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diff --git a/10201-0.txt b/10201-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..668a895 --- /dev/null +++ b/10201-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13855 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10201 *** + +ZANE GREY + + + +THE DESERT + +of + +WHEAT + +1919 + + + + + +CHAPTER I + +Late in June the vast northwestern desert of wheat began to take on a +tinge of gold, lending an austere beauty to that endless, rolling, +smooth world of treeless hills, where miles of fallow ground and miles +of waving grain sloped up to the far-separated homes of the heroic men +who had conquered over sage and sand. + +These simple homes of farmers seemed lost on an immensity of soft gray +and golden billows of land, insignificant dots here and there on distant +hills, so far apart that nature only seemed accountable for those broad +squares of alternate gold and brown, extending on and on to the waving +horizon-line. A lonely, hard, heroic country, where flowers and fruit +were not, nor birds and brooks, nor green pastures. Whirling strings of +dust looped up over fallow ground, the short, dry wheat lay back from +the wind, the haze in the distance was drab and smoky, heavy with +substance. + +A thousand hills lay bare to the sky, and half of every hill was wheat +and half was fallow ground; and all of them, with the shallow valleys +between, seemed big and strange and isolated. The beauty of them was +austere, as if the hand of man had been held back from making green his +home site, as if the immensity of the task had left no time for youth +and freshness. Years, long years, were there in the round-hilled, +many-furrowed gray old earth. And the wheat looked a century old. Here +and there a straight, dusty road stretched from hill to hill, becoming a +thin white line, to disappear in the distance. The sun shone hot, the +wind blew hard; and over the boundless undulating expanse hovered a +shadow that was neither hood of dust nor hue of gold. It was not +physical, but lonely, waiting, prophetic, and weird. No wild desert of +wastelands, once the home of other races of man, and now gone to decay +and death, could have shown so barren an acreage. Half of this wandering +patchwork of squares was earth, brown and gray, curried and disked, and +rolled and combed and harrowed, with not a tiny leaf of green in all the +miles. The other half had only a faint golden promise of mellow harvest; +and at long distance it seemed to shimmer and retreat under the hot sun. +A singularly beautiful effect of harmony lay in the long, slowly rising +slopes, in the rounded hills, in the endless curving lines on all sides. +The scene was heroic because of the labor of horny hands; it was sublime +because not a hundred harvests, nor three generations of toiling men, +could ever rob nature of its limitless space and scorching sun and +sweeping dust, of its resistless age-long creep back toward the desert +that it had been. + + * * * * * + +Here was grown the most bounteous, the richest and finest wheat in all +the world. Strange and unfathomable that so much of the bread of man, +the staff of life, the hope of civilization in this tragic year 1917, +should come from a vast, treeless, waterless, dreary desert! + +This wonderful place was an immense valley of considerable altitude +called the Columbia Basin, surrounded by the Cascade Mountains on the +west, the Coeur d'Alene and Bitter Root Mountains on the east, the +Okanozan range to the north, and the Blue Mountains to the south. The +valley floor was basalt, from the lava flow of volcanoes in ages past. +The rainfall was slight except in the foot-hills of the mountains. The +Columbia River, making a prodigious and meandering curve, bordered on +three sides what was known as the Bend country. South of this vast area, +across the range, began the fertile, many-watered region that extended +on down into verdant Oregon. Among the desert hills of this Bend +country, near the center of the Basin, where the best wheat was raised, +lay widely separated little towns, the names of which gave evidence of +the mixed population. It was, of course, an exceedingly prosperous +country, a fact manifest in the substantial little towns, if not in the +crude and unpretentious homes of the farmers. The acreage of farms ran +from a section, six hundred and forty acres, up into the thousands. + + * * * * * + +Upon a morning in early July, exactly three months after the United +States had declared war upon Germany, a sturdy young farmer strode with +darkly troubled face from the presence of his father. At the end of a +stormy scene he had promised his father that he would abandon his desire +to enlist in the army. + +Kurt Dorn walked away from the gray old clapboard house, out to the +fence, where he leaned on the gate. He could see for miles in every +direction, and to the southward, away on a long yellow slope, rose a +stream of dust from a motor-car. + +"Must be Anderson--coming to dun father," muttered young Dorn. + +This was the day, he remembered, when the wealthy rancher of Ruxton was +to look over old Chris Dorn's wheat-fields. Dorn owed thirty-thousand +dollars and interest for years, mostly to Anderson. Kurt hated the debt +and resented the visit, but he could not help acknowledging that the +rancher had been lenient and kind. Long since Kurt had sorrowfully +realized that his father was illiterate, hard, grasping, and growing +worse with the burden of years. + +"If we had rain now--or soon--that section of Bluestem would square +father," soliloquized young Dorn, as with keen eyes he surveyed a vast +field of wheat, short, smooth, yellowing in the sun. But the cloudless +sky, the haze of heat rather betokened a continued drought. + +There were reasons, indeed, for Dorn to wear a dark and troubled face as +he watched the motor-car speed along ahead of its stream of dust, pass +out of sight under the hill, and soon reappear, to turn off the main +road and come toward the house. It was a big, closed car, covered with +dust. The driver stopped it at the gate and got out. + +"Is this Chris Dorn's farm?" he asked. + +"Yes," replied Kurt. + +Whereupon the door of the car opened and out stepped a short, broad man +in a long linen coat. + +"Come out, Lenore, an' shake off the dust," he said, and he assisted a +young woman to step out. She also wore a long linen coat, and a veil +besides. The man removed his coat and threw it into the car. Then he +took off his sombrero to beat the dust off of that. + +"Phew! The Golden Valley never seen dust like this in a million +years!... I'm chokin' for water. An' listen to the car. She's boilin'!" + +Then, as he stepped toward Kurt, the rancher showed himself to be a +well-preserved man of perhaps fifty-five, of powerful form beginning to +sag in the broad shoulders, his face bronzed by long exposure to wind +and sun. He had keen gray eyes, and their look was that of a man used to +dealing with his kind and well disposed toward them. + +"Hello! Are you young Dorn?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir," replied Kurt, stepping out. + +"I'm Anderson, from Ruxton, come to see your dad. This is my girl +Lenore." + +Kurt acknowledged the slight bow from the veiled young woman, and then, +hesitating, he added, "Won't you come in?" + +"No, not yet. I'm chokin' for air an' water. Bring us a drink," replied +Anderson. + +Kurt hurried away to get a bucket and tin cup. As he drew water from the +well he was thinking rather vaguely that it was somehow +embarrassing--the fact of Mr. Anderson being accompanied by his +daughter. Kurt was afraid of his father. But then, what did it matter? +When he returned to the yard he found the rancher sitting in the shade +of one of the few apple-trees, and the young lady was standing near, in +the act of removing bonnet and veil. She had thrown the linen coat over +the seat of an old wagon-bed that lay near. + +"Good water is scarce here, but I'm glad we have some," said Kurt; then +as he set down the bucket and offered a brimming cupful to the girl he +saw her face, and his eyes met hers. He dropped the cup and stared. Then +hurriedly, with flushing face, he bent over to recover and refill it. + +"Ex-excuse me. I'm--clumsy," he managed to say, and as he handed the cup +to her he averted his gaze. For more than a year the memory of this very +girl had haunted him. He had seen her twice--the first time at the close +of his one year of college at the University of California, and the +second time on the street in Spokane. In a glance he had recognized the +strong, lithe figure, the sunny hair, the rare golden tint of her +complexion, the blue eyes, warm and direct. And he had sustained a shock +which momentarily confused him. + +"Good water, hey?" dissented Anderson, after drinking a second cup. "Boy +that's wet, but it ain't water to drink. Come down in the foot-hills an' +I'll show you. My ranch 's called 'Many Waters,' an' you can't keep your +feet dry." + +"I wish we had some of it here," replied Kurt, wistfully, and he waved a +hand at the broad, swelling slopes. The warm breath that blew in from +the wheatlands felt dry and smelled dry. + +"You're in for a dry spell?" inquired Anderson, with interest that was +keen, and kindly as well. + +"Father says so. And I fear it, too--for he never makes a mistake in +weather or crops." + +"A hot, dry spell!... This summer?... Hum!... Boy, do you know that +wheat is the most important thing in the world to-day?" + +"You mean on account of the war," replied Kurt. "Yes, I know. But father +doesn't see that. All he sees is--if we have rain we'll have bumper +crops. That big field there would be a record--at war prices.... And he +wouldn't be ruined!" + +"Ruined?... Oh, he means I'd close on him.... Hum!... Say, what do you +see in a big wheat yield--if it rains?" + +"Mr. Anderson, I'd like to see our debt paid, but I'm thinking most of +wheat for starving peoples. I--I've studied this wheat question. It's +the biggest question in this war." + +Kurt had forgotten the girl and was unaware of her eyes bent steadily +upon him. Anderson had roused to the interest of wheat, and to a deeper +study of the young man. + +"Say, Dorn, how old are you?" he asked. + +"Twenty-four. And Kurt's my first name," was the reply. + +"Will this farm fall to you?" + +"Yes, if my father does not lose it." + +"Hum!... Old Dorn won't lose it, never fear. He raises the best wheat in +this section." + +"But father never owned the land. We have had three bad years. If the +wheat fails this summer--we lose the land, that's all." + +"Are you an--American?" queried Anderson, slowly, as if treading on +dangerous ground. + +"I am," snapped Kurt. "My mother was American. She's dead. Father is +German. He's old. He's rabid since the President declared war. He'll +never change." + +"That's hell. What 're you goin' to do if your country calls you?" + +"Go!" replied Kurt, with flashing eyes. "I wanted to enlist. Father and +I quarreled over that until I had to give in. He's hard--he's +impossible.... I'll wait for the draft and hope I'm called." + +"Boy, it's that spirit Germany's roused, an' the best I can say is, God +help her!... Have you a brother?" + +"No. I'm all father has." + +"Well, it makes a tough place for him, an' you, too. Humor him. He's +old. An' when you're called--go an' fight. You'll come back." + +"If I only knew that--it wouldn't be so hard." + +"Hard? It sure is hard. But it'll be the makin' of a great country. +It'll weed out the riffraff.... See here, Kurt, I'm goin' to give you a +hunch. Have you had any dealin's with the I.W.W.?" + +"Yes, last harvest we had trouble, but nothing serious. When I was in +Spokane last month I heard a good deal. Strangers have approached us +here, too--mostly aliens. I have no use for them, but they always get +father's ear. And now!... To tell the truth, I'm worried." + +"Boy, you need to be," replied Anderson, earnestly. "We're all worried. +I'm goin' to let you read over the laws of that I.W.W. organization. +You're to keep mum now, mind you. I belong to the Chamber of Commerce in +Spokane. Somebody got hold of these by-laws of this so-called labor +union. We've had copies made, an' every honest farmer in the Northwest +is goin' to read them. But carryin' one around is dangerous, I reckon, +these days. Here." + +Anderson hesitated a moment, peered cautiously around, and then, +slipping folded sheets of paper from his inside coat pocket, he +evidently made ready to hand them to Kurt. + +"Lenore, where's the driver?" he asked. + +"He's under the car," replied the girl + +Kurt thrilled at the soft sound of her voice. It was something to have +been haunted by a girl's face for a year and then suddenly hear her +voice. + +"He's new to me--that driver--an' I ain't trustin' any new men these +days," went on Anderson. "Here now, Dorn. Read that. An' if you don't +get red-headed--" + +Without finishing his last muttered remark, he opened the sheets of +manuscript and spread them out to the young man. + +Curiously, and with a little rush of excitement, Kurt began to read. The +very first rule of the I.W.W. aimed to abolish capital. Kurt read on +with slowly growing amaze, consternation, and anger. When he had +finished, his look, without speech, was a question Anderson hastened to +answer. + +"It's straight goods," he declared. "Them's the sure-enough rules of +that gang. We made certain before we acted. Now how do they strike you?" + +"Why, that's no labor union!" replied Kurt, hotly. "They're outlaws, +thieves, blackmailers, pirates. I--I don't know what!" + +"Dorn, we're up against a bad outfit an' the Northwest will see hell +this summer. There's trouble in Montana and Idaho. Strangers are +driftin' into Washington from all over. We must organize to meet +them--to prevent them gettin' a hold out here. It's a labor union, +mostly aliens, with dishonest an' unscrupulous leaders, some of them +Americans. They aim to take advantage of the war situation. In the +newspapers they rave about shorter hours, more pay, acknowledgment of +the union. But any fool would see, if he read them laws I showed you, +that this I.W.W. is not straight." + +"Mr. Anderson, what steps have you taken down in your country?" queried +Kurt. + +"So far all I've done was to hire my hands for a year, give them high +wages, an' caution them when strangers come round to feed them an' be +civil an' send them on." + +"But we can't do that up here in the Bend," said Dorn, seriously. "We +need, say, a hundred thousand men in harvest-time, and not ten thousand +all the rest of the year." + +"Sure you can't. But you'll have to organize somethin'. Up here in this +desert you could have a heap of trouble if that outfit got here strong +enough. You'd better tell every farmer you can trust about this I.W.W." + +"I've only one American neighbor, and he lives six miles from here," +replied Dorn. "Olsen over there is a Swede, and not a naturalized +citizen, but I believe he's for the U.S. And there's--" + +"Dad," interrupted the girl, "I believe our driver is listening to your +very uninteresting conversation." + +She spoke demurely, with laughter in her low voice. It made Dorn dare to +look at her, and he met a blue blaze that was instantly averted. + +Anderson growled, evidently some very hard names, under his breath; his +look just then was full of characteristic Western spirit. Then he got +up. + +"Lenore, I reckon your talk 'll be more interesting than mine," he said, +dryly. "I'll go see Dorn an' get this business over." + +"I'd rather go with you," hurriedly replied Kurt; and then, as though +realizing a seeming discourtesy in his words, his face flamed, and he +stammered: "I--I don't mean that. But father is in bad mood. We just +quarreled.--I told you--about the war. And--Mr. Anderson,--I'm--I'm a +little afraid he'll--" + +"Well, son, I'm not afraid," interrupted the rancher. "I'll beard the +old lion in his den. You talk to Lenore." + +"Please don't speak of the war," said Kurt, appealingly. + +"Not a word unless he starts roarin' at Uncle Sam," declared Anderson, +with a twinkle in his eyes, and turned toward the house. + +"He'll roar, all right," said Kurt, almost with a groan. He knew what an +ordeal awaited the rancher, and he hated the fact that it could not be +avoided. Then Kurt was confused, astounded, infuriated with himself over +a situation he had not brought about and could scarcely realize. He +became conscious of pride and shame, and something as black and hopeless +as despair. + +"Haven't I seen you--before?" asked the girl. + +The query surprised and thrilled Kurt out of his self-centered thought. + +"I don't know. Have you? Where?" he answered, facing her. It was a +relief to find that she still averted her face. + +"At Berkeley, in California, the first time, and the second at Spokane, +in front of the Davenport," she replied. + +"First--and--second?... You--you remembered both times!" he burst out, +incredulously. + +"Yes. I don't see how I could have helped remembering." Her laugh was +low, musical, a little hurried, yet cool. + +Dorn was not familiar with girls. He had worked hard all his life, there +among those desert hills, and during the few years his father had +allowed him for education. He knew wheat, but nothing of the eternal +feminine. So it was impossible for him to grasp that this girl was not +wholly at her ease. Her words and the cool little laugh suddenly brought +home to Kurt the immeasurable distance between him and a daughter of one +of the richest ranchers in Washington. + +"You mean I--I was impertinent," he began, struggling between shame and +pride. "I--I stared at you.... Oh, I must have been rude.... But, Miss +Anderson, I--I didn't mean to be. I didn't think you saw me--at all. I +don't know what made me do that. It never happened before. I beg your +pardon." + +A subtle indefinable change, perceptible to Dorn, even in his confused +state, came over the girl. + +"I did not say you were impertinent," she returned. "I remembered seeing +you--notice me, that is all." + +Self-possessed, aloof, and kind, Miss Anderson now became an +impenetrable mystery to Dorn. But that only accentuated the distance she +had intimated lay between them. Her kindness stung him to recover his +composure. He wished she had not been kind. What a singular chance that +had brought her here to his home--the daughter of a man who came to +demand a long-unpaid debt! What a dispelling of the vague thing that had +been only a dream! Dorn gazed away across the yellowing hills to the dim +blue of the mountains where rolled the Oregon. Despite the color, it was +gray--like his future. + +"I heard you tell father you had studied wheat," said the girl, +presently, evidently trying to make conversation. + +"Yes, all my life," replied Kurt. "My study has mostly been under my +father. Look at my hands." He held out big, strong hands, scarred and +knotted, with horny palms uppermost, and he laughed. "I can be proud of +them, Miss Anderson.... But I had a splendid year in California at the +university and I graduated from the Washington State Agricultural +College." + +"You love wheat--the raising of it, I mean?" she inquired. + +"It must be that I do, though I never had such a thought. Wheat is so +wonderful. No one can guess who does not know it!... The clean, plump +grain, the sowing on fallow ground, the long wait, the first tender +green, and the change day by day to the deep waving fields of gold--then +the harvest, hot, noisy, smoky, full of dust and chaff, and the great +combine-harvesters with thirty-four horses. Oh! I guess I do love it +all.... I worked in a Spokane flour-mill, too, just to learn how flour +is made. There is nothing in the world so white, so clean, so pure as +flour made from the wheat of these hills!" + +"Next you'll be telling me that you can bake bread," she rejoined, and +her laugh was low and sweet. Her eyes shone with soft blue gleams. + +"Indeed I can! I bake all the bread we use," he said, stoutly. "And I +flatter myself I can beat any girl you know." + +"You can beat mine, I'm sure. Before I went to college I did pretty +well. But I learned too much there. Now my mother and sisters, and +brother Jim, all the family except dad, make fun of my bread." + +"You have a brother? How old is he?" + +"One brother--Jim, we call him. He--he is just past twenty-one." She +faltered the last few words. + +Kurt felt on common ground with her then. The sudden break in her voice, +the change in her face, the shadowing of the blue eyes--these were +eloquent. + +"Oh, it's horrible--this need of war!" she exclaimed. + +"Yes," he replied, simply. "But maybe your brother will not be called." + +"Called! Why, he refused to wait for the draft! He went and enlisted. +Dad patted him on the back.... If anything happens to him it'll kill my +mother. Jim is her idol. It'd break my heart.... Oh, I hate the very +name of Germans!" + +"My father is German," said Kurt. "He's been fifty years in +America--eighteen years here on this farm. He always hated England. Now +he's bitter against America.... I can see a side you can't see. But I +don't blame you--for what you said." + +"Forgive me. I can't conceive of meaning that against any one who's +lived here so long.... Oh, it must be hard for you." + +"I'll let my father think I'm forced to join the army. But I'm going to +fight against his people. We are a house divided against itself." + +"Oh, what a pity!" The girl sighed and her eyes were dark with brooding +sorrow. + +A step sounded behind them. Mr. Anderson appeared, sombrero off, mopping +a very red face. His eyes gleamed, with angry glints; his mouth and chin +were working. He flopped down with a great, explosive breath. + +"Kurt, your old man is a--a--son of a gun!" he exclaimed, vociferously; +manifestly, liberation of speech was a relief. + +The young man nodded seriously and knowingly. "I hope, sir--he--he--" + +"He did--you just bet your life! He called me a lot in German, but I +know cuss words when I hear them. I tried to reason with him--told him I +wanted my money--was here to help him get that money off the farm, some +way or other. An' he swore I was a capitalist--an enemy to labor an' the +Northwest--that I an' my kind had caused the war." + +Kurt gazed gravely into the disturbed face of the rancher. Miss Anderson +had wide-open eyes of wonder. + +"Sure I could have stood all that," went on Anderson, fuming. "But he +ordered me out of the house. I got mad an' wouldn't go. Then--by George! +he pulled my nose an' called me a bloody Englishman!" + +Kurt groaned in the disgrace of the moment. But, amazingly, Miss +Anderson burst into a silvery peal of laughter. + +"Oh, dad!... that's--just too--good for--anything! You met your--match +at last.... You know you always--boasted of your drop of English +blood.... And you're sensitive--about your big nose!" + +"He must be over seventy," growled Anderson, as if seeking for some +excuse to palliate his restraint. "I'm mad--but it was funny." The +working of his face finally set in the huge wrinkles of a laugh. + +Young Dorn struggled to repress his own mirth, but unguardedly he +happened to meet the dancing blue eyes of the girl, merry, provocative, +full of youth and fun, and that was too much for him. He laughed with +them. + +"The joke's on me," said Anderson. "An' I can take one.... Now, young +man, I think I gathered from your amiable dad that if the crop of wheat +was full I'd get my money. Otherwise I could take over the land. For my +part, I'd never do that, but the others interested might do it, even for +the little money involved. I tried to buy them out so I'd have the whole +mortgage. They would not sell." + +"Mr. Anderson, you're a square man, and I'll do--" declared Kurt. + +"Come out an' show me the wheat," interrupted Anderson. "Lenore, do you +want to go with us?" + +"I do," replied the daughter, and she took up her hat to put it on. + +Kurt led them through the yard, out past the old barn, to the edge of +the open slope where the wheat stretched away, down and up, as far as +the eye could see. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +"We've got over sixteen hundred acres in fallow ground, a half-section +in rye, another half in wheat--Turkey Red--and this section you see, six +hundred and forty acres, in Bluestem," said Kurt. + +Anderson's keen eyes swept from near at hand to far away, down the +gentle, billowy slope and up the far hillside. The wheat was two feet +high, beginning to be thick and heavy at the heads, as if struggling to +burst. A fragrant, dry, wheaty smell, mingled with dust, came on the +soft summer breeze, and a faint silken rustle. The greenish, almost blue +color near at hand gradually in the distance grew lighter, and then +yellow, and finally took on a tinge of gold. There was a living spirit +in that vast wheat-field. + +"Dorn, it's the finest wheat I've seen!" exclaimed Anderson, with the +admiration of the farmer who aspired high. "In fact, it's the only fine +field of wheat I've seen since we left the foot-hills. How is that?" + +"Late spring and dry weather," replied Dorn. "Most of the farmers' +reports are poor. If we get rain over the Bend country we'll have only +an average yield this year. If we don't get rain--then flat failure." + +Miss Anderson evinced an interest in the subject and she wanted to know +why this particular field, identical with all the others for miles +around, should have a promise of a magnificent crop when the others had +no promise at all. + +"This section lay fallow a long time," replied Dorn. "Snow lasted here +on this north slope quite a while. My father used a method of soil +cultivation intended to conserve moisture. The seed wheat was especially +selected. And if we have rain during the next ten days this section of +Bluestem will yield fifty bushels to the acre." + +"Fifty bushels!" ejaculated Anderson. + +"Bluestem? Why do you call it that when it's green and yellow?" queried +the girl. + +"It's a name. There are many varieties of wheat. Bluestem is best here +in this desert country because it resists drought, it produces large +yield, it does not break, and the flour-mills rate it very high. +Bluestem is not good in wet soils." + +Anderson tramped along the edge of the field, peering down, here and +there pulling a shaft of wheat and examining it. The girl gazed with +dreamy eyes across the undulating sea. And Dorn watched her. + +"We have a ranch--thousands of acres--but not like this," she said. + +"What's the difference?" asked Dorn. + +She appeared pensive and in doubt. + +"I hardly know. What would you call this--this scene?" + +"Why, I call it the desert of wheat! But no one else does," he replied. + +"I named father's ranch 'Many Waters.' I think those names tell the +difference." + +"Isn't my desert beautiful?" + +"No. It has a sameness--a monotony that would drive me mad. It looks as +if the whole world had gone to wheat. It makes me think--oppresses me. +All this means that we live by wheat alone. These bare hills! They're +too open to wind and sun and snow. They look like the toil of ages." + +"Miss Anderson, there is such a thing as love for the earth--the bare +brown earth. You know we came from dust, and to dust we return! These +fields are human to my father. And they have come to speak to me--a +language I don't understand yet. But I mean--what you see--the growing +wheat here, the field of clods over there, the wind and dust and glare +and heat, the eternal sameness of the open space--these are the things +around which my life has centered, and when I go away from them I am not +content." + +Anderson came back to the young couple, carrying some heads of wheat in +his hand. + +"Smut!" he exclaimed, showing both diseased and healthy specimens of +wheat. "Had to hunt hard to find that. Smut is the bane of all +wheat-growers. I never saw so little of it as there is here. In fact, we +know scarcely nothin' about smut an' its cure, if there is any. You +farmers who raise only grain have got the work down to a science. This +Bluestem is not bearded wheat, like Turkey Red. Has that beard anythin' +to do with smut?" + +"I think not. The parasite, or fungus, lives inside the wheat." + +"Never heard that before. No wonder smut is the worst trouble for +wheat-raisers in the Northwest. I've fields literally full of smut. An' +we never are rid of it. One farmer has one idea, an' some one else +another. What could be of greater importance to a farmer? We're at war. +The men who claim to know say that wheat will win the war. An' we lose +millions of bushels from this smut. That's to say it's a terrible fact +to face. I'd like to get your ideas." + +Dorn, happening to glance again at Miss Anderson, an act that seemed to +be growing habitual, read curiosity and interest, and something more, in +her direct blue eyes. The circumstance embarrassed him, though it tugged +at the flood-gates of his knowledge. He could talk about wheat, and he +did like to. Yet here was a girl who might be supposed to be bored. +Still, she did not appear to be. That warm glance was not politeness. + +"Yes, I'd like to hear every word you can say about wheat," she said, +with an encouraging little nod. + +"Sure she would," added Anderson, with an affectionate hand on her +shoulder. "She's a farmer's daughter. She'll be a farmer's wife." + +He laughed at this last sally. The girl blushed. Dorn smiled and shook +his head doubtfully. + +"I imagine that good fortune will never befall a farmer," he said. + +"Well, if it should," she replied, archly, "just consider how I might +surprise him with my knowledge of wheat.... Indeed, Mr. Dorn, I am +interested. I've never been in the Bend before--in your desert of wheat. +I never before felt the greatness of loving the soil--or caring for +it--of growing things from seed. Yet the Bible teaches that, and I read +my Bible. Please tell us. The more you say the more I'll like it." + +Dorn was not proof against this eloquence. And he quoted two of his +authorities, Heald and Woolman, of the State Agricultural Experiment +Station, where he had studied for two years. + +"Bunt, or stinking smut, is caused by two different species of +microscopic fungi which live as parasites in the wheat plant. Both are +essentially similar in their effects and their life-history. _Tilletia +tritici_, or the rough-spored variety, is the common stinking smut of +the Pacific regions, while _Tilletia foetans_, or the smooth-spored +species, is the one generally found in the eastern United States. + +"The smut 'berries,' or 'balls,' from an infected head contain millions +of minute bodies, the spores or 'seeds' of the smut fungus. These +reproduce the smut in somewhat the same way that a true seed develops +into a new plant. A single smut ball of average size contains a +sufficient number of spores to give one for each grain of wheat in five +or six bushels. It takes eight smut spores to equal the diameter of a +human hair. Normal wheat grains from an infected field may have so many +spores lodged on their surface as to give them a dark color, but other +grains which show no difference in color to the naked eye may still +contain a sufficient number of spores to produce a smutty crop if seed +treatment is not practised. + +"When living smut spores are introduced into the soil with the seed +wheat, or exist in the soil in which smut-free wheat is sown, a certain +percentage of the wheat plants are likely to become infected. The smut +spore germinates and produces first a stage of the smut plant in the +soil. This first stage never infects a young seedling direct, but gives +rise to secondary spores, or sporida, from which infection threads may +arise and penetrate the shoot of a young seedling and reach the growing +point. Here the fungus threads keep pace with the growth of the plant +and reach maturity at or slightly before harvest-time. + +"Since this disease is caused by an internal parasite, it is natural to +expect certain responses to its presence. It should be noted first that +the smut fungus is living at the expense of its host plant, the wheat, +and its effect on the host may be summarized as follows: The consumption +of food, the destruction of food in the sporulating process, and the +stimulating or retarding effect on normal physiological processes. + +"Badly smutted plants remain in many cases under-size and produce fewer +and smaller heads. In the Fife and Bluestem varieties the infected heads +previous to maturity exhibit a darker green color, and remain green +longer than the normal heads. In some varieties the infected heads stand +erect, when normal ones begin to droop as a result of the increasing +weight of the ripening grain. + +"A crop may become infected with smut in a number of different ways. +Smut was originally introduced with the seed, and many farmers are still +planting it every season with their seed wheat. Wheat taken from a +smutty crop will have countless numbers of loose spores adhering to the +grains, also a certain number of unbroken smut balls. These are always a +source of danger, even when the seed is treated with fungicides before +sowing. + +"There are also chances for the infection of a crop if absolutely +smut-free seed is employed. First, soil infection from a previous smutty +crop; second, soil infection from wind-blown spores. Experiments have +shown that separated spores from crushed smut balls lose their effective +power in from two to three months, provided the soil is moist and loose, +and in no case do they survive a winter. + +"It does not seem probable that wheat smut will be controlled by any +single practice, but rather by the combined use of various methods: crop +rotation; the use of clean seed; seed treatment with fungicides; +cultural practices and breeding; and selection of varieties. + +"Failure to practise crop rotation is undoubtedly one of the main +explanations for the general prevalence of smut in the wheat-fields of +eastern Washington. Even with an intervening summer fallow, the smut +from a previous crop may be a source of infection. Experience shows that +a fall stubble crop is less liable to smut infection than a crop +following summer fallow. The apparent explanation for this condition is +the fact that the summer fallow becomes infected with wind-blown spores, +while in a stubble crop the wind-blown spores, as well as those +originating from the previous crop, are buried in plowing. + +"If clean seed or properly treated seed had been used by all farmers we +should never have had a smut problem. High per cents. of smut indicate +either soil infection or imperfect treatment. The principle of the +chemical treatment is to use a poison which will kill the superficial +spores of the smut and not materially injure the germinating power of +the seed. The hot-water treatment is only recommended when one of the +chemical 'steeps' is not effective. + +"Certain cultural practices are beneficial in reducing the amount of +smut in all cases, while the value of others depends to some extent upon +the source of the smut spores. The factors which always influence the +amount of smut are the temperature of the soil during the germinating +period, the amount of soil moisture, and the depth of seeding. Where +seed-borne spores are the only sources of infection, attention to the +three factors mentioned will give the only cultural practices for +reducing the amount of smut. + +"Early seeding has been practised by various farmers, and they report a +marked reduction in smut. + +"The replowing of the summer fallow after the first fall rains is +generally effective in reducing the amount of smut. + +"Very late planting--that is, four or five weeks after the first good +fall rains--is also an effective practice. Fall tillage of summer +fallow, other than plowing, seems to be beneficial. + +"No smut-immune varieties of wheat are known, but the standard varieties +show varying degrees of resistance. Spring wheats generally suffer less +from smut than winter varieties. This is not due to any superior +resistance, but rather to the fact that they escape infection. If only +spring wheats were grown our smut problem would largely disappear; but a +return to this practice is not suggested, since the winter wheats are +much more desirable. It seems probable that the conditions which prevail +during the growing season may have considerable influence on the per +cent of smut in any given variety." + + * * * * * + +When Dorn finished his discourse, to receive the thanks of his +listeners, they walked back through the yard toward the road. Mr. +Anderson, who led the way, halted rather abruptly. + +"Hum! Who're those men talkin' to my driver?" he queried. + +Dorn then saw a couple of strangers standing near the motor-car, engaged +in apparently close conversation with the chauffeur. Upon the moment +they glanced up to see Mr. Anderson approaching, and they rather +hurriedly departed. Dorn had noted a good many strangers lately--men +whose garb was not that of farmers, whose faces seemed foreign, whose +actions were suspicious. + +"I'll bet a hundred they're I.W.W.'s," declared Anderson. "Take my +hunch, Dorn." + +The strangers passed on down the road without looking back. + +"Wonder where they'll sleep to-night?" muttered Dorn. + +Anderson rather sharply asked his driver what the two men wanted. And +the reply he got was that they were inquiring about work. + +"Did they speak English?" went on the rancher. + +"Well enough to make themselves understood," replied the driver. + +Dorn did not get a good impression from the shifty eyes and air of +taciturnity of Mr. Anderson's man, and it was evident that the blunt +rancher restrained himself. He helped his daughter into the car, and +then put on his long coat. Next he shook hands with Dorn. + +"Young man, I've enjoyed meetin' you, an' have sure profited from same," +he said. "Which makes up for your dad! I'll run over here again to see +you--around harvest-time. An' I'll be wishin' for that rain." + +"Thank you. If it does rain I'll be happy to see you," replied Dorn, +with a smile. + +"Well, if it doesn't rain I won't come. I'll put it off another year, +an' cuss them other fellers into holdin' off, too." + +"You're very kind. I don't know how I'd--we'd ever repay you in that +case." + +"Don't mention it. Say, how far did you say it was to Palmer? We'll have +lunch there." + +"It's fifteen miles--that way," answered Dorn. "If it wasn't for--for +father I'd like you to stay--and break some of my bread." + +Dorn was looking at the girl as he spoke. Her steady gaze had been on +him ever since she entered the car, and in the shade of her hat and the +veil she was adjusting her eyes seemed very dark and sweet and +thoughtful. She brightly nodded her thanks as she held the veil aside +with both hands. + +"I wish you luck. Good-by," she said, and closed the veil. + +Still, Dorn could see her eyes through it, and now they were sweeter, +more mysterious, more provocative of haunting thoughts. It flashed over +him with dread certainty that he had fallen in love with her. The shock +struck him mute. He had no reply for the rancher's hearty farewell. Then +the car lurched away and dust rose in a cloud. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +With a strange knocking of his heart, high up toward his throat, Kurt +Dorn stood stock-still, watching the moving cloud of dust until it +disappeared over the hill. + +No doubt entered his mind. The truth, the fact, was a year old--a +long-familiar and dreamy state--but its meaning had not been revealed to +him until just a moment past. Everything had changed when she looked out +with that sweet, steady gaze through the parted veil and then slowly +closed it. She had changed. There was something intangible about her +that last moment, baffling, haunting. He leaned against a crooked old +gate-post that as a boy he had climbed, and the thought came to him that +this spot would all his life be vivid and poignant in his memory. The +first sight of a blue-eyed, sunny-haired girl, a year and more before, +had struck deep into his unconscious heart; a second sight had made her +an unforgettable reality: and a third had been the realization of love. + +It was sad, regrettable, incomprehensible, and yet somehow his inner +being swelled and throbbed. Her name was Lenore Anderson. Her father was +one of the richest men in the state of Washington. She had one brother, +Jim, who would not wait for the army draft. Kurt trembled and a hot rush +of tears dimmed his eyes. All at once his lot seemed unbearable. An +immeasurable barrier had arisen between him and his old father--a +hideous thing of blood, of years, of ineradicable difference; the broad +acres of wheatland so dear to him were to be taken from him; love had +overcome him with headlong rush, a love that could never be returned; +and cruelest of all, there was the war calling him to give up his home, +his father, his future, and to go out to kill and to be killed. + +It came to him while he leaned there, that, remembering the light of +Lenore Anderson's eyes, he could not give up to bitterness and hatred, +whatever his misfortunes and his fate. She would never be anything to +him, but he and her brother Jim and many other young Americans must be +incalculable all to her. That thought saved Kurt Dorn. There were other +things besides his own career, his happiness; and the way he was placed, +however unfortunate from a selfish point of view, must not breed a +morbid self-pity. + +The moment of his resolution brought a flash, a revelation of what he +owed himself. The work and the thought and the feeling of his last few +weeks there at home must be intensified. He must do much and live +greatly in little time. This was the moment of his renunciation, and he +imagined that many a young man who had decided to go to war had +experienced a strange spiritual division of self. He wondered also if +that moment was not for many of them a let-down, a throwing up of +ideals, a helpless retrograding and surrender to the brutalizing spirit +of war. But it could never be so for him. It might have been had not +that girl come into his life. + +The bell for the midday meal roused Kurt from his profound reverie, and +he plodded back to the house. Down through the barnyard gate he saw the +hired men coming, and a second glance discovered to him that two unknown +men were with them. Watching for a moment, Kurt recognized the two +strangers that had been talking to Mr. Anderson's driver. They seemed to +be talking earnestly now. Kurt saw Jerry, a trusty and long-tried +employee, rather unceremoniously break away from these strangers. But +they followed him, headed him off, and with vehement nods and +gesticulations appeared to be arguing with him. The other hired men +pushed closer, evidently listening. Finally Jerry impatiently broke away +and tramped toward the house. These strangers sent sharp words after +him--words that Kurt could not distinguish, though he caught the tone of +scorn. Then the two individuals addressed themselves to the other men; +and in close contact the whole party passed out of sight behind the +barn. + +Thoughtfully Kurt went into the house. He meant to speak to Jerry about +the strangers, but he wanted to consider the matter first. He had +misgivings. His father was not in the sitting-room, nor in the kitchen. +Dinner was ready on the table, and the one servant, an old woman who had +served the Dorns for years, appeared impatient at the lack of promptness +in the men. Both father and son, except on Sundays, always ate with the +hired help. Kurt stepped outside to find Jerry washing at the bench. + +"Jerry, what's keeping the men?" queried Kurt. + +"Wal, they're palaverin' out there with two I.W.W. fellers," replied +Jerry. + +Kurt reached for the rope of the farm-bell, and rang it rather sharply. +Then he went in to take his place at the table, and Jerry soon followed. +Old man Dorn did not appear, which fact was not unusual. The other hired +men did not enter until Jerry and Kurt were half done with the meal. +They seemed excited and somewhat boisterous, Kurt thought, but once they +settled down to eating, after the manner of hungry laborers, they had +little to say. Kurt, soon finishing his dinner, went outdoors to wait +for Jerry. That individual appeared to be long in coming, and loud +voices in the kitchen attested to further argument. At last, however, he +lounged out and began to fill a pipe. + +"Jerry, I want to talk to you," said Kurt. "Let's get away from the +house." + +The hired man was a big, lumbering fellow, gnarled like an old oak-tree. +He had a good-natured face and honest eyes. + +"I reckon you want to hear about them I.W.W. fellers?" he asked, as they +walked away. + +"Yes," replied Kurt. + +"There's been a regular procession of them fellers, the last week or so, +walkin' through the country," replied Jerry. "To-day's the first time +any of them got to me. But I've heerd talk. Sunday when I was in Palmer +the air was full of rumors." + +"Rumors of what?" queried Kurt. + +"All kinds," answered Jerry, nonchalantly scratching his stubby beard. +"There's an army of I.W.W.'s comin' in from eastward. Idaho an' Montana +are gittin' a dose now. Short hours; double wages; join the union; +sabotage, whatever thet is; capital an' labor fight; threats if you +don't fall in line; an' Lord knows what all." + +"What did those two fellows want of you?" + +"Wanted us to join the I.W.W.," replied the laborer. + +"Did they want a job?" + +"Not as I heerd. Why, one of them had a wad of bills thet would choke a +cow. He did most of the talkin'. The little feller with the beady eyes +an' the pock-marks, he didn't say much. He's Austrian an' not long in +this country. The big stiff--Glidden, he called himself--must be some +shucks in thet I.W.W. He looked an' talked oily at first--very +persuadin'; but when I says I wasn't goin' to join no union he got sassy +an' bossy. They made me sore, so I told him to go to hell. Then he said +the I.W.W. would run the whole Northwest this summer--wheat-fields, +lumberin', fruit-harvestin', railroadin'--the whole kaboodle, an' thet +any workman who wouldn't join would git his, all right." + +"Well, Jerry, what do you think about this organization?" queried Kurt, +anxiously. + +"Not much. It ain't a square deal. I ain't got no belief in them. What I +heerd of their threatenin' methods is like the way this Glidden talks. +If I owned a farm I'd drive such fellers off with a whip. There's goin' +to be bad doin's if they come driftin' strong into the Bend." + +"Jerry, are you satisfied with your job?" + +"Sure. I won't join the I.W.W. An' I'll talk ag'in' it. I reckon a few +of us will hev to do all the harvestin'. An', considerin' thet, I'll +take a dollar a day more on my wages." + +"If father does not agree to that, I will," said Kurt. "Now how about +the other men?" + +"Wal, they all air leanin' toward promises of little work an' lots of +pay," answered Jerry, with a laugh. "Morgan's on the fence about +joinin'. But Andrew agreed. He's Dutch an' pig-headed. Jansen's only too +glad to make trouble fer his boss. They're goin' to lay off the rest of +to-day an' talk with Glidden. They all agreed to meet down by the +culvert. An' thet's what they was arguin' with me fer--wanted me to +come." + +"Where's this man Glidden?" demanded Kurt. "I'll give him a piece of my +mind." + +"I reckon he's hangin' round the farm--out of sight somewhere." + +"All right, Jerry. Now you go back to work. You'll never lose anything +by sticking to us, I promise you that. Keep your eyes and ears open." + +Kurt strode back to the house, and his entrance to the kitchen evidently +interrupted a colloquy of some kind. The hired men were still at table. +They looked down at their plates and said nothing. Kurt left the +sitting-room door open, and, turning, he asked Martha if his father had +been to dinner. + +"No, an' what's more, when I called he takes to roarin' like a mad +bull," replied the woman. + +Kurt crossed the sitting-room to knock upon his father's door. The reply +forthcoming did justify the old woman's comparison. It certainly caused +the hired men to evacuate the kitchen with alacrity. Old Chris Dorn's +roar at his son was a German roar, which did not soothe the young man's +rising temper. Of late the father had taken altogether to speaking +German. He had never spoken English well. And Kurt was rapidly +approaching the point where he would not speak German. A deadlock was in +sight, and Kurt grimly prepared to meet it. He pounded on the locked +door. + +"The men are going to lay off," he called. + +"Who runs this farm?" was the thundered reply. + +"The I.W.W. is going to run it if you sulk indoors as you have done +lately," yelled Kurt. He thought that would fetch his father stamping +out, but he had reckoned falsely. There was no further sound. Leaving +the room in high dudgeon, Kurt hurried out to catch the hired men near +at hand and to order them back to work. They trudged off surlily toward +the barn. + +Then Kurt went on to search for the