MORE ORATORY
FOUR men sat at a small table in a corner of the crowded hotel
dining-room, in El Centro. Their names made their corner the
psychological center of the room. Marshall was always a target of
speculation. MacLean, straight and soldierly in his mustard-colored
clothes, was, as usual, the man of distinction. Black started the
whisper going that the dark stranger was General de la Vega, the
Mexican commissioner.
What was he doing in that group? Babcock completed a combination which
encouraged speculations and head-shakings. The room was jammed with
valley men. The meeting of the ranchers and the several water companies
had been called for that afternoon, the summons signed by Faraday
himself. Nothing else had been talked of for a fortnight.
It was known throughout the valley that the work at the intake was not
yet begun; that Rickard was waiting there for orders; that Faraday and
the president of the United States were involved in correspondence as
to the responsibility for the future control of the river. Faraday’s
eagerness to shift his burden was looked upon as suspicious. It was in
the air that the officers of the Overland Pacific would demand a recall
of the damage suits before they would complete the protective works at
the Heading. The men of long vision, members of the water companies,
and Brandon, through the valley _Star_, were pointing out that the
valley’s salvation depended on the immediate control of the river;
that the railroad, only, had power to effect it. These conservatives
were counseling caution. Only that morning, the _Star_ had issued
an extra, a special edition pleading for cooperation. “If the river
breaks out again,” warned Brandon’s editorial, “without immediate
force to restrain it, reclamation for that valley is a dream that is
done. And the only force equal to that emergency is the railroad. Why
deliberately antagonize the railroad? The Desert Reclamation Company,
it is well known, is bankrupt. For the instant, the railroad has
assumed the responsibilities of the smaller organization. Apply the
same situation to individuals. Suppose a private citizen is in straits,
and another comes forward to help him. Must every creditor assume that
the Samaritan should pay the crushed citizen’s bills? In the present
issue, self-interest should urge consideration. Better a small loss
to-day that to-morrow may amply refund, than total ruin in the future.”
“Subsidized by the O. P.!” With the whisper ran a wink. The advice of
all the conservatives was believed to be business policy. Black and
others were inflaming public spirit. During the week that followed
Faraday’s call, there had been meetings of the various water companies;
incendiary excitement had demoralized the discussions. “The pledges of
the Desert Reclamation should be kept.”
Hardin, from his morose unshared table, could see the anxious curiosity
setting toward the railroad group. Over glasses, heads were close
together. Near him, the talk ran high. Scraps of inflammable speeches
blew his way from Barton’s party.
Hardin’s mouth wore a set sneer. “Water company talk!” Black was
haranguing his comrades. “Stand out against them. Don’t let them bluff
you. Marshall will try to bluff you. Stand together!” Barton’s resonant
organ broke through the clatter. “Marshall is not going to bluff us.”
Grace and Black began to talk at once. Hardin’s lip grew rougher.
Where had they all been if it had not been for him? Why, he’d pulled
them from their little farms back East, where they were toiling--where
they’d be toiling yet. They’d had the vision of sudden wealth--they
hadn’t the grit to work for it, to wait for it! How many years had he
been struggling? He was a young man when he’d gone into this thing, and
he was old now.
His eyes fell on Hollister from the Palo Verde, with Youngberg and his
wife, who in pale gray cloth looked as though she were on her way to a
reception. He scowled at the leveling of gold lorgnettes in Morton’s
group--the eastern swells there for a possible sensation! And Senator
Graves had thought it important enough to come down from Los Angeles?
The tall duffer with him, his head gleaming like a billiard ball, was
probably the New York lawyer who was dickering for the A B C ranch.
He had read of it in the Los Angeles papers; a big syndicate thought
this the time to get in cheap, when confidence was at a low ebb. “It’s
high-water mark with Graves, or nothing,” scowled Hardin. “He’s no
spring chicken. They’ll all make money out of this valley, but me. I
haven’t tried to make money; I’ve made the valley! And is there a more
hated man in this room? Sickening!”
