Again all his instincts of honesty revolted.No, whatever happened, he would preserve his integrity.His wife was right.
Always she had influenced his better side.At that moment, Magnus's repugnance of the proposed political campaign was at its pitch of intensity.He wondered how he had ever allowed himself to so much as entertain the idea of joining with the others.
Now, he would wrench free, would, in a single instant of power, clear himself of all compromising relations.He turned to his wife.Upon his lips trembled the promise she implored.But suddenly there came to his mind the recollection of his new-made pledge to Annixter.He had given his word that before arriving at a decision he would have a last interview with him.To Magnus, his given word was sacred.Though now he wanted to, he could not as yet draw back, could not promise his wife that he would decide to do right.The matter must be delayed a few days longer.
Lamely, he explained this to her.Annie Derrick made but little response when he had done.She kissed his forehead and went out of the room, uneasy, depressed, her mind thronging with vague fears, leaving Magnus before his office desk, his head in his hands, thoughtful, gloomy, assaulted by forebodings.
Meanwhile, Annixter, Phelps, and Presley continued on their way toward Bonneville.In a short time they had turned into the County Road by the great watering-tank, and proceeded onward in the shade of the interminable line of poplar trees, the wind-break that stretched along the roadside bordering the Broderson ranch.But as they drew near to Caraher's saloon and grocery, about half a mile outside of Bonneville, they recognised Harran's horse tied to the railing in front of it.Annixter left the others and went in to see Harran.
"Harran," he said, when the two had sat down on either side of one of the small tables, "you've got to make up your mind one way or another pretty soon.What are you going to do? Are you going to stand by and see the rest of the Committee spending money by the bucketful in this thing and keep your hands in your pockets?
If we win, you'll benefit just as much as the rest of us.Isuppose you've got some money of your own--you have, haven't you?
You are your father's manager, aren't you?"Disconcerted at Annixter's directness, Harran stammered an affirmative, adding:
"It's hard to know just what to do.It's a mean position for me, Buck.I want to help you others, but I do want to play fair.Idon't know how to play any other way.I should like to have a line from the Governor as to how to act, but there's no getting a word out of him these days.He seems to want to let me decide for myself.""Well, look here," put in Annixter."Suppose you keep out of the thing till it's all over, and then share and share alike with the Committee on campaign expenses."Harran fell thoughtful, his hands in his pockets, frowning moodily at the toe of his boot.There was a silence.Then:
"I don't like to go it blind," he hazarded."I'm sort of sharing the responsibility of what you do, then.I'm a silent partner.
And, then--I don't want to have any difficulties with the Governor.We've always got along well together.He wouldn't like it, you know, if I did anything like that.""Say," exclaimed Annixter abruptly, "if the Governor says he will keep his hands off, and that you can do as you please, will you come in? For God's sake, let us ranchers act together for once.
Let's stand in with each other in ONE fight."Without knowing it, Annixter had touched the right spring.
"I don't know but what you're right," Harran murmured vaguely.
His sense of discouragement, that feeling of what's-the-use, was never more oppressive.All fair means had been tried.The wheat grower was at last with his back to the wall.If he chose his own means of fighting, the responsibility must rest upon his enemies, not on himself.
"It's the only way to accomplish anything," he continued, "standing in with each other...well,...go ahead and see what you can do.If the Governor is willing, I'll come in for my share of the campaign fund.""That's some sense," exclaimed Annixter, shaking him by the hand.
"Half the fight is over already.We've got Disbrow you know; and the next thing is to get hold of some of those rotten San Francisco bosses.Osterman will----" But Harran interrupted him, making a quick gesture with his hand.
"Don't tell me about it," he said."I don't want to know what you and Osterman are going to do.If I did, I shouldn't come in."Yet, for all this, before they said good-bye Annixter had obtained Harran's promise that he would attend the next meeting of the Committee, when Osterman should return from Los Angeles and make his report.Harran went on toward Los Muertos.
Annixter mounted and rode into Bonneville.
Bonneville was very lively at all times.It was a little city of some twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants, where, as yet, the city hall, the high school building, and the opera house were objects of civic pride.It was well governed, beautifully clean, full of the energy and strenuous young life of a new city.An air of the briskest activity pervaded its streets and sidewalks.
The business portion of the town, centring about Main Street, was always crowded.Annixter, arriving at the Post Office, found himself involved in a scene of swiftly shifting sights and sounds.Saddle horses, farm wagons--the inevitable Studebakers--buggies grey with the dust of country roads, buckboards with squashes and grocery packages stowed under the seat, two-wheeled sulkies and training carts, were hitched to the gnawed railings and zinc-sheathed telegraph poles along the curb.Here and there, on the edge of the sidewalk, were bicycles, wedged into bicycle racks painted with cigar advertisements.Upon the asphalt sidewalk itself, soft and sticky with the morning's heat, was a continuous movement.Men with large stomachs, wearing linen coats but no vests, laboured ponderously up and down.