I.W.W. men, and after looking up and +down the road, and all around, he at length found them behind an old +strawstack. They were comfortably sitting down, backs to the straw, +eating a substantial lunch. Kurt was angry and did not care. His +appearance, however, did not faze the strangers. One of them, an +American, was a man of about thirty years, clean-shaven, square-jawed, +with light, steely, secretive gray eyes, and a look of intelligence and +assurance that did not harmonize with his motley garb. His companion was +a foreigner, small of stature, with eyes like a ferret and deep pits in +his sallow face. + +"Do you know you're trespassing?" demanded Kurt. + +"You grudge us a little shade, eh, even to eat a bite?" said the +American. He wrapped a paper round his lunch and leisurely rose, to +fasten penetrating eyes upon the young man. "That's what I heard about +you rich farmers of the Bend." + +"What business have you coming here?" queried Kurt, with sharp heat. +"You sneak out of sight of the farmers. You trespass to get at our men +and with a lot of lies and guff you make them discontented with their +jobs. I'll fire these men just for listening to you." + +"Mister Dorn, we want you to fire them. That's my business out here," +replied the American. + +"Who are you, anyway?" + +"That's my business, too." + +Kurt passed from hot to cold. He could not miss the antagonism of this +man, a bold and menacing attitude. + +"My foreman says your name's Glidden," went on Kurt, cooler this time, +"and that you're talking I.W.W. as if you were one of its leaders; that +you don't want a job; that you've got a wad of money; that you coax, +then threaten; that you've intimidated three of our hands." + +"Your Jerry's a marked man," said Glidden, shortly. + +"You impudent scoundrel!" exclaimed Kurt. "Now you listen to this. +You're the first I.W.W. man I've met. You look and talk like an +American. But if you are American you're a traitor. We've a war to +fight! War with a powerful country! Germany! And you come spreading +discontent in the wheat-fields,... when wheat means life!... Get out of +here before I--" + +"We'll mark you, too, Mister Dorn, and your wheat-fields," snapped +Glidden. + +With one swift lunge Kurt knocked the man flat and then leaped to stand +over him, watching for a move to draw a weapon. The little foreigner +slunk back out of reach. + +"I'll start a little marking myself," grimly said Kurt. "Get up!" + +Slowly Glidden moved from elbow to knees, and then to his feet. His +cheek was puffing out and his nose was bleeding. The light-gray eyes +were lurid. + +"That's for your I.W.W.!" declared Kurt. "The first rule of your I.W.W. +is to abolish capital, hey?" + +Kurt had not intended to say that. It slipped out in his fury. But the +effect was striking. Glidden gave a violent start and his face turned +white. Abruptly he hurried away. His companion shuffled after him. Kurt +stared at them, thinking the while that if he had needed any proof of +the crookedness of the I.W.W. he had seen it in Glidden's guilty face. +The man had been suddenly frightened, and surprise, too, had been +prominent in his countenance. Then Kurt remembered how Anderson had +intimated that the secrets of the I.W.W. had been long hidden. Kurt, +keen and quick in his sensibilities, divined that there was something +powerful back of this Glidden's cunning and assurance. Could it be only +the power of a new labor organization? That might well be great, but the +idea did not convince Kurt. During a hurried and tremendous preparation +by the government for war, any disorder such as menaced the country +would be little short of a calamity. It might turn out a fatality. This +so-called labor union intended to take advantage of a crisis to further +its own ends. Yet even so, that fact did not wholly explain Glidden and +his subtlety. Some nameless force loomed dark and sinister back of +Glidden's meaning, and it was not peril to the wheatlands of the +Northwest alone. + +Like a huge dog Kurt shook himself and launched into action. There were +sense and pleasure in muscular activity, and it lessened the habit of +worry. Soon he ascertained that only Morgan had returned to work in the +fields. Andrew and Jansen were nowhere to be seen. Jansen had left four +horses hitched to a harrow. Kurt went out to take up the work thus +abandoned. + +It was a long field, and if he had earned a dollar for every time he had +traversed its length, during the last ten years, he would have been a +rich man. He could have walked it blindfolded. It was fallow ground, +already plowed, disked, rolled, and now the last stage was to harrow it, +loosening the soil, conserving the moisture. + +Morgan, far to the other side of this section, had the better of the +job, for his harrow was a new machine and he could ride while driving +the horses. But Kurt, using an old harrow, had to walk. The four big +horses plodded at a gait that made Kurt step out to keep up with them. +To keep up, to drive a straight line, to hold back on the reins, was +labor for a man. It spoke well for Kurt that he had followed that old +harrow hundreds of miles, that he could stand the strain, that he loved +both the physical sense and the spiritual meaning of the toil. + +Driving west, he faced a wind laden with dust as dry as powder. At every +sheeted cloud, whipping back from the hoofs of the horses and the steel +spikes of the harrow, he had to bat his eyes to keep from being blinded. +The smell of dust clogged his nostrils. As soon as he began to sweat +under the hot sun the dust caked on his face, itching, stinging, +burning. There was dust between his teeth. + +Driving back east was a relief. The wind whipped the dust away from him. +And he could catch the fragrance of the newly turned soil. How brown and +clean and earthy it looked! Where the harrow had cut and ridged, the +soil did not look thirsty and parched. But that which was unharrowed +cried out for rain. No cloud in the hot sky, except the yellow clouds of +dust! + +On that trip east across the field, which faced the road, Dorn saw +pedestrians in twos and threes passing by. Once he was hailed, but made +no answer. He would not have been surprised to see a crowd, yet +travelers were scarce in that region. The sight of these men, some of +them carrying bags and satchels, was disturbing to the young farmer. +Where were they going? All appeared outward bound toward the river. They +came, of course, from the little towns, the railroads, the cities. At +this season, with harvest-time near at hand, it had been in former years +no unusual sight to see strings of laborers passing by. But this year +they came earlier, and in greater numbers. + +With the wind in his face, however, Dorn saw nothing but the horses and +the brown line ahead, and half the time they were wholly obscured in +yellow dust. He began thinking about Lenore Anderson, just pondering +that strange, steady look of a girl's eyes; and then he did not mind the +dust or heat or distance. Never could he be cheated of his thoughts. And +those of her, even the painful ones, gave birth to a comfort that he +knew must abide with him henceforth on lonely labors such as this, +perhaps in the lonelier watches of a soldier's duty. She had been +curious, aloof, then sympathetic; she had studied his face; she had been +an eloquent-eyed listener to his discourse on wheat. But she had not +guessed his secret. Not until her last look--strange, deep, potent--had +he guessed that secret himself. + +So, with mind both busy and absent, Kurt Dorn harrowed the fallow ground +abandoned by his men; and when the day was done, with the sun setting +hot and coppery beyond the dim, dark ranges, he guided the tired horses +homeward and plodded back of them, weary and spent. + +He was to learn from Morgan, at the stables, that the old man had +discharged both Andrew and Jansen. And Jansen, liberating some newly +assimilated poison, had threatened revenge. He would see that any hired +men would learn a thing or two, so that they would not sign up with +Chris Dorn. In a fury the old man had driven Jansen out into the road. + +Sober and moody, Kurt put the horses away, and, washing the dust grime +from sunburnt face and hands, he went to his little attic room, where he +changed his damp and sweaty clothes. Then he went down to supper with +mind made up to be lenient and silent with his old and sorely tried +father. + +Chris Dorn sat in the light of the kitchen lamps. He was a huge man with +a great, round, bullet-shaped head and a shock of gray hair and +bristling, grizzled beard. His face was broad, heavy, and seemed sodden +with dark, brooding thought. His eyes, under bushy brows, were pale +gleams of fire. He looked immovable as to both bulk and will. + +Never before had Kurt Dorn so acutely felt the fixed, contrary, ruthless +nature of his parent. Never had the distance between them seemed so +great. Kurt shivered and sighed at once. Then, being hungry, he fell to +eating in silence. Presently the old man shoved his plate back, and, +wiping his face, he growled, in German: + +"I discharged Andrew and Jansen." + +"Yes, I know," replied Kurt. "It wasn't good judgment. What'll we do for +hands?" + +"I'll hire more. Men are coming for the harvest." + +"But they all belong to the I.W.W.," protested Kurt. + +"And what's that?" + +In scarcely subdued wrath Kurt described in detail, and to the best of +his knowledge, what the I.W.W. was, and he ended by declaring the +organization treacherous to the United States. + +"How's that?" asked old Dorn, gruffly. + +Kurt was actually afraid to tell his father, who never read newspapers, +who knew little of what was going on, that if the Allies were to win the +war it was wheat that would be the greatest factor. Instead of that he +said if the I.W.W. inaugurated strikes and disorder in the Northwest it +would embarrass the government. + +"Then I'll hire I.W.W. men," said old Dorn. + +Kurt battled against a rising temper. This blind old man was his father. + +"But I'll not have I.W.W. men on the farm," retorted Kurt. "I just +punched one I.W.W. solicitor." + +"I'll run this farm. If you don't like my way you can leave," darkly +asserted the father. + +Kurt fell back in his chair and stared at the turgid, bulging forehead +and hard eyes before him. What could be behind them? Had the war brought +out a twist in his father's brain? Why were Germans so impossible? + +"My Heavens! father, would you turn me out of my home because we +disagree?" he asked, desperately. + +"In my country sons obey their fathers or they go out for themselves." + +"I've not been a disobedient son," declared Kurt. "And here in America +sons have more freedom--more say." + +"America has no sense of family life--no honest government. I hate the +country." + +A ball of fire seemed to burst in Kurt. + +"That kind of talk infuriates me," he blazed. "I don't care if you are +my father. Why in the hell did you come to America? Why did you stay? +Why did you marry my mother--an American woman?... That's rot--just +spiteful rot! I've heard you tell what life was in Europe when you were +a boy. You ran off. You stayed in this country because it was a better +country than yours.... Fifty years you've been in America--many years on +this farm. And you love this land.... My God! father, can't you and men +like you see the truth?" + +"Aye, I can," gloomily replied the old man. "The truth is we'll lose the +land. That greedy Anderson will drive me off." + +"He will not. He's fine--generous," asserted Kurt, earnestly. "All he +wanted was to see the prospects of the harvest and perhaps to help you. +Anderson has not had interest on his money for three years. I'll bet +he's paid interest demanded by the other stockholders in that bank you +borrowed from. Why, he's our friend!" + +"Aye, and I see more," boomed the father. "He fetched his lass up here +to make eyes at my son. I saw her--the sly wench!... Boy, you'll not +marry her!" + +Kurt choked back his mounting rage. + +"Certainly I never will," he said, bitterly. "But I would if she'd have +me." + +"What!" thundered Dorn, his white locks standing up and shaking like the +mane of a lion. "That wheat banker's daughter! Never! I forbid it. You +shall not marry any American girl." + +"Father, this is idle, foolish rant," cried Kurt, with a high warning +note in his voice. "I've no idea of marrying.... But if I had one--whom +else could I marry except an American girl?" + +"I'll sell the wheat--the land. We'll go back to Germany!" + +That was maddening to Kurt. He sprang up, sending dishes to the floor +with a crash. He bent over to pound the table with a fist. Violent +speech choked him and he felt a cold, tight blanching of his face. + +"Listen!" he rang out. "If I go to Germany it'll be as a soldier--to +kill Germans!... I'm done--I'm through with the very name.... Listen to +the last words I'll ever speak to you in German--the last! _To hell with +Germany_!" + +Then Kurt plunged, blind in his passion, out of the door into the night. +And as he went he heard his father cry out, brokenly: + +"My son! Oh, my son!" + +The night was dark and cool. A faint wind blew across the hills, and it +was dry, redolent, sweet. The sky seemed an endless curving canopy of +dark blue blazing with myriads of stars. + +Kurt staggered out of the yard, down along the edge of a wheat-field, to +one of the straw-stacks, and there he flung himself down in an agony. + +"Oh, I'm ruined--ruined!" he moaned. "The break--has come!... Poor old +dad!" + +He leaned there against the straw, shaking and throbbing, with a cold +perspiration bathing face and body. Even the palms of his hands were +wet. A terrible fit of anger was beginning to loose its hold upon him. +His breathing was labored in gasps and sobs. Unutterable stupidity of +his father--horrible cruelty of his position! What had he ever done in +all his life to suffer under such a curse? Yet almost he clung to his +wrath, for it had been righteous. That thing, that infernal twist in the +brain, that was what was wrong with his father. His father who had been +fifty years in the United States! How simple, then, to understand what +was wrong with Germany. + +"By God! I am--American!" he panted, and it was as if he called to the +grave of his mother, over there on the dark, windy hill. + +That tremendous uprising of his passion had been a vortex, an end, a +decision. And he realized that even to that hour there had been a drag +in his blood. It was over now. The hell was done with. His soul was +free. This weak, quaking body of his housed his tainted blood and the +emotions of his heart, but it could not control his mind, his will. Beat +by beat the helpless fury in him subsided, and then he fell back and lay +still for a long time, eyes shut, relaxed and still. + +A hound bayed mournfully; the insects chirped low, incessantly; the +night wind rustled the silken heads of wheat. + +After a while the young man sat up and looked at the heavens, at the +twinkling white stars, and then away across the shadows of round hills +in the dusk. How lonely, sad, intelligible, and yet mystic the night and +the scene! + +What came to him then was revealing, uplifting--a source of strength to +go on. He was not to blame for what had happened; he could not change +the future. He had a choice between playing the part of a man or that of +a coward, and he had to choose the former. There seemed to be a spirit +beside him--the spirit of his mother or of some one who loved him and +who would have him be true to an ideal, and, if needful, die for it. No +night in all his life before had been like this one. The dreaming hills +with their precious rustling wheat meant more than even a spirit could +tell. Where had the wheat come from that had seeded these fields? Whence +the first and original seeds, and where were the sowers? Back in the +ages! The stars, the night, the dark blue of heaven hid the secret in +their impenetrableness. Beyond them surely was the answer, and perhaps +peace. + +Material things--life, success--such as had inspired Kurt Dorn, on this +calm night lost their significance and were seen clearly. They could not +last. But the wheat there, the hills, the stars--they would go on with +their task. Passion was the dominant side of a man declaring itself, and +that was a matter of inheritance. But self-sacrifice, with its mercy, +its succor, its seed like the wheat, was as infinite as the stars. He +had long made up his mind, yet that had not given him absolute +restraint. The world was full of little men, but he refused to stay +little. This war that had come between him and his father had been bred +of the fumes of self-centered minds, turned with an infantile fatality +to greedy desires. His poor old blinded father could be excused and +forgiven. There were other old men, sick, crippled, idle, who must +suffer pain, but whose pain could be lightened. There were babies, +children, women, who must suffer for the sins of men, but that suffering +need no longer be, if men became honest and true. + +His sudden up-flashing love had a few hours back seemed a calamity. But +out there beside the whispering wheat, under the passionless stars, in +the dreaming night, it had turned into a blessing. He asked nothing but +to serve. To serve her, his country, his future! All at once he who had +always yearned for something unattainable had greatness thrust upon him. +His tragical situation had evoked a spirit from the gods. + +To kiss that blue-eyed girl's sweet lips would be a sum of joy, earthly, +all-satisfying, precious. The man in him trembled all over at the daring +thought. He might revel in such dreams, and surrender to them, since she +would never know, but the divinity he sensed there in the presence of +those stars did not dwell on a woman's lips. Kisses were for the +present, the all too fleeting present; and he had to concern himself +with what he might do for one girl's future. It was exquisitely sad and +sweet to put it that way, though Kurt knew that if he had never seen +Lenore Anderson he would have gone to war just the same. He was not +making an abstract sacrifice. + +The wheat-fields rolling before him, every clod of which had been +pressed by his bare feet as a boy; the father whose changeless blood had +sickened at the son of his loins; the life of hope, freedom, of action, +of achievement, of wonderful possibility--these seemed lost to Kurt +Dorn, a necessary renunciation when he yielded to the call of war. + +But no loss, no sting of bullet or bayonet, no torturing victory of +approaching death, could balance in the scale against the thought of a +picture of one American girl--blue-eyed, red-lipped, golden-haired--as +she stepped somewhere in the future, down a summer lane or through a +blossoming orchard, on soil that was free. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Toward the end of July eastern Washington sweltered under the most +torrid spell of heat on record. It was a dry, high country, noted for an +equable climate, with cool summers and mild winters. And this +unprecedented wave would have been unbearable had not the atmosphere +been free from humidity. + +The haze of heat seemed like a pall of thin smoke from distant forest +fires. The sun rose, a great, pale-red ball, hot at sunrise, and it +soared blazing-white at noon, to burn slowly westward through a +cloudless, coppery sky, at last to set sullen and crimson over the +ranges. + +Spokane, being the only center of iron, steel, brick, and masonry in +this area, resembled a city of furnaces. Business was slack. The asphalt +of the streets left clean imprints of a pedestrian's feet; bits of +newspaper stuck fast to the hot tar. Down by the gorge, where the great +green river made its magnificent plunges over the falls, people +congregated, tarried, and were loath to leave, for here the blowing mist +and the air set into motion by the falling water created a temperature +that was relief. + +Citizens talked of the protracted hot spell, of the blasted crops, of an +almost sure disaster to the wheat-fields, and of the activities of the +I.W.W. Even the war, for the time being, gave place to the nearer +calamities impending. + +Montana had taken drastic measures against the invading I.W.W. The +Governor of Idaho had sent word to the camps of the organization that +they had five days to leave that state. Spokane was awakening to the +menace of hordes of strange, idle men who came in on the westbound +freight-trains. The railroads had been unable to handle the situation. +They were being hard put to it to run trains at all. The train crews +that refused to join the I.W.W. had been threatened, beaten, shot at, +and otherwise intimidated. + +The Chamber of Commerce sent an imperative appeal to representative +wheat-raisers, ranchers, lumbermen, farmers, and bade them come to +Spokane to discuss the situation. They met at the Hotel Davenport, where +luncheon was served in one of the magnificently appointed dining-halls +of that most splendid hotel in the West. + +The lion of this group of Spokane capitalists was Riesinberg, a man of +German forebears, but all American in his sympathies, with a son already +in the army. Riesinberg was president of a city bank and of the Chamber +of Commerce. His first words to the large assembly of clean-cut, +square-jawed, intent-eyed Westerners were: "Gentlemen, we are here to +discuss the most threatening and unfortunate situation the Northwest was +ever called upon to meet." His address was not long, but it was +stirring. The Chamber of Commerce could provide unlimited means, could +influence and control the state government; but it was from the visitors +invited to this meeting, the men of the outlying districts which were +threatened, that objective proofs must come and the best methods of +procedure. + +The first facts to come out were that many crops were ruined already, +but, owing to the increased acreage that year, a fair yield was +expected; that wheat in the Bend would be a failure, though some farmers +here and there would harvest well; that the lumber districts were not +operating, on account of the I.W.W. + +Then it was that the organization of men who called themselves the +Industrial Workers of the World drew the absorbed attention of the +meeting. Depredations already committed stunned the members of the +Chamber of Commerce. + +President Riesinberg called upon Beardsley, a prominent and intelligent +rancher of the southern wheat-belt. Beardsley said: + + "It is difficult to speak with any moderation of the outrageous + eruption of the I.W.W. It is nothing less than rebellion, and the + most effective means of suppressing rebellion is to apply a little + of that 'direct action' which is the favorite diversion of the + I.W.W.'s. + + "The I.W.W. do not intend to accomplish their treacherous aims by + anything so feeble as speech; they scorn the ballot-box. They are + against the war, and their method of making known their protest is + by burning our grain, destroying our lumber, and blowing up + freight-trains. They seek to make converts not by argument, but by + threats and intimidation. + + "We read that Western towns are seeking to deport these rebels. In + the old days we can imagine more drastic measures would have been + taken. The Westerners were handy with the rope and the gun in those + days. We are not counseling lynch law, but we think deportation is + too mild a punishment. + + "We are too 'civilized' to apply the old Roman law, 'Spare the + conquered and extirpate the rebels,' but at least we could intern + them. The British have found it practicable to put German prisoners + to work at useful employment. Why couldn't we do the same with our + rebel I.W.W.'s?" + +Jones, a farmer from the Yakima Valley, told that business men, +housewives, professional men, and high-school boys and girls would help +to save the crop of Washington to the nation in case of labor trouble. +Steps already had been taken to mobilize workers in stores, offices, and +homes for work in the orchards and grain-fields, should the I.W.W. +situation seriously threaten harvests. + +Pledges to go into the hay or grain fields or the orchards, with a +statement of the number of days they were willing to work, had been +signed by virtually all the men in North Yakima. + +Helmar, lumberman from the Blue Mountains, spoke feelingly; he said: + + "My company is the owner of a considerable amount of timbered lands + and timber purchased from the state and from individuals. We have + been engaged in logging that land until our operations have been + stopped and our business paralyzed by an organization which calls + itself the Industrial Workers of the World, and by members of that + organization, and other lawless persons acting in sympathy with + them. + + "Our employees have been threatened with physical violence and + death. + + "Our works are picketed by individuals who camp out in the forests + and who intimidate and threaten our employees. + + "Open threats have been made that our works, our logs, and our + timber will all be burned. + + "Sabotage is publicly preached in the meetings, and in the + literature of the organization it is advised and upheld. + + "The open boast is made that the lumbering industry, with all other + industry, will be paralyzed by this organization, by the destruction + of property used in industry and by the intimidation of laborers who + are willing to work. + + "A real and present danger to the property of my company exists. + Unless protection is given to us it will probably be burned and + destroyed. Our lawful operations cannot be conducted because + laborers who are willing to work are fearful of their lives and are + subject to abuse, threats, and violence. Our camps, when in + operation, are visited by individuals belonging to the said + organization, and the men peaceably engaged in them threatened with + death if they do not cease work. All sorts of injury to property by + the driving of spikes in logs, the destruction of logs, and other + similar acts are encouraged and recommended. + + "As I pointed out to the sheriff of our county, the season is a very + dry one and the woods are and will be, unless rain comes, in danger + of disastrous fires. The organization and its members have openly + and repeatedly asserted that they will burn the logs in the woods + and burn the forests of this company and other timber-holders before + they will permit logging operations to continue. + + "Many individuals belonging to the organization are camped in the + open in the timbered country, and their very presence is a fire + menace. They are engaged in no business except to interfere with the + industry and to interfere with the logging of this company and + others who engaged in the logging business. + + "We have done what we could in a lawful manner to continue our + operations and to protect our employees. We are now helpless, and + place the responsibility for the protection of our property and the + protection of our employees upon the board of county commissioners + and upon the officers of the county." + +Next President Riesinberg called upon a young reporter to read +paragraphs of an I.W.W. speech he had heard made to a crowd of three +hundred workmen. It was significant that several members of the Chamber +of Commerce called for a certain paragraph to be reread. It was this: + + "If you working-men could only stand together you could do in this + country what has been done in Russia," declared the I.W.W. orator. + "You know what the working-men did there to the slimy curs, the + gunmen, and the stool-pigeons of the capitalistic class. They bumped + them off. They sent them up to say, 'Good morning, Jesus.'" + +After a moment of muttering and another silence the president again +addressed the meeting: + + "Gentlemen, we have Anderson of Golden Valley with us to-day. If + there are any of you present who do not know him, you surely have + heard of him. His people were pioneers. He was born in Washington. + He is a type of the men who have made the Northwest. He fought the + Indians in early days and packed a gun for the outlaws--and to-day, + gentlemen, he owns a farm as big as Spokane County. We want to hear + from him." + +When Anderson rose to reply it was seen that he was pale and somber. +Slowly he gazed at the assembly of waiting men, bowed; then he began, +impressively: + + "Gentlemen an' friends, I wish I didn't have to throw a bomb into + this here camp-fire talk. But I've got to. You're all talkin' I.W.W. + Facts have been told showin' a strange an' sudden growth of this + here four-flush labor union. We've had dealin's with them for + several years. But this year it's different.... All at once they've + multiplied and strengthened. There's somethin' behind them. A big + unseen hand is stackin' the deck.... An', countrymen, that + tremendous power is German gold!" + +Anderson's deep voice rang like a bell. His hearers sat perfectly +silent. No surprise showed, but faces grew set and hard. After a pause +of suspense, in which his denunciation had time to sink in, Anderson +resumed: + + "A few weeks ago a young man, a stranger, came to me an' asked for a + job. He could do anythin', he said. An' I hired him to drive my car. + But he wasn't much of a driver. We went up in the Bend country one + day, an' on that trip I got suspicious of him. I caught him talkin' + to what I reckoned was I.W.W. men. An' then, back home again, I + watched him an' kept my ears open. It didn't take long for me to + find discontent among my farm-hands. I hire about a hundred hands on + my ranches durin' the long off season, an' when harvest comes round + a good many more. All I can get, in fact.... Well, I found my hands + quittin' me, which was sure onusual. An' I laid it to that driver. + + "One day not long ago I run across him hobnobbin' with the strange + man I'd seen talkin' with him on the Bend trip. But my driver--Nash, + he calls himself--didn't see me. That night I put a cowboy to watch + him. An' what this cowboy heard, put together two an' two, was that + Nash was assistant to an I.W.W. leader named Glidden. He had sent + for Glidden to come to look over my ranch. Both these I.W.W. men had + more money than they could well carry--lots of it gold! The way they + talked of this money proved that they did not know the source, but + the supply was unlimited. + + "Next day Glidden could not be found. But my cowboy had learned + enough to show his methods. If these proselyters could not coax or + scare trusted men to join the I.W.W., they tried to corrupt them + with money. An' in most cases they're successful. I've not yet + sprung anythin' on my driver, Nash. But he can't get away, an' + meanwhile I'll learn much by watchin' him. Maybe through Nash I can + catch Glidden. An' so, gentlemen, here we have a plain case. An' the + menace is enough to chill the heart of every loyal citizen. Any way + you put it, if harvests can't be harvested, if wheat-fields an' + lumber forests are burned, if the state militia has to be called + out--any way you put it our government will be hampered, our + supplies kept from our allies--an' so the cause of Germany will be + helped. + + "The I.W.W. have back of them an organized power with a definite + purpose. There can hardly be any doubt that that power is Germany. + The agitators an' leaders throughout the country are well paid. + Probably they, as individuals, do not know who pays them. + Undoubtedly a little gang of men makes the deals, handles the money. + We read that every U.S. attorney is investigating the I.W.W. The + government has determined to close down on them. But lawyers an' law + are slow to act. Meanwhile the danger to us is at hand. + + "Gentlemen, to finish let me say that down in my country we're goin' + to rustle the I.W.W. in the good old Western way." + + + + +CHAPTER V + +Golden Valley was the Garden of Eden of the Northwest. The southern +slope rose to the Blue Mountains, whence flowed down the innumerable +brooks that, uniting to form streams and rivers, abundantly watered the +valley. + +The black reaches of timber extended down to the grazing-uplands, and +these bordered on the sloping golden wheat-fields, which in turn +contrasted so vividly with the lower green alfalfa-pastures; then came +the orchards with their ruddy, mellow fruit, and lastly the bottom-lands +where the vegetable-gardens attested to the wonderful richness of the +soil. From the mountain-side the valley seemed a series of colored +benches, stepping down, black to gray, and gray to gold, and gold to +green with purple tinge, and on to the perfectly ordered, many-hued +floor with its innumerable winding, tree-bordered streams glinting in +the sunlight. + +The extremes of heat and cold never visited Golden Valley. Spokane and +the Bend country, just now sweltering in a torrid zone, might as well +have been in the Sahara, for all the effect it had on this garden spot +of all the Inland Empire. It was hot in the valley, but not unpleasant. +In fact, the greatest charm in this secluded vale was its pleasant +climate all the year round. No summer cyclones, no winter blizzards, no +cloudbursts or bad thunderstorms. It was a country that, once lived in, +could never be left. + +There were no poor inhabitants in that great area of twenty-five hundred +miles; and there were many who were rich. Prosperous little towns dotted +the valley floor; and the many smooth, dusty, much-used roads all led to +Ruxton, a wealthy and fine city. + + * * * * * + +Anderson, the rancher, had driven his car to Spokane. Upon his return he +had with him a detective, whom he expected to use in the I.W.W. +investigations, and a neighbor rancher. They had left Spokane early and +had endured almost insupportable dust and heat. A welcome change began +as they slid down from the bare desert into the valley; and once across +the Copper River, Anderson began to breathe freer and to feel he was +nearing home. + +"God's country!" he said, as he struck the first low swell of rising +land, where a cool wind from off the wooded and watered hills greeted +his face. Dust there still was, but it seemed a different kind and +smelled of apple-orchards and alfalfa-fields. Here were hard, smooth +roads, and Anderson sped his car miles and miles through a country that +was a verdant fragrant bower, and across bright, shady streams and by +white little hamlets. + +At Huntington he dropped his neighbor rancher, and also the detective, +Hall, who was to go disguised into the districts overrun by the I.W.W. A +further run of forty miles put him on his own property. + +Anderson owned a string of farms and ranches extending from the +bottom-lands to the timber-line of the mountains. They represented his +life of hard work and fair dealing. Many of these orchard and vegetable +lands he had tenant farmers work on shares. The uplands or wheat and +grass he operated himself. As he had accumulated property he had changed +his place of residence from time to time, at last to build a beautiful +and permanent home farther up on the valley slope than any of the +others. + +It was a modern house, white, with a red roof. Situated upon a high +level bench, with the waving gold fields sloping up from it and the +green squares of alfalfa and orchards below, it appeared a landmark from +all around, and could be plainly seen from Vale, the nearest little +town, five miles away. + +Anderson had always loved the open, and he wanted a place where he could +see the sun rise over the distant valley gateway, and watch it set +beyond the bold black range in the west. He could sit on his front +porch, wide and shady, and look down over two thousand acres of his own +land. But from the back porch no eye could have encompassed the limit of +his broad, swelling slopes of grain and grass. + +From the main road he drove up to the right of the house, where, under a +dip of wooded slope, clustered barns, sheds, corrals, granaries, engine +and machinery houses, a store, and the homes of hired men--a little +village in itself. + +The sounds he heard were a welcome home--the rush of swift water not +twenty yards from where he stopped the car in the big courtyard, the +pound of hoofs on the barn floor, the shrill whistle of a stallion that +saw and recognized him, the drawling laugh of his cowboys and the clink +of their spurs as they became aware of his return. + +Nash, the suspected driver, was among those who hurried to meet the car. + +Anderson's keen, covert glance made note of the driver's worried and +anxious face. + +"Nash, she'll need a lookin' over," he said, as he uncovered bundles in +the back seat and lifted them out. + +"All right, sir," replied Nash, eagerly. A note of ended strain was +significant in his voice. + +"Here, you Jake," cheerily called Anderson to a raw-boned, gaunt-faced +fellow who wore the garb of a cowboy. + +"Boss, I'm powerful glad to see you home," replied Jake, as he received +bundle after bundle until he was loaded down. Then he grinned. "Mebbe +you want a pack-hoss." + +"You're hoss enough for me. Come on," he said, and, waving the other men +aside, he turned toward the green, shady hill above which the red and +white of the house just showed. + +A bridge crossed the rushing stream. Here Jake dropped some of the +bundles, and Anderson recovered them. As he straightened up he looked +searchingly at the cowboy. Jake's yellow-gray eyes returned the gaze. +And that exchange showed these two of the same breed and sure of each +other. + +"Nawthin' come off, boss," he drawled, "but I'm glad you're home." + +"Did Nash leave the place?" queried Anderson. + +"Twice, at night, an' he was gone long. I didn't foller him because I +seen he didn't take no luggage, an' thet boy has some sporty clothes. He +was sure comin' back." + +"Any sign of his pard--that Glidden?" + +"Nope. But there's been more'n one new feller snookin' round." + +"Have you heard from any of the boys with the cattle?" + +"Yep. Bill Weeks rode down. He said a bunch of I.W.W.'s were campin' +above Blue Spring. Thet means they've moved on down to the edge of the +timber an' oncomfortable near our wheat. Bill says they're killin' our +stock fer meat." + +"Hum!... How many in the gang?" inquired Anderson, darkly. His early +dealings with outlaw rustlers had not left him favorably inclined toward +losing a single steer. + +"Wal, I reckon we can't say. Mebbe five hundred, countin' all along the +valley on this side. Then we hear there's more on the other... Boss, if +they git ugly we're goin' to lose stock, wheat, an' mebbe some blood." + +"So many as that!" ejaculated the rancher, in amaze. + +"They come an' go, an' lately they're most comin'," replied Jake. + +"When do we begin cuttin' grain?" + +"I reckon to-morrow. Adams didn't want to start till you got back. It'll +be barley an' oats fer a few days, an' then the wheat--if we can git the +men." + +"An' has Adams hired any?" + +"Yes, a matter of twenty or so. They swore they wasn't I.W.W.'s, but +Adams says, an' so do I, thet some of them are men who first claimed to +our old hands thet they did belong to the I.W.W." + +"An' so we've got to take a chance if we're goin' to harvest two +thousand acres of wheat?" + +"I reckon, boss." + +"Any reports from Ruxton way?" + +"Wal, yes. But I reckon you'd better git your supper 'fore I tell you, +boss." + +"Jake, you said nothin' had come off." + +"Wal, nawthin' has around here. Come on now, boss. Miss Lenore says I +was to keep my mouth shut." + +"Jake, who's your boss? Me or Lenore?" + +"Wal, you air. But I ain't disobeyin' Miss Lenore." + +Anderson walked the rest of the way up the shady path to the house +without saying any more to Jake. The beautiful white house stood clear +of the grove, bright in the rays of the setting sun. A barking of dogs +greeted Anderson, and then the pattering of feet. His daughters appeared +on the porch. Kathleen, who was ten, made a dive for him, and Rose, who +was fourteen, came flying after her. Both girls were screaming joyously. +Their sunny hair danced. Lenore waited for him at the step, and as he +mounted the porch, burdened by the three girls, his anxious, sadly +smiling wife came out to make perfect the welcome home. No--not perfect, +for Anderson's joy held a bitter drop, the absence of his only son! + +"Oh, dad, what-all did you fetch me?" cried Kathleen, and she deserted +her father for the bundle-laden Jake. + +"And me!" echoed Rose. + +Even Lenore, in the happiness of her father's return, was not proof +against the wonder and promise of those many bundles. + +They all went within, through a hall to a great, cozy living-room. Mrs. +Anderson's very first words, after her welcoming smile, were a +half-faltered: + +"Any--news of--Jim?" + +"Why--yes," replied Anderson, hesitatingly. + +Suddenly the three sisters were silent. How closely they resembled one +another then--Lenore, a budding woman; Rose, a budding girl; and +Kathleen, a rosy, radiant child! Lenore lost a little of her bloom. + +"What news, father?" she asked. + +"Haven't you heard from him?" returned Anderson. + +"Not for a whole week. He wrote the day he reached Spokane. But then he +hardly knew anything except that he'd enlisted." + +"I'm sure glad Jim didn't wait for the draft," replied the father. +"Well, mother an' girls, Jim was gone when I got to Spokane. All I heard +was that he was well when he left for Frisco an' strong for the aviation +corps." + +"Then he means to--to be an aviator," said Lenore, with quivering lips. + +"Sure, if he can get in. An' he's wise. Jim knows engines. He has a +knack for machinery. An' nerve! No boy ever had more. He'll make a crack +flier." + +"But--the danger!" whispered the boy's mother, with a shudder. + +"I reckon there'll be a little danger, mother," replied Anderson, +cheerfully. "We've got to take our chance on Jim. There's one sure bet. +If he had stayed home he'd been fightin' I.W.W.'s!" + +That trying moment passed. Mrs. Anderson said that she would see to +supper being put on the table at once. The younger girls began untying +the bundles. Lenore studied her father's face a moment. + +"Jake, you run along," she said to the waiting cowboy. "Wait till after +supper before you worry father." + +"I'll do thet, Miss Lenore," drawled Jake, "an' if he wants worryin' +he'll hev to look me up." + +"Lass, I'm only tired, not worried," replied Anderson, as Jake shuffled +out with jingling spurs. + +"Did anything serious happen in Spokane?" she asked anxiously. + +"No. But Spokane men are alive to serious trouble ahead," replied her +father. "I spoke to the Chamber of Commerce--sure exploded a bomb in +that camp. Then I had conferences with a good many different men. Fact +is they ran me pretty hard. Couldn't have slept much, anyhow, in that +heat. Lass, this is the place to live!... I'd rather die here than live +in Spokane, in summer." + +"Did you see the Governor?" + +"Yes, an' he wasn't as anxious about the Golden Valley as the Bend +country. He's right, too. We're old Westerners here. We can handle +trouble. But they're not Americans up there in the Bend." + +"Father, we met one American," said Lenore, dreamily. + +"By George! we did!... An' that reminds me. There was a government +official from Washington, come out to Spokane to investigate conditions. +I forget his name. He asked to meet me an' he was curious about the +Bend--its loyalty to the U.S. I told him all I knew an' what I thought. +An' then he said he was goin' to motor through that wheat-belt an' talk +to what Americans he could find, an' impress upon them that they could +do as much as soldiers to win the war. Wheat--bread--that's our great +gun in this war, Lenore!... I knew this, but I was made pretty blamed +sober by that government man. I told him by all means to go to Palmer +an' to have a talk with young Dorn. I sure gave that boy a good word. +Poor lad! He's true blue. An' to think of him with that old German +devil. Old Dorn has always had a hard name. An' this war has brought out +the German cussedness." + +"Father, I'm glad you spoke well of the young man," said Lenore, still +dreamily. + +"Hum! You never told me what you thought," replied her father, with a +quick glance of inquiry at her. Lenore was gazing out of the window, +away across the wheat-fields and the range. Anderson watched her a +moment, and then resumed: "If I can get away I'm goin' to drive up to +see Dorn again pretty soon. Do you want to go?" + +Lenore gave a little start, as if the question had surprised her. + +"I--I hardly think so," she replied. + +"It's just as well," he said. "That'll be a hard ride.... Guess I'll +clean up a little for supper." + +Anderson left the room, and, while Kathleen and Rose gleefully squabbled +over the bundles, Lenore continued to gaze dreamily out of the window. + + * * * * * + +That night Lenore went early to her room, despite the presence of some +young people from a neighboring village. She locked her door and sat in +the dark beside her open window. + +An early moon silvered the long slopes of wheat and made the alfalfa +squares seem black. A cool, faint, sweet breeze fanned her cheek. She +could smell the fragrance of apples, of new-mown hay, and she could hear +the low murmur of running water. A hound bayed off somewhere in the +fields. There was no other sound. It was a quiet, beautiful, pastoral +scene. But somehow it did not comfort Lenore. + +She seemed to doubt the sincerity of what she saw there and loved so +well. Moon-blanched and serene, lonely and silent, beautiful and +promising, the wide acres of "Many Waters," and the silver slopes and +dark mountains beyond, did not tell the truth. 