Coffee and cigars had been reached of the midday dinner. Babcock was
nervously consulting his watch. “Shouldn’t we arrange the meeting?”
he asked for the third time. The social and casual air of the meeting
had teased him. What had the political situation in Mexico to do with
the important session confronting them? His fussy soul had no polite
salons; office rooms every one of them. MacLean looked to Tod Marshall
to answer.
“I think it will arrange itself,” his voice was silken. “It is to be a
discussion, a conference. You can’t slate that.”
“We could program,” began Babcock, looking at his watch again.
“I don’t think we’ll have to.” Marshall smiled across the table.
“You’ll find this meeting will run itself. There is not a man here who
is not burning to speak. Look at them now! Drop a paper in that crowd,
and see the blaze you’d get! You can open the meeting, Mr. Babcock, and
I would suggest that you call on Mr. de la Vega first.”
“And next?” Babcock’s nervous pencil hovered over his note-book.
“The rest will resolve itself.” Marshall’s eyes were twinkling. “We’ll
find our cue. I’ll kick you under the table when I want to talk. You
can’t program against passions, Babcock.”
“But we ought to be starting.” Fussily Babcock marshaled them from
their leisurely cigars. “It is getting late.”
The eyes of the dining-room followed the party as they filed past
the buzzing tables. Faraday was not in town; Marshall represented
that power. As he walked out, bowing right and left, his right hand
occasionally extended in his well-known oratorical, courteous gesture.
His black tie was stringing down his shirt-front; his black clothes
were the worse for his lunch. But no one, save the eastern girls,
saw spots or tie. The future of that valley lay in that man’s hand,
no matter how Black or Grace might harangue. In five minutes, the
dining-room was emptied.
The main street was lined with groups of ranchers, who had driven in to
the advertised meeting. On some of the wagons, men were finishing their
basket lunches. The sun was mild; the sky clear.
Hardin overheard bits of eager argument as he threaded the crowded
street, his head down, avoiding recognition.
“The Service’ll try to get in.” “The O. P.’s got a good thing.” “I tell
you, the railroad’s in a hole.” “Faraday’s a fathead.”
As snow gently falling, had gathered the first damage suits of the
ranchers. The last flood had precipitated a temperamental storm. Men
were suing for the possible values of their farms, impossible values
of crops. Not alone the companies had been blanketed with the accusing
papers, but against Mexico the white drifts had piled up. Mexico! No
one knew better than Hardin how absurd it was to accuse the sister
country of responsibility. A pretty pickle they were in! Where was it
all going to end?
The town teemed with importance. In the whole valley, this was the one
place which could house the expected crowd. The spectacular new city,
which had sprung full grown from the head of its Jovian promoter,
Petrie, whose outlying lands must be brought into value, had justified
itself. It had offered its theater. Toward that white-painted building,
fresh as crude wine, the groups were turning. To Hardin, borne along
with the stream which overflowed from the narrow walks, came the memory
of a forgotten tale: a palace raised in a single night was scarcely
more spectacular than this town of a year’s growth. A theater, a
steam-laundry, an ice-plant, and his eyes included two new book-stores,
new at least to him. Where would all this have been if it had not been
for him? And what was he? An outcast in their midst, no one speaking to
him! But they’d need him yet; they’d be turning to him. It would be all
right, somehow! He’d make Gert proud of him!
Groups of men were standing around the entrance to the Valley Theater,
where the lithographed bill-boards were still proclaiming five weeks of
grand and comic opera. One week of successful programs, the preceding
spring, and the roistering singers had disbanded to form a melon
company. They had rented a tract, some tents, and had gone in pursuit
of swift money. After the harvesting of their crops, the heat of the
summer and the clink of the dollars in their pockets had discouraged
the completion of the engagement. Abandoning their intention, the
genial troupe had swept out of the steaming valley to tell their merry
story on the Rialto.
