lot of men there, and is going
there from here."
"No, it doesn't surprise me. I hope he does go there. For if he does
he'll get killed."
"Sssssh!" whispered the guard. "Here comes some of the gang."
Kurt heard low voices and soft footfalls. Some dark forms loomed up.
"Bradford, has he come to yet?" queried the brutal voice of Glidden.
"Nope," replied the guard. "I guess he had a hard knock. He's never
budged."
"We've got to beat it out of here," said Glidden. "It's long after
midnight. There's a freight-train down the track. I want all the gang to
board it. You run along, Bradford, and catch up with the others."
"What're you going to do with this young fellow?" queried Bradford,
curiously.
"That's none of your business," returned Glidden.
"Maybe not. But I reckon I'll ask, anyhow. You want me to join your
I.W.W., and I'm asking questions. Labor strikes--standing up for your
rights--is one thing, and burning wheat or slugging young farmers is
another. Are you going to let this Dorn go?"
Kurt could plainly see the group of five men, Bradford standing over the
smaller Glidden, and the others strung and silent in the intensity of
the moment.
"I'll cut his throat," hissed Glidden.
Bradford lunged heavily. The blow he struck Glidden was square in the
face. Glidden would have had a hard fall but for the obstruction in the
shape of his comrades, upon whom he was knocked. They held him up.
Glidden sagged inertly, evidently stunned or unconscious. Bradford
backed guardedly away out of their reach, then, wheeling, he began to
run with heavy, plodding strides.
Glidden's comrades seemed anxiously holding him up, peering at him, but
no one spoke. Kurt saw his opportunity. With one strong wrench he freed
his hands. Feeling in his pocket for his gun, he was disturbed to find
that it had been taken. He had no weapon. But he did not hesitate.
Bounding up, he rushed like a hurricane upon the unprepared group. He
saw Glidden's pale face upheld to the light of the stars, and by it saw
that Glidden was recovering. With all his might Kurt swung as he rushed,
and the blow he gave the I.W.W. leader far exceeded Bradford's. Glidden
was lifted so powerfully against one of his men that they both fell.
Then Kurt, striking right and left, beat down the other two, and,
leaping over them, he bounded away into the darkness. Shrill piercing
yells behind him lent him wings.
But he ran right into another group of I.W.W. men, dozens in number, he
thought, and by the light of what appeared to be a fire they saw him as
quickly as he saw them. The yells behind were significant enough. Kurt
had to turn to run back, and he had to run the gauntlet of the men he
had assaulted. They promptly began to shoot at Kurt. The whistle of lead
was uncomfortably close. Never had he run so fleetly. When he flashed
past the end of the line of cars, into comparative open, he found
himself in the light of a new fire. This was a shed perhaps a score of
rods or less from the station. Some one was yelling beyond this, and
Kurt thought he recognized Jerry's voice, but he did not tarry to make
sure. Bullets scattering the gravel ahead of him and singing around his
head, and hoarse cries behind, with a heavy-booted tread of pursuers,
gave Kurt occasion to hurry. He flew across the freight-yard, intending
to distance his pursuers, then circle round the station to the village.
Once he looked back. The gang, well spread out, was not far behind him,
just coming into the light of the new fire. No one in it could ever
catch him, of that Kurt was sure.
Suddenly a powerful puff of air, like a blast of wind, seemed to lift
him. At the same instant a dazzling, blinding, yellow blaze illuminated
the whole scene. The solid earth seemed to rock under Kurt's flying
feet, and then a terrific roar appalled him. He was thrown headlong
through the air, and all about him seemed streaks and rays and bursts of
fire. He alighted to plow through the dirt until the momentum of force
had been expended. Then he lay prone, gasping and choking, almost blind,
but sensitive to the rain of gravel and debris, the fearful cries of
terrified men, taste of smoke and dust, and the rank smell of exploded
gasoline.
Kurt got up to grope his way through the murky darkness. He could escape
now. If that explosion had not killed his pursuers it had certainly
scared them off. He heard men running and yelling off to the left. A
rumble of a train came from below the village. Finally Kurt got clear of
the smoke, to find that he had wandered off into one of the fields
opposite the station. Here he halted to rest a little and to take
cognizance of his condition. It surprised him to find out that he was
only bruised, scratched, and sore. He had expected to find himself full
of bullets.
"Whew! They blew up the gasoline-shed!" he soliloquized. "But some of
them miscalculated, for if I don't lose my guess there was a bunch of
I.W.W. closer to that gasoline than I was.... Some adventure!... I got
another punch at Glidden. I felt it in my bones that I'd get a crack at
him. Oh, for another!... And that Bradford! He did make me think. How he
slugged Glidden! Good! Good! There's your old American spirit coming
out."
Kurt sat down to rest and to listen. He found he needed a rest. The only
sound he heard was the rumbling of a train, gradually drawing away. A
heavy smoke rose from the freight-yard, but there were no longer any
blazes or patches of red fire. Perhaps the explosion had smothered all
the flames.
It had been a rather strenuous evening, he reflected. A good deal of
satisfaction lay in the fact that he had severely punished some of the
I.W.W. members, if he had not done away with any of them.
When he thought of Glidden, however, he did not feel any satisfaction.
His fury was gone, but in its place was a strong judgment that such men
should be made examples. He certainly did not want to run across Glidden
again, because if he did he would have blood on his hands.