'Way over the dark ranges +a hideous war had stretched out a red hand to her country. Her only +brother had left his home to fight, and there was no telling if he would +ever come back. Evil forces were at work out there in the moonlight. +There had come a time for her to be thoughtful. + +Her father's asking her to ride to the Bend country had caused some +strange little shock of surprise. Lenore had dreamed without thinking. +Here in the darkness and silence, watching the crescent moon slowly +sink, she did think. And it was to learn that she remembered singularly +well the first time she had seen young Dorn, and still more vividly the +second time, but the third time seemed both clear and vague. Enough +young men had been smitten with Lenore to enable her to gauge the +symptoms of these easy-come, easy-go attractions. In fact, they rather +repelled her. But she had found Dorn's manner striking, confusing, and +unforgettable. And why that should be so interested her intelligence. + +It was confusing to discover that she could not lay it to the sympathy +she had felt for an American boy in a difficult position, because she +had often thought of him long before she had any idea who he was or +where he lived. + +In the very first place, he had been unforgettable for two +reasons--because he had been so struck at sight of her that he had gazed +unconsciously, with a glow on his face and a radiance in his eye, as of +a young poet spellbound at an inspiration; and because he seemed the +physical type of young man she had idealized--a strong, lithe-limbed, +blond giant, with a handsome, frank face, clear-cut and smooth, +ruddy-cheeked and blue-eyed. + +Only after meeting him out there in the desert of wheat had she felt +sympathy for him. And now with intelligence and a woman's intuition, +barring the old, insidious, dreamy mood, Lenore went over in retrospect +all she could remember of that meeting. And the truth made her sharply +catch her breath. Dorn had fallen in love with her. Intuition declared +that, while her intelligence repudiated it. Stranger than all was the +thrill which began somewhere in the unknown depths of her and mounted, +to leave her tingling all over. She had told her father that she did not +want to ride to the Bend country. But she did want to go! And that +thought, flashing up, would not be denied. To want to meet a strange +young man again was absolutely a new and irritating discovery for +Lenore. It mystified her, because she had not had time to like Dorn. +Liking an acquaintance had nothing to do with the fact. And that stunned +her. + +"Could it be--love at first sight?" she whispered, incredulously, as she +stared out over the shadowing fields. + +"For me? Why, how absurd--impossible!... I--I only remembered him--a big +handsome boy with blazing eyes.... And now I'm sorry for him!" + +To whisper her amaze and doubt and consternation only augmented the +instinctive recurring emotion. She felt something she could not explain. +And that something was scarcely owing to this young man's pitiful +position between duty to his father and love for his country. It had to +do with his blazing eyes; intangible, dreamlike perceptions of him as +not real, of vague sweet fancies that retreated before her introspective +questioning. What alarmed Lenore was a tendency of her mind to shirk +this revealing analysis. Never before had she been afraid to look into +herself. But now she was finding unplumbed wells of feeling, secret +chambers of dreams into which she had never let the light, strange +instinctive activities, more physical than mental. When in her life +before had she experienced a nameless palpitation of her heart? + +Long she sat there, staring out into the night. And the change in the +aspect of the broad spaces, now dark and impenetrable and mysterious, +seemed like the change in the knowledge of herself. Once she had +flattered herself that she was an inch of crystal water; now she seemed +a complex, aloof, and contrary creature, almost on the verge of +tumultuous emotions. + +She said her prayers that night, a girlish habit resumed since her +brother had declared his intention of enlisting in the army. And to that +old prayer, which her mother had prayed before her, she added an appeal +of her own. Strange that young Dorn's face should flash out of gloom! It +was there, and her brother's was fading. + +"I wonder--will he and Jim--meet over there--on the battle-field!" she +whispered. She hoped they would. Like tigers those boys would fight the +Germans. Her heart beat high. Then a cold wind seemed to blow over her. +It had a sickening weight. If that icy and somber wind could have been +traced to its source, then the mystery of life would have been clear. +But that source was the cause of war, as its effect was the horror of +women. A hideous and monstrous thing existed out there in the darkness. +Lenore passionately loved her brother, and this black thing had taken +him away. Why could not women, who suffered most, have some word in the +regulation of events? If women could help govern the world there would +be no wars. + +At last encroaching drowsiness dulled the poignancy of her feelings and +she sank to sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Singing of birds at her window awakened Lenore. The dawn streamed in +bright and sweetly fragrant. The wheat-fields seemed a rosy gold, and +all that open slope called to her thrillingly of the beauty of the world +and the happiness of youth. It was not possible to be morbid at dawn. "I +hear! I hear!" she whispered. "From a thousand slopes far and wide!" + +At the breakfast-table, when there came opportunity, she looked up +serenely and said, "Father, on second thought I will go the Bend, thank +you!" + +Anderson laid down his knife and fork and his eyes opened wide in +surprise. "Changed your mind!" he exclaimed. + +"That's a privilege I have, you know," she replied, calmly. + +Mrs. Anderson appeared more anxious than surprised. "Daughter, don't go. +That will be a fearful ride." + +"Hum! Sure glad to have you, lass," added Anderson, with his keen eyes +on her. + +"Let me go, too," begged Rose. + +Kathleen was solemnly gazing at Lenore, with the wise, penetrating eyes +of extreme youth. + +"Lenore, I'll bet you've got a new beau up there," she declared. + +Lenore flushed scarlet. She was less angry with her little sister than +with the incomprehensible fact of a playful word bringing the blood +stingingly to her neck and face. + +"Kitty, you forget your manners," she said, sharply. + +"Kit is fresh. She's an awful child," added Rose, with a superior air. + +"I didn't say a thing," cried Kathleen, hotly. "Lenore, if it isn't +true, why'd you blush so red?" + +"Hush, you silly children!" ordered the mother, reprovingly. + +Lenore was glad to finish that meal and to get outdoors. She could smile +now at that shrewd and terrible Kitty, but recollection of her father's +keen eyes was confusing. Lenore felt there was really nothing to blush +for; still, she could scarcely tell her father that upon awakening this +morning she had found her mind made up--that only by going to the Bend +country could she determine the true state of her feelings. She simply +dared not accuse herself of being in unusually radiant spirits because +she was going to undertake a long, hard ride into a barren, desert +country. + +The grave and thoughtful mood of last night had gone with her slumbers. +Often Lenore had found problems decided for her while she slept. On this +fresh, sweet summer morning, with the sun bright and warm, presaging a +hot and glorious day, Lenore wanted to run with the winds, to wade +through the alfalfa, to watch with strange and renewed pleasure the +waves of shadow as they went over the wheat. All her life she had known +and loved the fields of waving gold. But they had never been to her what +they had become overnight. Perhaps this was because it had been said +that the issue of the great war, the salvation of the world, and its +happiness, its hope, depended upon the millions of broad acres of golden +grain. Bread was the staff of life. Lenore felt that she was changing +and growing. If anything should happen to her brother Jim she would be +heiress to thousands of acres of wheat. A pang shot through her heart. +She had to drive the cold thought away. And she must learn--must know +the bigness of this question. The women of the country would be called +upon to help, to do their share. + +She ran down through the grove and across the bridge, coming abruptly +upon Nash, her father's driver. He had the car out. + +"Good morning," he said, with a smile, doffing his cap. + +Lenore returned his greeting and asked if her father intended to go +anywhere. + +"No. I'm taking telegrams to Huntington." + +"Telegrams? What's the matter with the 'phone?" she queried. + +"Wire was cut yesterday." + +"By I.W.W. men?" + +"So your father says. I don't know." + +"Something ought to be done to those men," said Lenore, severely. + +Nash was a dark-browed, heavy-jawed young man, with light eyes and hair. +He appeared to be intelligent and had some breeding, but his manner when +alone with Lenore--he had driven her to town several times--was not the +same as when her father was present. Lenore had not bothered her mind +about it. But to-day the look in his eyes was offensive to her. + +"Between you and me, Lenore, I've sympathy for those poor devils," he +said. + +Lenore drew back rather haughtily at this familiar use of her first +name. "It doesn't concern me," she said, coldly and turned away. + +"Won't you ride along with me? I'm driving around for the mail," he +called after her. + +"No," returned Lenore, shortly, and hurried on out of earshot. The +impertinence of the fellow! + +"Mawnin', Miss Lenore!" drawled a cheery voice. The voice and the jingle +of spurs behind her told Lenore of the presence of the best liked of all +her father's men. + +"Good morning, Jake! Where's my dad?" + +"Wal, he's with Adams, an' I wouldn't be Adams for no money," replied +the cowboy. + +"Neither would I," laughed Lenore. + +"Reckon you ain't ridin' this mawnin'. You sure look powerful fine, Miss +Lenore, but you can't ride in thet dress." + +"Jake, nothing but an aeroplane would satisfy me to-day." + +"Want to fly, hey? Wal, excuse me from them birds. I seen one, an' +thet's enough for me.... An', changin' the subject, Miss Lenore, beggin' +your pardon--you ain't ridin' in the car much these days." + +"No, Jake, I'm not," she replied, and looked at the cowboy. She would +have trusted Jake as she would her brother Jim. And now he looked +earnest. + +"Wal, I'm sure glad. I heerd Nash call an' ask you to go with him. I +seen his eyes when he said it.... Sure I know you'd never look at the +likes of him. But I want to tell you--he ain't no good. I've been +watchin' him. Your dad's orders. He's mixed up with the I.W.W.'s. But +thet ain't what I mean. It's--He's--I--" + +"Thank you, Jake," replied Lenore, as the cowboy floundered. "I +appreciate your thought of me. But you needn't worry." + +"I was worryin' a little," he said. "You see, I know men better 'n your +dad, an' I reckon this Nash would do anythin'." + +"What's father keeping him for?" + +"Wal, Anderson wants to find out a lot about thet I.W.W., an' he ain't +above takin' risks to do it, either." + +The stable-boys and men Lenore passed all had an eager good morning for +her. She often boasted to her father that she could run "Many Waters" as +well as he. Sometimes there were difficulties that Lenore had no little +part in smoothing over. The barns and corrals were familiar places to +her, and she insisted upon petting every horse, in some instances to +Jake's manifest concern. + +"Some of them bosses are bad," he insisted. + +"To be sure they are--when wicked cowboys cuff and kick them," replied +Lenore, laughingly. + +"Wal, if I'm wicked, I'm a-goin' to war," said Jake, reflectively. "Them +Germans bother me." + +"But, Jake, you don't come in the draft age, do you?" + +"Jest how old do you think I am?" + +"Sometimes about fourteen, Jake." + +"Much obliged. Wal, the fact is I'm over age, but I'll gamble I can pack +a gun an' shoot as straight an' eat as much as any young feller." + +"I'll bet so, too, Jake. But I hope you won't go. We absolutely could +not run this ranch without you." + +"Sure I knew thet. Wal then, I reckon I'll hang around till you're +married, Miss Lenore," he drawled. + +Again the scarlet mantled Lenore's cheeks. + +"Good. We'll have many harvests then, Jake, and many rides," she +replied. + +"Aw, I don't know--" he began. + +But Lenore ran away so that she could hear no more. + +"What's the matter with me that people--that Jake should--?" she began, +and ended with a hand on each soft, hot cheek. There was something +different about her, that seemed certain. And if her eyes were as bright +as the day, with its deep blue and white clouds and shining green and +golden fields, then any one might think what he liked and have proof for +his tormenting. + +"But married! I? Not much. Do I want a husband getting shot?" + +The path Lenore trod so lightly led along a great peach and apple +orchard where the trees were set far apart and the soil was cultivated, +so that not a weed nor a blade of grass showed. The fragrance of fruit +in the air, however, did not come from this orchard, for the trees were +young and the reddening fruit rare. Down the wide aisles she saw the +thick and abundant green of the older orchards. + +At length Lenore reached the alfalfa-fields, and here among the mounds +of newly cut hay that smelled so fresh and sweet she wanted to roll, and +she had to run. Two great wagons with four horses each were being +loaded. Lenore knew all the workmen except one. Silas Warner, an old, +gray-headed farmer, had been with her father as long as she could +remember. + +"Whar you goin', lass?" he called, as he halted to wipe his red face +with a huge bandana. "It's too hot to run the way you're a-doin'." + +"Oh, Silas, it's a grand morning!" she replied. + +"Why, so 'tis! Pitchin' hay hyar made me think it was hot," he said, as +she tripped on. "Now, lass, don't go up to the wheat-fields." + +But Lenore heard heedlessly, and she ran on till she came to the uncut +alfalfa, which impeded her progress. A wonderful space of green and +purple stretched away before her, and into it she waded. It came up to +her knees, rich, thick, soft, and redolent of blossom and ripeness. Hard +tramping it soon got to be. She grew hot and breathless, and her legs +ached from the force expended in making progress through the tangled +hay. At last she was almost across the field, far from the cutters, and +here she flung herself, to roll and lie flat and gaze up through the +deep azure of sky, wonderingly, as if to penetrate its secret. And then +she hid her face in the fragrant thickness that seemed to force a +whisper from her. + +"I wonder--how will I feel--when I see him--again.... Oh, I wonder!" + +The sound of the whispered words, the question, the inevitableness of +something involuntary, proved traitors to her happy dreams, her +assurance, her composure. She tried to burrow under the hay, to hide +from that tremendous bright-blue eye, the sky. Suddenly she lay very +quiet, feeling the strange glow and throb and race of her blood, sensing +the mystery of her body, trying to trace the thrills, to control this +queer, tremulous, internal state. But she found she could not think +clearly; she could only feel. And she gave up trying. It was sweet to +feel. + +She rose and went on. Another field lay beyond, a gradual slope, covered +with a new growth of alfalfa. It was a light green--a contrast to the +rich darkness of that behind her. At the end of this field ran a swift +little brook, clear and musical, open to the sky in places, and in +others hidden under flowery banks. Birds sang from invisible coverts; a +quail sent up clear flutelike notes; and a lark caroled, seemingly out +of the sky. + +Lenore wet her feet crossing the brook, and, climbing the little knoll +above, she sat down upon a stone to dry them in the sun. It had a burn +that felt good. No matter how hot the sun ever got there, she liked it. +Always there seemed air to breathe and the shade was pleasant. + +From this vantage-point, a favorite one with Lenore, she could see all +the alfalfa-fields, the hill crowned by the beautiful white-and-red +house, the acres of garden, and the miles of orchards. The grazing and +grain fields began behind her. + +The brook murmured below her and the birds sang. She heard the bees +humming by. The air out here was clear of scent of fruit and hay, and it +bore a drier odor, not so sweet. She could see the workmen, first those +among the alfalfa, and then the men, and women, too, bending over on the +vegetable-gardens. Likewise she could see the gleam of peaches, apples, +pears and plums--a colorful and mixed gleam, delightful to the eye. + +Wet or dry, it seemed that her feet refused to stay still, and once +again she was wandering. A gray, slate-colored field of oats invited her +steps, and across this stretch she saw a long yellow slope of barley, +where the men were cutting. Beyond waved the golden fields of wheat. +Lenore imagined that when she reached them she would not desire to +wander farther. + +There were two machines cutting on the barley slope, one drawn by eight +horses, and the other by twelve. When Lenore had crossed the oat-field +she discovered a number of strange men lounging in the scant shade of a +line of low trees that separated the fields. Here she saw Adams, the +foreman; and he espied her at the same moment. He had been sitting down, +talking to the men. At once he rose to come toward Lenore. + +"Is your father with you?" he asked. + +"No; he's too slow for me," replied Lenore. "Who are these men?" + +"They're strangers looking for jobs." + +"I.W.W. men?" queried Lenore, in lower voice. + +"Surely must be," he replied. Adams was not a young, not a robust man, +and he seemed to carry a burden of worry. "Your father said he would +come right out." + +"I hope he doesn't," said Lenore, bluntly. "Father has a way with him, +you know." + +"Yes, I know. And it's the way we're needing here in the Valley," +replied the foreman, significantly. + +"Is that the new harvester-thresher father just bought?" asked Lenore, +pointing to the huge machine, shining and creeping behind the twelve +horses. + +"Yes, that's the McCormack and it's a dandy," returned Adams. "With +machines like that we can get along without the I.W.W." + +"I want a ride on it," declared Lenore, and she ran along to meet the +harvester. She waved her hand to the driver, Bill Jones, another old +hand, long employed by her father. Bill hauled back on the many-branched +reins, and when the horses stopped the clattering, whirring roar of the +machine also ceased. + +"Howdy, miss! Reckon this 's a regular I.W.W. hold-up." + +"Worse than that, Bill," gaily replied Lenore as she mounted the +platform where another man sat on a bag of barley. Lenore did not +recognize him. He looked rugged and honest, and beamed upon her. + +"Watch out fer yer dress," he said, pointing with grimy hand to the +dusty wheels and braces so near her. + +"Let me drive, Bill?" she asked. + +"Wal, now, I wisht I could," he replied, dryly. "You sure can drive, +miss. But drivin' ain't all this here job." + +"What can't I do? I'll bet you--" + +"I never seen a girl that could throw anythin' straight. Did you?" + +"Well, not so very. I forgot how you drove the horses.... Go ahead. +Don't let me delay the harvest." + +Bill called sonorously to his twelve horses, and as they bent and +strained and began to bob their heads, the clattering roar filled the +air. Also a cloud of dust and thin, flying streams of chaff enveloped +Lenore. The high stalks of barley, in wide sheets, fell before the +cutter upon an apron, to be carried by feeders into the body of the +machine. The straw, denuded of its grain, came out at the rear, to be +dropped, while the grain streamed out of a tube on the side next to +Lenore, to fall into an open sack. It made a short shift of harvesting. + +Lenore liked the even, nodding rhythm of the plodding horses, and the +way Bill threw a pebble from a sack on his seat, to hit this or that +horse not keeping in line or pulling his share. Bill's aim was unerring. +He never hit the wrong horse, which would have been the case had he used +a whip. The grain came out in so tiny a stream that Lenore wondered how +a bag was ever filled. But she saw presently that even a tiny stream, if +running steadily, soon made bulk. That was proof of the value of small +things, even atoms. + +No marvel was it that Bill and his helper were as grimy as stokers of a +furnace. Lenore began to choke with the fine dust and to feel her eyes +smart and to see it settle on her hands and dress. She then had +appreciation of the nature of a ten-hour day for workmen cutting +eighteen acres of barley. How would they ever cut the two thousand acres +of wheat? No wonder many men were needed. Lenore sympathized with the +operators of that harvester-thresher, but she did not like the dirt. If +she had been a man, though, that labor, hard as it was, would have +appealed to her. Harvesting the grain was beautiful, whether in the old, +slow method of threshing or with one of these modern man-saving +machines. + +She jumped off, and the big, ponderous thing, almost gifted with +intelligence, it seemed to Lenore, rolled on with its whirring roar, +drawing its cloud of dust, and leaving behind a litter of straw. + +It developed then that Adams had walked along with the machine, and he +now addressed her. + +"Will you be staying here till your father comes?" he asked. + +"No, Mr. Adams. Why do you ask?" + +"You oughtn't come out here alone or go back alone.... All these strange +men! Some of them hard customers! You'll excuse me, miss, but this +harvest is not like other harvests." + +"I'll wait for my father and I'll not go out of sight," replied Lenore. +Thanking the foreman for his thoughtfulness, she walked away, and soon +she stood at the edge of the first wheat-field. + +The grain was not yet ripe but near at hand it was a pale gold. The +wind, out of the west, waved and swept the wheat, while the almost +imperceptible shadows followed. + +A road half overgrown with grass and goldenrod bordered the wheat-field, +and it wound away down toward the house. Her father appeared mounted on +the white horse he always rode. Lenore sat down in the grass to wait for +him. Nodding stalks of goldenrod leaned to her face. When looked at +closely, how truly gold their color! Yet it was not such a gold as that +of the rich blaze of ripe wheat. She was admitting to her consciousness +a jealousy of anything comparable to wheat. And suddenly she confessed +that her natural love for it had been augmented by a subtle growing +sentiment. Not sentiment about the war or the need of the Allies or +meaning of the staff of life. She had sensed young Dorn's passion for +wheat and it had made a difference to her. + +"No use lying to myself!" she soliloquized. "I think of him!.. I can't +help it... I ran out here, wild, restless, unable to reason... just +because I'd decided to see him again--to make sure I--I really didn't +care.... How furious--how ridiculous I'll feel--when--when--" + +Lenore did not complete her thought, because she was not sure. Nothing +could be any truer than the fact that she had no idea how she would +feel. She began sensitively to distrust herself. She who had always been +so sure of motives, so contented with things as they were, had been +struck by an absurd fancy that haunted because it was fiercely +repudiated and scorned, that would give her no rest until it was proven +false. But suppose it were true! + +A succeeding blankness of mind awoke to the clip-clop of hoofs and her +father's cheery halloo. + +Anderson dismounted and, throwing his bridle, he sat down heavily beside +her. + +"You can ride back home," he said. + +Lenore knew she had been reproved for her wandering out there, and she +made a motion to rise. His big hand held her down. + +"No hurry, now I'm here. Grand day, ain't it? An' I see the barley's +goin'. Them sacks look good to me." + +Lenore waited with some perturbation. She had a guilty conscience and +she feared he meant to quiz her about her sudden change of front +regarding the Bend trip. So she could not look up and she could not say +a word. + +"Jake says that Nash has been tryin' to make up to you. Any sense in +what he says?" asked her father, bluntly. + +"Why, hardly. Oh, I've noticed Nash is--is rather fresh, as Rose calls +it," replied Lenore, somewhat relieved at this unexpected query. + +"Yes, he's been makin' eyes at Rose. She told me," replied Anderson. + +"Discharge him," said Lenore, forcibly. + +"So I ought. But let me tell you, Lenore. I've been hopin' to get Nash +dead to rights." + +"What more do you want?" she demanded. + +"I mean regardin' his relation to the I.W.W.... Listen. Here's the +point. Nash has been tracked an' caught in secret talks with prominent +men in this country. Men of foreign blood an' mebbe foreign sympathies. +We're at the start of big an' bad times in the good old U.S. No one can +tell how bad. Well, you know my position in the Golden Valley. I'm +looked to. Reckon this I.W.W. has got me a marked man. I'm packin' two +guns right now. An' you bet Jake is packin' the same. We don't travel +far apart any more this summer." + +Lenore had started shudderingly and her look showed her voiceless fear. + +"You needn't tell your mother," he went on, more intimately. "I can +trust you an' ... To come back to Nash. He an' this Glidden--you +remember, one of those men at Dorn's house--they are usin' gold. They +must have barrels of it. If I could find out where that gold comes from! +Probably they don't know. But I might find out if men here in our own +country are hatchin' plots with the I.W.W." + +"Plots! What for?" queried Lenore, breathlessly. + +"To destroy my wheat, to drive off or bribe the harvest-hands, to +cripple the crop yield in the Northwest; to draw the militia here; in +short, to harass an' weaken an' slow down our government in its +preparation against Germany." + +"Why, that is terrible!" declared Lenore. + +"I've a hunch from Jake--there's a whisper of a plot to put me out of +the way," said Anderson, darkly. + +"Oh--good Heavens! You don't mean it!" cried Lenore, distractedly. + +"Sure I do. But that's no way for Anderson's daughter to take it. Our +women have got to fight, too. We've all got to meet these German hired +devils with their own weapons. Now, lass, you know you'll get these +wheatlands of mine some day. It's in my will. That's because you, like +your dad, always loved the wheat. You'd fight, wouldn't you, to save +your grain for our soldiers--bread for your own brother Jim--an' for +your own land?" + +"Fight! Would I?" burst out Lenore, with a passionate little cry. + +"Good! Now you're talkin'!" exclaimed her father. + +"I'll find out about this Nash--if you'll let me," declared Lenore, as +if inspired. + +"How? What do you mean, girl?" + +"I'll encourage him. I'll make him think I'm a wishy-washy moonstruck +girl, smitten with him. All's fair in war!... If he means ill by my +father--" + +Anderson muttered low under his breath and his big hand snapped hard at +the nodding goldenrod. + +"For my sake--to help me--you'd encourage Nash--flirt with him a +little--find out all you could?" + +"Yes, I would!" she cried, deliberately. But she wanted to cover her +face with her hands. She trembled slightly, then grew cold, with a +sickening disgust at this strange, new, uprising self. + +"Wait a minute before you say too much," went on Anderson. "You're my +best-beloved child, my Lenore, the lass I've been so proud of all my +life. I'd spill blood to avenge an insult to you.... But, Lenore, we've +entered upon a terrible war. People out here, especially the women, +don't realize it yet. But you must realize it. When I said good-by to +Jim, my son, I--I felt I'd never look upon his face again!... I gave him +up. I could have held him back--got exemption for him. But, no, by God! +I gave him up--to make safety and happiness and prosperity for--say, +your children, an' Rose's, an' Kathleen's.... I'm workin' now for the +future. So must every loyal man an' every loyal woman! We love our own +country. An' I ask you to see as I see the terrible danger to that +country. Think of you an' Rose an' Kathleen bein' treated like those +poor Belgian girls! Well, you'd get that an' worse if the Germans won +this war. An' the point is, for us to win, every last one of us must +fight, sacrifice to that end, an' hang together." + +Anderson paused huskily and swallowed hard while he looked away across +the fields. Lenore felt herself drawn by an irresistible power. The west +wind rustled through the waving wheat. She heard the whir of the +threshers. Yet all seemed unreal. Her father's passion had made this +place another world. + +"So much for that," resumed Anderson. "I'm goin' to do my best. An' I +may make blunders. I'll play the game as it's dealt out to me. Lord +knows I feel all in the dark. But it's the nature of the effort, the +spirit, that'll count. I'm goin' to save most of the wheat on my +ranches. An' bein' a Westerner who can see ahead, I know there's goin' +to be blood spilled.... I'd give a lot to know who sent this Nash spyin' +on me. I'm satisfied now he's an agent, a spy, a plotter for a gang +that's marked me. I can't prove it yet, but I feel it. Maybe nothin' +worth while--worth the trouble--will ever be found out from him. But I +don't figure that way. I say play their own game an' take a chance.... +If you encouraged Nash you'd probably find out all about him. The worst +of it is could you be slick enough? Could a girl as fine an' square an' +high-spirited as you ever double-cross a man, even a scoundrel like +Nash? I reckon you could, considerin' the motive. Women are +wonderful.... Well, if you can fool him, make him think he's a winner, +flatter him till he swells up like a toad, promise to elope with him, be +curious, jealous, make him tell where he goes, whom he meets, show his +letters, all without ever sufferin' his hand on you, I'll give my +consent. I'd think more of you for it. Now the question is, can you do +it?" + +"Yes," whispered Lenore. + +"Good!" exploded Anderson, in a great relief. Then he began to mop his +wet face. He arose, showing the weight of heavy guns in his pockets, and +he gazed across the wheat-fields. "That wheat'll be ripe in a week. It +sure looks fine.... Lenore, you ride back home now. Don't let Jake pump +you. He's powerful curious. An' I'll go give these I.W.W.'s a first dose +of Anderson." + +He turned away without looking at her, and he hesitated, bending over to +pluck a stem of goldenrod. + +"Lass--you're--you're like your mother", he said, unsteadily. "An' she +helped me win out durin' my struggle here. You're brave an' you're big." + +Lenore wanted to say something, to show her feeling, to make her task +seem lighter, but she could not speak. + +"We're pards now--with no secrets", he continued, with a different note +in his voice. "An' I want you to know that it ain't likely Nash or +Glidden will get out of this country alive." + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Three days later, Lenore accompanied her father on the ride to the Bend +country. She sat in the back seat of the car with Jake--an arrangement +very gratifying to the cowboy, but received with ill-concealed +displeasure by the driver, Nash. They had arranged to start at sunrise, +and it became manifest that Nash had expected Lenore to sit beside him +all during the long ride. It was her father, however, who took the front +seat, and behind Nash's back he had slyly winked at Lenore, as if to +compliment her on the evident success of their deep plot. Lenore, at the +first opportunity that presented, shot Nash a warning glance which was +sincere enough. Jake had begun to use keen eyes, and there was no +telling what he might do. + +The morning was cool, sweet, fresh, with a red sun presaging a hot day. +The big car hummed like a droning bee and seemed to cover the miles as +if by magic. Lenore sat with face uncovered, enjoying the breeze and the +endless colorful scene flashing by, listening to Jake's amusing +comments, and trying to keep back thought of what discovery might await +her before the end of this day. + +Once across the Copper River, they struck the gradual ascent, and here +the temperature began to mount and the dust to fly. Lenore drew her +veils close and, leaning comfortably back, she resigned herself to wait +and to endure. + +By the flight of a crow it was about a hundred miles from Anderson's +ranch to Palmer; but by the round-about roads necessary to take the +distance was a great deal longer. Lenore was well aware when they got up +on the desert, and the time came when she thought she would suffocate. +There appeared to be intolerable hours in which no one spoke and only +the hum and creak of the machine throbbed in her ears. She could not see +through her veils and did not part them until a stop was made at Palmer. + +Her father got out, sputtering and gasping, shaking the dust in clouds +from his long linen coat. Jake, who always said he lived on dust and +heat, averred it was not exactly a regular fine day. Lenore looked out, +trying to get a breath of air. Nash busied himself with the hot engine. + +The little country town appeared dead, and buried under dust. There was +not a person in sight nor a sound to be heard. The sky resembled molten +lead, with a blazing center too bright for the gaze of man. + +Anderson and Jake went into the little hotel to get some refreshments. +Lenore preferred to stay in the car, saying she wanted only a cool +drink. The moment the two men were out of sight Nash straightened up to +gaze darkly and hungrily at Lenore. + +"This's a good a chance as we'll get," he said, in an eager, hurried +whisper. + +"For what?" asked Lenore, aghast. + +"To run off," he replied, huskily. + +Lenore had proceeded so cleverly to carry out her scheme that in three +days Nash had begun to implore and demand that she elope with him. He +had been so much of a fool. But she as yet had found out but little +about him. His right name was Ruenke. He was a socialist. He had plenty +of money and hinted of mysterious sources for more. + +At this Lenore hid her face, and while she fell back in pretended +distress, she really wanted to laugh. She had learned something new in +these few days, and that was to hate. + +"Oh no! no!" she murmured. "I--I can't think of that--yet." + +"But why not?" he demanded, in shrill violence. His gloved hand clenched +on the tool he held. + +"Mother has been so unhappy--with my brother Jim--off to the war. I--I +just couldn't--now. Harry, you must give me time. It's all so--so +sudden. Please wait!" + +Nash appeared divided between two emotions. Lenore watched him from +behind her parted veil. She had been astonished to find out that, side +by side with her intense disgust and shame at the part she was playing, +there was a strong, keen, passionate interest in it, owing to the fact +that, though she could prove little against this man, her woman's +intuition had sensed his secret deadly antagonism toward her father. By +little significant mannerisms and revelations he had more and more +betrayed the German in him. She saw it in his overbearing conceit, his +almost instant assumption that he was her master. At first Lenore feared +him, but, as she learned to hate him she lost her fear. She had never +been alone with him except under such circumstances as this; and she had +decided she would not be. + +"Wait?" he was expostulating. "But it's going to get hot for me." + +"Oh!... What do you mean?" she begged. "You frighten me." + +"Lenore, the I.W.W. will have hard sledding in this wheat country. I +belong to that. I told you. But the union is run differently this +summer. And I've got work to do--that I don't like, since I fell in love +with you. Come, run off with me and I'll give it up." + +Lenore trembled at this admission. She appeared to be close upon further +discovery. + +"Harry, how wildly you talk!" she exclaimed. "I hardly know you. You +frighten me with your mysterious talk.... Have--a--a little +consideration for me." + +Nash strode back to lean into the car. Behind his huge goggles his eyes +gleamed. His gloved hand closed hard on her arm. + +"It is sudden. It's got to be sudden," he said, in fierce undertone. +"You must trust me." + +"I will. But you must confide in me," she replied, earnestly. "I'm not +quite a fool. You're rushing me--too--too--" + +Suddenly he released her, threw up his hand, then quickly stepped back +to the front of the car. Jake stood in the door of the hotel. He had +seen that action of Nash's. Then Anderson appeared, followed by a boy +carrying a glass of water for Lenore. They approached the car, Jake +sauntering last, with his curious gaze on Nash. + +"Go in an' get a bite an' a drink," said Anderson to the driver. "An' +hurry." + +Nash obeyed. Jake's eyes never left him until he entered the door. Then +Jake stepped in beside Lenore. + +"Thet water's wet, anyhow," he drawled. + +"We'll get a good cold drink at Dorn's," said Anderson. "Lass, how are +you makin' it?" + +"Fine," she replied, smiling. + +"So I seen," significantly added Jake, with a piercing glance at her. + +Lenore realized then that she would have to confide in Jake or run the +risk of having violence done to Nash. So she nodded wisely at the cowboy +and winked mischievously, and, taking advantage of Anderson's entering +the car, she whispered in Jake's ear: "I'm finding out things. Tell +you--later." + +The cowboy looked anything but convinced; and he glanced with narrowed +eyes at Nash as that worthy hurried back to the car. + +With a lurch and a leap the car left Palmer behind in a cloud of dust. +The air was furnace-hot, oppressive, and exceedingly dry. Lenore's lips +smarted so that she continually moistened them. On all sides stretched +dreary parched wheat-fields. Anderson shook his head sadly. Jake said: +"Ain't thet too bad? Not half growed, an' sure too late now." + +Near at hand Lenore saw the short immature dirty-whitish wheat, and she +realized that it was ruined. + +"It's been gettin' worse, Jake," remarked Anderson. "Most of this won't +be cut at all. An' what is cut won't yield seedlings. I see a yellow +patch here an' there on the north slopes, but on the most part the +Bend's a failure." + +"Father, you remember Dorn's section, that promised so well?" asked +Lenore. + +"Yes. But it promised only in case of rain. I look for the worst," +replied Anderson, regretfully. + +"It looks like storm-clouds over there," said Lenore, pointing far +ahead. + +Through the drifting veils of heat, far across the bare, dreamy hills of +fallow and the blasted fields of wheat, stood up some huge white +columnar clouds, a vivid contrast to the coppery sky. + +"By George! there's a thunderhead!" exclaimed Anderson. "Jake, what do +you make of that?" + +"Looks good to me," replied Jake, who was always hopeful. + +Lenore bore the hot wind and the fine, choking dust without covering her +face. She wanted to see all the hills and valleys of this desert of +wheat. Her heart beat a little faster as, looking across that waste on +waste of heroic labor, she realized she was nearing the end of a ride +that might be momentous for her. The very aspect of that wide, treeless +expanse, with all its overwhelming meaning, seemed to make her a +stronger and more thoughtful girl. If those endless wheat-fields were +indeed ruined, what a pity, what a tragedy! Not only would young Dorn be +ruined, but perhaps many other toiling farmers. Somehow Lenore felt no +hopeless certainty of ruin for the young man in whom she was interested. + +"There, on that slope!" spoke up Anderson, pointing to a field which was +yellow in contrast to the surrounding gray field. "There's a +half-section of fair wheat." + +But such tinges of harvest gold were not many in half a dozen miles of +dreary hills. Where were the beautiful shadows in the wheat? wondered +Lenore. Not a breath of wind appeared to stir across those fields. + +As the car neared the top of a hill the road curved into another, and +Lenore saw a dusty flash of another car passing on ahead. + +Suddenly Jake leaned forward. + +"Boss, I seen somethin' throwed out of thet car--into the wheat," he +said. + +"What?--Mebbe it was a bottle," replied Anderson, peering ahead. + +"Nope. Sure wasn't thet.... There! I seen it again. Watch, boss!" + +Lenore strained her eyes and felt a stir of her pulses. Jake's voice was +perturbing. Was it strange that Nash slowed up a little where there was +no apparent need? Then Lenore saw a hand flash out of the side of the +car ahead and throw a small, glinting object into the wheat. + +"There! Seen it again," said Jake. + +"I saw!... Jake, mark that spot.... Nash, slow down," yelled Anderson. + +Lenore gathered from the look of her father and the cowboy that +something was amiss, but she could not guess what it might be. Nash bent +sullenly at his task of driving. + +"I reckon about here," said Jake, waving his hand. + +"Stop her," ordered Anderson, and as the car came to a halt he got out, +followed by Jake. + +"Wal, I marked it by thet rock," declared the cowboy. + +"So did I," responded Anderson. "Let's get over the fence an' find what +it was they threw in there." + +Jake rested a lean hand on a post and vaulted the fence. But Anderson +had to climb laboriously and painfully over the barbed-wire obstruction. +Lenore marveled at his silence and his persistence. Anderson hated wire +fences. Presently he got over, and then he divided his time between +searching in the wheat and peering after the strange car that was +drawing far away. + +Lenore saw Jake pick up something and scrutinize it. + +"I'll be dog-goned!" he muttered. Then he approached Anderson. "What is +thet?" + +"Jake, you can lambaste me if I ever saw the likes," replied Anderson. +"But it looks bad. Let's rustle after that car." + +As Anderson clambered into his seat once more he looked dark and grim. + +"Catch that car ahead," he tersely ordered Nash. Whereupon the driver +began to go through his usual motions in starting. + +"Lenore, what do you make of this?" queried Anderson, turning to show +her a small cake of some gray substance, soft and wet to the touch. + +"I don't know what it is," replied Lenore, wonderingly. "Do you?" + +"No. An' I'd give a lot--Say, Nash, hurry! Overhaul that car!" + +Anderson turned to see why his order had not been obeyed. He looked +angry. Nash made hurried motions. The car trembled, the machinery began +to whir--then came a tremendous buzzing roar, a violent shaking of the +car, followed by sharp explosions, and silence. + +"You stripped the gears!" shouted Anderson, with the red fading out of +his face. + +"No; but something's wrong," replied Nash. He got out to examine the +engine. + +Anderson manifestly controlled strong feeling. Lenore saw Jake's hand go +to her father's shoulder. "Boss," he whispered, "we can't ketch thet car +now." Anderson resigned himself, averted his face so that he could not +see Nash, who was tinkering with the engine. Lenore believed then that +Nash had deliberately stalled the engine or disordered something, so as +to permit the escape of the strange car ahead. She saw it turn off the +long, straight road ahead and disappear to the right. After some +minutes' delay Nash resumed his seat and started the car once more. + +From the top of the next hill Lenore saw the Dorn farm and home. All the +wheat looked parched. She remembered, however, that the section of +promising grain lay on the north slope, and therefore out of sight from +where she was. + +"Looks as bad as any," said Anderson. "Good-by to my money." + +Lenore shut her eyes and thought of herself, her inward state. She +seemed calm, and glad to have that first part of the journey almost +ended. Her motive in coming was not now the impelling thing that had +actuated her. + +When next the car slowed down she heard her father say, "Drive in by the +house." + +Then Lenore, opening her eyes, saw the gate, the trim little orchard +with its scant shade, the gray old weatherbeaten house which she +remembered so well. The big porch looked inviting, as it was shady and +held an old rocking-chair and a bench with blue cushions. A door stood +wide open. No one appeared to be on the premises. + +"Nash, blow your horn an' then hunt around for somebody," said Anderson. +"Come, get out, Lenore. You must be half dead." + +"Oh no. Only half dust and half fire," replied Lenore, laughing, as she +stepped out. What a relief to get rid of coat, veils, bonnet, and to sit +on a shady porch where a faint breeze blew! Just at that instant she +heard a low, distant rumbling. Thunder! It thrilled her. Jake brought +her a cold, refreshing drink, and she sent him back after another. She +wet her handkerchief and bathed her hot face. It was indeed very +comfortable there after that long hot ride. + +"Miss Lenore, I seen thet Nash pawin' you," said the cowboy, "an' by +Gosh! I couldn't believe my eyes!" + +"Not so loud! Jake, the young gentleman imagines I'm in love with him," +replied Lenore. + +"Wall, I'll remove his imagining'," declared Jake, coolly. + +"Jake, you will do nothing." + +"Ahuh! Then you air in love with _him?_" + +Lenore was compelled to explain to this loyal cowboy just what the +situation meant. Whereupon Jake swore his amaze, and said, "I'm a-goin' +to lick him, anyhow, fer thet!" And he caught up the tin cup and +shuffled away. + +Footsteps and voices sounded on the path, upon which presently appeared +Anderson and young Dorn. + +"Father's gone to Wheatly," he was saying. "But I'm glad to tell you +we'll pay twenty thousand dollars on the debt as soon as we harvest. If +it rains we'll pay it all and have thirty thousand left." + +"Good! I sure hope it rains. An' that thunder sounds hopeful," responded +Anderson. + +"It's been hopeful like that for several days, but no rain," said Dorn. +And then, espying Lenore, he seemed startled out of his eagerness. He +flushed slightly. "I--I didn't see--you had brought your daughter." + +He greeted her somewhat bashfully. And Lenore returned the greeting +calmly, watching him steadily and waiting for the nameless sensations +she had imagined would attend this meeting. But whatever these might be, +they did not come to overwhelm her. The gladness of his voice, as he had +spoken so eagerly to her father about the debt, had made her feel very +kindly toward him. It might have been natural for a young man to resent +this dragging debt. But he was fine. She observed, as he sat down, that, +once the smile and flush left his face, he seemed somewhat thinner and +older than she had pictured him. A shadow lay in his eyes and his lips +were sad. He had evidently been working, upon their arrival. He wore +overalls, dusty and ragged; his arms, bare to the elbow, were brown and +muscular; his thin cotton shirt was wet with sweat and it clung to his +powerful shoulders. + +Anderson surveyed the young man with friendly glance. + +"What's your first name?" he queried, with his blunt frankness. + +"Kurt," was the reply. + +"Is that American?" + +"No. Neither is Dorn. But Kurt Dorn is an American." + +"Hum! So I see, an' I'm powerful glad.... An' you've saved the big +section of promisin' wheat?" + +"Yes. We've been lucky. It's the best and finest wheat father ever +raised. If it rains the yield will go sixty bushels to the acre." + +"Sixty? Whew!" ejaculated Anderson. + +Lenore smiled at these wheat men, and said: "It surely will rain--and +likely storm to-day. I am a prophet who never fails." + +"By George! that's true! Lenore has anybody beat when it comes to +figurin' the weather," declared Anderson. + +Dorn looked at her without speaking, but his smile seemed to say that +she could not help being a prophet of good, of hope, of joy. + +"Say, Lenore, how many bushels in a section at sixty per acre?" went on +Anderson. + +"Thirty-eight thousand four hundred," replied Lenore. + +"An' what'll you sell for?" asked Anderson of Dorn. + +"Father has sold at two dollars and twenty-five cents a bushel," replied +Dorn. + +"Good! But he ought to have waited. The government will set a higher +price.... How much will that come to, Lenore?" + +Dorn's smile, as he watched Lenore do her mental arithmetic, attested to +the fact that he already had figured out the sum. + +"Eighty-six thousand four hundred dollars," replied Lenore. "Is that +right?" + +"An' you'll have thirty thousand dollars left after all debts are paid?" +inquired Anderson. + +"Yes, sir. I can hardly realize it. That's a fortune--for one section of +wheat. But we've had four bad seasons.... Oh, if it only rains to-day!" + +Lenore turned her cheek to the faint west wind. And then she looked long +at the slowly spreading clouds, white and beautiful, high up near the +sky-line, and dark and forbidding down along the horizon. + +"I knew a girl who could feel things move when no one else could," said +Lenore. "I'm sensitive like that--at least about wind and rain. Right +now I can feel rain in the air." + +"Then you have brought me luck," said Dorn, earnestly. "Indeed I guess +my luck has turned. I hated the idea of going away with that debt +unpaid." + +"Are you--going away?" asked Lenore, in surprise. + +"Yes, rather," he replied, with a short, sardonic laugh. He fumbled in a +pocket of his overalls and drew forth a paper which he opened. A flame +burned the fairness from his face; his eyes darkened and shone with +peculiar intensity of pride. "I was the first man drafted in this Bend +country.... My number was the first called!" + +"Drafted!" echoed Lenore, and she seemed to be standing on the threshold +of an amazing and terrible truth. + +"Lass, we forget," said her father, rather thickly. + +"Oh, but--why?" cried Lenore. She had voiced the same poignant appeal to +her brother Jim. Why need he--why must he go to war? What for? And Jim +had called out a bitter curse on the Germans he meant to kill. + +"Why?" returned Dorn, with the sad, thoughtful shadow returning to his +eyes. "How many times have I asked myself that?... In one way, I don't +know.... I haven't told father yet!... It's not for his sake.... But +when I think deeply--when I can feel and see--I mean I'm going for my +country.... For you and your sisters." + +Like a soldier then Lenore received her mortal blow facing him who dealt +it, and it was a sudden overwhelming realization of love. No confusion, +no embarrassment, no shame attended the agony of that revelation. +Outwardly she did not seem to change at all. She felt her father's eyes +upon her; but she had no wish to hide the tumult of her heart. The +moment made her a woman. Where was the fulfilment of those vague, +stingingly sweet dreamy fancies of love? Where was her maiden reserve, +that she so boldly recognized an unsolicited passion? Her eyes met +Dorn's steadily, and she felt some vital and compelling spirit pass from +her to him. She saw him struggle with what he could not understand. It +was his glance that wavered and fell, his hand that trembled, his breast +that heaved. She loved him. There had been no beginning. Always he had +lived in her dreams. And like her brother he was going to kill and to be +killed. + +Then Lenore gazed away across the wheat-fields. The shadows came waving +toward her. A stronger breeze fanned her cheeks. The heavens were +darkening and low thunder rolled along the battlements of the great +clouds. + +"Say, Kurt, what do you make of this?" asked Anderson. Lenore, turning, +saw her father hold out the little gray cake that Jake had found in the +wheat-field. + +Young Dorn seized it quickly, felt and smelled and bit it. + +"Where'd you get this?" he asked, with excitement. + +Anderson related the circumstance of its discovery. + +"It's a preparation, mostly phosphorus," replied Dorn. "When the +moisture evaporates it will ignite--set fire to any dry substance.... +That is a trick of the I.W.W. to burn the wheat-fields." + +"By all that's ----!" swore Anderson, with his jaw bulging. "Jake an' I +knew it meant bad. But we didn't know what." + +"I've been expecting tricks of all kinds," said Dorn. "I have four men +watching the section." + +"Good! Say, that car turned off to the right back here some miles.... +But, worse luck, the I.W.W.'s can work at night." + +"We'll watch at night, too," replied Dorn. + +Lenore was conscious of anger encroaching upon the melancholy splendor +of her emotions, and the change was bitter. + +"When the rain comes, won't it counteract the ignition of that +phosphorus?" she asked, eagerly, for she knew that rain would come. + +"Only for the time being. It 'll be just as dry this time to-morrow as +it is now." + +"Then the wheat's goin' to burn," declared Anderson, grimly. "If that +trick has been worked all over this country you're goin' to have worse +'n a prairie fire. The job on hand is to save this one section that has +a fortune tied up in it." + +"Mr. Anderson, that job looks almost hopeless, in the light of this +phosphorus trick. What on earth can be done? I've four men. I can't hire +any more, because I can't trust these strangers. And how can four +men--or five, counting me, watch a square mile of wheat day and night?" + +The situation looked hopeless to Lenore and she was sick. What cruel +fates toyed with this young farmer! He seemed to be sinking under this +last crowning blow. There in the sky, rolling up and rumbling, was the +long-deferred rain-storm that meant freedom from debt, and a fortune +besides. But of what avail the rain if it was to rush the wheat to full +bursting measure only for the infernal touch of the foreigner? + +Anderson, however, was no longer a boy. He had dealt with many and many +a trial. Never was he plunged into despair until after the dread crisis +had come to pass. His red forehead, frowning and ridged with swelling +blood-vessels, showed the bent of his mind. + +"Oh, it is hard!" said Lenore to Dorn. "I'm so sorry! But don't give up. +While there's life there's hope!" + +He looked up with tears in his eyes. + +"Thank you.... I did weaken. You see I've let myself believe too +much--for dad's sake. I don't care about the money for myself.... Money! +What good will money be to me--now? It's over for me.... To get the +wheat cut--harvested--that's all I hoped.... The army--war--France--I go +to be--" + +"Hush!" whispered Lenore, and she put a soft hand upon his lips, +checking the end of that bitter speech. She felt him start, and the look +she met pierced her soul. "Hush!... It's going to rain!... Father will +find some way to save the wheat!... And you are coming home--after the +war!" + +He crushed her hand to his hot lips. + +"You make me--ashamed. I won't give--up," he said, brokenly. "And when +I'm over--there--in the trenches, I'll think--" + +"Dorn, listen to this," rang out Anderson. "We'll fool that I.W.W. +gang....It's a-goin' to rain. So far so good. To-morrow you take this +cake of phosphorus an' ride around all over the country. Show it an' +tell the farmers their wheat's goin' to burn. An' offer them whose +fields are already ruined--that fire can't do no more harm--offer them +big money to help you save your section. Half a hundred men could put +out a fire if one did start. An' these neighbors of yours, some of them +will jump at a chance to beat the I.W.W.... Boy, it can be done!" + +He ended with a big fist held aloft in triumph. + +"See! Didn't I tell you?" murmured Lenore, softly. It touched her deeply +to see Dorn respond to hope. His haggard face suddenly warmed and +glowed. + +"I never thought of that," he burst out, radiantly. "We can save the +wheat.... Mr. Anderson, I--I can't thank you enough." + +"Don't try," replied the rancher. + +"I tell you it will rain," cried Lenore, gaily. "Let's walk out +there--watch the storm come across the hills. I love to see the shadows +blow over the wheat." + +Lenore became aware, as she passed the car, that Nash was glaring at her +in no unmistakable manner. She had forgotten all about him. The sight of +his jealous face somehow added to her strange exhilaration. + +They crossed the road from the house, and, facing the west, had free +prospect of the miles of billowy hills and the magnificent ordnance of +the storm-clouds. The deep, low mutterings of thunder seemed a grand and +welcome music. Lenore stole a look at Dorn, to see him, bareheaded, face +upturned, entranced. It was only a rain-storm coming! Down in the valley +country such storms were frequent at this season, too common for their +meaning to be appreciated. Here in the desert of wheat rain was a +blessing, life itself. + +The creamy-white, rounded edge of the approaching clouds came and +coalesced, spread and mushroomed. Under them the body of the storm was +purple, lit now and then by a flash of lightning. Long, drifting veils +of rain, gray as thin fog, hung suspended between sky and earth. + +"Listen!" exclaimed Dorn. + +A warm wind, laden with dry scent of wheat, struck Lenore's face and +waved her hair. It brought a silken, sweeping rustle, a whispering of +the bearded grain. The soft sound thrilled Lenore. It seemed a sweet, +hopeful message that waiting had been rewarded, that the drought could +be broken. Again, and more beautiful than ever before in her life, she +saw the waves of shadow as they came forward over the wheat. Rippling, +like breezes over the surface of a golden lake, they came in long, +broken lines, moving, following, changing, until the whole wheat-field +seemed in shadowy motion. + +The cloud pageant rolled on above and beyond. Lenore felt a sweet drop +of rain splash upon her upturned face. It seemed like a caress. There +came a pattering around her. Suddenly rose a damp, faint smell of dust. +Beyond the hill showed a gray pall of rain, coming slowly, charged with +a low roar. The whisper of the sweeping wheat was swallowed up. + +Lenore stood her ground until heavy rain drops fell thick and fast upon +her, sinking through her thin waist to thrill her flesh; and then, with +a last gay call to those two man lovers of wheat and storms, she ran for +the porch. + +There they joined her, Anderson puffing and smiling, Dorn still with +that rapt look upon his face. The rain swept up and roared on the roof, +while all around was streaked gray. + +"Boy, there's your thirty-thousand-dollar rain!" shouted Anderson. + +But Dorn did not hear. Once he smiled at Lenore as if she were the good +fairy who had brought about this miracle. In his look Lenore had deeper +realization of him, of nature, and of life. She loved rain, but always, +thenceforth, she would reverence it. Fresh, cool fragrance of a renewed +soil filled the air. All that dusty gray hue of the earth had vanished, +and it was wet and green and bright. Even as she gazed the water seemed +to sink in as it fell, a precious relief to thirsty soil. The thunder +rolled away eastward and the storm passed. The thin clouds following +soon cleared away from the western sky, rain-washed and blue, with a +rainbow curving down to bury its exquisite hues in the golden wheat. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +The journey homeward held many incalculable differences from the +uncertain doubts and fears that had tormented Lenore on the outward +trip. + +For a long time she felt the warm, tight clasp of Dorn's hand on hers as +he had said good-by. Very evidently he believed that was to be his last +sight of her. Lenore would never forget the gaze that seemed to try to +burn her image on his memory forever. She felt that they would meet +again. Solemn thoughts revolved in her mind; still, she was not unhappy. +She had given much unsought, but the return to her seemed growing every +moment that she lived. + +The dust had been settled by the rain for many miles; however, beyond +Palmer there began to show evidences that the storm had thinned out or +sheered off, because the road gradually grew dry again. When dust rose +once more Lenore covered her face, although, obsessed as she was by the +deep change in herself, neither dust nor heat nor distance affected her +greatly. Like the miles the moments sped by. She was aware through +closed eyes when darkness fell. Stops were frequent after the Copper +River had been crossed, and her father appeared to meet and question +many persons in the towns they passed. Most of his questioning pertained +to the I.W.W. And even excited whispering by her father and Jake had no +power to interest her. It was midnight when they reached "Many Waters" +and Lenore became conscious of fatigue. + +Nash crowded in front of Jake as she was about to step out, and assisted +her. He gave her arm a hard squeeze and fiercely whispered in her ear, +"To-morrow!" + +The whisper was trenchant with meaning and thoroughly aroused Lenore. +But she gave no sign and moved away. + +"I seen strangers sneakin' off in the dark," Jake was whispering to +Anderson. + +"Keep your eyes peeled," replied Anderson. "I'll take Lenore up to the +house an' come back." + +It was pitch black up the path through the grove and Lenore had to cling +to her father. + +"Is there--any danger?" she whispered. + +"We're lookin' for anythin'," replied Anderson, slowly. + +"Will you be careful?" + +"Sure, lass. I'll take no foolish risks. I've got men watchin' the house +an' ranch. But I'd better have the cowboys down. There's Jake--he spots +some prowlin' coyotes the minute we reach home." + +Anderson unlocked and opened the door. The hall was dark and quiet. He +turned on the electric light. Lenore was detaching her veil. + +"You look pale," he said, solicitously. "No wonder. That was a ride. But +I'm glad we went. I saved Dorn's wheat." + +"I'm glad, too, father. Good-night!" + +He bade her good-night, and went out, locking the door. Then his rapid +footsteps died away. Wearily Lenore climbed the stairs and went to her +room. + + * * * * * + +She was awakened from deep slumber by Kathleen, who pulled and tugged at +her. + +"Lenorry, I thought you was dead, your eyes were shut so tight," +declared the child. "Breakfast is waiting. Did you fetch me anything?" + +"Yes, a new sister," replied Lenore, dreamily. + +Kathleen's eyes opened wide. "Where?" + +Lenore place a hand over her heart. + +"Here." + +"Oh, you do look funny.... Get up, Lenorry. Did you hear the shooting +last night?" + +Instantly Lenore sat up and stared. + +"No. Was there any?" + +"You bet. But I don't know what it was all about." + +Lenore dispelled her dreamy state, and, hurriedly dressing, she went +down to breakfast. Her father and Rose were still at the table. + +"Hello, big eyes!" was his greeting. + +And Rose, not to be outdone, chirped, "Hello, old sleepy-head!" + +Lenore's reply lacked her usual spontaneity. And she felt, if she did +not explain, the wideness of her eyes. Her father did not look as if +anything worried him. It was a way of his, however, not to show stress +or worry. Lenore ate in silence until Rose left the dining-room, and +then she asked her father if there had been shooting. + +"Sure," he replied, with a broad smile. "Jake turned his guns loose on +them prowlin' men last night. By George! you ought to have heard them +run. One plumped into the gate an' went clear over it, to fall like a +log. Another fell into the brook an' made more racket than a drownin' +horse. But it was so dark we couldn't catch them." + +"Jake shot to frighten them?" inquired Lenore. + +"Not much. He stung one I.W.W., that's sure. We heard a cry, an' this +mornin' we found some blood." + +"What do you suppose these--these night visitors wanted?" + +"No tellin'. Jake thinks one of them looked an' walked like the man Nash +has been meetin'. Anyway, we're not takin' much more chance on Nash. I +reckon it's dangerous keepin' him around. I'll have him drive me +to-day--over to Vale, an' then to Huntington. You can go along. That'll +be your last chance to pump him. Have you found out anythin'?" + +Lenore told what had transpired between her and the driver. Anderson's +face turned fiery red. + +"That ain't much to help us," declared, angrily. "But it shows him +up.... So his real name's Ruenke? Fine American name, I don't think! +That man's a spy an' a plotter. An' before he's another day older I'm +goin' to corner him. It's a sure go I can't hold Jake in any longer." + +To Lenore it was a further indication of her father's temper that when +they went down to enter the car he addressed Nash in cool, careless, +easy speech. It made Lenore shiver. She had heard stories of her +father's early career among hard men. + +Jake was there, dry, caustic, with keen, quiet eyes that any subtle, +clever man would have feared. But Nash's thought seemed turned mostly +inward. + +Lenore took the front seat in the car beside the driver. He showed +unconscious response to that action. + +"Jake, aren't you coming?" she asked, of the cowboy. + +"Wal, I reckon it'll be sure dull fer you without me. Nobody to talk to +while your dad fools around. But I can't go. Me an' the boys air a-goin' +to hang some I.W.W.'s this mawnin', an' I can't miss thet fun." + +Jake drawled his speech and laughed lazily as he ended it. He was just +boasting, as usual, but his hawklike eyes were on Nash. And it was +certain that Nash turned pale. + +Lenore had no reply to make. Her father appeared to lose patience with +Jake, but after a moment's hesitation decided not to voice it. + +Nash was not a good nor a careful driver under any circumstances, and +this morning it was evident he did not have his mind on his business. +There were bumps in the orchard road where the irrigation ditches +crossed. + +"Say, you ought to be drivin' a hay-wagon," called Anderson, +sarcastically. + +At Vale he ordered the car stopped at the post-office, and, telling +Lenore he might be detained a few moments, he went in. Nash followed, +and presently came back with a package of letters. Upon taking his seat +in the car he assorted the letters, one of which, a large, thick +envelope, manifestly gave him excited gratification. He pocketed them +and turned to Lenore. + +"Ah! I see you get letters--from a woman," she said, pretending a poison +sweetness of jealousy. + +"Certainly. I'm not married yet," he replied. "Lenore, last night--" + +"You will never be married--to me--while you write to other women. Let +me see that letter!... Let me read it--all of them!" + +"No, Lenore--not here. And don't speak so loud. Your father will be +coming any minute.... Lenore, he suspects me. And that cowboy knows +things. I can't go back to the ranch." + +"Oh, you must come!" + +"No. If you love me you've got to run off with me to-day." + +"But why the hurry?" she appealed. + +"It's getting hot for me." + +"What do you mean by that? Why don't you explain to me? As long as you +are so strange, so mysterious, how can I trust you? You ask me to run +off with you, yet you don't put confidence in me." + +Nash grew pale and earnest, and his hands shook. + +"But if I do confide in you, then will you come with me?" he queried, +breathlessly. + +"I'll not promise. Maybe what you have to tell will prove--you--you +don't care for me." + +"It 'll prove I do," he replied, passionately. + +"Then tell me." Lenore realized she could no longer play the part she +had assumed. But Nash was so stirred by his own emotions, so carried +along in a current, that he did not see the difference in her. + +"Listen. I tell you it's getting hot for me," he whispered. "I've been +put here--close to Anderson--to find out things and to carry out orders. +Lately I've neglected my job because I fell in love with you. He's your +father. If I go on with plans--and harm comes to him--I'll never get +you. Is that clear?" + +"It certainly is," replied Lenore, and she felt a tightness at her +throat. + +"I'm no member of the I.W.W.," he went on. "Whatever that organization +might have been last year, it's gone wild this year.... There are +interests that have used the I.W.W. I'm only an agent, and I'm not high +up, either. I see what the government will do to the I.W.W. if the +Northwest leaves any of it. But just now there're plots against a few +big men like your father. He's to be ruined. His crops and ranches +destroyed. And he's to be killed. It's because he's so well known and +has so much influence that he was marked. I told you the I.W.W. was +being used to make trouble. They are being stirred up by agitators, +bribed and driven, all for the purpose of making a great disorder in the +Northwest." + +"Germany!" whispered Lenore. + +"I can't say. But men are all over, and these men work in secret. There +are American citizens in the Northwest--one right in this valley--who +have plotted to ruin your father." + +"Do you know who they are?" + +"No, I do not." + +"You are for Germany, of course?" + +"I have been. My people are German. But I was born in the U.S. And if it +suits me I will be for America. If you come with me I'll throw up this +dirty job, advise Glidden to shift the plot from your father to some +other man--" + +"So it's Glidden!" exclaimed Lenore. + +Nash bit his lip, and for the first time looked at Lenore without +thinking of himself. And surprise dawned in his eyes. + +"Yes, Glidden. You saw him speak to me up in the Bend, the first time +your father went to see Dorn's wheat. Glidden's playing the I.W.W. +against itself. He means to drop out of this deal with big money....Now +I'll save your father if you'll stick to me." + +Lenore could no longer restrain herself. This man was not even big in +his wickedness. Lenore divined that his later words held no truth. + +"Mr. Ruenke, you are a detestable coward," she said, with quivering +scorn. "I let you imagine--Oh! I can't speak it!... You--you--" + +"God! You fooled me!" he ejaculated, his jaw falling in utter amaze. + +"You were contemptibly easy. You'd better jump out of this car and run. +My father will shoot you." + +"You deceitful--cat!" he cried, haltingly, as anger overcame his +astonishment. "I'll--" + +Anderson's big bulk loomed up behind Nash. Lenore gasped as she saw her +father, for his eyes were upon her and he had recognized events. + +"Say, Mister Ruenke, the postmaster says you get letters here under +different names," said Anderson, bluntly. + +"Yes--I--I--get them--for a friend," stammered the driver, as his face +turned white. + +"You lyin' German pup!... I'll look over them letters!" Anderson's big +hand shot out to clutch Nash, holding him powerless, and with the other +hand he searched Nash's inside coat pockets, to tear forth a packet of +letters. Then Anderson released him and stepped back. "Get out of that +car!" he thundered. + +Nash made a slow movement, as if to comply, then suddenly he threw on +the power. The car jerked forward. + +Anderson leaped to get one hand on the car door, the other on Nash. He +almost pulled the driver out of his seat. But Nash held on desperately, +and the car, gaining momentum, dragged Anderson. He could not get his +feet up on the running-board, and suddenly he fell. + +Lenore screamed and tore frantically at the handle of the door. Nash +struck her, jerked her back into the seat. She struggled until the car +shot full speed ahead. Then it meant death for her to leap out. + +"Sit still, or you'll kill yourself." shouted Nash, hoarsely. + +Lenore fell back, almost fainting, with the swift realization of what +had happened. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Kurt Dorn had indeed no hope of ever seeing Lenore Anderson again, and +he suffered a pang that seemed to leave his heart numb, though +Anderson's timely visit might turn out as providential as the saving +rain-storm. The wheat waved and rustled as if with renewed and bursting +life. The exquisite rainbow still shone, a beautiful promise, in the +sky. But Dorn could not be happy in that moment. + +This day Lenore Anderson had seemed a bewildering fulfilment of the +sweetness he had imagined was latent in her. She had meant what was +beyond him to understand. She had gently put a hand to his lips, to +check the bitter words, and he had dared to kiss her soft fingers. The +thrill, the sweetness, the incomprehensible and perhaps imagined +response of her pulse would never leave him. He watched the big car +until it was out of sight. + +The afternoon was only half advanced and there were numberless tasks to +do. He decided he could think and plan while he worked. As he was about +to turn away he espied another automobile, this one coming from the +opposite direction to that Anderson had taken. The sight of it reminded +Dorn of the I.W.W. trick of throwing phosphorus cakes into the wheat. He +was suspicious of that car. It slowed down in front of the Dorn +homestead, turned into the yard, and stopped near where Dorn stood. The +dust had caked in layers upon it. Someone hailed him and asked if this +was the Dorn farm. Kurt answered in the affirmative, whereupon a tall +man, wearing a long linen coat, opened the car door to step out. In the +car remained the driver and another man. + +"My name is Hall," announced the stranger, with a pleasant manner. "I'm +from Washington, D.C. I represent the government and am in the Northwest +in the interest of the Conservation Commission. Your name has been +recommended to me as one of the progressive young wheat-growers of the +Bend; particularly that you are an American, located in a country +exceedingly important to the United States just now--a country where +foreign-born people predominate." + +Kurt, somewhat startled and awed, managed to give a courteous greeting +to his visitor, and asked him into the house. But Mr. Hall preferred to +sit outdoors on the porch. He threw off hat and coat, and, taking an +easy chair, he produced some cigars. + +"Will you smoke?" he asked, offering one. + +Kurt declined with thanks. He was aware of this man's penetrating, yet +kindly scrutiny of him, and he had begun to wonder. This was no ordinary +visitor. + +"Have you been drafted?" abruptly queried Mr. Hall. + +"Yes, sir. Mine was the first number," replied Kurt, with a little +pride. + +"Do you want exemption?" swiftly came the second query. + +It shocked Dorn, then stung him. + +"No," he said, forcibly. + +"Your father's sympathy is with Germany, I understand." + +"Well, sir, I don't know how you understand that, but it's true--to my +regret and shame." + +"You want to fight?" went on the official. + +"I hate the idea of war. But I--I guess I want to fight. Maybe that's +because I'm feeling scrappy over these I.W.W. tricks." + +"Dorn, the I.W.W. is only one of the many phases of war that we must +meet," returned Mr. Hall, and then for a moment he thoughtfully drew +upon his cigar. + +"Young man, I like your talk. And I'll tell you a secret. My name's not +Hall. Never mind my name. For you it's Uncle Sam!" + +Whereupon, with a winning and fascinating manner that seemed to Kurt at +once intimate and flattering, he began to talk fluently of the meaning +of his visit, and of its cardinal importance. The government was looking +far ahead, preparing for a tremendous, and perhaps a lengthy, war. The +food of the country must be conserved. Wheat was one of the most vital +things in the whole world, and the wheat of America was incalculably +precious--only the government knew how precious. If the war was short a +wheat famine would come afterward; if it was long, the famine would come +before the war ended. But it was inevitable. The very outcome of the war +itself depended upon wheat. + +The government expected a nation-wide propaganda by the German interests +which would be carried on secretly and boldly, in every conceivable way, +to alienate the labor organizations, to bribe or menace the harvesters, +to despoil crops, and particularly to put obstacles in the way of the +raising and harvesting, the transporting and storing of wheat. It would +take an army to protect the nation's grain. + +Dorn was earnestly besought by this official to compass his district, to +find out who could be depended upon by the United States and who was +antagonistic, to impress upon the minds of all his neighbors the +exceeding need of greater and more persistent cultivation of wheat. + +"I accept. I'll do my best," replied Kurt, grimly. "I'll be going some +the next two weeks." + +"It's deplorable that most of the wheat in this section is a failure," +said the official. "But we must make up for that next year. I see you +have one magnificent wheat-field. But, fact is, I heard of that long +before I got here." + +"Yes? Where?" ejaculated Kurt, quick to catch a significance in the +other's words. + +"I've motored direct from Wheatly. And I'm sorry to say that what I have +now to tell you is not pleasant.... Your father sold this wheat for +eighty thousand dollars in cash. The money was seen to be paid over by a +mill-operator of Spokane.... And your father is reported to be +suspiciously interested in the I.W.W. men now at Wheatly." + +"Oh, that's awful!" exclaimed Kurt, with a groan. "How did you learn +that?" + +"From American farmers--men that I had been instructed to approach, the +same as in your case. The information came quite by accident, however, +and through my inquiring about the I.W.W." + +"Father has not been rational since the President declared war. He's +very old. I've had trouble with him. He might do anything." + +"My boy, there are multitudes of irrational men nowadays and the number +is growing.... I advise you to go at once to Wheatly and bring your +father home. It was openly said that he was taking risks with that large +sum of money." + +"Risks! Why, I can't understand that. The wheat's not harvested yet, let +alone hauled to town. And to-day I learned the I.W.W. are working a +trick with cakes of phosphorus, to burn the wheat." + +Kurt produced the cake of phosphorus and explained its significance to +the curious official. + +"Cunning devils! Who but a German would ever have thought of that?" he +exclaimed. "German science! To such ends the Germans put their supreme +knowledge!" + +"I wonder what my father will say about this phosphorus trick. I just +wonder. He loves the wheat. His wheat has taken prizes at three world's +fairs. Maybe to see our wheat burn would untwist that twist in his brain +and make him American." + +"I doubt it. Only death changes the state of a real German, physical, +moral, and spiritual. Come, ride back to Glencoe with me. I'll drop you +there. You can hire a car and make Wheatly before dark." + +Kurt ran indoors, thinking hard as he changed clothes. He told the +housekeeper to tell Jerry he was called away and would be back next day. +Putting money and a revolver in his pocket, he started out, but +hesitated and halted. He happened to think that he was a poor shot with +a revolver and a fine one with a rifle. So he went back for his rifle, a +small high-power, repeating gun that he could take apart and hide under +his coat. When he reached the porch the official glanced from the weapon +to Kurt's face and said, with a flash of spirit: + +"It appears that you are in earnest!" + +"I am. Something told me to take this," responded Kurt, as he dismounted +the rifle. "I've already had one run-in with an I.W.W. I know tough +customers when I see them. These foreigners are the kind I don't want +near me. And if I see one trying to fire the wheat I'll shoot his leg +off." + +"I'm inclined to think that Uncle Sam would not deplore your shooting a +little higher.... Dorn, you're fine! You're all I heard you were! Shake +hands!" + +Kurt tingled all over as he followed the official out to the car and +took the seat given him beside the driver. "Back to Glencoe," was the +order. And then, even if conversation had been in order, it would +scarcely have been possible. That driver could drive! He had no fear and +he knew his car. Kurt could drive himself, but he thought that if he had +been as good as this fellow he would have chosen one of two magnificent +services for the army--an ambulance-driver at the front or an aeroplane +scout. + +On the way to Glencoe several squads of idling and marching men were +passed, all of whom bore the earmarks of the I.W.W. Sight of them made +Kurt hug his gun and wonder at himself. Never had he been a coward, but +neither had he been one to seek a fight. This suave, distinguished +government official, by his own significant metaphor, Uncle Sam gone +abroad to find true hearts, had wrought powerfully upon Kurt's temper. +He sensed events. He revolved in mind the need for him to be cool and +decisive when facing the circumstances that were sure to arise. + +At Glencoe, which was reached so speedily that Kurt could scarcely +credit his eyes, the official said; "You'll hear from me. Good-by and +good luck!" + +Kurt hired a young man he knew to drive him over to Wheatly. All the way +Kurt brooded about his father's strange action. The old man had left +home before the rain-storm. How did he know he could guarantee so many +bushels of wheat as the selling-price indicated? Kurt divined that his +father had acted upon one of his strange weather prophecies. For he must +have been absolutely sure of rain to save the wheat. + +Darkness had settled down when Kurt reached Wheatly and left the car at +the railroad station. Wheatly was a fairly good-sized little town. There +seemed to be an unusual number of men on the dark streets. Dim lights +showed here and there. Kurt passed several times near groups of +conversing men, but he did not hear any significant talk. + +Most of the stores were open and well filled with men, but to Kurt's +sharp eyes there appeared to be much more gossip going on than business. +The town was not as slow and quiet as was usual with Bend towns. He +listened for war talk, and heard none. Two out of every three men who +spoke in his hearing did not use the English language. Kurt went into +the office of the first hotel he found. There was no one present. He +glanced at an old register lying on the desk. No guests had registered +for several days. + +Then Kurt went out and accosted a man leaning against a hitching-rail. + +"What's going on in this town?" + +The man stood rather indistinctly in the uncertain light. Kurt, however, +made out his eyes and they were regarding him suspiciously. + +"Nothin' onusual," was the reply. + +"Has harvesting begun in these parts?" + +"Some barley cut, but no wheat. Next week, I reckon." + +"How's the wheat?" + +"Some bad an' some good." + +"Is this town a headquarters for the I.W.W.?" + +"No. But there's a big camp of I.W.W.'s near here. Reckon you're one of +them union fellers?" + +"I am not," declared Kurt, bluntly. + +"Reckon you sure look like one, with thet gun under your coat." + +"Are you going to hire I.W.W. men?" asked Kurt, ignoring the other's +observation. + +"I'm only a farm-hand," was the sullen reply. "An' I tell you I won't +join no I.W.W." + +Kurt spared himself a moment to give this fellow a few strong proofs of +the fact that any farm-hand was wise to take such a stand against the +labor organization. Leaving the fellow gaping and staring after him, +Kurt crossed the street to enter another hotel. It was more pretentious +than the first, with a large, well lighted office. There were loungers +at the tables. Kurt walked to the desk. A man leaned upon his elbows. He +asked Kurt if he wanted a room. This man, evidently the proprietor, was +a German, though he spoke English. + +"I'm not sure," replied Kurt. "Will you let me look at the register?" + +The man shoved the book around. Kurt did not find the name he sought. + +"My father, Chris Dorn, is in town. Can you tell me where I'll find +him?" + +"So you're young Dorn," replied the other, with instant change to +friendliness. "I've heard of you. Yes, the old man is here. He made a +big wheat deal to-day. He's eating his supper." + +Kurt stepped to the door indicated, and, looking into the dining-room, +he at once espied his father's huge head with its shock of gray hair. He +appeared to be in earnest colloquy with a man whose bulk matched his +own. Kurt hesitated, and finally went back to the desk. + +"Who's the big man with my father?" he asked. + +"He is a big man, both ways. Don't you know him?" rejoined the +proprietor, in a lower voice. + +"I'm not sure," answered Kurt. The lowered tone had a significance that +decided Kurt to admit nothing. + +"That's Neuman from Ruxton, one of the biggest wheat men in Washington." + +Kurt repressed a whistle of surprise. Neuman was Anderson's only rival +in the great, fertile valley. What were Neuman and Chris Dorn doing with +their heads together? + +"I thought he was Neuman," replied Kurt, feeling his way. "Is he in on +the big deal with father?" + +"Which one?" queried the proprietor, with shrewd eyes, taking Kurt's +measure. "You're in on both, of course." + +"Sure. I mean the wheat sale, not the I.W.W. deal," replied Kurt. He +hazarded a guess with that mention of the I.W.W. No sooner had the words +passed his lips than he divined he was on the track of sinister events. + +"Your father sold out to that Spokane miller. No, Neuman is not in on +that." + +"I was surprised to hear father had sold the wheat. Was it speculation +or guarantee?" + +"Old Chris guaranteed sixty bushels. There were friends of his here who +advised against it. Did you have rain over there?" + +"Fine. The wheat will go over sixty bushels. I'm sorry I couldn't get +here sooner." + +"When it rained you hurried over to boost the price. Well, it's too +late." + +"Is Glidden here?" queried Kurt, hazarding another guess. + +"Don't talk so loud," warned the proprietor. "Yes, he just got here in a +car with two other men. He's up-stairs having supper in his room." + +"Supper!" Kurt echoed the word, and averted his face to hide the leap of +his blood. "That reminds me, I'm hungry." + +He went into the big, dimly lighted dining-room. There was a shelf on +one side as he went in, and here, with his back turned to the room, he +laid the disjointed gun and his hat. Several newspapers lying near +attracted his eye. Quickly he slipped them under and around the gun, and +then took a seat at the nearest table. A buxom German waitress came for +his order. He gave it while he gazed around at his grim-faced old father +and the burly Neuman, and his ears throbbed to the beat of his blood. +His hand trembled on the table. His thoughts flashed almost too swiftly +for comprehension. It took a stern effort to gain self-control. + +Evil of some nature was afoot. Neuman's presence there was a strange, +disturbing fact. Kurt had made two guesses, both alarmingly correct. If +he had any more illusions or hopes, he dispelled them. His father had +been won over by this arch conspirator of the I.W.W. And, despite his +father's close-fistedness where money was concerned, that eighty +thousand dollars, or part of it, was in danger. + +Kurt wondered how he could get possession of it. If he could he would +return it to the bank and wire a warning to the Spokane buyer that the +wheat was not safe. He might persuade his father to turn over the amount +of the debt to Anderson. While thinking and planning, Kurt kept an eye +on his father and rather neglected his supper. Presently, when old Dorn +and Neuman rose and left the dining-room, Kurt followed them. His father +was whispering to the proprietor over the desk, and at Kurt's touch he +glared his astonishment. + +"You here! What for?" he demanded, gruffly, in German. + +"I had to see you," replied Kurt, in English. + +"Did it rain?" was the old man's second demand, husky and serious. + +"The wheat is made, if we can harvest it," answered Kurt. + +The blaze of joy on old Dorn's face gave Kurt a twinge of pain. He hated +to dispel it. "Come aside, here, a minute," he whispered, and drew his +father over to a corner under a lamp. "I've got bad news. Look at this!" +He produced the cake of phosphorus, careful to hide it from other +curious eyes there, and with swift, low words he explained its meaning. +He expected an outburst of surprise and fury, but he was mistaken. + +"I know about that," whispered his father, hoarsely. "There won't be any +thrown in my wheat." + +"Father! What assurance have you of that?" queried Kurt, astounded. + +The old man nodded his gray head wisely. He knew, but he did not speak. + +"Do you think these I.W.W. plotters will spare your wheat?" asked Kurt. +"You are wrong. They may lie to your face. But they'll betray you. The +I.W.W. is backed by--by interests that want to embarrass the +government." + +"What government?" + +"Why, ours--the U.S. government!" + +"That's not my government. The more it's embarrassed the better it will +suit me." + +In the stress of the moment Kurt had forgotten his father's bitter and +unchangeable hatred. + +"But you're--you're stupid," he hissed, passionately. "That government +has protected you for fifty years." + +Old Dorn growled into his beard. His huge ox-eyes rolled. Kurt realized +then finally how implacable and hopeless he was--how utterly German. +Then Kurt importuned him to return the eighty thousand dollars to the +bank until he was sure the wheat was harvested and hauled to the +railroad. + +"My wheat won't burn," was old Dorn's stubborn reply. + +"Well, then, give me Anderson's thirty thousand. I'll take it to him at +once. Our debt will be paid. We'll have it off our minds." + +"No hurry about that," replied his father. + +"But there is hurry," returned Kurt, in a hot whisper. "Anderson came to +see you to-day. He wants his money." + +"Neuman holds the small end of that debt. I'll pay him. Anderson can +wait." + +Kurt felt no amaze. He expected anything. But he could scarcely contain +his fury. How this old man, his father, whom he had loved--how he had +responded to the influences that must destroy him! + +"Anderson shall not wait," declared Kurt. "I've got some say in this +matter. I've worked like a dog in those wheat-fields. I've a right to +demand Anderson's money. He needs it. He has a tremendous harvest on his +hands." + +Old Dorn shook his huge head in somber and gloomy thought. His broad +face, his deep eyes, seemed to mask and to hide. It was an expression +Kurt had seldom seen there, but had always hated. It seemed so old to +Kurt, that alien look, something not born of his time. + +"Anderson is a capitalist," said Chris Dorn, deep in his beard. "He +seeks control of farmers and wheat in the Northwest. Ranch after ranch +he's gained by taking up and foreclosing mortgages. He's against labor. +He grinds down the poor. He cheated Neuman out of a hundred thousand +bushels of wheat. He bought up my debt. He meant to ruin me. He--" + +"You're talking I.W.W. rot," whispered Kurt, shaking with the effort to +subdue his feelings. "Anderson is fine, big, square--a developer of the +Northwest. Not an enemy! He's our friend. Oh! if only you had an +American's eyes, just for a minute!... Father, I want that money for +Anderson." + +"My son, I run my own business," replied Dorn, sullenly, with a pale +fire in his opaque eyes. "You're a wild boy, unfaithful to your blood. +You've fallen in love with an American girl.... Anderson says he needs +money!"... With hard, gloomy face the old man shook his head. "He thinks +he'll harvest!" Again that strange shake of finality. "I know what I +know.... I keep my money.... We'll have other rule.... I keep my money." + +Kurt had vibrated to those most significant words and he stared +speechless at his father. + +"Go home. Get ready for harvest," suddenly ordered old Dorn, as if he +had just awakened to the fact of Kurt's disobedience in lingering here. + +"All right, father," replied Kurt, and, turning on his heel, he strode +outdoors. + +When he got beyond the light he turned and went back to a position where +in the dark he could watch without being seen. His father and the hotel +proprietor were again engaged in earnest colloquy. Neuman had +disappeared. Kurt saw the huge shadow of a man pass across a drawn blind +in a room up-stairs. Then he saw smaller shadows, and arms raised in +vehement gesticulation. The very shadows were sinister. Men passed in +and out of the hotel. Once old Dorn came to the door and peered all +around. Kurt observed that there was a dark side entrance to this hotel. +Presently Neuman returned to the desk and said something to old Dorn, +who shook his head emphatically, and then threw himself into a chair, in +a brooding posture that Kurt knew well. He had seen it so often that he +knew it had to do with money. His father was refusing demands of some +kind. Neuman again left the office, this time with the proprietor. They +were absent some little time. + +During this period Kurt leaned against a tree, hidden in the shadow, +with keen eyes watching and with puzzled, anxious mind. He had +determined, in case his father left that office with Neuman, on one of +those significant disappearances, to slip into the hotel at the side +entrance and go up-stairs to listen at the door of the room with the +closely drawn blind. Neuman returned soon with the hotel man, and the +two of them half led, half dragged old Dorn out into the street. They +took the direction toward the railroad. Kurt followed at a safe distance +on the opposite side of the street. Soon they passed the stores with +lighted windows, then several dark houses, and at length the railroad +station. Perhaps they were bound for the train. Kurt heard rumbling in +the distance. But they went beyond the station, across the track, and +turned to the right. + +Kurt was soft-footed and keen-eyed. He just kept the dim shadows in +range. They were heading for some freight-cars that stood upon a +side-track. The dark figures disappeared behind them. Then one figure +reappeared, coming back. Kurt crouched low. This man passed within a few +yards of Kurt and he was whispering to himself. After he was safely out +of earshot Kurt stole on stealthily until he reached the end of the +freight-cars. Here he paused, listening. He thought he heard low voices, +but he could not see the men he was following. No doubt they were +waiting in the secluded gloom for the other men apparently necessary for +that secret conference. Kurt had sensed this event and he had determined +to be present. He tried not to conjecture. It was best for him to apply +all his faculties to the task of slipping unseen and unheard close to +these men who had involved his father in some dark plot. + +Not long after Kurt hid himself on the other side of the freight-car he +heard soft-padded footsteps and subdued voices. Dark shapes appeared to +come out of the gloom. They passed him. He distinguished low, guttural +voices, speaking German. These men, three in number, were scarcely out +of sight when Kurt laid his rifle on the projecting shelf of the +freight-car and followed them. + +Presently he came to deep shadow, where he paused. Low voices drew him +on again, then a light made him thrill. Now and then the light appeared +to be darkened by moving figures. A dark object loomed up to cut off +Kurt's view. It was a pile of railroad ties, and beyond it loomed +another. Stealing along these, he soon saw the light again, quite close. +By its glow he recognized his father's huge frame, back to him, and the +burly Neuman on the other side, and Glidden, whose dark face was working +as he talked. These three were sitting, evidently on a flat pile of +ties, and the other two men stood behind. Kurt could not make out the +meaning of the low voices. Pressing closer to the freight-car, he +cautiously and noiselessly advanced. + +Glidden was importuning with expressive hands and swift, low utterance. +His face gleamed dark, hard, strong, intensely strung with corded, +quivering muscles, with eyes apparently green orbs of fire. He spoke in +German. + +Kurt dared not go closer unless he wanted to be discovered, and not yet +was he ready for that. He might hear some word to help explain his +father's strange, significant intimations about Anderson. + +"...must--have--money," Glidden was saying. To Kurt's eyes treachery +gleamed in that working face. Neuman bent over to whisper gruffly in +Dorn's ear. One of the silent men standing rubbed his hands together. +Old Dorn's head was bowed. Then Glidden spoke so low and so swiftly that +Kurt could not connect sentences, but with mounting blood he stood +transfixed and horrified, to gather meaning from word on word, until he +realized Anderson's doom, with other rich men of the Northwest, was +sealed--that there were to be burnings of wheat-fields and of +storehouses and of freight-trains--destruction everywhere. + +"I give money," said old Dorn, and with heavy movement he drew from +inside his coat a large package wrapped in newspaper. He laid it before +him in the light and began to unwrap it. Soon there were disclosed two +bundles of bills--the eighty thousand dollars. + +Kurt thrilled in all his being. His poor father was being misled and +robbed. A melancholy flash of comfort came to Kurt! Then at sight of +Glidden's hungry eyes and working face and clutching hands Kurt pulled +his hat far down, drew his revolver, and leaped forward with a yell, +"Hands up!" + +He discharged the revolver right in the faces of the stunned plotters, +and, snatching up the bundle of money, he leaped over the light, +knocking one of the men down, and was gone into the darkness, without +having slowed in the least his swift action. + +Wheeling round the end of the freight-car, he darted back, risking a +hard fall in the darkness, and ran along the several cars to the first +one, where he grasped his rifle and kept on. He heard his father's roar, +like that of a mad bull, and shrill yells from the other men. Kurt +laughed grimly. They would never catch him in the dark. While he ran he +stuffed the money into his inside coat pockets. Beyond the railroad +station he slowed down to catch his breath. His breast was heaving, his +pulse hammering, and his skin was streaming. The excitement was the +greatest under which he had ever labored. + +"Now--what shall--I do?" he panted. A freight-train was lumbering toward +him and the head-light was almost at the station. The train appeared to +be going slowly through without stopping. Kurt hurried on down the track +a little farther. Then he waited. He would get on that train and make +his way somehow to Ruxton, there to warn Anderson of the plot against +his life. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +Kurt rode to Adrian on that freight, and upon arriving in the yards +there he jumped off, only to mount another, headed south. He meant to be +traveling while it was dark. No passenger-trains ran at night and he +wanted to put as much distance between him and Wheatly as possible +before daylight. + +He had piled into an open box-car. It was empty, at least of freight, +and the floor appeared to have a thin covering of hay. The train, +gathering headway, made a rattling rolling roar. Kurt hesitated about +getting up and groping back in the pitch-black corners of the car. He +felt that it contained a presence besides his own. And suddenly he was +startled by an object blacker than the shadow, that sidled up close to +him. Kurt could not keep the cold chills from chasing up and down his +back. The object was a man, who reached for Kurt and felt of him with a +skinny hand. + +"I.W.W.?" he whispered, hoarsely, in Kurt's ear. + +"Yes," replied Kurt. + +"Was that Adrian where you got on?" + +"It sure was," answered Kurt, with grim humor. + +"Than you're the feller?" + +"Sure," replied Kurt. It was evident that he had embarked upon an +adventure. + +"When do we stall this freight?" + +"Not while we're on it, you can gamble." + +Other dark forms sidled out of the gloomy depths of that cavern-like +corner and drew close to Kurt. He realized that he had fallen in with +I.W.W. men who apparently had taken him for an expected messenger or +leader. He was importuned for tobacco, drink, and money, and he judged +that his begging companions consisted of an American tramp, an Austrian, +a negro, and a German. Fine society to fall into! That eighty thousand +dollars became a tremendous burden. + +"How many men on this freight?" queried Kurt, thinking he could ask +questions better than answer them. And he was told there were about +twenty-five, all of whom expected money. At this information Kurt rather +closely pressed his hand upon the revolver in his side coat pocket. By +asking questions and making judicious replies he passed what he felt was +the dark mark in that mixed company of I.W.W. men; and at length, one by +one, they melted away to their warmer corners, leaving Kurt by the door. +He did not mind the cold. He wanted to be where, at the first indication +of a stop, he could jump off the train. + +With his hand on his gun and hugging the bulging coat pockets close to +him, Kurt settled himself for what he believed would be interminable +hours. He strained eyes and ears for a possible attack from the riffraff +I.W.W. men hidden there in the car. And that was why, perhaps, that it +seemed only a short while until the train bumped and slowed, preparatory +to stopping. The instant it was safe Kurt jumped out and stole away in +the gloom. A fence obstructed further passage. He peered around to make +out that he was in a road. Thereupon he hurried along it until he was +out of hearing of the train. There was light in the east, heralding a +dawn that Kurt surely would welcome. He sat down to wait, and addressed +to his bewildered judgment a query as to whether or not he ought to keep +on carrying the burdensome rifle. It was not only heavy, but when +daylight came it might attract attention, and his bulging coat would +certainly invite curiosity. He was in a predicament; nevertheless, he +decided to hang on to the rifle. + +He almost fell asleep, waiting there with his back against a fence-post. +The dawn came, and then the rosy sunrise. And he discovered, not half a +mile away, a good-sized town, where he believed he surely could hire an +automobile. + +Waiting grew to be so tedious that he decided to risk the early hour, +and proceeded toward the town. Upon the outskirts he met a farmer boy, +who, in reply to a question, said that the town was Connell. Kurt found +another early riser in the person of a blacksmith who evidently was a +Yankee and proud of it. He owned a car that he was willing to hire out +on good security. Kurt satisfied him on that score, and then proceeded +to ask how to get across the Copper River and into Golden Valley. The +highway followed the railroad from that town to Kahlotus, and there +crossed a big trunk-line railroad, to turn south toward the river. + +In half an hour, during which time Kurt was enabled to breakfast, the +car was ready. It was a large car, rather ancient and the worse for +wear, but its owner assured Kurt that it would take him where he wanted +to go and he need not be afraid to drive fast. With that inspiring +knowledge Kurt started off. + +Before ten o'clock Kurt reached Kilo, far across the Copper River, with +the Blue Mountains in sight, and from there less confusing directions to +follow. He had been lucky. He had passed the wreck of the freight-train +upon which he had ridden from Adrian; his car had been surrounded by +rough men, and only quick wits saved him at least delay; he had been +hailed by more than one group of tramping I.W.W. men; and he had passed +camps and freight-yards where idlers were congregated. And lastly, he +had seen, far across the valley, a pall of smoke from forest fire. + +He was going to reach "Many Waters" in time to warn Anderson, and that +fact gave him strange exultation. When it was assured and he had the +eighty thousand dollars deposited in a bank he could feel that his gray, +gloomy future would have several happy memories. How would Lenore +Anderson feel toward a man who had saved her father? The thought was too +rich, too sweet for Kurt to dwell upon. + +Before noon Kurt began to climb gradually up off the wonderfully fertile +bottom-lands where the endless orchards and boundless gardens delighted +his eye, and the towns grew fewer and farther between. Kurt halted at +Huntington for water, and when he was about ready to start a man rushed +out of a store, glanced hurriedly up and down the almost deserted +street, and, espying Kurt, ran to him. + +"Message over 'phone! I.W.W.! Hell to pay!" he cried, excitedly. + +"What's up? Tell me the message," replied Kurt, calmly. + +"It just come--from Vale. Anderson, the big rancher! He 'phoned to send +men out on all roads--to stop his car! His daughter's in it! She's been +made off with! I.W.W.'s!" + +Kurt's heart leaped. The bursting blood burned through him and receded +to leave him cold, tingling. Anything might happen to him this day! He +reached inside the seat to grasp the disjointed rifle, and three swift +movements seemed to serve to unwrap it and put the pieces together. + +"What else did Anderson say?" he asked, sharply. + +"That likely the car would head for the hills, where the I.W.W.'s are +camped." + +"What road from here leads that way?" + +"Take the left-hand road at the end of town," replied the man, more +calmly. "Ten miles down you'll come to a fork. There's where the +I.W.W.'s will turn off to go up into the foot-hills. Anderson just +'phoned. You can head off his car if it's on the hill road. But you'll +have to drive.... Do you know Anderson's car? Don't you want men with +you?" + +"No time!" called Kurt, as he leaped into the seat and jammed on the +power. + +"I'll send cars all over," shouted the man, as Kurt whirred away. + +Kurt's eyes and hands and feet hurt with the sudden intensity of strain. +All his nervous force seemed set upon the one great task of driving and +guiding that car at the limit of its speed. Huntington flashed behind, +two indistinct streaks of houses. An open road, slightly rising, +stretched ahead. The wind pressed so hard that he could scarcely +breathe. The car gave forth a humming roar. + +Kurt's heart labored, swollen and tight, high in his breast, and his +thoughts were swift, tumultuous. An agony of dread battled with a +dominating but strange certainty. He felt belief in his luck. +Circumstances one by one had led to this drive, and in every one passed +by he felt the direction of chance. + +He sped by fields of wheat, a wagon that he missed by an inch, some +stragglers on the road, and then, far ahead, he saw a sign-post of the +forks. As he neared it he gradually shut off the power, to stop at the +cross-roads. There he got out to search for fresh car tracks turning up +to the right. There were none. If Anderson's car was coming on that road +he would meet it. + +Kurt started again, but at reasonable speed, while his eyes were sharp +on the road ahead. It was empty. It sloped down for a long way, and made +a wide curve to the right, along the base of hilly pastureland, and then +again turned. And just as Kurt's keen gaze traveled that far a big +automobile rounded the bend, coming fast. He recognized the red color, +the shape of the car. + +"Anderson's!" he cried, with that same lift of his heart, that bursting +gush of blood. "No dream!... I see it!... And I'll stop it!" + +The advantage was all his. He would run along at reasonable speed, +choose a narrow place, stop his car so as to obstruct the road, and get +out with his rifle. + +It seemed a long stretch down that long slope, and his car crept along +while the other gradually closed the gap. Slower and slower Kurt ran, +then turned half across the road and stopped. When he stepped out the +other car was two hundred yards or more distant. Kurt saw when the +driver slackened his speed. There appeared to be only two people in the +car, both in front. But Kurt could not be sure of that until it was only +fifty yards away. + +Then he swung out his rifle and waved for the driver to stop. But he did +not stop. Kurt heard a scream. He saw a white face. He saw the driver +swing his hand across that white face, dashing it back. + +"Halt!" yelled Kurt, at the top of his lungs. + +But the driver hunched down and put on the power. The red car leaped. As +it flashed by Kurt recognized Nash and Anderson's daughter. She looked +terrified. Kurt dared not shoot, for fear of hitting the girl. Nash +swerved, took the narrow space left him, smashing the right front wheel +of Kurt's car, and got by. + +Kurt stepped aside and took a quick shot at the tire of Nash's left hind +wheel. He missed. His heart sank and he was like ice as he risked +another. The little high-power bullet struck and blew the tire off the +wheel. Nash's car lurched, skidded into the bank not thirty yards away. + +With a bound Kurt started for it, and he was there when Nash had twisted +out of his seat and over the door. + +"Far enough! Don't move!" ordered Kurt, presenting the rifle. + +Nash was ghastly white, with hunted eyes and open mouth, and his hands +shook. + +"Oh it's--Kurt Dorn!" cried a broken voice. + +Kurt saw the girl fumble with the door on her side, open it, and stagger +out of his sight. Then she reappeared round the car. Bareheaded, +disheveled, white as chalk, with burning eyes and bleeding lips, she +gazed at Kurt as if to make sure of her deliverance. + +"Miss Anderson--if he's harmed you--" broke out Kurt, hoarsely. + +"Oh!... Don't kill him!... He hasn't touched me," she replied, wildly. + +"But your lips are bleeding." + +"Are they?" She put a trembling hand to them. "He--he struck me.... +That's nothing... But you--you have saved me--from God only knows what!" + +"I have! From him?" demanded Kurt. "What is he?" + +"He's a German!" returned Lenore, and red burned out of the white of her +cheeks. "Secret agent--I.W.W.!... Plotter against my father's life!... +Oh, he knocked father off the car--dragged him!... He ran the car +away--with me--forced me back--he struck me!... Oh, if I were a man!" + +Nash responded with a passion that made his face drip with sweat and +distort into savage fury of defeat and hate. + +"You two-faced cat!" he hissed. "You made love to me! You fooled me! You +let me--" + +"Shut up!" thundered Kurt. "You German dog! I can't murder you, because +I'm American. Do you get that? But I'll beat you within an inch of your +life!" + +As Kurt bent over to lay down the rifle, Nash darted a hand into the +seat for weapon of some kind. But Kurt, in a rush, knocked him over the +front guard. Nash howled. He scrambled up with bloody mouth. Kurt was on +him again. + +"Take that!" cried Kurt, low and hard, as he swung his arm. The big fist +that had grasped so many plow-handles took Nash full on that bloody +mouth and laid him flat. "Come on, German! Get out of the trench!" + +Like a dog Nash thrashed and crawled, scraping his hands in the dirt, to +jump up and fling a rock that Kurt ducked by a narrow margin. Nash +followed it, swinging wildly, beating at his adversary. + +Passion long contained burst in Kurt. He tasted the salt of his own +blood where he had bitten his lips. Nash showed as in a red haze. Kurt +had to get his hands on this German, and when he did it liberated a +strange and terrible joy in him. No weapon would have sufficed. Hardly +aware of Nash's blows, Kurt tore at him, swung and choked him, bore him +down on the bank, and there beat him into a sodden, bloody-faced heap. + +Only then did a cry of distress, seemingly from far off, pierce Kurt's +ears. Miss Anderson was pulling at him with frantic hands. + +"Oh, don't kill him! Please don't kill him!" she was crying. "Kurt!--for +my sake, don't kill him!" + +That last poignant appeal brought Kurt to his senses. He let go of Nash. +He allowed the girl to lead him back. Panting hard, he tried to draw a +deep, full breath. + +"Oh, he doesn't move!" whispered Lenore, with wide eyes on Nash. + +"Miss Anderson--he's not--even insensible," panted Kurt. "But he's +licked--good and hard." + +The girl leaned against the side of the car, with a hand buried in her +heaving breast. She was recovering. The gray shade left her face. Her +eyes, still wide and dark and beginning to glow with softer emotions, +were upon Kurt. + +"You--you were the one to come," she murmured. "I prayed. I was terribly +frightened. Ruenke was taking me--to the I.W.W. camp, up in the hills." + +"Ruenke?" queried Kurt. + +"Yes, that's his German name." + +Kurt awoke to the exigencies of the situation. Searching in the car, he +found a leather belt. With this he securely bound Ruenke's hands behind +his back, then rolled him down into the road. + +"My first German prisoner," said Kurt, half seriously. "Now, Miss +Anderson, we must be doing things. We don't want to meet a lot of +I.W.W.'s out here. My car is out of commission. I hope yours is not +broken." + +Kurt got into the car and found, to his satisfaction, that it was not +damaged so far as running-gear was concerned. After changing the ruined +tire he backed down the road and turned to stop near where Ruenke lay. +Opening the rear door, Kurt picked him up as if he had been a sack of +wheat and threw him into the car. Next he secured the rifle that had +been such a burden and had served him so well in the end. + +"Get in, Miss Anderson," he said, "and show me where to drive you home." + +She got in beside him, making a grimace as she saw Ruenke lying behind +her. Kurt started and ran slowly by the damaged car. + +"He knocked a wheel off. I'll have to send back." + +"Oh, I thought it was all over when we hit!" said the girl. + +Kurt experienced a relaxation that was weakening. He could hardly hold +the wheel and his mood became one of exaltation. + +"Father suspected this Ruenke," went on Lenore. "But he wanted to find +out things from him. And I--I undertook--to twist Mr. Germany round my +finger. I made a mess of it.... He lied. I didn't make love to him. But +I listened to his love-making, and arrogant German love-making it was! +I'm afraid I made eyes at him and let him believe I was smitten.... Oh, +and all for nothing! I'm ashamed... But he lied!" + +Her confidence, at once pathetic and humorous and contemptuous, +augmented Kurt's Homeric mood. He understood that she would not even let +him, for a moment, have a wrong impression of her. + +"It must have been hard," agreed Kurt. "Didn't you find out anything at +all?" + +"Not much," she replied. Then she put a hand on his sleeve. "Your +knuckles are all bloody." + +"So they are. I got that punching our German friend." + +"Oh, how you did beat him!" she cried. "I had to look. My ire was up, +too!... It wasn't very womanly--of me--that I gloried in the sight." + +"But you cried out--you pulled me away!" exclaimed Kurt. + +"That was because I was afraid you'd kill him," she replied. + +Kurt swerved his glance, for an instant, to her face. It was at once +flushed and pale, with the deep blue of downcast eyes shadowy through +her long lashes, exceedingly sweet and beautiful to Kurt's sight. He +bent his glance again to the road ahead. Miss Anderson felt kindly and +gratefully toward him, as was, of course, natural. But she was somehow +different from what she had seemed upon the other occasions he had seen +her. Kurt's heart was full to bursting. + +"I might have killed him," he said. "I'm glad--you stopped me. +That--that frenzy of mine seemed to be the breaking of a dam. I have +been dammed up within. Something had to break. I've been unhappy for a +long time." + +"I saw that. What about?" she replied. + +"The war, and what it's done to father. We're estranged. I hate +everything German. I loved the farm. My chance in life is gone. The +wheat debt--the worry about the I.W.W.--and that's not all." + +Again she put a gentle hand on his sleeve and left it there for a +moment. The touch thrilled all through Kurt. + +"I'm sorry. Your position is sad. But maybe it is not utterly hopeless. +You--you'll come back after the war." + +"I don't know that I want to come back," he said. "For then--it'd be +just as bad--worse.... Miss Anderson, it won't hurt to tell you the +truth.... A year ago--that first time I saw you--I fell in love with +you. I think--when I'm away--over in France--I'd like to feel that you +know. It can't hurt you. And it'll be sweet to me.... I fought against +the--the madness. But fate was against me.... I saw you again.... And it +was all over with me!" + +He paused, catching his breath. She was perfectly quiet. He looked on +down the winding road. There were dust-clouds in the distance. + +"I'm afraid I grew bitter and moody," he went on. "But the last +forty-eight hours have changed me forever... I found that my poor old +dad had been won over by these unscrupulous German agents of the I.W.W. +But I saved his name.... I've got the money he took for the wheat we may +never harvest. But if we do harvest I can pay all our debt.... Then I +learned of a plot to ruin your father--to kill him!... I was on my way +to 'Many Waters.' I can warn him.... Last of all I have saved you." + +The little hand dropped away from his coat sleeve. A soft, +half-smothered cry escaped her. It seemed to him she was about to weep +in her exceeding pity. + +"Miss Anderson, I--I'd rather not have--you pity me." + +"Mr. Dorn, I certainly don't pity you," she replied, with an unexpected, +strange tone. It was full. It seemed to ring in his ears. + +"I know there never was and never could be any hope for me. I--I--" + +"Oh, you know that!" murmured the soft, strange voice. + +But Kurt could not trust his ears and he had to make haste to terminate +the confession into which his folly and emotion had betrayed him. He +scarcely heard her words. + +"Yes.... I told you why I wanted you to know.... And now forget +that--and when I'm gone--if you think of me ever, let it be about how +much better it made me--to have all this good luck--to help your father +and to save you!" + +The dust-cloud down the road came from a string of automobiles, flying +along at express speed. Kurt saw them with relief. + +"Here come the cars on your trail," he called out. "Your father will be +in one of them." + + * * * * * + +Kurt opened the door of the car and stepped down. He could not help his +importance or his pride. Anderson, who came running between two cars +that had stopped abreast, was coatless and hatless, covered with dust, +pale and fire-eyed. + +"Mr. Anderson, your daughter is safe--unharmed," Kurt assured him. + +"My girl!" cried the father, huskily, and hurried to where she leaned +out of her seat. + +"All right, dad," she cried, as she embraced him. "Only a little shaky +yet." + +It was affecting for Dorn to see that meeting, and through it to share +something of its meaning. Anderson's thick neck swelled and colored, and +his utterance was unintelligible. His daughter loosened her arm from +round him and turned her face toward Kurt. Then he imagined he saw two +blue stars, sweetly, strangely shining upon him. + +"Father, it was our friend from the Bend," she said. "He happened +along." + +Anderson suddenly changed to the cool, smiling man Kurt remembered. + +"Howdy, Kurt?" he said, and crushed Kurt's hand. "What'd you do to him?" + +Kurt made a motion toward the back of the car. Then Anderson looked over +the seats. With that he opened the door and in one powerful haul he drew +Ruenke sliding out into the road. Ruenke's bruised and bloody face was +uppermost, a rather gruesome sight. Anderson glared down upon him, while +men from the other cars crowded around. Ruenke's eyes resembled those of +a cornered rat. Anderson's jaw bulged, his big hands clenched. + +"Bill, you throw this fellow in your car and land him in jail. I'll make +a charge against him," said the rancher. + +"Mr. Anderson, I can save some valuable time," interposed Kurt. "I've +got to return a car I broke down. And there's my wheat. Will you have +one of these men drive me back?" + +"Sure. But won't you come home with us?" said Anderson. + +"I'd like to. But I must get home," replied Kurt. "Please let me speak a +few words for your ear alone." He drew Anderson aside and briefly told +about the eighty thousand dollars; threw back his coat to show the +bulging pockets. Then he asked Anderson's advice. + +"I'd deposit the money an' wire the Spokane miller," returned the +rancher. "I know him. He'll leave the money in the bank till your wheat +is safe. Go to the national bank in Kilo. Mention my name." + +Then Kurt told Anderson of the plot against his fortunes and his life. + +"Neuman! I.W.W.! German intrigue!" growled the rancher. "All in the same +class!... Dorn, I'm forewarned, an' that's forearmed. I'll beat this +outfit at their own game." + +They returned to Anderson's car. Kurt reached inside for his rifle. + +"Aren't you going home with us?" asked the girl. + +"Why, Miss Anderson, I--I'm sorry. I--I'd love to see 'Many Waters,'" +floundered Kurt. "But I can't go now. There's no need. I must hurry back +to--to my troubles." + +"I wanted to tell you something--at home," she returned, shyly. + +"Tell me now," said Kurt. + +She gave him such a glance as he had never received in his life. Kurt +felt himself as wax before those blue eyes. She wanted to thank him. +That would be sweet, but would only make his ordeal harder. He steeled +himself. + +"You won't come?" she asked, and her smile was wistful. + +"No--thank you ever so much." + +"Will you come to see me before you--you go to war?" + +"I'll try." + +"But you must promise. You've done so much for me and my father.... I--I +want you to come to see me--at my home." + +"Then I'll come," he replied. + +Anderson clambered into the car beside his daughter and laid his big +hands on the wheel. + +"Sure he'll come, or we'll go after him," he declared, heartily. "So +long, son." + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +Late in the forenoon of the next day Kurt Dorn reached home. A hot +harvest wind breathed off the wheat-fields. It swelled his heart to see +the change in the color of that section of Bluestem--the gold had a +tinge of rich, ripe brown. + +Kurt's father awaited him, a haggard, gloomy-faced man, unkempt and +hollow-eyed. + +"Was it you who robbed me?" he shouted hoarsely. + +"Yes," replied Kurt. He had caught the eager hope and fear in the old +man's tone. Kurt expected that confession would bring on his father's +terrible fury, a mood to dread. But old Dorn showed immense relief. He +sat down in his relaxation from what must have been intense strain. Kurt +saw a weariness, a shade, in the gray lined face that had never been +there before. + +"What did you do with the money?" asked the old man. + +"I banked it in Kilo," replied Kurt. "Then I wired your miller in +Spokane.... So you're safe if we can harvest the wheat." + +Old Dorn nodded thoughtfully. There had come a subtle change in him. +Presently he asked Kurt if men had been hired for the harvest. + +"No. I've not seen any I would trust," replied Kurt, and then he briefly +outlined Anderson's plan to insure a quick and safe harvesting of the +grain. Old Dorn objected to this on account of the expense. Kurt argued +with him and patiently tried to show him the imperative need of it. +Dorn, apparently, was not to be won over; however, he was remarkably +mild in comparison with what Kurt had expected. + +"Father, do you realize now that the men you were dealing with at +Wheatly are dishonest? I mean with you. They would betray you." + +Old Dorn had no answer for this. Evidently he had sustained some kind of +shock that he was not willing to admit. + +"Look here, father," went on Kurt, in slow earnestness. He spoke in +English, because nothing would make him break his word and ever again +speak a word of German. And his father was not quick to comprehend +English. "Can't you see that the I.W.W. mean to cripple us wheat farmers +this harvest?" + +"No," replied old Dorn, stubbornly. + +"But they do. They don't _want_ work. If they accept work it is for a +chance to do damage. All this I.W.W. talk about more wages and shorter +hours is deceit. They make a bold face of discontent. That is all a lie. +The I.W.W. is out to ruin the great wheat-fields and the great lumber +forests of the Northwest." + +"I do not believe that," declared his father, stoutly. "What for?" + +Kurt meant to be careful of that subject. + +"No matter what for. It does not make any difference what it's for. +We've got to meet it to save our wheat.... Now won't you believe me? +Won't you let me manage the harvest?" + +"I will not believe," replied old Dorn, stubbornly. "Not about _my_ +wheat. I know they mean to destroy. They are against rich men like +Anderson. But not me or my wheat!" + +"There is where you are wrong. I'll prove it in a very few days. But in +that time I can prepare for them and outwit them. Will you let me?" + +"Go ahead," replied old Dorn, gruffly. + +It was a concession that Kurt was amazed and delighted to gain. And he +set about at once to act upon it. He changed his clothes and satisfied +his hunger; then, saddling his horse, he started out to visit his farmer +neighbors. + +The day bade fair to be rich in experience. Jerry, the foreman, was +patrolling his long beat up and down the highway. Jerry carried a +shot-gun and looked like a sentry. The men under him were on the other +side of the section of wheat, and the ground was so rolling that they +could not be seen from the highway. Jerry was unmistakably glad and +relieved to see Kurt. + +"Some goin's-on," he declared, with a grin. "Since you left there's been +one hundred and sixteen I.W.W. tramps along this here road." + +"Have you had any trouble?" inquired Kurt. + +"Wal, I reckon it wasn't trouble, but every time I took a peg at some +sneak I sort of broke out sweatin' cold." + +"You shot at them?" + +"Sure I shot when I seen any loafin' along in the dark. Two of them shot +back at me, an' after thet I wasn't particular to aim high.... Reckon +I'm about dead for sleep." + +"I'll relieve you to-night," replied Kurt. "Jerry, doesn't the wheat +look great?" + +"Wal, I reckon. An' walkin' along here when it's quiet an' no wind +blowin', I can just hear the wheat crack. It's gittin' ripe fast, an' +sure the biggest crop we ever raised.... But I'm tellin' you--when I +think how we'll ever harvest it my insides just sinks like lead!" + +Kurt then outlined Anderson's plan, which was received by the foreman +with eager approval and the assurance that the neighbor farmers would +rally to his call. + +Kurt found his nearest neighbor, Olsen, cutting a thin, scarcely ripe +barley. Olsen was running a new McCormack harvester, and appeared +delighted with the machine, but cast down by the grain prospects. He did +not intend to cut his wheat at all. It was a dead loss. + +"Two sections--twelve hundred an' eighty acres!" he repeated, gloomily. +"An' the third bad year! Dorn, I can't pay the interest to my bank." + +Olsen's sun-dried and wind-carved visage was as hard and rugged and +heroic as this desert that had resisted him for years. Kurt saw under +the lines and the bronze all the toil and pain and unquenchable hope +that had made Olsen a type of the men who had cultivated this desert of +wheat. + +"I'll give you five hundred dollars to help me harvest," said Kurt, +bluntly, and briefly stated his plan. + +Olsen whistled. He complimented Anderson's shrewd sense. He spoke +glowingly of that magnificent section of wheat that absolutely must be +saved. He promised Kurt every horse and every man on his farm. But he +refused the five hundred dollars. + +"Oh, say, you'll have to accept it," declared Kurt. + +"You've done me good turns," asserted Olsen. + +"But nothing like this. Why, this will be a rush job, with all the men +and horses and machines and wagons I can get. It'll cost ten--fifteen +thousand dollars to harvest that section. Even at that, and paying +Anderson, we'll clear twenty thousand or more. Olsen, you've got to take +the money." + +"All right, if you insist. I'm needin' it bad enough," replied Olsen. + +Further conversation with Olsen gleaned the facts that he was the only +farmer in their immediate neighborhood who did not have at least a +little grain worth harvesting. But the amount was small and would +require only slight time. Olsen named farmers that very likely would not +take kindly to Dorn's proposition, and had best not be approached. The +majority, however, would stand by him, irrespective of the large wage +offered, because the issue was one to appeal to the pride of the Bend +farmers. Olsen appeared surprisingly well informed upon the tactics of +the I.W.W., and predicted that they would cause trouble, but be run out +of the country. He made the shrewd observation that when even those +farmers who sympathized with Germany discovered that their wheat-fields +were being menaced by foreign influences and protected by the home +government, they would experience a change of heart. Olsen said the war +would be a good thing for the United States, because they would win it, +and during the winning would learn and suffer and achieve much. + +Kurt rode away from Olsen in a more thoughtful frame of mind. How +different and interesting the points of view of different men! Olsen had +never taken the time to become a naturalized citizen of the United +States. There had never been anything to force him to do it. But his +understanding of the worth of the United States and his loyalty to it +were manifest in his love for his wheatlands. In fact, they were +inseparable. Probably there were millions of pioneers, emigrants, +aliens, all over the country who were like Olsen, who needed the fire of +the crucible to mold them into a unity with Americans. Of such, +Americans were molded! + + * * * * * + +Kurt rode all day, and when, late that night, he got home, weary and +sore and choked, he had enlisted the services of thirty-five farmers to +help him harvest the now famous section of wheat. + +His father had plainly doubted the willingness of these neighbors to +abandon their own labors, for the Bend exacted toil for every hour of +every season, whether rich or poor in yield. Likewise he was plainly +moved by the facts. His seamed and shaded face of gloom had a moment of +light. + +"They will make short work of this harvest," he said, thoughtfully. + +"I should say so," retorted Kurt. "We'll harvest and haul that grain to +the railroad in just three days." + +"Impossible!" ejaculated Dorn. + +"You'll see," declared Kurt. "You'll see who's managing this harvest." + +He could not restrain his little outburst of pride. For the moment the +great overhanging sense of calamity that for long had haunted him faded +into the background. It did seem sure that they would save this splendid +yield of wheat. How much that meant to Kurt--in freedom from debt, in +natural love of the fruition of harvest, in the loyalty to his +government! He realized how strange and strong was the need in him to +prove he was American to the very core of his heart. He did not yet +understand that incentive, but he felt it. + +After eating dinner Kurt took his rifle and went out to relieve Jerry. + +"Only a few more days and nights!" he exclaimed to his foreman. "Then +we'll have all the harvesters in the country right in our wheat." + +"Wal, a hell of a lot can happen before then," declared Jerry, +pessimistically. + +Kurt was brought back to realities rather suddenly. But questioning +Jerry did not elicit any new or immediate cause for worry. Jerry +appeared tired out. + +"You go get some sleep," said Kurt. + +"All right. Bill's been dividin' this night watch with me. I reckon +he'll be out when he wakes up," replied Jerry, and trudged away. + +Kurt shouldered his rifle and slowly walked along the road with a +strange sense that he was already doing army duty in protecting property +which was at once his own and his country's. + +The night was dark, cool, and quiet. The heavens were starry bright. A +faint breeze brought the tiny crackling of the wheat. From far distant +came the bay of a hound. The road stretched away pale and yellow into +the gloom. In the silence and loneliness and darkness, in all around +him, and far across the dry, whispering fields, there was an invisible +presence that had its affinity in him, hovered over him shadowless and +immense, and waved in the bursting wheat. It was life. He felt the wheat +ripening. He felt it in reawakened tenderness for his old father and in +the stir of memory of Lenore Anderson. The past active and important +hours had left little room for thought of her. + +But now she came back to him, a spirit in keeping with his steps, a +shadow under the stars, a picture of sweet, wonderful young womanhood. +His whole relation of thought toward her had undergone some marvelous +change. The most divine of gifts had been granted him--an opportunity to +save her from harm, perhaps from death. He had served her father. How +greatly he could not tell, but if measured by the gratitude in her eyes +it would have been infinite. He recalled that expression--blue, warm, +soft, and indescribably strange with its unuttered hidden meaning. It +was all-satisfying for him to realize that she had been compelled to +give him a separate and distinct place in her mind. He must stand apart +from all others she knew. It had been his fortune to preserve her +happiness and the happiness that she must be to sisters and mother, and +that some day she would bestow upon some lucky man. They would all owe +it to him. And Lenore Anderson knew he loved her. + +These things had transformed his relation of thought toward her. He had +no regret, no jealousy, no fear. Even the pang of suppressed and +overwhelming love had gone with his confession. + +But he did remember her presence, her beauty, her intent blue glance, +and the faint, dreaming smile of her lips--remembered them with a +thrill, and a wave of emotion, and a contraction of his heart. He had +promised to see her once more, to afford her the opportunity, no doubt, +to thank him, to try to make him see her gratitude. He would go, but he +wished it need not be. He asked no more. And seeing her again might +change his fulness of joy to something of pain. + +So Kurt trod the long road in the darkness and silence, pausing, and +checking his dreams now and then, to listen and to watch. He heard no +suspicious sounds, nor did he meet any one. The night was melancholy, +with a hint of fall in its cool breath. + +Soon he would be walking a beat in one of the training-camps, with a +bugle-call in his ears and the turmoil of thousands of soldiers in the +making around him: soon, too, he would be walking the deck of a +transport, looking back down the moon-blanched wake of the ship toward +home, listening to the mysterious moan of the ocean; and then soon +feeling under his feet the soil of a foreign country, with hideous and +incomparable war shrieking its shell furies and its man anguish all +about him. But no matter how far away he ever got, he knew Lenore +Anderson would be with him as she was there on that dim, lonely starlit +country road. + +And in these long hours of his vigil Kurt Dorn divined a relation +between his love for Lenore Anderson and a terrible need that had grown +upon him. A need of his heart and his soul! More than he needed her, if +even in his wildest dreams he had permitted himself visions of an +earthly paradise, he needed to prove to his blood and his spirit that he +was actually and truly American. He had no doubt of his intelligence, +his reason, his choice. The secret lay hidden in the depths of him, and +he knew it came from the springs of the mother who had begotten him. His +mother had given him birth, and by every tie he was mostly hers. + +Kurt had been in college during the first year of the world war. And his +name, his fair hair and complexion, his fluency in German, and his +remarkable efficiency in handicrafts had opened him to many a hint, many +a veiled sarcasm that had stung him like a poison brand. There was +injustice in all this war spirit. It changed the minds of men and women. +He had not doubted himself until those terrible scenes with his father, +and, though he had reacted to them as an American, he had felt the +drawing, burning blood tie. He hated everything German and he knew he +was wrong in doing so. He had clear conception in his mind of the +difference between the German war motives and means, and those of the +other nations. + +Kurt's problem was to understand himself. His great fight was with his +own soul. His material difficulties and his despairing love had suddenly +been transformed, so that they had lent his spirit wings. How many poor +boys and girls in America must be helplessly divided between parents and +country! How many faithful and blind parents, obedient to the laws of +mind and heart, set for all time, must see a favorite son go out to +fight against all they had held sacred! + +That was all bad enough, but Kurt had more to contend with. No illusions +had he of a chastened German spirit, a clarified German mind, an +unbrutalized German heart. Kurt knew his father. What would change his +father? Nothing but death! Death for himself or death for his only son! +Kurt had an incalculable call to prove forever to himself that he was +free. He had to spill his own blood to prove himself, or he had to spill +that of an enemy. And he preferred that it should be his own. But that +did not change a vivid and terrible picture which haunted him at times. +He saw a dark, wide, and barren shingle of the world, a desert of +desolation made by man, where strange, windy shrieks and thundering +booms and awful cries went up in the night, and where drifting palls of +smoke made starless sky, and bursts of reddish fires made hell. + +Suddenly Kurt's slow pacing along the road was halted, as was the trend +of his thought. He was not sure he had heard a sound. But he quivered +all over. The night was far advanced now; the wind was almost still; the +wheat was smooth and dark as the bosom of a resting sea. Kurt listened. +He imagined he heard, far away, the faint roar of an automobile. But it +might have been a train on the railroad. Sometimes on still nights he +caught sounds like that. + +Then a swish in the wheat, a soft thud, very low, unmistakably came to +Kurt's ear. He listened, turning his ear to the wind. Presently he heard +it again--a sound relating both to wheat and earth. In a hot flash he +divined that some one had thrown fairly heavy bodies into the +wheat-fields. Phosphorus cakes! Kurt held his breath while he peered +down the gloomy road, his heart pounding, his hands gripping the rifle. +And when he descried a dim form stealthily coming toward him he yelled, +"Halt!" + +Instantly the form wavered, moved swiftly, with quick pad of footfalls. +Kurt shot once--twice--three times--and aimed as best he could to hit. +The form either fell or went on out of sight in the gloom. Kurt answered +the excited shouts of his men, calling them to come across to him. Then +he went cautiously down the road, peering on the ground for a dark form. +But he failed to find it, and presently had to admit that in the dark +his aim had been poor. Bill came out to relieve Kurt, and together they +went up and down the road for a mile without any glimpse of a skulking +form. It was almost daylight when Kurt went home to get a few hours' +sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Next day was one of the rare, blistering-hot days with a furnace wind +that roared over the wheat-fields. The sky was steely and the sun like +copper. It was a day which would bring the wheat to a head. + +At breakfast Jerry reported that fresh auto tracks had been made on the +road during the night; and that dust and wheat all around the great +field showed a fresh tramping. + +Kurt believed a deliberate and particular attempt had been made to +insure the destruction of the Dorn wheat-field. And he ordered all hands +out to search for the dangerous little cakes of phosphorus. + +It was difficult to find them. The wheat was almost as high as a man's +head and very thick. To force a way through it without tramping it down +took care and time. Besides, the soil was soft, and the agents who had +perpetrated this vile scheme had perfectly matched the color. Kurt +almost stepped on one of the cakes before he saw it. His men were very +slow in finding any. But Kurt's father seemed to walk fatally right to +them, for in a short hundred yards he found three. They caused a +profound change in this gloomy man. Not a word did he utter, but he +became animated by a tremendous energy. + +The search was discouraging. It was like hunting for dynamite bombs that +might explode at any moment. All Kurt's dread of calamity returned +fourfold. The intense heat of the day, that would ripen the wheat to +bursting, would likewise sooner or later ignite the cakes of phosphorus. +And when Jerry found a cake far inside the field, away from the road, +showing that powerful had been the arm that had thrown it there, and how +impossible it would be to make a thorough search, Kurt almost succumbed +to discouragement. Still, he kept up a frenzied hunting and inspired the +laborers to do likewise. + +About ten o'clock an excited shout from Bill drew Kurt's attention, and +he ran along the edge of the field. Bill was sweaty and black, yet +through it all Kurt believed he saw the man was pale. He pointed with +shaking hand toward Olsen's hill. + +Kurt vibrated to a shock. He saw a long circular yellow column rising +from the hill, slanting away on the strong wind. + +"Dust!" he cried, aghast. + +"Smoke!" replied Bill, hoarsely. + +The catastrophe had fallen. Olsen's wheat was burning. Kurt experienced +a profound sensation of sadness. What a pity! The burning of wheat--the +destruction of bread--when part of the world was starving! Tears dimmed +his eyes as he watched the swelling column of smoke. + +Bill was cursing, and Kurt gathered that the farm-hand was predicting +fires all around. This was inevitable. But it meant no great loss for +most of the wheat-growers whose yield had failed. For Kurt and his +father, if fire got a hold in their wheat, it meant ruin. Kurt's sadness +was burned out by a slow and growing rage. + +"Bill, go hitch up to the big mower," ordered Kurt. "We'll have to cut +all around our field. Bring drinking water and whatever you can lay a +hand on ... anything to fight fire!" + +Bill ran thumping away over the clods. Then it happened that Kurt looked +toward his father. The old man was standing with his arms aloft, his +face turned toward the burning wheat, and he made a tragic figure that +wrung Kurt's heart. + +Jerry came running up. "Fire! Fire! Olsen's burnin'! Look! By all thet's +dirty, them I.W.W.'s hev done it!... Kurt, we're in fer hell! Thet +wind's blowin' straight this way." + +"Jerry, we'll fight till we drop," replied Kurt. "Tell the men and +father to keep on searching for phosphorus cakes.... Jerry, you keep to +the high ground. Watch for fires starting on our land. If you see one +yell for us and make for it. Wheat burns slow till it gets started. We +can put out fires if we're quick." + +"Kurt, there ain't no chance on earth fer us!" yelled Jerry, pale with +anger. His big red hands worked. "If fire starts we've got to hev a lot +of men.... By Gawd! if I ain't mad!" + +"Don't quit, Jerry," said Kurt, fiercely. "You never can tell. It looks +hopeless. But we'll never give up. Hustle now!" + +Jerry shuffled off as old Dorn came haltingly, as if stunned, toward +Kurt. But Kurt did not want to face his father at that moment. He needed +to fight to keep up his own courage. + +"Never mind that!" yelled Kurt, pointing at Olsen's hill. "Keep looking +for those damned pieces of phosphorus!" + +With that Kurt dove into the wheat, and, sweeping wide his arms to make +a passage, he strode on, his eyes bent piercingly upon the ground close +about him. He did not penetrate deeper into the wheat from the road than +the distance he estimated a strong arm could send a stone. Almost at +once his keen sight was rewarded. He found a cake of phosphorus half +buried in the soil. It was dry, hard and hot either from the sun or its +own generating power. That inspired Kurt. He hurried on. Long practice +enabled him to slip through the wheat as a barefoot country boy could +run through the corn-fields. And his passion gave him the eyes of a +hunting hawk sweeping down over the grass. To and fro he passed within +the limits he had marked, oblivious to time and heat and effort. And +covering that part of the wheat-field bordering the road he collected +twenty-seven cakes of phosphorus, the last few of which were so hot they +burnt his hands. + +Then he had to rest. He appeared as wet as if he had been plunged into +water; his skin burned, his eyes pained, his breast heaved. Panting and +spent, he lay along the edge of the wheat, with closed eyelids and lax +muscles. + +When he recovered he rose and went back along the road. The last quarter +of the immense wheat-field lay upon a slope of a hill, and Kurt had to +mount this before he could see the valley. From the summit he saw a +sight that caused him to utter a loud exclamation. Many columns of smoke +were lifting from the valley, and before him the sky was darkened. +Olsen's hill was as if under a cloud. No flames showed anywhere, but in +places the line of smoke appeared to be approaching. + +"It's a thousand to one against us," he said, bitterly, and looked at +his watch. He was amazed to see that three hours had passed since he had +given orders to the men. He hurried back to the house. No one was there +except the old servant, who was wringing her hands and crying that the +house would burn. Throwing the cakes of phosphorus into a +watering-trough, Kurt ran into the kitchen, snatched a few biscuits, and +then made for the fields, eating as he went. + +He hurried down a lane that bordered the big wheat-field. On this side +was fallow ground for half the length of the section, and the other half +was ripe barley, dry as tinder, and beyond that, in line with the +burning fields, a quarter-section of blasted wheat. The men were there. +Kurt saw at once that other men with horses and machines were also +there. Then he recognized Olsen and two other of his neighbors. As he +ran up he was equally astounded and out of breath, so that he could not +speak. Old Dorn sat with gray head bowed on his hand. + +"Hello!" shouted Olsen. His grimy face broke into a hard smile. "Fires +all over! Wheat's burnin' like prairie grass! Them chips of phosphorus +are sure from hell!... We've come over to help." + +"You--did! You left--your fields!" gasped Kurt. + +"Sure. They're not much to leave. And we're goin' to save this section +of yours or bust tryin'!... I sent my son in his car, all over, to hurry +men here with horses, machines, wagons." + +Kurt was overcome. He could only wring Olsen's hand. Here was an answer +to one of his brooding, gloomy queries. Something would be gained, even +if the wheat was lost. Kurt had scarcely any hope left. + +"What's to be done?" he panted, hoarsely. In this extremity Olsen seemed +a tower of strength. This sturdy farmer was of Anderson's breed, even if +he was a foreigner. And he had fought fires before. + +"If we have time we'll mow a line all around your wheat," replied Olsen. + +"Reckon we won't have time," interposed Jerry, pointing to a smoke far +down in the corner of the stunted wheat. "There's a fire startin'." + +"They'll break out all over," said Olsen, and he waved a couple of his +men away. One had a scythe and the other a long pole with a wet burlap +bag tied on one end. They hurried toward the little cloud of smoke. + +"I found a lot of cakes over along the road," declared Kurt, with a grim +surety that he had done that well. + +"They've surrounded your wheat," returned Olsen. "But if enough men get +here we'll save the whole section.... Lucky you've got two wells an' +that watertank. We'll need all the water we can get. Keep a man pumpin'. +Fetch all the bags an' brooms an' scythes. I'll post lookouts along this +lane to watch for fires breakin' out in the big field. When they do +we've got to run an' cut an' beat them out.... It won't be long till +most of this section is surrounded by fire." + +Thin clouds of smoke were then blowing across the fields and the wind +that carried them was laden with an odor of burning wheat. To Kurt it +seemed to be the fragrance of baking bread. + +"How'd it be to begin harvestin'?" queried Jerry. "Thet wheat's ripe." + +"No combines should be risked in there until we're sure the danger's +past," replied Olsen. "There! I see more of our neighbors comin' down +the road. We're goin' to beat the I.W.W." + +That galvanized Kurt into action and he found himself dragging Jerry +back to the barns. They hitched a team to a heavy wagon, in record time, +and then began to load with whatever was available for fighting fire. +They loaded a barrel, and with huge buckets filled it with water. +Leaving Jerry to drive, Kurt rushed back to the fields. During his short +absence more men, with horses and machines, had arrived; fire had broken +out in the stunted wheat, and also, nearer at hand, in the barley. Kurt +saw his father laboring like a giant. Olsen was taking charge, directing +the men. The sky was obscured now, and all the west was thick with +yellow smoke. The south slopes and valley floor were clouding. Only in +the east, over the hill, did the air appear clear. Back of Kurt, down +across the barley and wheat on the Dorn land, a line of fire was +creeping over the hill. This was on the property adjoining Olsen's. +Gremniger, the owner, had abandoned his own fields. At the moment he was +driving a mower along the edge of the barley, cutting a nine-foot path. +Men behind him were stacking the sheaves. The wind was as hot as if from +a blast-furnace; the air was thick and oppressive; the light of day was +growing dim. + +Kurt, mounted on the seat of one of the combine threshers, surveyed with +rapid and anxious gaze all the points around him, and it lingered over +the magnificent sweep of golden wheat. The wheat bowed in waves before +the wind, and the silken rustle, heard above the confusion of yelling +men, was like a voice whispering to Kurt. Somehow his dread lessened +then and other emotions predominated. He saw more and more farmers +arrive, in cars, in wagons, with engines and threshers, until the lane +was lined with them and men were hurrying everywhere. + +Suddenly Kurt espied a slender column of smoke rising above the wheat +out in front of him toward the highway. This was the first sign of fire +in the great section that so many farmers had come to protect. Yelling +for help, he leaped off the seat and ran with all his might toward the +spot. Breasting that thick wheat was almost as hard as breasting waves. +Jerry came yelling after him, brandishing a crude beater; and both of +them reached the fire at once. It was a small circle, burning slowly. +Madly Kurt rushed in to tear and stamp as if the little hissing flames +were serpents. He burned his hands through his gloves and his feet +through his boots. Jerry beat hard, accompanying his blows with profane +speech plainly indicating that he felt he was at work on the I.W.W. In +short order they put out this little fire. Returning to his post, Kurt +watched until he was called to lend a hand down in the stunted wheat. + +Fire had crossed and had gotten a hold on Dorn's lower field. Here the +wheat was blasted and so burned all the more fiercely. Horses and mowers +had to be taken away to the intervening barley-field. A weird, smoky, +and ruddy darkness enveloped the scene. Dim red fire, in lines and dots +and curves, appeared on three sides, growing larger and longer, meeting +in some places, crisscrossed by black figures of threshing men +belaboring the flames. Kurt came across his father working like a +mad-man. Kurt warned him not to overexert himself, and the father never +heard. Now and then his stentorian yell added to the medley of cries and +shouts and blows, and the roar of the wind fanning the flames. + +Kurt was put to beating fire in the cut wheat. He stood with flames +licking at his boots. It was astonishing how tenacious the fire +appeared, how it crept along, eating up the mowed wheat. All the men +that could be spared there were unable to check it and keep it out of +the standing grain. When it reached this line it lifted a blaze, flamed +and roared, and burned like wildfire in grass. The men were driven back, +threshing and beating, all to no avail. Kurt fell into despair. There +was no hope. It seemed like an inferno. + +Flaring high, the light showed the black, violently agitated forms of +the fighters, and the clouds of yellow smoke, coalescing and drifting, +changing to dark and soaring high. + +Olsen had sent three mowers abreast down the whole length of the +barley-field before the fire reached that line. It was a wise move, and +if anything could do so it would save the day. The leaping flame, thin +and high, and a mile long, curled down the last of the standing wheat +and caught the fallen barley. But here its speed was checked. It had to +lick a way along the ground. + +In desperation, in unabated fury, the little army of farmers and +laborers, with no thought of personal gain, with what seemed to Kurt a +wonderful and noble spirit, attacked this encroaching line of fire like +men whose homes and lives and ideals had been threatened with +destruction. Kurt's mind worked as swiftly as his tireless hands. This +indeed was being in a front line of battle. The scene was weird, dark, +fitful, at times impressive and again unreal. These neighbors of his, +many of them aliens, some of them Germans, when put to this vital test, +were proving themselves. They had shown little liking for the Dorns, but +here was love of wheat, and so, in some way, loyalty to the government +that needed it. Here was the answer of the Northwest to the I.W.W. No +doubt if the perpetrators of that phosphorus trick could have been laid +hold of then, blood would have been shed. Kurt sensed in the fierce +energy, in the dark, grimy faces, shining and wet under the light, in +the hoarse yell and answering shout, a nameless force that was finding +itself and centering on one common cause. + +His old father toiled as ten men. That burly giant pushed ever in the +lead, and his hoarse call and strenuous action told of more than a +mercenary rage to save his wheat. + +Fire never got across that swath of cut barley. It was beaten out as if +by a thousand men. Shadow and gloom enveloped the fighters as they +rested where their last strokes had fallen. Over the hills faint +reflection of dying flames lit up the dark clouds of smoke. The battle +seemed won. + +Then came the thrilling cry: "Fire! Fire!" + +One of the outposts came running out of the dark. + +"Fire! the other side! Fire!" rang out Olsen's yell. + +Kurt ran with the gang pell-mell through the dark, up the barley slope, +to see a long red line, a high red flare, and lifting clouds of ruddy +smoke. Fire in the big wheat-field! The sight inflamed him, carried him +beyond his powers, and all he knew was that he became the center of a +dark and whirling mêlée encircled by living flames that leaped only to +be beaten down. Whether that threshing chaos of fire and smoke and wheat +was short or long was beyond him to tell but the fire was extinguished +to the last spark. + +Walking back with the weary crowd, Kurt felt a clearer breeze upon his +face. Smoke was not flying so thickly. Over the western hill, through a +rift in the clouds, peeped a star. The only other light he saw twinkled +far down the lane. It was that of a lantern. Dark forms barred it now +and then. Slowly Kurt recovered his breath. The men were talking and +tired voices rang with assurance that the fire was beaten. + +Some one called Kurt. The voice was Jerry's. It seemed hoarse and +strained. Kurt could see the lean form of his man, standing in the light +of the lantern. A small dark group of men, silent and somehow +impressive, stood off a little in the shadow. + +"Here I am, Jerry," called Kurt, stepping forward. Just then Olsen +joined Jerry. + +"Boy, we've beat the I.W.W.'s, but--but--" he began, and broke off +huskily. + +"What's the matter?" queried Kurt, and a cold chill shot over him. + +Jerry plucked at his sleeve. + +"Your old man--your dad--he's overworked hisself," whispered Jerry. +"It's tough.... Nobody could stop him." + +Kurt felt that the fulfilment of his icy, sickening dread had come. +Jerry's dark face, even in the uncertain light, was tragic. + +"Boy, his heart went back on him--he's dead!" said Olsen, solemnly. + +Kurt pushed the kind hands aside. A few steps brought him to where, +under the light of the lantern, lay his father, pale and still, with a +strange softening of the iron cast of intolerance. + +"Dead!" whispered Kurt, in awe and horror. "Father! Oh, he's +gone!