In the lobby, Hardin ran up against Brandon, who was following a news
scent. Through the valley it was being rumored that subscriptions were
to be asked for the completion of the work. If this were the intention,
there would be a hot meeting, worth sending to the _Sun_. The war-horse
was treading battle-ground.
“You are going on the platform?” assumed the newspaper man. “No? Then
will you sit with me?”
“If you will sit up-stairs,” scowled Hardin, “I don’t want to be
dragged on to the platform.”
He led the way up the dusty dark steps to the balcony, and on to the
rear where the ceiling sharply slanted. They established themselves in
seats by the wall. The air had a dry smell of old tobacco and stale
perfumes; of face powders. Brandon had a minute of coughing.
When they had entered, only a few seats were occupied. That instant,
the crowd crushed in. Men and women jostled one another in the narrow
aisles; the chairs filled up; some of the younger men jumped over
chair-backs, as sheep over rocks. Hardin and Brandon leaned over to see
the inrush. They saw Barton’s shriveled body and leonine head borne in
by his friends. Senator Graves was entering a proscenium box with his
companion.
“That’s Hawkins, who represents the Eastern syndicate that’s bargaining
for the A B C,” informed Brandon.
“I could have got that land for ten cents an acre when I began this
work, if I’d looked out for myself! It would have been better if I had
looked out for myself; what thanks do I get for only working for the
valley?” grouched Hardin. “What’s Graves holding out for?”
“One thousand an acre, and he’ll get it,” answered Brandon. “That
soil is as rich as gold dust. Hello, there’s Watts, of Water Company
Number Two; and John Francis, and Green and Ford. They’ve not sent
representatives from the water companies, Hardin! They’ve come as a
body!”
His excitement communicated itself speedily to his companion.
“Something’s going to drop, sure!”
“And Wilson, with Petrie. I didn’t know _he_ was in any of the water
companies.”
“Is there anything in the valley he’s not in?” All of them with the
idea of making money; all but himself!
Down in the orchestra, Black from the Wistaria was haranguing a group
of gesticulating ranchers. Phrases climbed to the men on the balcony
seats. “Keep their pledges. Promise makers. Let them look at our crops!”
“Every man thinking of himself, of his own precious skin!” sneered
Hardin.
Hollister and the Youngbergs were seen taking their seats near the
orchestra stand, behind the bickering merry Blinns. Morton was filling
the other proscenium with his eastern guests.
Brandon had to surrender to an attack of coughing. He leaned, spent,
against the wall. “That audience,” he gasped, “represents several
million dollars--of dissatisfaction.” The phrase had come to him in his
paroxysm. He would use it in his story for the _Sun_. If there was a
story.
“If Marshall expects to coerce those men, I lose my guess. Then he’s no
judge of men,” cried Hardin. “Look at those faces.” The floor was a sea
of impassioned features.
“Something’s going to drop,” echoed Brandon.
From the wings, Babcock’s inquisitive glasses were seen to sweep the
house. Hardin could catch the summons of an excited forefinger to the
group unseen. There was a minute of delay. Then Babcock’s nervous
toddle carried him on to the stage which had been set for _Robin Hood_,
the scenery deserted when the singers had rushed out of the valley.
Babcock’s striped, modern trousers looked absurdly anachronistic
against the background of old England. There was a titter from Morton’s
proscenium box where the lorgnettes were flashing.
De la Vega followed Babcock. There was a hush of curiosity. The house
did not know who he was. Behind him, soldierly, stiff, stalked MacLean.
Marshall’s entrance released the tongues. There was an interval of
confusion on the stage. Babcock, like a restless terrier, was snapping
at the heels of the party. At last, they were all fussily seated. De la
Vega was given the place of honor. Marshall, Babcock put on his left,
MacLean on the right.
Babcock raised his staccate gavel. A hush fell on the house. His words
were clipped and sharp.