Kurt's chance meeting with the man Bradford seemed far the most
interesting, if not thrilling, incident of the evening. It opened up a
new point of view. How many of the men of that motley and ill-governed
I.W.W. had grievances like Bradford's? Perhaps there were many. Kurt
tried to remember instances when, in the Northwest wheat country,
laborers and farmers had been cheated or deceived by men of large
interests. It made him grave to discover that he could recall many such
instances. His own father had long nursed a grievance against Anderson.
Neuman, his father's friend, had a hard name. And there were many who
had profited by the misfortune of others. That, after all, was a
condition of life. He took it for granted, then, that all members of the
I.W.W. were not vicious or dishonest. He was glad to have this proof.
The I.W.W. had been organized by labor agitators, and they were the ones
to blame, and their punishment should be severest. Kurt began to see
where the war, cruel as it would be, was going to be of immeasurable
benefit to the country.
It amazed Kurt, presently, to note that dawn was at hand. He waited
awhile longer, wanting to be sure not to meet any lingering members of
the I.W.W. It appeared, indeed, that they had all gone.
He crossed the freight-yard. A black ruin, still smoldering, lay where
the elevators had been. That wonderful wheat yield of his had been
destroyed. In the gray dawn it was hard to realize. He felt a lump in
his throat. Several tracks were littered with the remains of burned
freight-cars. When Kurt reached the street he saw men in front of the
cottages. Some one hailed him, and then several shouted. They met him
half-way. Jerry and Olsen were in the party.
"We was pretty much scared," said Jerry, and his haggard face showed his
anxiety.
"Boy, we thought the I.W.W. had made off with you," added Olsen,
extending his hand.
"Not much! Where are they?" replied Kurt.
"Gone on a freight-train. When Jerry blew up the gasoline-shed that
fixed the I.W.W."
"Jerry, did you do that?" queried Kurt.
"I reckon."
"Well, you nearly blew me off the map. I was running, just below the
shed. When that explosion came I was lifted and thrown a mile. Thought
I'd never light!"
"So far as we can tell, nobody was killed," said Olsen. "Some of our
fellows have got bullet-holes to nurse. But no one is bad hurt."
"That's good. I guess we came out lucky," replied Kurt.
"You must have had some fight, runnin' off that way after the I.W.W.'s.
We heard you shootin' an' the I.W.W.'s yellin'. That part was fun. Tell
us what happened to you."
So Kurt had to narrate his experiences from the time he stole off with
the big shot-gun until his friends saw him again. It made rather a long
story, which manifestly was of exceeding interest to the villagers.
"Dorn," said one of the men, "you an' Jerry saved this here village from
bein' burned."
"We all had a share. I'm sure glad they're gone. Now what damage was
done?"
It turned out that there had been little hurt to the property of the
villagers. Some freight-cars full of barley, loaded and billed by the
railroad people, had been burned, and this loss of grain would probably
be paid for by the company. The loss of wheat would fall upon Kurt. In
the haste of that great harvest and its transportation to the village no
provision had been made for loss. The railroad company had not accepted
his wheat for transportation, and was not liable.
"Olsen, according to our agreement I owe you fifteen thousand dollars,"
said Kurt.
"Yes, but forget it," replied Olsen. "You're the loser here."
"I'll pay it," replied Kurt.
"But, boy, you're ruined!" ejaculated the farmer. "You can't pay that
big price now. An' we don't expect it."
"Didn't you leave your burning fields to come help us save ours?"
queried Kurt.
"Sure. But there wasn't much of mine to burn."
"And so did many of the other men who came to help. I tell you, Olsen,
that means a great deal to me. I'll pay my debt or--or--"
"But how can you?" interrupted Olsen, reasonably. "Sometime, when you
raise another crop like this year, then you could pay."
"The farm will bring that much more than I owe Anderson."
"You'll give up the farm?" exclaimed Olsen.
"Yes. I'll square myself."
"Dorn, we won't take that money," said the farmer, deliberately.
"You'll have to take it. I'll send you a check soon--perhaps to-morrow."
"Give up your land!" repeated Olsen. "Why, that's unheard of! Land in
your family so many years!... What will you do?"
"Olsen, I waited for the draft just on account of my father. If it had
not been for him I'd have enlisted. Anyway, I'm going to war."
That silenced the little group of grimy-faced men.
"Jerry, get our horses and we'll ride home," said Kurt.
The tall foreman strode off. Kurt sensed something poignant in the
feelings of the men, especially Olsen. This matter of the I.W.W. dealing
had brought Kurt and his neighbors closer together. And he thought it a
good opportunity for a few words about the United States and the war and
Germany. So he launched forth into an eloquent expression of some of his
convictions. He was still talking when Jerry returned with the horses.
At length he broke off, rather abruptly, and, saying good-by, he
mounted.
"Hold on, Kurt," called Olsen, and left the group to lay a hand on the
horse and to speak low. "What you said struck me deep. It applies pretty
hard to us of the Bend. We've always been farmers, with no thought of
country. An' that's because we left our native country to come here. I'm
not German an' I've never been for Germany. But many of my neighbors an'
friends are Germans. This war never has come close till now. I know
Germans in this country. They have left their fatherland an' they are
lost to that fatherland!... It may take some time to stir them up, to
make them see, but the day will come.... Take my word for it, Dorn, the
German-Americans of the Northwest, when it comes to a pinch, will find
themselves an' be true to the country they have adopted."