--without a word--" + +Again Jerry plucked at Kurt's sleeve. + +"I was with him," said Jerry. "I heard him fall an' groan.... I had the +light. I bent over, lifted his head.... An' he said, speaking English, +'Tell my son--I was wrong!'... Then he died. An' thet was all." + +Kurt staggered away from the whispering, sympathetic foreman, out into +the darkness, where he lifted his face in the thankfulness of a breaking +heart. + +It had, indeed, taken the approach of death to change his hard old +father. "Oh, he meant--that if he had his life to live over again--he +would be different!" whispered Kurt. That was the one great word needed +to reconcile Kurt to his father. + +The night had grown still except for the murmuring of the men. Smoke +veiled the horizon. Kurt felt an intense and terrible loneliness. He was +indeed alone in the world. A hard, tight contraction of throat choked +back a sob. If only he could have had a word with his father! But no +grief, nothing could detract from the splendid truth of his father's +last message. In the black hours soon to come Kurt would have that to +sustain him. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +The bright sun of morning disclosed that wide, rolling region of the +Bend to be a dreary, blackened waste surrounding one great wheat-field, +rich and mellow and golden. + +Kurt Dorn's neighbor, Olsen, in his kind and matter-of-fact way, making +obligation seem slight, took charge of Kurt's affairs, and made the +necessary and difficult decisions. Nothing must delay the harvesting and +transporting of the wheat. The women folk arranged for the burial of old +Chris Dorn. + +Kurt sat and moved about in a gloomy kind of trance for a day and a +half, until his father was laid to rest beside his mother, in the little +graveyard on the windy hill. After that his mind slowly cleared. He kept +to himself the remainder of that day, avoiding the crowd of harvesters +camping in the yard and adjacent field; and at sunset he went to a +lonely spot on the verge of the valley, where with sad eyes he watched +the last rays of sunlight fade over the blackened hills. All these hours +had seemed consecrated to his father's memory, to remembered acts of +kindness and of love, of the relation that had gone and would never be +again. Reproach and remorse had abided with him until that sunset hour, +when the load eased off his heart. + +Next morning he went out to the wheat-field. + + * * * * * + +What a wonderful harvesting scene greeted Kurt Dorn! Never had its like +been seen in the Northwest, nor perhaps in any other place. A huge pall +of dust, chaff, and smoke hung over the vast wheat-field, and the air +seemed charged with a roar. The glaring gold of the wheat-field appeared +to be crisscrossed everywhere with bobbing black streaks of +horses--bays, blacks, whites, and reds; by big, moving painted machines, +lifting arms and puffing straw; by immense wagons piled high with +sheaves of wheat, lumbering down to the smoking engines and the +threshers that sent long streams of dust and chaff over the lifting +straw-stacks; by wagons following the combines to pick up the plump +brown sacks of wheat; and by a string of empty wagons coming in from the +road. + +Olsen was rushing thirty combine threshers, three engine +threshing-machines, forty wagon-teams, and over a hundred men well known +to him. There was a guard around the field. This unprecedented harvest +had attracted many spectators from the little towns. They had come in +cars and on horseback and on foot. Olsen trusted no man on that field +except those he knew. + +The wonderful wheat-field was cut into a thousand squares and angles and +lanes and curves. The big whirring combines passed one another, stopped +and waited and turned out of the way, leaving everywhere little patches +and cubes of standing wheat, that soon fell before the onslaught of the +smaller combines. This scene had no regularity. It was one of confusion; +of awkward halts, delays, hurries; of accident. The wind blew clouds of +dust and chaff, alternately clearing one space to cloud another. And a +strange roar added the last heroic touch to this heroic field. It was +indeed the roar of battle--men and horses governing the action of +machinery, and all fighting time. For in delay was peril to the wheat. + +Once Kurt ran across the tireless and implacable Olsen. He seemed a man +of dust and sweat and fury. + +"She's half cut an' over twenty thousand bushels gone to the railroad!" +he exclaimed. "An' we're speedin' up." + +"Olsen, I don't get what's going on," replied Kurt. "All this is like a +dream." + +"Wake up. You'll be out of debt an' a rich man in three days," added +Olsen, and went his way. + +In the afternoon Kurt set out to work as he had never worked in his +life. There was need of his strong hands in many places, but he could +not choose any one labor and stick by it for long. He wanted to do all. +It was as if this was not a real and wonderful harvest of his father's +greatest wheat yield, but something that embodied all years, all +harvests, his father's death, the lifting of the old, hard debt, the +days when he had trod the fields barefoot, and this day when, strangely +enough, all seemed over for him. Peace dwelt with him, yet no hope. +Behind his calm he could have found the old dread, had he cared to look +deeply. He loved these heroic workers of the fields. It had been given +to him--a great task--to be the means of creating a test for them, his +neighbors under a ban of suspicion; and now he could swear they were as +true as the gold of the waving wheat. More than a harvest was this most +strenuous and colorful of all times ever known in the Bend; it had a +significance that uplifted him. It was American. + +First Kurt began to load bags of wheat, as they fell from the whirring +combines, into the wagons. For his powerful arms a full bag, containing +two bushels, was like a toy for a child. With a lift and a heave he +threw a bag into a wagon. They were everywhere, these brown bags, +dotting the stubble field, appearing as if by magic in the wake of the +machines. They rolled off the platforms. This toil, because it was hard +and heavy, held Kurt for an hour, but it could not satisfy his enormous +hunger to make that whole harvest his own. He passed to pitching sheaves +of wheat and then to driving in the wagons. From that he progressed to a +seat on one of the immense combines, where he drove twenty-four horses. +No driver there was any surer than Kurt of his aim with the little +stones he threw to spur a lagging horse. Kurt had felt this when, as a +boy, he had begged to be allowed to try his hand; he liked the shifty +cloud of fragrant chaff, now and then blinding and choking him; and he +liked the steady, rhythmic tramps of hooves and the roaring whir of the +great complicated machine. It fascinated him to see the wide swath of +nodding wheat tremble and sway and fall, and go sliding up into the +inside of that grinding maw, and come out, straw and dust and chaff, and +a slender stream of gold filling the bags. + +This day Kurt Dorn was gripped by the unknown. Some far-off instinct of +future drove him, set his spiritual need, and made him register with his +senses all that was so beautiful and good and heroic in the scene about +him. + +Strangely, now and then a thought of Lenore Anderson entered his mind +and made sudden havoc. It tended to retard action. He trembled and +thrilled with a realization that every hour brought closer the meeting +he could not avoid. And he discovered that it was whenever this memory +recurred that he had to leave off his present task and rush to another. +Only thus could he forget her. + +The late afternoon found him feeding sheaves of wheat to one of the +steam-threshers. He stood high upon a platform and pitched sheaves from +the wagons upon the sliding track of the ponderous, rattling +threshing-machine. The engine stood off fifty yards or more, connected +by an endless driving-belt to the thresher. Here indeed were whistle and +roar and whir, and the shout of laborers, and the smell of smoke, sweat, +dust, and wheat. Kurt had arms of steel. If they tired he never knew it. +He toiled, and he watched the long spout of chaff and straw as it +streamed from the thresher to lift, magically, a glistening, +ever-growing stack. And he felt, as a last and cumulative change, his +physical effort, and the physical adjuncts of the scene, pass into +something spiritual, into his heart and his memory. + +The end of that harvest-time came as a surprise to Kurt. Obsessed with +his own emotions, he had actually helped to cut the wheat and harvest +it; he had seen it go swath by swath, he had watched the huge wagons +lumber away and the huge straw-stacks rise without realizing that the +hours of this wonderful harvest were numbered. + +Sight of Olsen coming in from across the field, and the sudden cessation +of roar and action, made Kurt aware of the end. It seemed a calamity. +But Olsen was smiling through his dust-caked face. About him were +relaxation, an air of finality, and a subtle pride. + +"We're through," he said. "She tallies thirty-eight thousand, seven +hundred an' forty-one bushels. It's too bad the old man couldn't live to +hear that." + +Olsen gripped Kurt's hand and wrung it. + +"Boy, I reckon you ought to take that a little cheerfuller," he went on. +"But--well it's been a hard time.... The men are leavin' now. In two +hours the last wagons will unload at the railroad. The wheat will all be +in the warehouse. An' our worry's ended." + +"I--I hope so," responded Kurt. He seemed overcome with the passionate +longing to show his gratitude to Olsen. But the words would not flow. +"I--I don't know how to thank you.... All my life--" + +"We beat the I.W.W.," interposed the farmer, heartily. "An' now what'll +you do, Dorn?" + +"Why, I'll hustle to Kilo, get my money, send you a check for yourself +and men, pay off the debt to Anderson, and then--" + +But Kurt did not conclude his speech. His last words were +thought-provoking. + +"It's turned out well," said Olsen, with satisfaction, and, shaking +hands again with Kurt, he strode back to his horses. + +At last the wide, sloping field was bare, except for the huge +straw-stacks. A bright procession lumbered down the road, led by the +long strings of wagons filled with brown bags. A strange silence had +settled down over the farm. The wheat was gone. That waving stretch of +gold had fallen to the thresher and the grain had been hauled away. The +neighbors had gone, leaving Kurt rich in bushels of wheat, and richer +for the hearty farewells and the grips of horny hands. Kurt's heart was +full. + + * * * * * + +It was evening. Kurt had finished his supper. Already he had packed a +few things to take with him on the morrow. He went out to the front of +the house. Stars were blinking. There was a low hum of insects from the +fields. He missed the soft silken rustle of the wheat. And now it seemed +he could sit there in the quiet darkness, in that spot which had been +made sweet by Lenore Anderson's presence, and think of her, the meeting +soon to come. The feeling abiding with him then must have been +happiness, because he was not used to it. Without deserving anything, he +had asked a great deal of fate, and, lo! it had been given him. All was +well that ended well. He realized now the terrible depths of despair +into which he had allowed himself to be plunged. He had been weak, +wrong, selfish. There was something that guided events. + +He needed to teach himself all this, with strong and repeated force, so +that when he went to give Lenore Anderson the opportunity to express her +gratitude, to see her sweet face again, and to meet the strange, warm +glance of her blue eyes, so mysterious and somehow mocking, he could be +a man of restraint, of pride, like any American, like any other college +man she knew. This was no time for a man to leave a girl bearing a +burden of his unsolicited love, haunted, perhaps, by a generous reproach +that she might have been a little to blame. He had told her the truth, +and so far he had been dignified. Now let him bid her good-by, leaving +no sorrow for her, and, once out of her impelling presence, let come +what might come. He could love her then; he could dare what he had never +dared; he could surrender himself to the furious, insistent sweetness of +a passion that was sheer bliss in its expression. He could imagine +kisses on the red lips that were not for him. + +A husky shout from somewhere in the rear of the house diverted Kurt's +attention. He listened. It came again. His name! It seemed a strange +call from out of the troubled past that had just ended. He hurried +through the house to the kitchen. The woman stood holding a lamp, +staring at Jerry. + +Jerry appeared to have sunk against the wall. His face was pallid, with +drops of sweat standing out, with distorted, quivering lower jaw. He +could not look at Kurt. He could not speak. With shaking hand he pointed +toward the back of the house. + +Filled with nameless dread, Kurt rushed out. He saw nothing unusual, +heard nothing. Rapidly he walked out through the yard, and suddenly he +saw a glow in the sky above the barns. Then he ran, so that he could get +an unobstructed view of the valley. + +The instant he obtained this he halted as if turned to stone. The valley +was a place of yellow light. He stared. With the wheat-fields all +burned, what was the meaning of such a big light? That broad flare had a +center, low down on the valley floor. As he gazed a monstrous flame +leaped up, lighting colossal pillars of smoke that swirled upward, and +showing plainer than in day the big warehouse and lines of freight-cars +at the railroad station, eight miles distant. + +"My God!" gasped Kurt. "The warehouse--my wheat--on fire!" + +Clear and unmistakable was the horrible truth. Kurt heard the roar of +the sinister flames. Transfixed, he stood there, at first hardly able to +see and to comprehend. For miles the valley was as light as at noonday. +An awful beauty attended the scene. How lurid and sinister the red heart +of that fire? How weird and hellish and impressive of destruction those +black, mountain-high clouds of smoke! He saw the freight-cars disappear +under this fierce blazing and smoking pall. He watched for what seemed +endless moments. He saw the changes of that fire, swift and terrible. +And only then did Kurt Dorn awaken to the full sense of the calamity. + +"All that work--Olsen's sacrifice--and the farmers'--my father's +death--all for nothing!" whispered Kurt. "They only waited--those +fiends--to fire the warehouse and the cars!" + +The catastrophe had fallen. The wheat was burning. He was ruined. His +wheatland must go to Anderson. Kurt thought first and most poignantly of +the noble farmers who had sacrificed the little in their wheat-fields to +save the much in his. Never could he repay them. + +Then he became occupied with a horrible heat that seemed to have come +from the burning warehouse to all his pulses and veins and to his heart +and his soul. + +This fiendish work, as had been forecast, was the work of the I.W.W. +Behind it was Glidden and perhaps behind him was the grasping, black +lust of German might. Kurt's loss was no longer abstract or +problematical. It was a loss so real and terrible that it confounded +him. He shook and gasped and reeled. He wrung his hands and beat his +breast while the tumult swayed him, the physical hate at last yielding +up its significance. What then, was his great loss? He could not tell. +The thing was mighty, like the sense of terror and loneliness in the +black night. Not the loss for his farmer neighbors, so true in his hour +of trial! Not the loss of his father, nor the wheat, nor the land, nor +his ruined future! But it must be a loss, incalculable and +insupportable, to his soul. His great ordeal had been the need, a +terrible and incomprehensible need, to kill something intangible in +himself. He had meant to do it. And now the need was shifted, subject to +a baser instinct. If there was German blood in him, poisoning the very +wells of his heart he could have spilled it, and so, whether living or +dead, have repudiated the taint. That was now clear in his +consciousness. But a baser spark had ignited all the primitive passion +of the forebears he felt burning and driving within him. He felt no +noble fire. He longed to live, to have a hundredfold his strength and +fury, to be gifted with a genius for time and place and bloody deed, to +have the war-gods set him a thousand opportunities, to beat with iron +mace and cut with sharp bayonet and rend with hard hand--to kill and +kill and kill the hideous thing that was German. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +Kurt rushed back to the house. Encountering Jerry, he ordered him to run +and saddle a couple of horses. Then Kurt got his revolver and a box of +shells, and, throwing on his coat, he hurried to the barn. Jerry was +leading out the horses. It took but short work to saddle them. Jerry was +excited and talkative. He asked Kurt many questions, which excited few +replies. + +When Kurt threw himself into the saddle Jerry yelled, "Which way?" + +"Down the trail!" replied Kurt, and was off. + +"Aw, we'll break our necks!" came Jerry's yell after him. + +Kurt had no fear of the dark. He knew that trail almost as well by night +as by day. His horse was a mettlesome colt that had not been worked +during the harvest, and he plunged down the dim, winding trail as if, +indeed, to verify Jerry's fears. Presently the thin, pale line that was +the trail disappeared on the burned wheat-ground. Here Kurt was at fault +as to direction, but he did not slacken the pace for that. He heard +Jerry pounding along in the rear, trying to catch up. The way the colt +jumped ditches and washes and other obstructions proved his keen sight. +Kurt let him go. And then the ride became both perilous and thrilling. + +Kurt could not see anything on the blackened earth. But he knew from the +contour of the hills just about where to expect to reach the fence and +the road. And he did not pull the horse too soon. When he found the gate +he waited for Jerry, who could be heard calling from the darkness. Kurt +answered him. + +"Here's the gate!" yelled Kurt, as Jerry came galloping up. "Good road +all the way now!" + +"Lickity-cut then!" shouted Jerry to whom the pace had evidently +communicated enthusiasm. + +The ride then became a race, with Kurt drawing ahead. Kurt could see the +road, a broad, pale belt, dividing the blackness on either side; and he +urged the colt to a run. The wind cut short Kurt's breath, beat at his +ears, and roared about them. Closer and closer drew the red flare of the +dying fire, casting long rays of light into Kurt's eyes. + +The colt was almost run out when he entered the circle of reddish flare. +Kurt saw the glowing ruins of the elevators and a long, fiery line of +box-cars burned to the wheels. Men were running and shouting round in +front of the little railroad station, and several were on the roof with +brooms and buckets. The freight-house had burned, and evidently the +station itself had been on fire. Across the wide street of the little +village the roof of a cottage was burning. Men were on top of it, +beating the shingles. Hoarse yells greeted Kurt as he leaped out of the +saddle. He heard screams of frightened women. On the other side of the +burned box-cars a long, thin column of sparks rose straight upward. Over +the ruins of the elevators hung a pall of heavy smoke. Just then Jerry +came galloping up, his lean face red in the glow. + +"Thet you, Kurt! Say, the sons of guns are burnin' down the town." He +leaped off. "Lemme have your bridle. I'll tie the hosses up. Find out +what we can do." + +Kurt ran here and there, possessed by impotent rage. The wheat was gone! +That fact gave him a hollow, sickening pang. He met farmers he knew. +They all threw up their hands at sight of him. Not one could find a +voice. Finally he met Olsen. The little wheat farmer was white with +passion. He carried a gun. + +"Hello, Dorn! Ain't this hell? They got your wheat!" he said hoarsely. + +"Olsen! How'd it happen? Wasn't anybody set to guard the elevators?" + +"Yes. But the I.W.W.'s drove all the guards off but Grimm, an' they beat +him up bad. Nobody had nerve enough to shoot." + +"Olsen, if I run into the Glidden I'll kill him," declared Kurt. + +"So will I.... But, Dorn, they're a hard crowd. They're over there on +the side, watchin' the fire. A gang of them! Soon as I can get the men +together we'll drive them out of town. There'll be a fight, if I don't +miss my guess." + +"Hurry the men! Have all of them get their guns! Come on!" + +"Not yet, Dorn. We're fightin' fire yet. You an' Jerry help all you +can." + +Indeed, it appeared there was danger of more than one cottage burning. +The exceedingly dry weather of the past weeks had made shingles like +tinder, and wherever a glowing spark fell on them there straightway was +a smoldering fire. Water, a scarce necessity in that region, had been +used until all wells and pumps became dry. It was fortunate that most of +the roofs of the little village had been constructed of galvanized iron. +Beating out blazes and glowing embers with brooms was not effective +enough. When it appeared that the one cottage nearest the rain of sparks +was sure to go, Kurt thought of the railroad watertank below the +station. He led a number of men with buckets to the tank, and they soon +drowned out the smoldering places. + +Meanwhile the blazes from the box-cars died out, leaving only the dull +glow from the red heap that had once been the elevators. However, this +gave forth light enough for any one to be seen a few rods distant. +Sparks had ceased to fall, and from that source no further danger need +be apprehended. Olsen had been going from man to man, sending those who +were not armed home for guns. So it came about that half an hour after +Kurt's arrival a score of farmers, villagers, and a few railroaders were +collected in a group, listening to the pale-faced Olsen. + +"Men, there's only a few of us, an' there's hundreds, mebbe, in thet +I.W.W. gang, but we've got to drive them off," he said, doggedly. +"There's no tellin' what they'll do if we let them hang around any +longer. They know we're weak in numbers. We've got to do some shootin' +to scare them away." + +Kurt seconded Olsen in ringing voice. + +"They've threatened your homes," he said. "They've burned my +wheat--ruined me. They were the death of my father.... These are facts +I'm telling you. We can't wait for law or for militia. We've got to meet +this I.W.W. invasion. They have taken advantage of the war situation. +They're backed by German agents. It's now a question of our property. +We've got to fight!" + +The crowd made noisy and determined response. Most of them had small +weapons; a few had shot-guns or rifles. + +"Come on, men," called Olsen. "I'll do the talkin'. An' if I say shoot, +why, you shoot!" + +It was necessary to go around the long line of box-cars. Olsen led the +way, with Kurt just back of him. The men spoke but little and in +whispers. At the left end of the line the darkness was thick enough to +make objects indistinct. + +Once around the corner, Kurt plainly descried a big dark crowd of men +whose faces showed red in the glow of the huge pile of embers which was +all that remained of the elevators. They did not see Olsen's men. + +"Hold on," whispered Olsen. "If we get in a fight here we'll be in a bad +place. We've nothin' to hide behind. Let's go off--more to the left--an' +come up behind those freight-cars on the switches. That'll give us cover +an' we'll have the I.W.W.'s in the light." + +So he led off to the left, keeping in the shadow, and climbed between +several lines of freight-cars, all empty, and finally came out behind +the I.W.W.'s. Olsen led to within fifty yards of them, and was halted by +some observant member of the gang who sat with the others on top of a +flat-car. + +This man's yell stilled the coarse talk and laughter of the gang. + +"What's that?" shouted a cold, clear voice with authority in it. + +Kurt thought he recognized the voice, and it caused a bursting, savage +sensation in his blood. + +"Here's a bunch of farmers with guns!" yelled the man from the flat-car. + +Olsen halted his force near one of the detached lines of box-cars, which +he probably meant to take advantage of in case of a fight. + +"Hey, you I.W.W.'s!" he shouted, with all his might. + +There was a moment's silence. + +"There's no I.W.W.'s here," replied the authoritative voice. + +Kurt was sure now that he recognized Glidden's voice. Excitement and +anger then gave place to deadly rage. + +"Who are you?" yelled Olsen. + +"We're tramps watchin' the fire," came the reply. + +"You set that fire!" + +"No, we didn't." + +Kurt motioned Olsen to be silent, as with lifting breast he took an +involuntary step forward. + +"Glidden, I know you!" he shouted, in hard, quick tones. "I'm Kurt Dorn. +I've met you. I know your voice.... Take your gang--get out of here--or +we'll kill you!" + +This pregnant speech caused a blank dead silence. Then came a white +flash, a sharp report. Kurt heard the thud of a bullet striking some one +near him. The man cried out, but did not fall. + +"Spread out an' hide!" ordered Olsen. "An' shoot fer keeps!" + +The little crowd broke and melted into the shadows behind and under the +box-cars. Kurt crawled under a car and between the wheels, from which +vantage-point he looked out. Glidden's gang were there in the red glow, +most of them now standing. The sentry who had given the alarm still sat +on top of the flat-car, swinging his legs. His companions, however, had +jumped down. Kurt heard men of his own party crawling and whispering +behind him, and he saw dim, dark, sprawling forms under the far end of +the car. + +"Boss, the hayseeds have run off," called the man from the flat car. + +Laughter and jeers greeted this sally. + +Kurt concluded it was about time to begin proceedings. Resting his +revolver on the side of the wheel behind which he lay, he took steady +aim at the sentry, holding low. Kurt was not a good shot with a revolver +and the distance appeared to exceed fifty yards. But as luck would have +it, when he pulled trigger the sentry let out a loud bawl of terror and +pain, and fell off the car to the ground. Flopping and crawling like a +crippled chicken, he got out of sight below. + +Kurt's shot was a starter for Olsen's men. Four or five of the shot-guns +boomed at once; then the second barrels were discharged, along with a +sharper cracking of small arms. Pandemonium broke loose in Glidden's +gang. No doubt, at least, of the effectiveness of the shot-guns! A +medley of strange, sharp, enraged, and anguished cries burst upon the +air, a prelude to a wild stampede. In a few seconds that lighted spot +where the I.W.W. had grouped was vacant, and everywhere were fleeing +forms, some swift, others slow. So far as Kurt could see, no one had +been fatally injured. But many had been hurt, and that fact augured well +for Olsen's force. + +Presently a shot came from some hidden enemy. It thudded into the wood +of the car over Kurt. Some one on his side answered it, and a heavy +bullet, striking iron, whined away into the darkness. Then followed +flash here and flash there, with accompanying reports and whistles of +lead. From behind and under and on top of cars opened up a fire that +proved how well armed these so-called laborers were. Their volley +completely drowned the desultory firing of Olsen's squad. + +Kurt began to wish for one of the shot-guns. It was this kind of weapon +that saved Olsen's followers. There were a hundred chances to one of +missing an I.W.W. with a single bullet, while a shot-gun, aimed fairly +well, was generally productive of results. Kurt stopped wasting his +cartridges. Some one was hurt behind his car and he crawled out to see. +A villager named Schmidt had been wounded in the leg, not seriously, but +bad enough to disable him. He had been using a double-barreled +breech-loading shot-gun, and he wore a vest with rows of shells in the +pockets across the front. Kurt borrowed gun and ammunition; and with +these he hurried back to his covert, grimly sure of himself. At thought +of Glidden he became hot all over, and this heat rather grew with the +excitement of battle. + +With the heavy fowling-piece loaded, Kurt peeped forth from behind his +protecting wheel and watched keenly for flashes or moving dark figures. +The I.W.W. had begun to reserve their fire, to shift their positions, +and to spread out, judging from a wider range of the reports. It looked +as if they meant to try and surround Olsen's band. It was +extraordinary--the assurance and deadly intent of this riffraff gang of +tramp labor-agitators. In preceding years a crowd of I.W.W. men had been +nothing to worry a rancher. Vastly different it seemed now. They acted +as if they had the great war back of them. + +Kurt crawled out of his hiding-place, and stole from car to car, in +search of Olsen. At last he found the rancher, in company with several +men, peering from behind a car. One of his companions was sitting down +and trying to wrap something round his foot. + +"Olsen, they're spreading out to surround us," whispered Kurt. + +"That's what Bill here just said," replied Olsen, nervously. "If this +keeps up we'll be in a tight place. What'll we do, Dorn?" + +"We mustn't break and run, of all things," said Kurt. "They'd burn the +village. Tell our men to save their shells.... If I only could get some +cracks at a bunch of them together--with this big shot-gun!" + +"Say, we've been watchin' that car--the half-size one, there--next the +high box-car," whispered Olsen. + +"It's full of them. Sometimes we see a dozen shots come from it, all at +once." + +"Olsen, I've an idea," returned Kurt, excitedly. "You fellows keep +shooting--attract their attention. I'll slip below, climb on top of a +box-car, and get a rake-off at that bunch." + +"It's risky, Dorn," said Olsen, with hesitation. "But if you could get +in a few tellin' shots--start that gang on the run!" + +"I'll try it," rejoined Kurt, and forthwith stole off back toward the +shadow. It struck him that there was more light then when the attack +began. The fire had increased, or perhaps the I.W.W. had started +another; at any rate, the light was growing stronger, and likewise the +danger greater. As he crossed an open space a bullet whizzed by him, and +then another zipped by to strike up the gravel ahead. These were not +random shots. Some one was aiming at him. How strange and rage-provoking +to be shot at deliberately! What a remarkable experience for a young +wheat farmer! Raising wheat in the great Northwest had assumed +responsibilities. He had to run, and he was the more furious because of +that. Another bullet, flying wide, hummed to his left before he gained +the shelter of the farthest line of freight-cars. Here he hid and +watched. The firing appeared to be all behind him, and, thus encouraged, +he stole along to the end of the line of cars, and around. A bright +blaze greeted his gaze. An isolated car was on fire. Kurt peered forth +to make sure of his bearings, and at length found the high derrick by +which he had marked the box-car that he intended to climb. + +He could see plainly, and stole up to his objective point, with little +risk to himself until he climbed upon the box-car. He crouched low, +almost on hands and knees, and finally gained the long shadow of a shed +between the tracks. Then he ran past the derrick to the dark side of the +car. He could now plainly see the revolver flashes and could hear the +thud and spang of their bullets striking. Drawing a deep breath, Kurt +climbed up the iron ladder on the dark side of the car. + +He had the same sensation that possessed him when he was crawling to get +a pot-shot at a flock of wild geese. Only this was mightily more +exciting. He did not forget the risk. He lay flat and crawled little by +little. Every moment he expected to be discovered. Olsen had evidently +called more of his men to his side, for they certainly were shooting +diligently. Kurt heard a continuous return fire from the car he was +risking so much to get a shot at. At length he was within a yard of the +end of the car--as far as he needed to go. He rested a moment. He was +laboring for breath, sweating freely, on fire with thrills. + +His plan was to raise himself on one knee and fire as many double shots +as possible. Presently he lifted his head to locate the car. It was half +in the bright light, half in the shadow, lengthwise toward him, about +sixty or seventy yards distant, and full of men. He dropped his head, +tingling all over. It was a disappointment that the car stood so far +away. With fine shot he could not seriously injure any of the I.W.W. +contingent, but he was grimly sure of the fright and hurt he could +inflict. In his quick glance he had seen flashes of their guns, and many +red faces, and dark, huddled forms. + +Kurt took four shells and set them, end up, on the roof of the car close +to him. Then, cocking the gun, he cautiously raised himself to one knee. +He discharged both barrels at once. What a boom and what a terrified +outburst of yells! Swiftly he broke the gun, reloaded, fired as before, +and then again. The last two shots were fired at the men piling +frantically over the side of the car, yelling with fear. Kurt had heard +the swishing pattering impact of those swarms of small shot. The I.W.W. +gang ran pell-mell down the open track, away from Kurt and toward the +light. As he reloaded the gun he saw men running from all points to join +the gang. With an old blunderbuss of a shot-gun he had routed the I.W.W. +It meant relief to Olsen's men; but Kurt had yet no satisfaction for the +burning of his wheat, for the cruel shock that had killed his father. + +"Come on, Olsen!" he yelled, at the top of his lungs. "They're a lot of +cowards!" + +Then in his wild eagerness he leaped off the car. The long jump landed +him jarringly, but he did not fall or lose hold of the gun. Recovering +his balance, he broke into a run. Kurt was fast on his feet. Not a young +man of his neighborhood nor any of his college-mates could outfoot him +in a race. And then these I.W.W. fellows ran like stiff-legged tramps, +long unused to such mode of action. And some of them were limping as +they ran. Kurt gained upon them. When he got within range he halted +short and freed two barrels. A howl followed the report. Some of the +fleeing ones fell, but were dragged up and on by companions. Kurt +reloaded and, bounding forward like a deer, yelling for Olsen, he ran +until he was within range, then stopped to shoot again. Thus he +continued until the pursued got away from the circle of light. Kurt saw +the gang break up, some running one way and some another. There were +sheds and cars and piles of lumber along the track, affording places to +hide. Kurt was halted by the discovery that he had no more ammunition. +Panting, he stopped short, realizing that he had snapped an empty gun at +men either too tired or too furious or too desperate to run any farther. + +"He's out of shells!" shouted a low, hard voice that made Kurt leap. He +welcomed the rush of dark forms, and, swinging the gun round his head, +made ready to brain the first antagonist who neared him. But some one +leaped upon him from behind. The onslaught carried him to his knees. +Bounding up, he broke the gun stock on the head of his assailant, who +went down in a heap. Kurt tried to pull his revolver. It became +impossible, owing to strong arms encircling him. Wrestling, he freed +himself, only to be staggered by a rush of several men, all pouncing +upon him at once. Kurt went down, but, once down, he heaved so +powerfully that he threw off the whole crew. Up again, like a cat, he +began to fight. Big and strong and swift, with fists like a +blacksmith's, Kurt bowled over this assailant and that one. He thought +he recognized Glidden in a man who kept out of his reach and who was +urging on the others. Kurt lunged at him and finally got his hands on +him. That was fatal for Kurt, because in his fury he forgot Glidden's +comrades. In one second his big hand wrenched a yell of mortal pain out +of Glidden; then a combined attack of the others rendered Kurt +powerless. A blow on the head stunned him--made all dark. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +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." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +The sun was up, broad and bright, burning over the darkened +wheat-fields, when Kurt and Jerry reached home. Kurt had never seen the +farm look like that--ugly and black and bare. But the fallow ground, +hundreds of acres of it, billowing away to the south, had not suffered +any change of color or beauty. To Kurt it seemed to smile at him, to bid +him wait for another spring. + +And that thought was poignant, for he remembered he must leave at once +for "Many Waters." + +He found, when he came to wash the blood and dirt from his person, that +his bruises were many. There was a lump on his head, and his hands were +skinned. After changing his clothes and packing a few things in a +valise, along with his papers, he went down to breakfast. Though +preoccupied in mind, he gathered that both the old housekeeper and Jerry +were surprised and dismayed to see him ready to leave. He had made no +mention of his intentions. And it struck him that this, somehow, was +going to be hard. + +Indeed, when the moment came he found that speech was difficult and his +voice not natural. + +"Martha--Jerry--I'm going away for good," he said, huskily. "I mean to +make over the farm to Mr. Anderson. I'll leave you in charge here--and +recommend that you be kept on. Here's your money up to date.... I'm +going away to the war--and the chances are I'll never come back." + +The old housekeeper, who had been like a mother to him for many years, +began to cry; and Jerry struggled with a regret that he could not speak. + +Abruptly Kurt left them and hurried out of the house. How strange that +difficult feelings had arisen--emotions he had never considered at all! +But the truth was that he was leaving his home forever. All was +explained in that. + +First he went to the graves of his father and mother, out on the south +slope, where there were always wind and sun. The fire had not desecrated +the simple burying-ground. There was no grass. But a few trees and +bushes kept it from appearing bare. + +Kurt sat down in the shade near his mother's grave and looked away +across the hills with dim eyes. Something came to him--a subtle +assurance that his mother approved of his going to war. Kurt remembered +her--slow, quiet, patient, hard-working, dominated by his father. + +The slope was hot and still, with only a rustling of leaves in the wind. +The air was dry. Kurt missed the sweet fragrance of wheat. What odor +there was seemed to be like that of burning weeds. The great, undulating +open of the Bend extended on three sides. His parents had spent the best +of their lives there and had now been taken to the bosom of the soil +they loved. It seemed natural. Many were the last resting-places of +toilers of the wheat there on those hills. And surely in the long +frontier days, and in the ages before, men innumerable had gone back to +the earth from which they had sprung. The dwelling-places of men were +beautiful; it was only life that was sad. In this poignant, revealing +hour Kurt could not resist human longings and regrets, though he gained +incalculable strength from these two graves on the windy slope. It was +not for any man to understand to the uttermost the meaning of life. + + * * * * * + +When he left he made his way across some of the fallow land and some of +the stubble fields that had yielded, alas! so futilely, such abundant +harvest. His boyhood days came back to him, when he used to crush down +the stubble with his bare feet. Every rod of the way revealed some +memory. He went into the barn and climbed into the huge, airy loft. It +smelled of straw and years of dust and mice. The swallows darted in and +out, twittering. How friendly they were! Year after year they had +returned to their nests--the young birds returning to the homes of the +old. Home even for birds was a thing of first and vital importance. + +It was a very old barn that had not many more useful years to stand. +Kurt decided that he would advise that it be strengthened. There were +holes in the rough shingling and boards were off the sides. In the +corners and on the rafters was an accumulation of grain dust as thick as +snow. Mice ran in and out, almost as tame as the swallows. He seemed to +be taking leave of them. He recalled that he used to chase and trap mice +with all a boy's savage ingenuity. But that boyish instinct, along with +so many things so potential then, was gone now. + +Best of all he loved the horses. Most of these were old and had given +faithful service for many years. Indeed, there was one--Old Badge--that +had carried Kurt when he was a boy. Once he and a neighbor boy had gone +to the pasture to fetch home the cows. Old Badge was there, and nothing +would do but that they ride him. From the fence Kurt mounted to his +broad back. Then the neighbor boy, full of the devil, had struck Old +Badge with a stick. The horse set off at a gallop for home with Kurt, +frantically holding on, bouncing up and down on his back. That had been +the ride of Kurt's life. His father had whipped him, too, for the +adventure. + +How strangely vivid and thought-compelling were these ordinary adjuncts +to his life there on the farm. It was only upon giving them up that he +discovered their real meaning. The hills of bare fallow and of yellow +slope, the old barn with its horses, swallows, mice, and odorous loft, +the cows and chickens--these appeared to Kurt, in the illuminating light +of farewell, in their true relation to him. For they, and the labor of +them, had made him what he was. + +Slowly he went back to the old house and climbed the stairs. Only three +rooms were there up-stairs, and one of these, his mother's, had not been +opened for a long time. It seemed just the same as when he used to go to +her with his stubbed toes and his troubles. She had died in that room. +And now he was a man, going out to fight for his country. How strange! +Why? In his mother's room he could not answer that puzzling question. It +stung him, and with a last look, a good-by, and a word of prayer on his +lips, he turned to his own little room. + +He entered and sat down on the bed. It was small, with the slope of the +roof running down so low that he had learned to stoop when close to the +wall. There was no ceiling. Bare yellow rafters and dark old shingles +showed. He could see light through more than one little hole. The window +was small, low, and without glass. How many times he had sat there, +leaning out in the hot dusk of summer nights, dreaming dreams that were +never to come true. Alas for the hopes and illusions of boyhood! So long +as he could remember, this room was most closely associated with his +actions and his thoughts. It was a part of him. He almost took it into +his confidence as if it were human. Never had he become what he had +dared to dream he would, yet, somehow, at that moment he was not +ashamed. It struck him then what few belongings he really had. But he +had been taught to get along with little. + +Living in that room was over for him. He was filled with unutterable +sadness. Yet he would not have had it any different. Bigger, and +selfless things called to him. He was bidding farewell to his youth and +all that it related to. A solemn procession of beautiful memories passed +through his mind, born of the nights there in that room of his boyhood, +with the wind at the eaves and the rain pattering on the shingles. What +strong and vivid pictures! No grief, no pain, no war could rob him of +this best heritage from the past. + +He got up to go. And then a blinding rush of tears burned his eyes. This +room seemed dearer than all the rest of his home. It was hard to leave. +His last look was magnified, transformed. "Good-by!" he whispered, with +a swelling constriction in his throat. At the head of the dark old +stairway he paused a moment, and then with bowed head he slowly +descended. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +An August twilight settled softly down over "Many Waters" while Lenore +Anderson dreamily gazed from her window out over the darkening fields so +tranquil now after the day's harvest toil. + +Of late, in thoughtful hours such as this, she had become conscious of +strain, of longing. She had fought out a battle with herself, had +confessed her love for Kurt Dorn, and, surrendering to the enchantment +of that truth, had felt her love grow with every thought of him and +every beat of a thrilling pulse. In spite of a longing that amounted to +pain and a nameless dread she could not deny, she was happy. And she +waited, with a woman's presaging sense of events, for a crisis that was +coming. + +Presently she heard her father down-stairs, his heavy tread and hearty +voice. These strenuous harvest days left him little time for his family. +And Lenore, having lost herself in her dreams, had not, of late, sought +him out in the fields. She was waiting, and, besides, his keen eyes, at +once so penetrating and so kind, had confused her. Few secrets had she +ever kept from her father. + +"Where's Lenore?" she heard him ask, down in the dining-room. + +"Lenorry's mooning," replied Kathleen, with a giggle. + +"Ah-huh? Well, whereabouts is she moonin'?" went on Anderson. + +"Why, in her room!" retorted the child. "And you can't get a word out of +her with a crowbar." + +Anderson's laugh rang out with a jingle of tableware. He was eating his +supper. Then Lenore heard her mother and Rose and Kathleen all burst out +with news of a letter come that day from Jim, away training to be a +soldier. It was Rose who read this letter aloud to her father, and +outside of her swift, soft voice the absolute silence attested to the +attention of the listeners. Lenore's heart shook as she distinguished a +phrase here and there, for Jim's letter had been wonderful for her. He +had gained weight! He was getting husky enough to lick his father! He +was feeling great! There was not a boy in the outfit who could beat him +to a stuffed bag of a German soldier! And he sure could make some job +with that old bayonet! So ran Jim's message to the loved ones at home. +Then a strange pride replaced the quake in Lenore's heart. Not now would +she have had Jim stay home. She had sacrificed him. Something subtler +than thought told her she would never see him again. And, oh, how dear +he had become! + +Then Anderson roared his delight in that letter and banged the table +with his fist. The girls excitedly talked in unison. But the mother was +significantly silent. Lenore forgot them presently and went back to her +dreaming. It was just about dark when her father called. + +"Lenore." + +"Yes, father," she replied. + +"I'm comin' up," he said, and his heavy tread sounded in the hall. It +was followed by the swift patter of little feet. "Say, you kids go back. +I want to talk to Lenore." + +"Daddy," came Kathleen's shrill, guilty whisper, "I was only in +fun--about her mooning." + +The father laughed again and slowly mounted the stairs. Lenore reflected +uneasily that he seldom came to her room. Also, when he was most +concerned with trouble he usually sought her. + +"Hello! All in the dark?" he said, as he came in. "May I turn on the +light?" + +Lenore assented, though not quite readily. But Anderson did not turn on +the light. He bumped into things on the way to where she was curled up +in her window-seat, and he dropped wearily into Lenore's big arm-chair. + +"How are you, daddy?" she inquired. + +"Dog tired, but feelin' fine," he replied. "I've got a meetin' at eight +an' I need a rest. Reckon I'd like to smoke--an' talk to you--if you +don't mind." + +"I'd sure rather listen to my dad than any one," she replied, softly. +She knew he had come with news or trouble or need of help. He always +began that way. She could measure his mood by the preliminaries before +his disclosure. And she fortified herself. + +"Wasn't that a great letter from the boy?" began Anderson, as he lit a +cigar. By the flash of the match Lenore got a glimpse of his dark and +unguarded face. Indeed, she did well to fortify herself. + +"Fine!... He wrote it to me. I laughed. I swelled with pride. It sent my +blood racing. It filled me with fight.... Then I sneaked up here to +cry." + +"Ah-huh!" exclaimed Anderson, with a loud sigh. Then for a moment of +silence the end of his cigar alternately paled and glowed. "Lenore, did +you get any--any kind of a hunch from Jim's letter?" + +"I don't exactly understand what you mean," replied Lenore. + +"Did somethin'--strange an' different come to you?" queried Anderson, +haltingly, as if words were difficult to express what he meant. + +"Why, yes--I had many strange feelings." + +"Jim's letter was just like he talks. But to me it said somethin' he +never meant an' didn't know.... Jim will never come back!" + +"Yes, dad--I divined just that," whispered Lenore. + +"Strange about that," mused Anderson, with a pull on his cigar. + +And then followed a silence. Lenore felt how long ago her father had +made his sacrifice. There did not seem to be any need for more words +about Jim. But there seemed a bigness in the bond of understanding +between her and her father. A cause united them, and they were sustained +by unfaltering courage. The great thing was the divine spark in the boy +who could not have been held back. Lenore gazed out into the darkening +shadows. The night was very still, except for the hum of insects, and +the cool air felt sweet on her face. The shadows, the silence, the +sleeping atmosphere hovering over "Many Waters," seemed charged with a +quality of present sadness, of the inexplicable great world moving to +its fate. + +"Lenore, you haven't been around much lately," resumed Anderson. "Sure +you're missed. An' Jake swears a lot more than usual." + +"Father, you told me to stay at home," she replied. + +"So I did. An' I reckon it's just as well. But when did you ever before +mind me?" + +"Why, I always obey you," replied Lenore, with her low laugh. + +"Ah-huh! Not so I'd notice it.... Lenore, have you seen the big clouds +of smoke driftin' over 'Many Waters' these last few days?" + +"Yes. And I've smelled smoke, too.... From forest fire, is it not?" + +"There's fire in some of the timber, but the wind's wrong for us to get +smoke from the foot-hills." + +"Then where does the smoke come from?" queried Lenore, quickly. + +"Some of the Bend wheat country's been burned over." + +"Burned! You mean the wheat?" + +"Sure." + +"Oh! What part of the Bend?" + +"I reckon it's what you called young Dorn's desert of wheat." + +"Oh, what a pity!... Have you had word?" + +"Nothin' but rumors yet. But I'm fearin' the worst an' I'm sorry for our +young friend." + +A sharp pain shot through Lenore's breast, leaving behind an ache. + +"It will ruin him!" she whispered. + +"Aw no, not that bad," declared Anderson, and there was a red streak in +the dark where evidently he waved his cigar in quick, decisive action. +"It'll only be tough on him an' sort of embarrassin' for me--an' you. +That boy's proud.... I'll bet he raised hell among them I.W.W.'s, if he +got to them." And Anderson chuckled with the delight he always felt in +the Western appreciation of summary violence justly dealt. + +Lenore felt the rising tide of her anger. She was her father's daughter, +yet always had been slow to wrath. That was her mother's softness and +gentleness tempering the hard spirit of her father. But now her blood +ran hot, beating and bursting about her throat and temples. And there +was a leap and quiver to her body. + +"Dastards! Father, those foreign I.W.W. devils should be shot!" she +cried, passionately. "To ruin those poor, heroic farmers! To ruin +that--that boy! It's a crime! And, oh, to burn his beautiful field of +wheat--with all his hopes! Oh, what shall I call that!" + +"Wal, lass, I reckon it'd take stronger speech than any you know," +responded Anderson. "An' I'm usin' that same." + +Lenore sat there trembling, with hot tears running down her cheeks, with +her fists clenched so tight that her nails cut into her palms. Rage only +proved to her how impotent she was to avert catastrophe. How bitter and +black were some trials! She shrank with a sense of acute pain at thought +of the despair there must be in the soul of Kurt Dorn. + +"Lenore," began Anderson, slowly--his tone was stronger, vibrant with +feeling--"you love this young Dorn!" + +A tumultuous shock shifted Lenore's emotions. She quivered as before, +but this was a long, shuddering thrill shot over her by that spoken +affirmation. What she had whispered shyly and fearfully to herself when +alone and hidden--what had seemed a wonderful and forbidden secret--her +father had spoken out. Lenore gasped. Her anger fled as it had never +been. Even in the dark she hid her face and tried to grasp the wild, +whirling thoughts and emotions now storming her. He had not asked. He +had affirmed. He knew. She could not deceive him even if she would. And +then for a moment she was weak, at the mercy of contending tides. + +"Sure I seen he was in love with you," Anderson was saying. "Seen that +right off, an' I reckon I'd not thought much of him if he hadn't +been.... But I wasn't sure of you till the day Dorn saved you from +Ruenke an' fetched you back. Then I seen. An' I've been waitin' for you +to tell me." + +"There's--nothing--to tell," faltered Lenore. + +"I reckon there is," he replied. Leaning over, he threw his cigar out of +the window and took hold of her. + +Lenore had never felt him so impelling. She was not proof against the +strong, warm pressure of his hand. She felt in its clasp, as she had +when a little girl, a great and sure safety. It drew her irresistibly. +She crept into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder, and she had +a feeling that if she could not relieve her heart it would burst. + +"Oh, d--dad," she whispered, with a soft, hushed voice that broke +tremulously at her lips, "I--I love him!... I do love him.... It's +terrible!... I knew it--that last time you took me to his home--when he +said he was going to war.... And, oh, now you know!" + +Anderson held her tight against his broad breast that lifted her with +its great heave. "Ah-huh! Reckon that's some relief. I wasn't so darn +sure," said Anderson. "Has he spoken to you?" + +"Spoken! What do you mean?" + +"Has Dorn told you he loved you?" + +Lenore lifted her face. If that confession of hers had been relief to +her father it had been more so to her. What had seemed terrible began to +feel natural. Still, she was all intense, vibrating, internally +convulsed. + +"Yes, he has," she replied, shyly. "But such a confession! He told it as +if to explain what he thought was boldness on his part. He had fallen in +love with me at first sight!... And then meeting me was too much for +him. He wanted me to know. He was going away to war. He asked +nothing.... He seemed to apologize for--for daring to love me. He asked +nothing. And he has absolutely not the slightest idea I care for him." + +"Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated Anderson. "What's the matter with +him?" + +"Dad, he is proud," replied Lenore, dreamily. "He's had a hard struggle +out there in his desert of wheat. They've always been poor. He imagines +there's a vast distance between an heiress of 'Many Waters' and a farmer +boy. Then, more than all, I think, the war has fixed a morbid trouble in +his mind. God knows it must be real enough! A house divided against +itself is what he called his home. His father is German. He is American. +He worshiped his mother, who was a native of the United States. He has +become estranged from his father. I don't know--I'm not sure--but I felt +that he was obsessed by a calamity in his German blood. I divined that +was the great reason for his eagerness to go to war." + +"Wal, Kurt Dorn's not goin' to war," replied her father. "I fixed that +all right." + +An amazing and rapturous start thrilled over Lenore. "Daddy!" she cried, +leaping up in his arms, "what have you done?" + +"I got exemption for him, that's what," replied Anderson, with great +satisfaction. + +"Exemption!" exclaimed Lenore, in bewilderment. + +"Don't you remember the government official from Washington? You met him +in Spokane. He was out West to inspire the farmers to raise more wheat. +There are many young farmers needed a thousand times more on the +wheat-fields than on the battle-fields. An' Kurt Dorn is one of them. +That boy will make the biggest sower of wheat in the Northwest. I +recommended exemption for Dorn. An' he's exempted an' doesn't know it." + +"Doesn't know! He'll _never_ accept exemption," declared Lenore. + +"Lass, I'm some worried myself," rejoined Anderson. "Reckon you've +explained Dorn to me--that somethin' queer about him.... But he's +sensible. He can be told things. An' he'll see how much more he's needed +to raise wheat than to kill Germans." + +"But, father--suppose he _wants_ to kill Germans?" asked Lenore, +earnestly. How strangely she felt things about Dorn that she could not +explain. + +"Then, by George! it's up to you, my girl," replied her father, grimly. +"Understand me. I've no sentiment about Dorn in this matter. One good +wheat-raiser is worth a dozen soldiers. To win the war--to feed our +country after the war--why, only a man like me knows what it 'll take! +It means millions of bushels of wheat!... I've sent my own boy. He'll +fight with the best or the worst of them. But he'd never been a man to +raise wheat. All Jim ever raised is hell. An' his kind is needed now. So +let him go to war. But Dorn must be kept home. An' that's up to Lenore +Anderson." + +"Me!... Oh--how?" cried Lenore, faintly. + +"Woman's wiles, daughter," said Anderson, with his frank laugh. "When +Dorn comes let me try to show him his duty. The Northwest can't spare +young men like him. He'll see that. If he has lost his wheat he'll come +down here to make me take the land in payment of the debt. I'll accept +it. Then he'll say he's goin' to war, an' then I'll say he ain't.... +We'll have it out. I'll offer him such a chance here an' in the Bend +that he'd have to be crazy to refuse. But if he has got a twist in his +mind--if he thinks he's got to go out an' kill Germans--then you'll have +to change him." + +"But, dad, how on earth can I do that?" implored Lenore, distracted +between hope and joy and fear. + +"You're a woman now. An' women are in this war up to their eyes. You'll +be doin' more to keep him home than if you let him go. He's moony about +you. You can make him stay. An' it's your future--your happiness.... +Child, no Anderson ever loves twice." + +"I cannot throw myself into his arms," whispered Lenore, very low. + +"Reckon I didn't mean you to," returned Anderson, gruffly. + +"Then--if--if he does not ask me to--to marry him--how can I--" + +"Lenore, no man on earth could resist you if you just let yourself be +sweet--as sweet as you are sometimes. Dorn could never leave you!" + +"I'm not so sure of that, daddy," she murmured. + +"Then take my word for it," he replied, and he got up from the chair, +though still holding her. "I'll have to go now.... But I've shown my +hand to you. Your happiness is more to me than anythin' else in this +world. You love that boy. He loves you. An' I never met a finer lad! +Wal, here's the point. He need be no slacker to stay home. He can do +more good here. Then outside of bein' a wheat man for his army an' his +country he can be one for me. I'm growin' old, my lass!... Here's the +biggest ranch in Washington to look after, an' I want Kurt Dorn to look +after it.... Now, Lenore, do we understand each other?" + +She put her arms around his neck. "Dear old daddy, you're the +wonderfulest father any girl ever had! I would do my best--I would obey +even if I did not love Kurt Dorn.... To hear you speak so of him--oh, +its sweet! It--chokes me!... Now, good-night.... Hurry, before I--" + +She kissed him and gently pushed him out of the room. Then before the +sound of his slow footfalls had quite passed out of hearing she lay +prone upon her bed, her face buried in the pillow, her hands clutching +the coverlet, utterly surrendered to a breaking storm of emotion. +Terrible indeed had come that presaged crisis of her life. Love of her +wild brother Jim, gone to atone forever for the errors of his youth; +love of her father, confessing at last the sad fear that haunted him; +love of Dorn, that stalwart clear-eyed lad who set his face so bravely +toward a hopeless, tragic fate--these were the burden of the flood of +her passion, and all they involved, rushing her from girlhood into +womanhood, calling to her with imperious desires, with deathless +loyalty. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +After Lenore's paroxysm of emotion had subsided and she lay quietly in +the dark, she became aware of soft, hurried footfalls passing along the +path below her window. At first she paid no particular heed to them, but +at length the steady steps became so different in number, and so regular +in passing every few moments, that she was interested to go to her +window and look out. Watching there awhile, she saw a number of men, +whispering and talking low, come from the road, pass under her window, +and disappear down the path into the grove. Then no more came. Lenore +feared at first these strange visitors might be prowling I.W.W. men. She +concluded, however, that they were neighbors and farm-hands, come for +secret conference with her father. + +Important events were pending, and her father had not taken her into his +confidence! It must be, then, something that he did not wish her to +know. Only a week ago, when the I.W.W. menace had begun to be serious, +she had asked him how he intended to meet it, and particularly how he +would take sure measures to protect himself. Anderson had laughed down +her fears, and Lenore, absorbed in her own tumult, had been easily +satisfied. But now, with her curiosity there returned a two-fold dread. + +She put on a cloak and went down-stairs. The hour was still early. She +heard the girls with her mother in the sitting-room. As Lenore slipped +out she encountered Jake. He appeared to loom right out of the darkness +and he startled her. + +"Howdy, Miss Lenore!" he said. "Where might you be goin'?" + +"Jake, I'm curious about the men I heard passing by my window," she +replied. Then she observed that Jake had a rifle under his arm, and she +added, "What are you doing with that gun?" + +"Wal, I've sort of gone back to packin' a Winchester," replied Jake. + +Lenore missed his smile, ever ready for her. Jake looked somber. + +"You're on guard!" she exclaimed. + +"I reckon. There's four of us boys round the house. You're not goin' off +thet step, Miss Lenore." + +"Oh, ah-huh!" replied Lenore, imitating her father, and bantering Jake, +more for the fun of it than from any intention of disobeying him. "Who's +going to keep me from it?" + +"I am. Boss's orders, Miss Lenore. I'm dog-gone sorry. But you sure +oughtn't to be outdoors this far," replied Jake. + +"Look here, my cowboy dictator. I'm going to see where those men went," +said Lenore, and forthwith she stepped down to the path. + +Then Jake deliberately leaned his rifle against a post and, laying hold +of her with no gentle hands, he swung her in one motion back upon the +porch. The broad light streaming out of the open door showed that, +whatever his force meant, it had paled his face to exercise it. + +"Why, Jake--to handle me that way!" cried Lenore, in pretended reproach. +She meant to frighten or coax the truth out of him. "You hurt me!" + +"I'm beggin' your pardon if I was rough," said Jake. "Fact is, I'm a +little upset an' I mean bizness." + +Whereupon Lenore stepped back to close the door, and then, in the +shadow, she returned to Jake and whispered: "I was only in fun. I would +not think of disobeying you. But you can trust me. I'll not tell, and +I'll worry less if I know what's what.... Jake, is father in danger?" + +"I reckon. But the best we could do was to make him stand fer a guard. +There's four of us cowpunchers with him all day, an' at night he's +surrounded by guards. There ain't much chance of his gittin' hurt. So +you needn't worry about thet." + +"Who are these men I heard passing? Where are they from?" + +"Farmers, ranchers, cowboys, from all over this side of the river." + +"There must have been a lot of them," said Lenore, curiously. + +"Reckon you never heerd the quarter of what's come to attend Anderson's +meetin'." + +"What for? Tell me, Jake." + +The cowboy hesitated. Lenore heard his big hand slap round the +rifle-stock. + +"We've orders not to tell thet," he replied. + +"But, Jake, you can tell _me_. You always tell me secrets. I'll not +breathe it." + +Jake came closer to her, and his tall head reached to a level with hers, +where she stood on the porch. Lenore saw his dark, set face, his +gleaming eyes. + +"Wal, it's jest this here," he whispered, hoarsely. "Your dad has +organized vigilantes, like he belonged to in the early days.... An' it's +the vigilantes thet will attend to this I.W.W. outfit." + +Those were thrilling words to Jake, as was attested by his emotion, and +they surely made Lenore's knees knock together. She had heard many +stories from her father of that famous old vigilante band, secret, +making the law where there was no law. + +"Oh, I might have expected that of dad!" she murmured. + +"Wal, it's sure the trick out here. An' your father's the man to deal +it. There'll be dog-goned little wheat burned in this valley, you can +gamble on thet." + +"I'm glad. I hate the very thought.... Jake, you know about Mr. Dorn's +misfortune?" + +"No, I ain't heerd about him. But I knowed the Bend was burnin' over, +an' of course I reckoned Dorn would lose his wheat. Fact is, he had the +only wheat up there worth savin' ... Wal, these I.W.W.'s an' their +German bosses hev put it all over the early days when rustlin' cattle, +holdin' up stage-coaches, an' jest plain cussedness was stylish." + +"Jake, I'd rather have lived back in the early days," mused Lenore. + +"Me too, though I ain't no youngster," he replied. "Reckon you'd better +go in now, Miss Lenore.... Don't you worry none or lose any sleep." + +Lenore bade the cowboy good-night and went to the sitting-room. Her +mother sat preoccupied, with sad and thoughtful face. Rose was writing +many pages to Jim. Kathleen sat at the table, surreptitiously eating +while she was pretending to read. + +"My, but you look funny, Lenorry!" she cried. + +"Why don't you laugh, then?" retorted Lenore. + +"You're white. Your eyes are big and purple. You look like a starved +cannibal.... If that's what it's like to be in love--excuse me--I'll +never fall for any man!" + +"You ought to be in bed. Mother I recommend the baby of the family be +sent up-stairs." + +"Yes, child, it's long past your bedtime," said Mrs. Anderson. + +"Aw, no!" wailed Kathleen. + +"Yes," ordered her mother. + +"But you'd never thought of it--if Lenorry hadn't said so," replied +Kathleen. + +"You should obey Lenore," reprovingly said Mrs. Anderson. + +"What? Me! Mind her!" burst out Kathleen, hotly, as she got up to go. +"Well, I guess not!" Kathleen backed to the door and opened it. Then +making a frightful face at Lenore, most expressive of ridicule and +revenge, she darted up-stairs. + +"My dear, will you write to your brother?" inquired Mrs. Anderson. + +"Yes," replied Lenore. "I'll send mine with Rose's." + +Mrs. Anderson bade the girls good-night and left the room. After that +nothing was heard for a while except the scratching of pens. + +It was late when Lenore retired, yet she found sleep elusive. The +evening had made subtle, indefinable changes in her. She went over in +mind all that had been said to her and which she felt, with the result +that one thing remained to torment and perplex and thrill her--to keep +Kurt Dorn from going to war. + + * * * * * + +Next day Lenore did not go out to the harvest fields. She expected Dorn +might arrive at any time, and she wanted to be there when he came. Yet +she dreaded the meeting. She had to keep her hands active that day, so +in some measure to control her mind. A thousand times she felt herself +on the verge of thrilling and flushing. Her fancy and imagination seemed +wonderfully active. The day was more than usually golden, crowned with +an azure blue, like the blue of the Pacific. She worked in her room, +helped her mother, took up her knitting, and sewed upon a dress, and +even lent a hand in the kitchen. But action could not wholly dull the +song in her heart. She felt unutterably young, as if life had just +opened, with haunting, limitless, beautiful possibilities. Never had the +harvest-time been so sweet. + +Anderson came in early from the fields that day. He looked like a +farm-hand, with his sweaty shirt, his dusty coat, his begrimed face. And +when he kissed Lenore he left a great smear on her cheek. + +"That's a harvest kiss, my lass," he said, with his big laugh. "Best of +the whole year!" + +"It sure is, dad," she replied. "But I'll wait till you wash your face +before I return it. How's the harvest going?" + +"We had trouble to-day," he said. + +"What happened?" + +"Nothin' much, but it was annoyin'. We had some machines crippled, an' +it took most of the day to fix them.... We've got a couple of hundred +hands at work. Some of them are I.W.W.'s, that's sure. But they all +swear they are not an' we have no way to prove it. An' we couldn't catch +them at their tricks.... All the same, we've got half your big +wheat-field cut. A thousand acres, Lenore!... Some of the wheat 'll go +forty bushels to the acre, but mostly under that." + +"Better than last harvest," Lenore replied, gladly. "We are lucky.... +Father, did you hear any news from the Bend?" + +"Sure did," he replied, and patted her head. "They sent me a message up +from Vale.... Young Dorn wired from Kilo he'd be here to-day." + +"To-day!" echoed Lenore, and her heart showed a tendency to act +strangely. + +"Yep. He'll be here soon," said Anderson, cheerfully. "Tell your mother. +Mebbe he'll come for supper. An' have a room ready for him." + +"Yes, father," replied Lenore. + +"Wal, if Dorn sees you as you look now--sleeves rolled up, apron on, +flour on your nose--a regular farmer girl--an' sure huggable, as Jake +says--you won't have no trouble winnin' him." + +"How you talk!" exclaimed Lenore, with burning cheeks. She ran to her +room and made haste to change her dress. + +But Dorn did not arrive in time for supper. Eight o'clock came without +his appearing, after which, with keen disappointment, Lenore gave up +expecting him that night. She was in her father's study, helping him +with the harvest notes and figures, when Jake knocked and entered. + +"Dorn's here," he announced. + +"Good. Fetch him in," replied Anderson. + +"Father, I--I'd rather go," whispered Lenore. + +"You stay right along by your dad," was his reply, "an' be a real +Anderson." + +When Lenore heard Dorn's step in the hall the fluttering ceased in her +heart and she grew calm. How glad she would be to see him! It had been +the suspense of waiting that had played havoc with her feelings. + +Then Dorn entered with Jake. The cowboy set down a bag and went out. He +seemed strange to Lenore and very handsome in his gray flannel suit. + +As he stepped forward in greeting Lenore saw how white he was, how +tragic his eyes. There had come a subtle change in his face. It hurt +her. + +"Miss Anderson, I'm glad to see you," he said, and a flash of red +stained his white cheeks. "How are you?" + +"Very well, thank you," she replied, offering her hand. "I'm glad to see +you." + +They shook hands, while Anderson boomed out: "Hello, son! I sure am glad +to welcome you to 'Many Waters.'" + +No doubt as to the rancher's warm and hearty greeting! It warmed some of +the coldness out of Dorn's face. + +"Thank you. It's good to come--yet it's--it's hard." + +Lenore saw his throat swell. His voice seemed low and full of emotion. + +"Bad news to tell," said Anderson. "Wal, forget it.... Have you had +supper?" + +"Yes. At Huntington. I'd have been here sooner, but we punctured a tire. +My driver said the I.W.W. was breaking bottles on the roads." + +"I.W.W. Now where'd I ever hear that name?" asked Anderson, quizzically. +"Bustin' bottles, hey! Wal, they'll be bustin' their heads presently.... +Sit down, Dorn. You look fine, only you're sure pale." + +"I lost my father," said Dorn. + +"What! Your old man? Dead?... Aw, that's tough!" + +Lenore felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to go to Dorn. "Oh, I'm +sorry!" she said. + +"That is a surprise," went on Anderson, rather huskily. "My Lord! But +it's only round the corner for every man.... Come on, tell us all about +it, an' the rest of the bad news.... Get it over. Then, mebbe Lenore n' +me--" + +But Anderson did not conclude his last sentence. + +Dorn's face began to work as he began to talk, and his eyes were dark +and deep, burning with gloom. + +"Bad news it is, indeed.... Mr. Anderson, the I.W.W. marked us.... +You'll remember your suggestion about getting my neighbors to harvest +our wheat in a rush. I went all over, and almost all of them came. We +had been finding phosphorus everywhere. Then, on the hot day, fires +broke out all around. My neighbors left their own burning fields to save +ours. We fought fire. We fought fire all around us, late into the +night.... My father had grown furious, maddened at the discovery of how +he had been betrayed by Glidden. You remember the--the plot, in which +some way my father was involved. He would not believe the I.W.W. meant +to burn _his_ wheat. And when the fires broke out he worked like a +mad-man.... It killed him!... I was not with him when he died. But +Jerry, our foreman was.... And my father's last words were, 'Tell my son +I was wrong.'... Thank God he sent me that message! I think in that he +confessed the iniquity of the Germans.... Well, my neighbor, Olsen, +managed the harvest. He sure rushed it. I'd have given a good deal for +you and Miss Anderson to have seen all those big combines at work on one +field. It was great. We harvested over thirty-eight thousand bushels and +got all the wheat safely to the elevators at the station.... And that +night the I.W.W. burned the elevators!" + +Anderson's face turned purple. He appeared about to explode. There was a +deep rumbling within his throat that Lenore knew to be profanity +restrained on account of her presence. As for her own feelings, they +were a strange mixture of sadness for Dorn and pride in her father's +fury, and something unutterably sweet in the revelation about to be made +to this unfortunate boy. But she could not speak a word just then, and +it appeared that her father was in the same state. + +Evidently the telling of his story had relieved Dorn. The strain relaxed +in his white face and it lost a little of its stern fixity. He got up +and, opening his bag, he took out some papers. + +"Mr. Anderson, I'd like to settle all this right now," he said. "I want +it off my mind." + +"Go ahead, son, an' settle," replied Anderson, thickly. He heaved a big +sigh and then sat down, fumbling for a match to light his cigar. When he +got it lighted he drew in a big breath and with it manifestly a great +draught of consoling smoke. + +"I want to make over the--the land--in fact, all the property--to +you--to settle mortgage and interest," went on Dorn, earnestly, and then +paused. + +"All right. I expected that," returned Anderson, as he emitted a cloud +of smoke. + +"The only thing is--" here Dorn hesitated, evidently with difficult +speech--"the property is worth more than the debt." + +"Sure. I know," said Anderson, encouragingly. + +"I promised our neighbors big money to harvest our wheat. You remember +you told me to offer it. Well, they left their own wheat and barley +fields to burn, and they saved ours. And then they harvested it and +hauled it to the railroad.... I owe Andrew Olsen fifteen thousand +dollars for himself and the men who worked with him.... If I could pay +that--I'd--almost be happy.... Do you think my property is worth that +much more than the debt?" + +"I think it is--just about," replied Anderson. "We'll mail the money to +Olsen.... Lenore, write out a check to Andrew Olsen for fifteen +thousand." + +Lenore's hand trembled as she did as her father directed. It was the +most poorly written check she had ever drawn. Her heart seemed too big +for her breast just then. How cool and calm her father was! Never had +she loved him quite so well as then. When she looked up from her task it +was to see a change in Kurt Dorn that suddenly dimmed her eyes. + +"There, send this to Olsen," said Anderson. "We'll run into town in a +day or so an' file the papers." + +Lenore had to turn her gaze away from Dorn. She heard him in broken, +husky accents try to express his gratitude. + +"Ah-huh! Sure--sure!" interrupted Anderson, hastily. "Now listen to me. +Things ain't so bad as they look.... For instance, we're goin' to fool +the I.W.W. down here in the valley." + +"How can you? There are so many," returned Dorn. + +"You'll see. We're just waitin' a chance." + +"I saw hundreds of I.W.W. men between her and Kilo." + +"Can you tell an I.W.W. from any other farm-hand?" asked Anderson. + +"Yes, I can," replied Dorn, grimly. + +"Wal, I reckon we need you round here powerful much," said the rancher, +dryly. "Dorn, I've got a big proposition to put up to you." + +Lenore, thrilling at her father's words, turned once more. Dorn appeared +more composed. + +"Have you?" he inquired, in surprise. + +"Sure. But there's no hurry about tellin' you. Suppose we put it off." + +"I'd rather hear it now. My stay here must be short. I--I--You know--" + +"Hum! Sure I know.... Wal then, it's this: Will you go in business with +me? Want you to work that Bend wheat-farm of yours for me--on half +shares.... More particular I want you to take charge of 'Many Waters.' +You see, I'm--not so spry as I used to be. It's a big job, an' I've a +lot of confidence in you. You'll live here, of course, an' run to an' +fro with one of my cars. I've some land-development schemes--an', to cut +it short, there's a big place waitin' for you in the Northwest." + +"Mr. Anderson!" cried Dorn, in a kind of rapturous amaze. Red burned out +the white of his face. "That's great! It's too great to come true. +You're good!... If I'm lucky enough to come back from the war--" + +"Son, you're not goin' to war!" interposed Anderson. + +"What!" exclaimed Dorn, blankly. He stared as if he had not heard +aright. + +Anderson calmly repeated his assertion. He was smiling; he looked kind; +but underneath that showed the will that had made him what he was. + +"But I _am_!" flashed the young man, as if he had been misunderstood. + +"Listen. You're like all boys--hot-headed an' hasty. Let me talk a +little," resumed Anderson. And he began to speak of the future of the +Northwest. He painted that in the straight talk of a farmer who knew, +but what he predicted seemed like a fairy-tale. Then he passed to the +needs of the government and the armies, and lastly the people of the +nation. All depended upon the farmer! Wheat was indeed the staff of life +and of victory! Young Dorn was one of the farmers who could not be +spared. Patriotism was a noble thing. Fighting, however, did not alone +constitute a duty and loyalty to the nation. This was an economic war, a +war of peoples, and the nation that was the best fed would last longest. +Adventure and the mistaken romance of war called indeed to all +red-blooded young Americans. It was good that they did call. But they +should not call the young farmer from his wheat-fields. + +"But I've been drafted!" Dorn spoke with agitation. He seemed bewildered +by Anderson's blunt eloquence. His intelligence evidently accepted the +elder man's argument, but something instinctive revolted. + +"There's exemption, my boy. Easy in your case," replied Anderson. + +"Exemption!" echoed Dorn, and a dark tide of blood rose to his temples. +"I wouldn't--I couldn't ask for that!" + +"You don't need to," said the rancher. "Dorn, do you recollect that +Washington official who called on you some time ago?" + +"Yes," replied Dorn, slowly. + +"Did he say anythin' about exemption?" + +"No. He asked me if I wanted it, that's all." + +"Wal, you had it right then. I took it upon myself to get exemption for +you. That government official heartily approved of my recommendin' +exemption for you. An' he gave it." + +"Anderson! You took--it upon--yourself--" gasped Dorn, slowly rising. If +he had been white-faced before, he was ghastly now. + +"Sure I did.... Good Lord! Dorn, don't imagine I ever questioned your +nerve.... It's only you're not needed--or rather, you're needed more at +home.... I let my son Jim go to war. That's enough for one family!" + +But Dorn did not grasp the significance of Anderson's reply. + +"How dared you? What right had you?" he demanded passionately. + +"No right at all, lad," replied Anderson. "I just recommended it an' the +official approved it." + +"But I refuse!" cried Dorn, with ringing fury. "I won't accept +exemption." + +"Talk sense now, even if you are mad," returned Anderson, rising. "I've +paid you a high compliment, young man, an' offered you a lot. More 'n +you see, I guess.... Why won't you accept exemption?" + +"I'm going to war!" was the grim, hard reply. + +"But you're needed here. You'd be more of a soldier here. You could do +more for your country than if you gave a hundred lives. Can't you see +that?" + +"Yes, I can," assented Dorn, as if forced. + +"You're no fool, an' you're a loyal American. Your duty is to stay home +an' raise wheat." + +"I've a duty to myself," returned Dorn, darkly. + +"Son, your fortune stares you right in the face--here. Are you goin' to +turn from it?" + +"Yes." + +"You want to get in that war? You've got to fight?" + +"Yes." + +"Ah-huh!" Anderson threw up his hands in surrender. "Got to kill some +Germans, hey?... Why not come out to my harvest fields an' hog-stick a +few of them German I.W.W.'s?" + +Dorn had no reply for that. + +"Wal, I'm dog-gone sorry," resumed Anderson. "I see it's a tough place +for you, though I can't understand. You'll excuse me for mixin' in your +affairs.... An' now, considerin' other ways I've really helped you, I +hope you'll stay at my home for a few days. We all owe you a good deal. +My family wants to make up to you. Will you stay?" + +"Thank you--yes--for a few days," replied Dorn. + +"Good! That'll help some. Mebbe, after runnin' around 'Many Waters' with +Le--with the girls--you'll begin to be reasonable. I hope so." + +"You think me ungrateful!" exclaimed Dorn, shrinking. + +"I don't think nothin'," replied Anderson. "I turn you over to Lenore." +He laughed as he pronounced Dorn's utter defeat. And his look at Lenore +was equivalent to saying the issue now depended upon her, and that he +had absolutely no doubt of its outcome. "Lenore, take him in to meet +mother an' the girls, an' entertain him. I've got work to do." + +Lenore felt the blushes in her cheeks and was glad Dorn did not look at +her. He seemed locked in somber thought. As she touched him and bade him +come he gave a start; then he followed her into the hall. Lenore closed +her father's door, and the instant she stood alone with Dorn a wonderful +calmness came to her. + +"Miss Anderson, I'd rather not--not meet your mother and sisters +to-night," said Dorn. "I'm upset. Won't it be all right to wait till +to-morrow?" + +"Surely. But I think they've gone to bed," replied Lenore, as she +glanced into the dark sitting-room. "So they have.... Come, let us go +into the parlor." + +Lenore turned on the shaded lights in the beautiful room. How +inexplicable was the feeling of being alone with him, yet utterly free +of the torment that had possessed her before! She seemed to have divined +an almost insurmountable obstacle in Dorn's will. She did not have her +father's assurance. It made her tremble to realize her responsibility +--that her father's earnest wishes and her future of love or +woe depended entirely upon what she said and did. But she felt that +indeed she had become a woman. And it would take a woman's wit and charm +and love to change this tragic boy. + +"Miss--Anderson," he began, brokenly, with restraint let down, "your +father--doesn't understand. I've _got_ to go.... And even if I am +spared--I couldn't ever come back.... To work for him--all the time in +love with you--I couldn't stand it.... He's so good. I know I could care +for him, too.... Oh, I thought I was bitterly resigned--hard--inhuman. +But all this makes it--so--so much worse." + +He sat down heavily, and, completely unnerved, he covered his face with +his hands. His shoulders heaved and short, strangled sobs broke from +him. + +Lenore had to overcome a rush of tenderness. It was all she could do to +keep from dropping to her knees beside him and slipping her arms around +his neck. In her agitation she could not decide whether that would be +womanly or not; only, she must make no mistakes. A hot, sweet flush went +over her when she thought that always as a last resort she could reveal +her secret and use her power. What would he do when he discovered she +loved him? + +"Kurt, I understand," she said, softly, and put a hand on his shoulder. +And she stood thus beside him, sadly troubled, vaguely divining that her +presence was helpful, until he recovered his composure. As he raised his +head and wiped tears from his eyes he made no excuses for his weakness, +nor did he show any shame. + +"Miss Anderson--" he began. + +"Please call me Lenore. I feel so--so stiff when you are formal. My +friends call me Lenore," she said. + +"You mean--you consider me your friend?" he queried. + +"Indeed I do," she replied, smiling. + +"I--I'm afraid I misunderstood your asking me to visit you," he said. "I +thank you. I'm proud and glad that you call me your friend. It will be +splendid to remember--when I am over there." + +"I wonder if we could talk of anything except trouble and war," replied +Lenore, plaintively. "If we can't, then let's look at the bright side." + +"Is there a bright side?" he asked, with his sad smile. + +"Every cloud, you know.... For instance, if you go to war--" + +"Not if. I _am_ going," he interrupted. + +"Oh, so you say," returned Lenore, softly. And she felt deep in her the +inception of a tremendous feminine antagonism. It stirred along her +pulse. "Have your own way, then. But _I_ say, _if_ you go, think how +fine it will be for me to get letters from you at the front--and to +write you!" + +"You'd like to hear from me?... You would answer?" he asked, +breathlessly. + +"Assuredly. And I'll knit socks for you." + +"You're--very good," he said, with strong feeling. + +Lenore again saw his eyes dim. How strangely sensitive he was! If he +exaggerated such a little kindness as she had suggested, if he responded +to it with such emotion, what would he do when the great and marvelous +truth of her love was flung in his face? The very thought made Lenore +weak. + +"You'll go to training-camp," went on Lenore, "and because of your +wonderful physique and your intelligence you will get a commission. Then +you'll go to--France." Lenore faltered a little in her imagined +prospect. "You'll be in the thick of the great battles. You'll give and +take. You'll kill some of those--those--Germans. You'll be wounded and +you'll be promoted.... Then the Allies will win. Uncle Sam's grand army +will have saved the world.... Glorious!... You'll come back--home to +us--to take the place dad offered you.... There! that is the bright +side." + +Indeed, the brightness seemed reflected in Dorn's face. + +"I never dreamed you could be like this," he said, wonderingly. + +"Like what?" + +"I don't know just what I mean. Only you're different from my--my +fancies. Not cold or--or proud." + +"You're beginning to get acquainted with me, that's all. After you've +been here awhile--" + +"Please don't make it so hard for me," he interrupted, appealingly. "I +can't stay." + +"Don't you want to?" she asked. + +"Yes. And I will stay a couple of days. But no longer. It'll be hard +enough to go then." + +"Perhaps I--we'll make it so hard for you that you can't go." + +Then he gazed piercingly at her, as if realizing a will opposed to his, +a conviction not in sympathy with his. + +"You're going to keep this up--this trying to change my mind?" + +"I surely am," she replied, both wistfully and wilfully. + +"Why? I should think you'd respect my sense of duty." + +"Your duty is more here than at the front. The government man said so. +My father believes it. So do I.... You have some other--other thing you +think duty." + +"I hate Germans!" he burst out, with a dark and terrible flash. + +"Who does not?" she flashed back at him, and she rose, feeling as if +drawn by a powerful current. She realized then that she must be prepared +any moment to be overwhelmed by the inevitable climax of this meeting. +But she prayed for a little more time. She fought her emotions. + +She saw him tremble. "Lenore, I'd better run off in the night," he said. + +Instinctively, with swift, soft violence, she grasped his hands. Perhaps +the moment had come. She was not afraid, but the suddenness of her +extremity left her witless. + +"You would not!... That would be unkind--not like you at all.... To run +off without giving me a chance--without good-by!... Promise me you will +not." + +"I promise," he replied, wearily, as if nonplussed by her attitude. "You +said you understood me. But I can't understand you." + +She released his hands and turned away. "I promise--that you shall +understand--very soon." + +"You feel sorry for me. You pity me. You think I'll only be +cannon-fodder for the Germans. You want to be nice, kind, sweet to +me--to send me away with better thoughts.... Isn't that what you think?" + +He was impatient, almost angry. His glance blazed at her. All about him, +his tragic face, his sadness, his defeat, his struggle to hold on to his +manliness and to keep his faith in nobler thoughts--these challenged +Lenore's compassion, her love, and her woman's combative spirit to save +and to keep her own. She quivered again on the brink of betraying +herself. And it was panic alone that held her back. + +"Kurt--I think--presently I'll give you the surprise of your life," she +replied, and summoned a smile. + +How obtuse he was! How blind! Perhaps the stress of his emotion, the +terrible sense of his fate, left him no keenness, no outward +penetration. He answered her smile, as if she were a child whose +determined kindness made him both happy and sad. + +"I dare say you will," he replied. "You Andersons are full of +surprises.... But I wish you would not do any more for me. I am like a +dog. The kinder you are to me the more I love you.... How dreadful to go +away to war--to violence and blood and death--to all that's +brutalizing--with my heart and mind full of love for a noble girl like +you!