“You have left your plowing to come here. You are anxious to hear what
we have to say to you. You can not afford to be indifferent to it. You
acknowledge, by your presence, a dependence, a correlation which you
would like to deny. Irrigation means cooperation, suffering together,
struggling together, succeeding together. You prefer the old individual
way, each man for himself. I tell you it won’t do. You belong in other
countries, the countries of old-fashioned rain. You want to hear what
we have to say to you, the company who saved the valley, the company
you are suing. But you have also suits against Mexico. There is a
gentleman here who has a message from Mexico about those suits. I have
the honor, gentlemen, to introduce, Señor de la Vega.”
There was a gentle stir of released hazards. The Spaniard approached
the footlights, his survey sweeping the house.
“That wasn’t bad,” murmured Brandon, opening his note-book.
“Ladies,” bowed the Mexican. “Gentlemen, Mr. Chairman. It is with an
appreciation of the honor that I accepted for to-day the invitation
of Mr. Marshall to speak before you, to speak _to_ you; I must tell
you first my thought as I sat there and looked at you, the youth, the
flower of the American people. A few years ago, we were calling this
the great Colorado Desert; now, the world calls it the hothouse of
America. This theater is built over the bones of gold-seekers, who
dared death in this dreaded desert to find what was buried in those
mountains beyond. The man, I say, who crossed this desert, took the
hazard of death. It was a countryman of mine who piloted, fifteen years
ago, a little band of men, across the desert. Perhaps he camped on this
very spot. It is not impossible! It is here, perhaps, that he got his
inspiration. He saw a wonderful territory; he dreamed to quicken it
with the useless waters of the Colorado. You will all agree that it was
Guillermo Estrada who dreamed the dream that has come true; that it
was through him that some of your countrymen secured their privilege
to reclaim this land. Later, when one of your countrymen found he
could not fulfil his promise to you, the promise to deliver water to
your ranches, he came to my nation and got permission to cut into
the river on our territory. Most gladly did Porfirio Diaz grant that
privilege. For that, to-day, you are suing him. This, I am told, is
your complaint.”
His abrupt pause betrayed a confused murmur of voices. De la Vega’s
polite ear tried to differentiate the phrases. There was a jumble of
sound. De la Vega looked inquiringly at Babcock, who waved him on.
“It has nothing to do with the history, but I would like to say in
passing that so assured were your people of our friendly feeling toward
you that they did not wait to receive permission from Mexico to make
the cut. Your people were in a hurry. Your crops were in danger. First
the lack of water, then too much water damaged your valley. A few
acres--”
A voice from the crowd cried out, “A few acres? Thousands of acres.”
Instantly others were on their feet. “Thousands of acres. Ruin.” One
man was shouting himself apoplectic.
Babcock’s gavel sounded a sharp staccato on the table.
“Thousands of acres.” De la Vega was unruffled. “And more than that.
The valley, it must be remembered, does not stop at the line. Mexican
lands, too, have been scoured by the action, the result of the action
of your irrigation company. It was a mutual,” he paused, and a quaint
word came to his need. “A mutual bereavement. It did not occur to us to
accuse you of our troubles. Your damage suits pained and astonished us.
But they gave us also a suggestion.”
The rustling and the murmurs suddenly ceased. A prescient hush waited
on De la Vega. “You have been advised to sue us. To sue us for giving
you that concession. Therefore, the only answer is for us to withdraw
that concession! You accuse us, for giving it to you. That concession
is valuable. What else _can_ we do? Before your damage suits were
filed, we were approached by others for the same privilege. If you
do not withdraw your suits, my nation sends word to you that you may
not take water from the Colorado River through Mexican soil. You will
not be without water probably long; I have said that concession is
valuable! Other arrangements will probably be made so that the valley
will be given water. I would like to take your answer to my government.”
It was several seconds before the house got its breath. The import of
the diplomat’s words was astounding. Barton got to his feet, yelling
with his great bass voice, “Betrayed!” His shrunken finger indicated a
youth with “R. S.” in black letters on his collar. “The valley has been
betrayed.”
In the balcony, the uproar was deafening. Around Hardin and Brandon
words were thudding like bullets. “Reclamation Service.” “That’s
their game.” “The concession!” “They won’t get it.” “Betrayed. We are
betrayed.”
Down-stairs, Babcock’s gavel rapped unheard. Behind the excited figure
wielding the stick, sat Marshall, his unreadable, sweet smile on his
face. His eyes were on Babcock, who was vainly clamoring for order.
“Program that meeting?”
Hollister was trying to make himself heard to Barton over two rows of
seats, but his voice was like a child’s on an ocean beach. Barton was
surrounded by eager anxious men. The audience had split into circles of
haranguing centers. It was impossible to get attention. Hardin could
see Marshall pull Babcock by the tails of his coat. Unwillingly, he
could see Babcock allow the crowd five minutes by his consulted watch.
Then again, the gavel danced on the table. Marshall was still smiling.
Babcock’s shrill voice split the din. “Order.” The ocean of voices
swallowed him again.
“We won’t let them in,” Grace was bellowing, “the valley won’t stand
for it.”
“Take your medicine,” thundered the big organ of Barton. “I warned you,
Imperial Valley.”
“Betrayal,” groaned the crowd.
“A pretty international block.” Brandon was smiling, too. This was
better than he had expected. A rattling good story the _Sun_ would
have. Bertha would read it over her breakfast rolls. “This is history.”
Down in the orchestra, Barton was holding a hurry-up meeting of the
water companies. De la Vega had stepped back and was consulting with
Tod Marshall.
Babcock pulled out his watch, his gavel calling for attention. This
time he was heard.
De la Vega approached the footlights, a questioning look on his face.
“We ask for a little time,” began Barton. Instantly the house was on
its feet. “Withdraw the suits. Give him your answer. Give him our
answer. We don’t want the Service. The valley don’t want the Service.
Withdraw the suits.”
Barton’s moon face looked troubled. “We can’t answer for all the
ranchers.”
“Yes, you can,” screamed Grace, jumping up and down like a baboon. “If
you don’t, I’ll answer for them. Don’t you see, it’s a trick? It’s a
trick. I see the hand of the O. P. in this.” Friendly hands pulled him
down into his seat.
The audience was chanting. “Withdraw the suits. Take your
medicine.--Don’t lose the concession.--Lord, the Service!--Give them
the answer, now.”
Barton held up a withered hand. The undeveloped body was dignified by
the splendid head. “Don’t withdraw your concession. I think I can say
that Mexico will not be sued.”
Again, the shout went up. “Answer like a man. Think! Good lord! Say we
withdraw the suits!”
“We withdraw the claims against Mexico.” Barton sat down to a sudden
hush. The first blood had been let.
Once more Babcock’s glasses swept the house. He rapped the table.
“That’s not all. We’ve got more to say to you. Gentlemen, Mr. Marshall.”
Marshall stepped forward to a silence which was a variety of tribute.
He bowed. “I will be brief. Mr. Faraday has asked me to take his
place here this afternoon. It’s only fair. If it were not for my
interference, he would not be involved in this situation. I think you
will grant that it is Mr. Faraday’s company which can save the valley?”
“To save its own tracks!” yelled a voice from the balcony.
Marshall sent a soft smile heavenward. “Incidentally. And its traffic.
Why don’t you say it? We don’t deny that. The Overland Pacific’s no
altruist.”
There was a jeer which rose into a chorus. “Altruist! Octopus. That’s
what it is.”
Marshall’s hand went up. “If you want to hear me?” He waved away
Babcock’s descending gavel. “I was told it would cost two hundred
thousand dollars to close that break of yours. Do you want the actual
figures? It has eaten already a million, and the work is not yet
done. You know the history of the undertaking. The Desert Reclamation
Company was in straits. Faraday promised his help on the condition that
the affairs of the Desert Reclamation Company would be controlled by
his company. He took the control. He inherited--what? Not good will.
Threats, damage suits. Do you think that snow-slide of complaints is
going to encourage him to go on? This is what I came here to talk
to you about. You ranchers don’t want to cut your own throat. Now,
there’s a good deal going on about which you are in the dark. Faraday’s
got a right to feel he’s shouldered an old man of the sea. He’s been
trying to dislodge it. He’s appealed to the president. Ever since we
came into this, the cry from Washington has been, ‘Do this the way we
like, or we’ll not take it off your hands.’” A murmur of angry voices
started somewhere, swelling toward the balcony.
“We don’t want the government--” began the rising voices. Marshall’s
voice rang out:
“But the government wants--you! Unless you will help save your own
homes, the government will have to, in time. It’s got to. Up there at
Laguna, have you seen it? There’s nothing going on. They’re watching
us. That’s a useless toy if our works are washed out. Faraday says
_this_ to you--” Not a sound in the stilled house. “Unless you withdraw
your damage suits, he won’t advance another damned cent.”
Sharply he sat down before the audience realized that his message was
finished. The house had not found its voice, when Babcock’s gavel was
pounding again for attention. The question, he felt, had not been put
to them completely. Perhaps, they did not gather the full import of Mr.
Marshall’s message. Mr. MacLean would follow Mr. Marshall.
MacLean’s superb figure rose from a tree-paneled background.
“He should sing _Brown October Ale_,” suggested Brandon to Hardin
humorously.
Hardin’s eyes were on MacLean. What did he know about it? What could he
tell those men that they did not know? MacLean was a figurehead in the
reorganized irrigation company. Why hadn’t they called on him, Hardin?
He knew more about the involved history of the two companies than the
whole bunch on the stage down yonder. He could have told them, he could
have called on their justice, their memory--
MacLean was speaking.
“Mr. Marshall has likened the river project to the old man of the sea.
He has it on his back, while it is busily kicking him in the shins!
“Mr. Marshall has given you Mr. Faraday’s message. He has asked you
to dismiss your damage suits. I ask you to do more than that. Put
your hands in your pockets! Come out and help us. You don’t want the
government. I am told that is the sentiment of the valley. When you
called to them, they wouldn’t help you; they wouldn’t give you an
adequate price. Congress will soon be adjourning. What is Mr. Faraday
to say to Washington? Is he going to close that break? That depends
on you. Withdraw your suits. Do more. Stop fighting against us. Fight
_with_ us--”
The audience stirred ominously, angrily. Before MacLean was done, a
voice screamed from the balcony. “You can’t quit. That’s a threat.
You’re in too deep. You can’t fool us. You’ve got to save yourself.
You’ve got to go on. Tell Faraday to tell that to Washington.”
The uproar was released. Black, from the Wistaria, jumped on his
chair. “I am speaking for the valley. We can’t help. You know it.
We’re stripped. We’re ruined. You think to threaten us with the
government--if we wait for the government to decide, the valley is
gone--and the railroad’s money with it. I tell you, your bluff won’t
go. We want justice. We are going to have justice.”
“Justice!” came from the surging ranchers.
“Fair play,” yelled Black. “You can’t trick us. We were not born
yesterday. We have rights. The company brought us here. What did we
give our money for? Desert land? What good is this land without water?
We bought water--we were pledged water. Give us back the money we’ve
put in--that’s what we’re asking for. We won’t be scared out of our
rights.”
There was a growling accompaniment from the back rows, herding together.
“Order,” cried Babcock, thumping his gavel. “Let Mr. Black have the
floor.”
Black had not stopped. Wildly his hands cut the air. His speech, though
high-pitched, had a prepared sound; it worked toward a climax. He gave
individual instances of ruin. “Grace, Willard Grace, his crop gone, his
place cut in two. Hollister and Wilson, of the Palo Verde, the ranch
a screaming horror. Scores of others.” He would not mention his own
case; and then he itemized his misfortunes. Parrish, his place scoured
beyond all future usefulness. What had they come into the valley for?
Who had urged them? There were pledges of the D. R., water pledges.
That was all those ruined men were pleading, the redemption of those
pledges. Individual ruin, what did it mean? A curtailing of luxuries,
of personal indulgence. “I tell you, it means food, bread, potatoes;
milk for the babies; or starvation.”
Black had touched the deep note. This was the answer. This was what
they wanted to say.
“You ask us to help you, us, we who are taxed already to our breaking
point. You say your company won’t go any further. What does that help
mean to you? Poverty? A few thousands, a million to the O. P., a
corporation, what does a loss mean to them? Poverty! I tell you, no.
A smaller dividend, maybe, to whom? Yes, to whom? To the men who live
in Fifth Avenue, whose wives are dragged about in limousines. Withdraw
their suits? Help Faraday, and ruin men like Parrish? Men of the
valley, what is your answer to Faraday?”
The crowd was on its feet, swaying and pushing. The air was fetid with
breaths. Wilson’s crowd had forgotten its lorgnettes. “No,” yelled the
ranchers. “We say, no.”
A boy made his way from the wings, a yellow envelope in his hand.
Babcock waved him on to Marshall. The audience was crying itself
hoarse. Babcock lost control of the meeting in that minute of turning.
Hollister, of the Palo Verde, was striving to be heard; Babcock’s
hammer sounded in vain. But Marshall’s eye had caught a spark from the
yellow sheet. He sprang forward, throwing the despatch toward MacLean.
His excitement caught the eye of the crowd. “The river!” There was a
sudden hush. “The river’s out again!” A groan swept through the house,
there was a break toward the doors.
Marshall’s voice halted them. “Men of the valley.” The audience, swayed
again, listened. “Hear me. The river’s running away again down yonder.
This is a message from Rickard. It’s broken through the levee. It’s
started for the valley. Now, who’s going to stop it? Who can stop it?
Can you? Where’s your force, your equipment? Who can rush to that call
but the company you are hounding? I gave you Faraday’s message. His
hand’s on the table. Not another cent from him unless you withdraw
those suits. You say you have given me your answer, Black’s answer. Now
the river plays a trick. It calls your bluff. Shall we stop the river,
men of the valley? We can. Will you withdraw your suits? You can. What
is your answer now, Imperial Valley?”
The scene broke into bedlam. Men jumped to their chairs, to the velvet
rim of the boxes, all talking, screaming, gesticulating at once. The
_Yellow Dragon_ was never so fearfully visualized. Out of the chaos of
men’s voices came a woman’s shriek, “For God’s sake, save our homes.”
It pitched the panic note. “Save the valley! Stop the river!”
Marshall’s Indian eyes were reading that mass of scared faces as though
it were a sheet of typed paper. “Barton,” he called through the din.
“Where’s Barton?”
Two men lifted Barton’s puny figure upon their shoulders. His vibrant
voice rolled above the shouting. “The valley withdraws its suits
against the company.”
“Then the company,” yelled Marshall’s oratory, “the company withdraws
the river from the valley!” Pandemonium was loose. There were cheers,
and the sound of women sobbing. Barton was carried out on the shoulders
of his henchmen. Black led a crowd out, haranguing to the street.
Morton’s party waited for the house to empty. De la Vega, from the
wings, watched the scene with polite curiosity.
Picking their way past a painted side shift of merry England, MacLean
and Babcock followed Marshall from the stage.
On the street, Marshall fell back to MacLean. “That was a neat trick
the river threw in our hands.” His voice had dropped from oratory; the
declaiming fire was gone from the black eyes. “It’s only a break in
the levee. Rickard says he can control it; estimates two weeks or so.
It may cost the O. P. a few thousand dollars, but it saved them half a
million. Now we’ll have that game of poker, MacLean!”
In the balcony, Hardin was staring at Brandon.
“If that wasn’t the devil’s own luck!”