--If I come to love you any more I'll not be a man." + +To Lenore he looked very much of a man, so tall and lithe and +white-faced, with his eyes of fire, his simplicity, and his tragic +refusal of all that was for most men the best of life. Whatever his +ideal, it was magnificent. Lenore had her chance then, but she was +absolutely unable to grasp it. Her blood beat thick and hot. If she +could only have been sure of herself! Or was it that she still cared too +much for herself? The moment had not come. And in her tumult there was a +fleeting fury at Dorn's blindness, at his reverence of her, that he dare +not touch her hand. Did he imagine she was stone? + +"Let us say good night," she said. "You are worn out. And I am--not just +myself. To-morrow we'll be--good friends.... Father will take you to +your room." + +Dorn pressed the hand she offered, and, saying good-night, he followed +her to the hall. Lenore tapped on the door of her father's study, then +opened it. + +"Good night, dad. I'm going up," she said. "Will you look after Kurt?" + +"Sure. Come in, son," replied her father. + +Lenore felt Dorn's strange, intent gaze upon her as she passed him. +Lightly she ran up-stairs and turned at the top. The hall was bright and +Dorn stood full in the light, his face upturned. It still wore the +softer expression of those last few moments. Lenore waved her hand, and +he smiled. The moment was natural. Youth to youth! Lenore felt it. She +marveled that he did not. A sweet devil of wilful coquetry possessed +her. + +"Oh, did you say you wouldn't go?" she softly called. + +"I said only good night," he replied. + +"If you _don't_ go, then you will never be General Dorn, will you? What +a pity!" + +"I'll go. And then it will be--'Private Dorn--missing. No relatives,'" +he replied. + +That froze Lenore. Her heart quaked. She gazed down upon him with all +her soul in her eyes. She knew it and did not care. But he could not +see. + +"Good night, Kurt Dorn," she called, and ran to her room. + +Composure did not come to her until she was ready for bed, with the +light out and in her old seat at the window. Night and silence and +starlight always lent Lenore strength. She prayed to them now and to the +spirit she knew dwelt beyond them. And then she whispered what her +intelligence told her was an unalterable fact--Kurt Dorn could never be +changed. But her sympathy and love and passion, all that was womanly +emotion, stormed at her intelligence and refused to listen to it. + +Nothing short of a great shock would divert Dorn from his tragic +headlong rush toward the fate he believed unalterable. Lenore sensed a +terrible, sinister earnestness in him. She could not divine its meaning. +But it was such a driving passion that no man possessing it and free to +the violence of war could ever escape death. Even if by superhuman +strife, and the guidance of Providence, he did escape death, he would +have lost something as precious as life. If Dorn went to war at all--if +he ever reached those blood-red trenches, in the thick of fire and +shriek and ferocity--there to express in horrible earnestness what she +vaguely felt yet could not define--then so far as she was concerned she +imagined that she would not want him to come back. + +That was the strength of spirit that breathed out of the night and the +silence to her. Dorn would go to war as no ordinary soldier, to obey, to +fight, to do his duty; but for some strange, unfathomable obsession of +his own. And, therefore, if he went at all he was lost. War, in its +inexplicable horror, killed the souls of endless hordes of men. +Therefore, if he went at all she, too, was lost to the happiness that +might have been hers. She would never love another man. She could never +marry. She would never have a child. + +So his soul and her happiness were in the balance weighed against a +woman's power. It seemed to Lenore that she felt hopelessly unable to +carry the issue to victory; and yet, on the other hand, a tumultuous and +wonderful sweetness of sensation called to her, insidiously, of the +infallible potency of love. What could she do to save Dorn's life and +his soul? There was only one answer to that. She would do anything. She +must make him love her to the extent that he would have no will to carry +out this desperate intent. There was little time to do that. The gradual +growth of affection through intimacy and understanding was not possible +here. It must come as a flash of lightning. She must bewilder him with +the revelation of her love, and then by all its incalculable power hold +him there. + +It was her father's wish; it would be the salvation of Dorn; it meant +all to her. But if to keep him there would make him a slacker, Lenore +swore she would die before lifting her lips to his. The government would +rather he stayed to raise wheat than go out and fight men. Lenore saw +the sanity, the cardinal importance of that, as her father saw it. So +from all sides she was justified. And sitting there in the darkness and +silence, with the cool wind in her face, she vowed she would be all +woman, all sweetness, all love, all passion, all that was feminine and +terrible, to keep Dorn from going to war. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +Lenore awakened early. The morning seemed golden. Birds were singing at +her window. What did that day hold in store for her? She pressed a hand +hard on her heart as if to hold it still. But her heart went right on, +swift, exultant, throbbing with a fullness that was almost pain. + +Early as she awakened, it was, nevertheless, late when she could direct +her reluctant steps down-stairs. She had welcomed every little +suggestion and task to delay the facing of her ordeal. + +There was merriment in the sitting-room, and Dorn's laugh made her glad. +The girls were at him, and her father's pleasant, deep voice chimed in. +Evidently there was a controversy as to who should have the society of +the guest. They had all been to breakfast. Mrs. Anderson expressed +surprise at Lenore's tardiness, and said she had been called twice. +Lenore had heard nothing except the birds and the music of her thoughts. +She peeped into the sitting-room. + +"Didn't you bring me anything?" Kathleen was inquiring of Dorn. + +Dorn was flushed and smiling. Anderson stood beaming upon them, and Rose +appeared to be inclined toward jealousy. + +"Why--you see--I didn't even know Lenore had a little sister," Dorn +explained. + +"Oh!" exclaimed Kathleen, evidently satisfied. "All Lenorry's beaux +bring me things. But I believe I'm going to like you best." + +Lenore had intended to say good morning. She changed her mind, however, +at Kathleen's naïve speech, and darted back lest she be seen. She felt +the blood hot in her cheeks. That awful, irrepressible Kathleen! If she +liked Dorn she would take possession of him. And Kathleen was lovable, +irresistible. Lenore had a sudden thought that Kathleen would aid the +good cause if she could be enlisted. While Lenore ate her breakfast she +listened to the animated conversation in the sitting-room. Presently her +father came in. + +"Hello, Lenore! Did you get up?" he greeted her, cheerily. + +"I hardly ever did, it seems.... Dad, the day was something to face," +she said. + +"Ah-huh! It's like getting up to work. Lenore, the biggest duty of life +is to hide your troubles.... Dorn looks like a human bein' this mornin'. +The kids have won him. I reckon he needs that sort of cheer. Let them +have him. Then after a while you fetch him out to the wheat-field. +Lenore, our harvestin' is half done. Every day I've expected some trick +or deviltry. But it hasn't come yet." + +"Are any of the other ranchers having trouble?" she inquired. + +"I hear rumors of bad work. But facts told by ranchers an' men who were +here only yesterday make little of the rumors. All that burnin' of wheat +an' timber, an' the destruction of machines an' strikin' of farm-hands, +haven't hit Golden Valley yet. We won't need any militia here, you can +bet on that." + +"Father, it won't do to be over-confident," she said, earnestly. "You +know you are the mark for the I.W.W. sabotage. If you are not +careful--any moment--" + +Lenore paused with a shudder. + +"Lass, I'm just like I was in the old rustlin' days. An' I've surrounded +myself with cowboys like Jake an' Bill, an' old hands who pack guns an' +keep still, as in the good old Western days. We're just waitin' for the +I.W.W.'s to break loose." + +"Then what?" queried Lenore. + +"Wal, we'll chase that outfit so fast it'll be lost in dust," he +replied. + +"But if you chase them away, it 'll only be into another state, where +they'll make trouble for other farmers. You don't do any real good." + +"My dear, I reckon you've said somethin' strong," he replied, soberly, +and went out. + +Then Kathleen came bouncing in. Her beautiful eyes were full of mischief +and excitement. "Lenorry, your new beau has all the others skinned to a +frazzle," she said. + +For once Lenore did not scold Kathleen, but drew her close and +whispered: "Do you want to please me? Do you want me to do _everything_ +for you?" + +"I sure do," replied Kathleen, with wonderful eyes. + +"Then be nice, sweet, good to him.... make him love you.... Don't tease +him about my other beaux. Think how you can make him like 'Many +Waters.'" + +"Will you promise--_everything_?" whispered Kathleen, solemnly. +Evidently Lenore's promises were rare and reliable. + +"Yes. Cross my heart. There! And you must not tell." + +Kathleen was a precocious child, with all the potentialities of youth. +She could not divine Lenore's motive, but she sensed a new and +fascinating mode of conduct for herself. She seemed puzzled a little at +Lenore's earnestness. + +"It's a bargain," she said, soberly, as if she had accepted no slight +gauge. + +"Now, Kathleen, take him all over the gardens, the orchards, the corrals +and barns," directed Lenore. "Be sure to show him the horses--my horses, +especially. Take him round the reservoir--and everywhere except the +wheat-fields. I want to take him there myself. Besides, father does not +want you girls to go out to the harvest." + +Kathleen nodded and ran back to the sitting-room. Lenore heard them all +go out together. Before she finished breakfast her mother came in again. + +"Lenore, I like Mr. Dorn," she said, meditatively. "He has an +old-fashioned manner that reminds me of my boy friends when I was a +girl. I mean he's more courteous and dignified than boys are nowadays. A +splendid-looking boy, too. Only his face is so sad. When he smiles he +seems another person." + +"No wonder he's sad," replied Lenore, and briefly told Kurt Dorn's +story. + +"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Anderson. "We have fallen upon evil days.... Poor +boy!... Your father seems much interested in him. And you are too, my +daughter?" + +"Yes, I am," replied Lenore, softly. + +Two hours later she heard Kathleen's gay laughter and pattering feet. +Lenore took her wide-brimmed hat and went out on the porch. Dorn was +indeed not the same somber young man he had been. + +"Good morning, Kurt," said Lenore, extending her hand. + +The instant he greeted her she saw the stiffness, the aloofness had gone +from him. Kathleen had made him feel at home. He looked younger. There +was color in his face. + +"Kathleen, I'll take charge of Mr. Dorn now, if you will allow me that +pleasure." + +"Lenorry, I sure hate to give him up. We sure had a fine time." + +"Did he like 'Many Waters'?" + +"Well, if he didn't he's a grand fibber," replied Kathleen. "But he did. +You can't fool me. I thought I'd never get him back to the house." Then, +as she tripped up the porch steps, she shook a finger at Dorn. +"Remember!" + +"I'll never forget," said Dorn, and he was as earnest as he was amiable. +Then, as she disappeared, he exclaimed to Lenore, "What an adorable +little girl!" + +"Do you like Kathleen?" + +"Like her!" Dorn laughed in a way to make light of such words. "My life +has been empty. I see that." + +"Come, we'll go out to the wheat-fields," said Lenore. "What do you +think of 'Many Waters'? This is harvest-time. You see 'Many Waters' at +its very best." + +"I can hardly tell you," he replied. "All my life I've lived on my +barren hills. I seem to have come to another world. 'Many Waters' is +such a ranch as I never dreamed of. The orchards, the fruit, the +gardens--and everywhere running water! It all smells so fresh and sweet. +And then the green and red and purple against that background of blazing +gold!... 'Many Waters' is verdant and fruitful. The Bend is desert." + +"Now that you've been here, do you like it better than your barren +hills?" asked Lenore. + +Kurt hesitated. "I don't know," he answered, slowly. "But maybe that +desert I've lived in accounts for much I lack." + +"Would you like to stay at 'Many Waters'--if you weren't going to war?" + +"I might prefer 'Many Waters' to any place on earth. It's a paradise. +But I would not chose to stay here." + +"Why? When you return--you know--my father will need you here. And if +anything should happen to him I will have to run the ranch. Then _I_ +would need you." + +Dorn stopped in his tracks and gazed at her as if there were slight +misgivings in his mind. + +"Lenore, if you owned this ranch would you want me--_me_ for your +manager?" he asked, bluntly. + +"Yes," she replied. + +"You would? Knowing I was in love with you?" + +"Well, I had forgotten that," she replied, with a little laugh. "It +would be rather embarrassing--and funny, wouldn't it?" + +"Yes, it would," he said, grimly, and walked on again. He made a gesture +of keen discomfiture. "I knew you hadn't taken me seriously." + +"I believed you, but I could not take you _very_ seriously," she +murmured. + +"Why not?" he demanded, as if stung, and his eyes flashed on her. + +"Because your declaration was not accompanied by the +usual--question--that a girl naturally expects under such +circumstances." + +"Good Heaven! You say that?... Lenore Anderson, you think me insincere +because I did not ask you to marry me," he asserted, with bitter pathos. + +"No. I merely said you were not--_very_ serious," she replied. It was +fascination to torment him this way, yet it hurt her, too. She was +playing on the verge of a precipice, not afraid of a misstep, but +glorying in the prospect of a leap into the abyss. Something deep and +strange in her bade her make him show her how much he loved her. If she +drove him to desperation she would reward him. + +"I am going to war," he began, passionately, "to fight for you and your +sisters.... I am ruined.... The only noble and holy feeling left to +me--that I can have with me in the dark hours--is my love for you. If +you do not believe that, I am indeed the most miserable of beggars! Most +boys going to the front leave many behind whom they love. I have no one +but you.... don't make me a coward." + +"I believe you. Forgive me," she said. + +"If I had asked you to marry me--_me_--why, I'd have been a selfish, +egotistical fool. You are far above me. And I want you to know I know +it.... But even if I had not--had the blood I have--even if I had been +prosperous instead of ruined, I'd never have asked you, unless I came +back whole from the war." + +They had been walking out the lane during this conversation and had come +close to the wheat-field. The day was hot, but pleasant, the dry wind +being laden with harvest odors. The hum of the machines was like the +roar in a flour-mill. + +"If you go to war--and come back whole--?" began Lenore, tantalizingly. +She meant to have no mercy upon him. It was incredible how blind he was. +Yet how glad that made her. He resembled his desert hills, barren of +many little things, but rich in hidden strength, heroic of mold. + +"Then just to add one more to the conquests girls love I'll--I'll +propose to you," he declared, banteringly. + +"Beware, boy! I might accept you," she exclaimed. + +His play was short-lived. He could not be gay, even under her influence. + +"Please don't jest," he said, frowning. "Can't we talk of something +besides love and war?" + +"They seem to be popular just now," she replied, audaciously. "Anyway, +all's fair--you know." + +"No, it is not fair," he returned, low-voiced and earnest. "So once for +all let me beg of you, don't jest. Oh, I know you're sweet. You're full +of so many wonderful, surprising words and looks. I can't understand +you.... But I beg of you, don't make me a fool!" + +"Well, if you pay such compliments and if I--want them--what then? You +are very original, very gallant, Mr. Kurt Dorn, and I--I rather like +you." + +"I'll get angry with you," he threatened. + +"You couldn't.... I'm the only girl you're going to leave behind--and if +you got angry I'd never write to you." + +It thrilled Lenore and wrung her heart to see how her talk affected him. +He was in a torment. He believed she spoke lightly, girlishly, to tease +him--that she was only a gay-hearted girl, fancy-free and just a little +proud of her conquest over even him. + +"I surrender. Say what you like," he said, resignedly. "I'll stand +anything--just to get your letters." + +"If you go I'll write as often as you want me to," she replied. + +With that they emerged upon the harvest-field. Machines and engines +dotted the golden slope, and wherever they were located stood towering +straw-stacks. Horses and men and wagons were strung out as far as the +eye could see. Long streams of chaff and dust and smoke drifted upward. + +"Lenore, there's trouble in the very air," said Dorn. "Look!" + +She saw a crowd of men gathering round one of the great +combine-harvesters. Some one was yelling. + +"Let's stay away from trouble," replied Lenore. "We've enough of our +own." + +"I'm going over there," declared Dorn. "Perhaps you'd better wait for +me--or go back." + +"Well! You're the first boy who ever--" + +"Come on," he interrupted, with grim humor. "I'd rather enjoy your +seeing me break loose--as I will if there's any I.W.W. trickery." + +Before they got to the little crowd Lenore both heard and saw her +father. He was in a rage and not aware of her presence. Jake and Bill, +the cowboys, hovered over him. Anderson strode to and fro, from one side +of the harvester to the other. Lenore did not recognize any of the +harvest-hands, and even the driver was new to her. They were not a +typical Western harvest crew, that was certain. She did not like their +sullen looks, and Dorn's muttered imprecation, the moment he neared +them, confirmed her own opinion. + +Anderson's foreman stood gesticulating, pale and anxious of face. + +"No, I don't hold you responsible," roared the rancher. "But I want +action.... I want to know why this machine's broke down." + +"It was in perfect workin' order," declared the foreman. "I don't know +why it broke down." + +"That's the fourth machine in two days. No accident, I tell you," +shouted Anderson. Then he espied Dorn and waved a grimy hand. "Come +here, Dorn," he called, and stepped out of the group of dusty men. +"Somethin' wrong here. This new harvester's broke down. It's a McCormack +an' new to us. But it has worked great an' I jest believe it's been +tampered with... Do you know these McCormack harvesters?" + +"Yes. They're reliable," replied Dorn. + +"Ah-huh! Wal, get your coat off an' see what's been done to this one." + +Dorn took off his coat and was about to throw it down, when Lenore held +out her hand for it. + +"Unhitch the horses," said Dorn. + +Anderson gave this order, which was complied with. Then Dorn disappeared +around or under the big machine. + +"Lenore, I'll bet he tells us somethin' in a minute," said Anderson to +her. "These new claptraps are beyond me. I'm no mechanic." + +"Dad, I don't like the looks of your harvest-hands," whispered Lenore. + +"Wal, this is a sample of the lot I hired. No society for you, my lass!" + +"I'm going to stay now," she replied. + +Dorn appeared to be raising a racket somewhere out of sight under or +inside the huge harvester. Rattling and rasping sounds, creaks and +cracks, attested to his strong and impatiently seeking hands. + +Presently he appeared. His white shirt had been soiled by dust and +grease. There was chaff in his fair hair. In one grimy hand he held a +large monkey-wrench. What struck Lenore most was the piercing intensity +of his gaze as he fixed it upon her father. + +"Anderson, I knew right where to find it," he said, in a sharp, hard +voice. "This monkey-wrench was thrown upon the platform, carried to the +elevator into the thresher.... Your machine is torn to pieces +inside--out of commission!" + +"Ah-huh!" exclaimed Anderson, as if the truth was a great relief. + +"Where'd that monkey-wrench come from?" asked the foreman, aghast. "It's +not ours. I don't buy that kind." + +Anderson made a slight, significant motion to the cowboys. They lined up +beside him, and, like him, they looked dangerous. + +"Come here, Kurt," he said, and then, putting Lenore before him, he +moved a few steps aside, out of earshot of the shifty-footed +harvest-hands. "Say, you called the turn right off, didn't you?" + +"Anderson, I've had a hard experience, all in one harvest-time," replied +Dorn. "I'll bet you I can find out who threw this wrench into your +harvester." + +"I don't doubt you, my lad. But how?" + +"It had to be thrown by one of these men near the machine. That +harvester hasn't run twenty feet from where the trick was done.... Let +these men face me. I'll find the guilty one." + +"Wait till we get Lenore out of the way," replied Anderson + +"Boss, me an' Bill can answer fer thet outfit as it stands, an' no risks +fer nobody," put in Jake, coolly. + +Anderson's reply was cut short by a loud explosion. It frightened +Lenore. She imagined one of the steam-engines had blown up. + +"That thresher's on fire," shouted Dorn, pointing toward a big machine +that was attached by an endless driving belt to an engine. + +The workmen, uttering yells and exclamations, ran toward the scene of +the new accident, leaving Anderson, his daughter, and the foreman +behind. Smoke was pouring out of the big harvester. The harvest-hands +ran wildly around, shouting and calling, evidently unable to do +anything. The line of wagons full of wheat-sheaves broke up; men dragged +at the plunging horses. Then flame followed the smoke out of the +thresher. + +"I've heard of threshers catchin' fire," said Anderson, as if +dumfounded, "but I never seen one.... Now how on earth did that happen?" + +"Another trick, Anderson," replied Dorn. "Some I.W.W. has stuffed a +handful of matches into a wheat-sheaf. Or maybe a small bomb!" + +"Ah-huh!... Come on, let's go over an' see my money burn up.... Kurt, +I'm gettin' some new education these days." + +Dorn appeared to be unable to restrain himself. He hurried on ahead of +the others. And Anderson whispered to Lenore, "I'll bet somethin's +comin' off!" + +This alarmed Lenore, yet it also thrilled her. + +The threshing-machine burned like a house of cards. Farm-hands came +running from all over the field. But nothing, manifestly, could be done +to save the thresher. Anderson, holding his daughter's arm, calmly +watched it burn. There was excitement all around; it had not been +communicated, however, to the rancher. He looked thoughtful. The foreman +darted among the groups of watchers and his distress was very plain. +Dorn had gotten out of sight. Lenore still held his coat and wondered +what he was doing. She was thoroughly angry and marveled at her father's +composure. The big thresher was reduced to a blazing, smoking hulk in +short order. + +Dorn came striding up. His face was pale and his mouth set. + +"Mr. Anderson, you've got to make a strong stand--and quick," he said, +deliberately. + +"I reckon. An' I'm ready, if it's the right time," replied the rancher. +"But what can we prove?" + +"That's proof," declared Dorn, pointing at the ruined thresher. "Do you +know all your honest hands?" + +"Yes, an' I've got enough to clean up this outfit in no time. We're only +waitin'." + +"What for?" + +"Wal, I reckon for what's just come off." + +"Don't let them go any farther.... Look at these fellows. Can't you tell +the I.W.W.'s from the others?" + +"No, I can't unless I count all the new harvest-hands I.W.W.'s." + +"Every one you don't know here is in with that gang," declared Dorn, and +he waved a swift hand at the groups. His eyes swept piercingly over, and +apparently through, the men nearest at hand. + +At this juncture Jake and Bill, with two other cowboys, strode up to +Anderson. + +"Another accident, boss," said Jake, sarcastically. "Ain't it about time +we corralled some of this outfit?" + +Anderson did not reply. He had suddenly imitated Lenore, who had become +solely bent upon Dorn's look. That indeed was cause for interest. It was +directed at a member of the nearest group--a man in rough garb, with +slouch-hat pulled over his eyes. As Lenore looked she saw this man, +suddenly becoming aware of Dorn's scrutiny, hastily turn and walk away. + +"Hold on!" called Dorn, his voice a ringing command. It halted every +moving person on that part of the field. Then Dorn actually bounded +across the intervening space. + +"Come on, boys," said Anderson, "get in this. Dorn's spotted some one, +an' now that's all we want.... Lenore, stick close behind me. Jake, you +keep near her." + +They moved hastily to back up Dorn, who had already reached the workman +he had halted. Anderson took out a whistle and blew such a shrill blast +that it deafened Lenore, and must have been heard all over the +harvest-field. Not improbably that was a signal agreed upon between +Anderson and his men. Lenore gathered that all had been in readiness for +a concerted movement and that her father believed Dorn's action had +brought the climax. + +"Haven't I seen you before?" queried Dorn, sharply. + +The man shook his head and kept it bent a little, and then he began to +edge back nearer to the stragglers, who slowly closed into a group +behind him. He seemed nervous, shifty. + +"He can't speak English," spoke up one of them, gruffly. + +Dorn looked aggressive and stern. Suddenly his hand flashed out to +snatch off the slouch-hat which hid the fellow's face. Amazingly, a gray +wig came with it. This man was not old. He had fair thick hair. + +For a moment Dorn gazed at the slouch-hat and wig. Then with a fierce +action he threw them down and swept a clutching hand for the man. The +fellow dodged and, straightening up, he reached for a gun. But Dorn +lunged upon him. Then followed a hard grappling sound and a hoarse yell. +Something bright glinted in the sun. It made a sweeping circle, belched +fire and smoke. The report stunned Lenore. She shut her eyes and clung +to her father. She heard cries, a scuffling, sodden blows. + +"Jake! Bill!" called Anderson. "Hold on! No gun-play yet! Dorn's makin' +hash out of that fellow.... But watch the others sharp!" + +Then Lenore looked again. Dorn had twisted the man around and was in the +act of stripping off the further disguise of beard, disclosing the pale +and convulsed face of a comparatively young man. + +_"Glidden!"_ burst out Dorn. His voice had a terrible ring of furious +amaze. His whole body seemed to gather as in a knot and then to spring. +The man called Glidden went down before that onslaught, and his gun went +flying aside. + +Three of Glidden's group started for it. The cowboy Bill leaped forward, +a gun in each hand. "Hyar!... Back!" he yelled. And then all except the +two struggling principals grew rigid. + +Lenore's heart was burning in her throat. The movements of Dorn were too +swift for her sight. But Glidden she saw handled as if by a giant. Up +and down he seemed thrown, with bloody face, flinging arms, while he +uttered hoarse bawls. Dorn's form grew more distinct. It plunged and +swung in frenzied energy. Lenore heard men running and yells from all +around. Her father spread wide his arm before her, so that she had to +bend low to see. He shouted a warning. Jake was holding a gun thrust +forward. + +"Boss, he's goin' to kill Glidden!" said the cowboy, in a low tone. + +Anderson's reply was incoherent, but its meaning was plain. + +Lenore's lips and tongue almost denied her utterance. "Oh!... Don't let +him!" + +The crowd behind the wrestling couple swayed back and forth, and men +changed places here and there. Bill strode across the space, guns +leveled. Evidently this action was due to the threatening movements of +several workmen who crouched as if to leap on Dorn as he whirled in his +fight with Glidden. + +"Wal, it's about time!" yelled Anderson, as a number of lean, rangy men, +rushing from behind, reached Bill's side, there to present an armed and +threatening front. + +All eyes now centered on Dorn and Glidden. Lenore, seeing clearly for +the first time, suffered a strange, hot paroxysm of emotion never before +experienced by her. It left her weak. It seemed to stultify the cry that +had been trying to escape her. She wanted to scream that Dorn must not +kill the man. Yet there was a ferocity in her that froze the cry. +Glidden's coat and blouse were half torn off; blood covered him; he +strained and flung himself weakly in that iron clutch. He was beaten and +bent back. His tongue hung out, bloody, fluttering with strangled cries. +A ghastly face, appalling in its fear of death! + +Lenore broke her mute spell of mingled horror and passion. + +"For God's sake, don't let Dorn kill him!" she implored. + +"Why not?" muttered Anderson. "That's Glidden. He killed Dorn's +father--burned his wheat--ruined him!" + +"Dad--for _my_--sake!" she cried brokenly. + +"Jake, stop him!" yelled Anderson. "Pull him off!" + +As Lenore saw it, with eyes again half failing her, Jake could not +separate Dorn from his victim. + +"Leggo, Dorn!" he yelled. "You're cheatin' the gallows!...Hey, Bill, +he's a bull!... Help, hyar--quick!" + +Lenore did not see the resulting conflict, but she could tell by +something that swayed the crowd when Glidden had been freed. + +"Hold up this outfit!" yelled Anderson to his men. "Come on, Jake, drag +him along." Jake appeared, leading the disheveled and wild-eyed Dorn. +"Son, you did my heart good, but there was some around here who didn't +want you to spill blood. An' that's well. For I am seein' red....Jake, +you take Dorn an' Lenore a piece toward the house, then hurry back." + +Then Lenore felt that she had hold of Dorn's arm and she was listening +to Jake without understanding a word he said, while she did hear her +father's yell of command, "Line up there, you I.W.W.'s!" + +Jake walked so swiftly that Lenore had to run to keep up. Dorn stumbled. +He spoke incoherently. He tried to stop. At this Lenore clasped his arm +and cried, "Oh, Kurt, come home with me!" + +They hurried down the slope. Lenore kept looking back. The crowd +appeared bunched now, with little motion. That relieved her. There was +no more fighting. + +Presently Dorn appeared to go more willingly. He had relaxed. "Let go, +Jake," he said. "I'm--all right--now. That arm hurts." + +"Wal, you'll excuse me, Dorn, for handlin' you rough.... Mebbe you don't +remember punchin' me one when I got between you an' Glidden?" + +"Did I?... I couldn't see, Jake," said Dorn. His voice was weak and had +a spent ring of passion in it. He did not look at Lenore, but kept his +face turned toward the cowboy. + +"I reckon this 's fur enough," rejoined Jake, halting and looking back. +"No one comin'. An' there'll be hell to pay out there. You go on to the +house with Miss Lenore.... Will you?" + +"Yes," replied Dorn. + +"Rustle along, then.... An' you, Miss Lenore, don't you worry none about +us." + +Lenore nodded and, holding Dorn's arm closely, she walked as fast as she +could down the lane. + +"I--I kept your coat," she said, "though I never thought of it--till +just now." + +She was trembling all over, hot and cold by turns, afraid to look up at +him, yet immensely proud of him, with a strange, sickening dread. He +walked rather dejectedly now, or else bent somewhat from weakness. She +stole a quick glance at his face. It was white as a sheet. Suddenly she +felt something wet and warm trickle from his arm down into her hand. +Blood! She shuddered, but did not lose her hold. After a faintish +instant there came a change in her. + +"Are you--hurt?" she asked. + +"I guess--not. I don't know," he said. + +"But the--the blood," she faltered. + +He held up his hands. His knuckles were bloody and it was impossible to +tell whether from injury to them or not. But his left forearm was badly +cut. + +"The gun cut me.... And he bit me, too," said Dorn. "I'm sorry you were +there.... What a beastly spectacle for you!" + +"Never mind me," she murmured. "I'm all right _now!_... But, oh!--" + +She broke off eloquently. + +"Was it you who had the cowboys pull me off him? Jake said, as he broke +me loose, 'For Miss Lenore's sake!'" + +"It was dad who sent them. But I begged him to." + +"That was Glidden, the I.W.W. agitator and German agent.... He--just the +same as murdered my father.... He burned my wheat--lost my all!" + +"Yes, I--I know, Kurt," whispered Lenore. + +"I meant to kill him!" + +"That was easy to tell.... Oh, thank God, you did not!... Come, don't +let us stop." She could not face the piercing, gloomy eyes that went +through her. + +"Why should you care?.... Some one will have to kill Glidden." + +"Oh, do not talk so," she implored. "Surely, now you're glad you did +not?" + +"I don't understand myself. But I'm certainly sorry you were there.... +There's a beast in men--in me!... I had a gun in my pocket. But do you +think I'd have used it?... I wanted to feel his flesh tear, his bones +break, his blood spurt--" + +"Kurt!" + +"Yes!... That was the Hun in me!" he declared, in sudden bitter passion. + +"Oh, my friend, do not talk so!" she cried. "You make me--Oh, there is +_no_ Hun in you!" + +"Yes, that's what ails me!" + +"There is _not_!" she flashed back, roused to passion. "You had been +made desperate. You acted as any wronged man! You fought. He tried to +kill you. I saw the gun. No one could blame you.... I had my own reason +for begging dad to keep you from killing him--a selfish woman's +reason!... But I tell you I was so furious--so wrought up--that if it +had been any man but _you_--he should have killed him!" + +"Lenore, you're beyond my understanding," replied Dorn, with emotion. +"But I thank you--for excusing me--for standing up for me." + +"It was nothing....Oh, how you bleed!.... Doesn't that hurt?" + +"I've no pain--no feeling at all--except a sort of dying down in me of +what must have been hell." + +They reached the house and went in. No one was there, which fact +relieved Lenore. + +"I'm glad mother and the girls won't see you," she said, hurriedly. "Go +up to your room. I'll bring bandages." + +He complied without any comment. Lenore searched for what she needed to +treat a wound and ran up-stairs. Dorn was sitting on a chair in his +room, holding his arm, from which blood dripped to the floor. He smiled +at her. + +"You would be a pretty Red Cross nurse," he said. + +Lenore placed a bowl of water on the floor and, kneeling beside Dorn, +took his arm and began to bathe it. He winced. The blood covered her +fingers. + +"My blood on your hands!" he exclaimed, morbidly. "German blood!" + +"Kurt, you're out of your head," retorted Lenore, hotly. "If you dare to +say that again I'll--" She broke off. + +"What will you do?" + +Lenore faltered. What would she do? A revelation must come, sooner or +later, and the strain had begun to wear upon her. She was stirred to her +depths, and instincts there were leaping. No sweet, gentle, kindly +sympathy would avail with this tragic youth. He must be carried by +storm. Something of the violence he had shown with Glidden seemed +necessary to make him forget himself. All his whole soul must be set in +one direction. He could not see that she loved him, when she had looked +it, acted it, almost spoken it. His blindness was not to be endured. + +"Kurt Dorn, don't dare to--to say that again!" + +She ceased bathing his arm, and looked up at him suddenly quite pale. + +"I apologize. I am only bitter," he said. "Don't mind what I say.... +It's so good of you--to do this." + +Then in silence Lenore dressed his wound, and if her heart did beat +unwontedly, her fingers were steady and deft. He thanked her, with moody +eyes seeing far beyond her. + +"When I lie--over there--with--" + +"If you go!" she interrupted. He was indeed hopeless. "I advise you to +rest a little." + +"I'd like to know what becomes of Glidden," he said. + +"So should I. That worries me." + +"Weren't there a lot of cowboys with guns?" + +"So many that there's no need for you to go out--and start another +fight." + +"I did start it, didn't I?" + +"You surely did," She left him then, turning in the doorway to ask him +please to be quiet and let the day go by without seeking those excited +men again. He smiled, but he did not promise. + +For Lenore the time dragged between dread and suspense. From her window +she saw a motley crowd pass down the lane to the main road. No +harvesters were working. At the noon meal only her mother and the girls +were present. Word had come that the I.W.W. men were being driven from +"Many Waters." Mrs. Anderson worried, and Lenore's sisters for once were +quiet. All afternoon the house was lifeless. No one came or left. Lenore +listened to every little sound. It relieved her that Dorn had remained +in his room. Her hope was that the threatened trouble had been averted, +but something told her that the worst was yet to come. + +It was nearly supper-time when she heard the men returning. They came in +a body, noisy and loitering, as if reluctant to break away from one +another. She heard the horses tramp into the barns and the loud voices +of drivers. + +When she went down-stairs she encountered her father. He looked +impressive, triumphant! His effort at evasion did not deceive Lenore. +But she realized at once that in this instance she could not get any +news from him. He said everything was all right and that I.W.W. men were +to be deported from Washington. But he did not want any supper, and he +had a low-voiced, significant interview with Dorn. Lenore longed to know +what was pending. Dorn's voice, when he said at his door, "Anderson, +I'll go!" was ringing, hard, and deadly. It frightened Lenore. Go where? +What were they going to do? Lenore thought of the vigilantes her father +had organized. + +Supper-time was an ordeal. Dorn ate a little; then excusing himself, he +went back to his room. Lenore got through the meal somehow, and, going +outside, she encountered Jake. The moment she questioned him she knew +something extraordinary had taken place or was about to take place. She +coaxed and entreated. For once Jake was hard to manage. But the more +excuses he made, the more he evaded her, the greater became Lenore's +need to know. And at last she wore the cowboy out. He could not resist +her tears, which began to flow in spite of her. + +"See hyar, Miss Lenore, I reckon you care a heap fer young Dorn--beggin' +your pardon?" queried Jake. + +"Care for him!... Jake, I love him." + +"Then take a hunch from me an' keep him home--with you--to-night." + +"Does father want Kurt Dorn to go--wherever he's going?" + +"Wal, I should smile! Your dad likes the way Dorn handles I.W.W.'s," +replied Jake, significantly. + +"Vigilantes!" whispered Lenore. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +Lenore waited for Kurt, and stood half concealed behind the curtains. It +had dawned upon her that she had an ordeal at hand. Her heart +palpitated. She heard his quick step on the stairs. She called before +she showed herself. + +"Hello!... Oh, but you startled me!" he exclaimed. He had been +surprised, too, at the abrupt meeting. Certainly he had not been +thinking of her. His pale, determined face attested to stern and +excitable thought. + +He halted before her. + +"Where are you going?" asked Lenore. + +"To see your father." + +"What about?" + +"It's rather important," he replied, with hesitation. + +"Will it take long?" + +He showed embarrassment. "I--He--We'll be occupied 'most all evening." + +"Indeed!... Very well. If you'd rather be--_occupied_--than spend the +evening with me!" Lenore turned away, affecting a disdainful and hurt +manner. + +"Lenore, it's not that," he burst out. "I--I'd rather spend an evening +with you than anybody else--or do anything." + +"That's very easy to say, Mr. Dorn," she returned, lightly. + +"But it's true," he protested. + +"Come out of the hall. Father will hear us," she said, and led him into +the room. It was not so light in there, but what light there was fell +upon his face and left hers in shadow. + +"I've made an--an appointment for to-night," he declared, with +difficulty. + +"Can't you break it?" she asked. + +"No. That would lay me open to--to cowardice--perhaps your father's +displeasure." + +"Kurt Dorn, it's brave to give up some things!... And if you go you'll +incur _my_ displeasure." + +"Go!" he ejaculated, staring at her. + +"Oh, I know!... And I'm--well, not flattered to see you'd rather go hang +I.W.W.'s than stay here with me." Lenore did not feel the assurance and +composure with which she spoke. She was struggling with her own +feelings. She believed that just as soon as she and Kurt understood each +other--faced each other without any dissimulation--then she would feel +free and strong. If only she could put the situation on a sincere +footing! She must work for that. Her difficulty was with a sense of +falsity. There was no time to plan. She must change his mind. + +Her words had made him start. + +"Then you know?" he asked. + +"Of course." + +"I'm sorry for that," he replied, soberly, as he brushed a hand up +through his wet hair. + +"But you will stay home?" + +"No," he returned, shortly, and he looked hard. + +"Kurt, I don't want _you_ mixed up with any lynching-bees," she said, +earnestly. + +"I'm a citizen of Washington. I'll join the vigilantes. I'm American. +I've been ruined by these I.W.W.'s. No man in the West has lost so much! +Father--home--land--my great harvest of wheat!... Why shouldn't I go?" + +"There's no reason except--_me_," she replied, rather unsteadily. + +He drew himself up, with a deep breath, as if fortifying himself. +"That's a mighty good reason.... But you will be kinder if you withdraw +your objections." + +"Can't you conceive of any reason why I--I beg you not to go?" + +"I can't," he replied, staring at her. It seemed that every moment he +spent in her presence increased her effect upon him. Lenore felt this, +and that buoyed up her failing courage. + +"Kurt, you've made a very distressing--a terrible and horrible blunder," +she said, with a desperation that must have seemed something else to +him. + +"My heavens! What have I done?" he gasped, his face growing paler. How +ready he was to see more catastrophe! It warmed her heart and +strengthened her nerve. + +The moment had come. Even if she did lose her power of speech she still +could show him what his blunder was. Nothing in all her life had ever +been a hundredth part as hard as this. Yet, as the words formed, her +whole heart seemed to be behind them, forcing them out. If only he did +not misunderstand! + +Then she looked directly at him and tried to speak. Her first attempt +was inarticulate, her second was a whisper, "Didn't you ever--think I--I +might care for you?" + +It was as if a shock went over him, leaving him trembling. But he did +not look as amazed as incredulous. "No, I certainly never did," he said. + +"Well--that's your blunder--for I--I do. You--you never--never--asked +me." + +"You do what--care for me?... What on earth do you mean by that?" + +Lenore was fighting many emotions now, the one most poignant being a +wild desire to escape, which battled with an equally maddening one to +hide her face on his breast. + +Yet she could see how white he had grown--how different. His hands +worked convulsively and his eyes pierced her very soul. + +"What should a girl mean--telling she cared?" + +"I don't know. Girls are beyond me," he replied, stubbornly. + +"Indeed that's true. I've felt so far beyond you--I had to come to +this." + +"Lenore," he burst out, hoarsely, "you talk in riddles! You've been so +strange, yet so fine, so sweet! And now you say you care for me!... +Care?... What does that mean? A word can drive me mad. But I never dared +to hope. I love you--love you--love you--my God! you're all I've left to +love. I--" + +"Do you think you've a monopoly on all the love in the world?" +interrupted Lenore, coming to her real self. His impassioned declaration +was all she needed. Her ordeal was over. + +It seemed as if he could not believe his ears or eyes. + +"Monopoly! World!" he echoed. "Of course I don't. But--" + +"Kurt, I love you just as much as--as you love me.... So there!" + +Lenore had time for one look at his face before he enveloped her. What a +relief to hide her own! It was pressed to his breast very closely. Her +eyes shut, and she felt hot tears under the lids. All before her +darkened sight seemed confusion, whirling chaos. It seemed that she +could not breathe and, strangely, did not need to. How unutterably happy +she felt! That was an age-long moment--wonderful for her own relief and +gladness--full of changing emotions. Presently Kurt appeared to be +coming to some semblance of rationality. He released her from that +crushing embrace, but still kept an arm around her while he held her off +and looked at her. + +"Lenore, will you kiss me?" he whispered. + +She could have cried out in sheer delight at the wonder of that whisper +in her ear. It had been she who had changed the world for Kurt Dorn. + +"Yes--presently," she replied, with a tremulous little laugh. "Wait +till--I get my breath--" + +"I was beside myself--am so yet," he replied, low voiced as if in awe. +"I've been lifted to heaven.... It cannot be true. I believe, yet I'll +not be sure till you kiss me.... You--Lenore Anderson, this girl of my +dreams! Do you love me--is it true?" + +"Yes, Kurt, indeed I do--very dearly," she replied, and turned to look +up into his face. It was transfigured. Lenore's heart swelled as a deep +and profound emotion waved over her. + +"Please kiss me--then." + +She lifted her face, flushing scarlet. Their lips met. Then with her +head upon his shoulder and her hands closely held she answered the +thousand and one questions of a bewildered and exalted lover who could +not realize the truth. Lenore laughed at him and eloquently furnished +proof of her own obsession, and told him how and why and when it all +came about. + +Not for hours did Kurt come back to actualities. "I forgot about the +vigilantes," he exclaimed, suddenly. "It's too late now.... How the time +has flown!... Oh, Lenore, thought of other things breaks in, alas!" + +He kissed her hand and got up. Another change was coming over him. +Lenore had long expected the moment when realization would claim his +attention. She was prepared. + +"Yes, you forgot your appointment with dad and the vigilantes. You've +missed some excitement and violence." + +His face had grown white again--grave now and troubled. "May I speak to +your father?" he asked. + +"Yes," she replied. + +"If I come back from the war--well--not crippled--will you promise to +marry me?" + +"Kurt, I promise now." + +That seemed to shake him. "But, Lenore, it is not fair to you. I don't +believe a soldier should bind a girl by marriage or engagement before he +goes to war. She should be free.... I want you to be free." + +"That's for you to say," she replied, softly. "But for my part, I don't +want to be free--if you go away to war." + +"If!... I'm going," he said, with a start. "You don't want to be free? +Lenore, would you be engaged to me?" + +"My dear boy, of course I would.... It seems I _am,_ doesn't it?" she +replied, with one of her deep, low laughs. + +He gazed at her, fascinated, worked upon by overwhelming emotions. +"Would you marry me--before I go?" + +"Yes," she flashed. + +He bent and bowed then under the storm. Stumbling to her, almost on his +knees, he brokenly expressed his gratitude, his wonder, his passion, and +the terrible temptation that he must resist, which she must help him to +resist. + +"Kurt, I love you. I will see things through your eyes, if I must. I +want to be a comfort to you, not a source of sorrow." + +"But, Lenore, what comfort can I find?... To leave you now is going to +be horrible!... To part from you now--I don't see how I can." + +Then Lenore dared to broach the subject so delicate, so momentous. + +"You need not part from me. My father has asked me to try to keep you +home. He secured exemption for you. You are more needed here than at the +front. You can feed many soldiers. You would be doing your duty--with +honor!... You would be a soldier. The government is going to draft young +men for farm duty. Why not you? There are many good reasons why you +would be better than most young men. Because you know wheat. And wheat +is to become the most important thing in the world. No one misjudges +your loyalty.... And surely you see that the best service to your +country is what you can do best." + +He sat down beside her, with serious frown and somber eyes. "Lenore, are +you asking me not to go to war?" + +"Yes, I am," she replied. "I have thought it all over. I've given up my +brother. I'd not ask you to stay home if you were needed at the front as +much as here. That question I have had out with my conscience.... Kurt, +don't think me a silly, sentimental girl. Events of late have made me a +woman." + +He buried his face in his hands. "That's the most amazing of +all--you--Lenore Anderson, my American girl--asking me not to go to +war." + +"But, dear, it is not so amazing. It's reasonable. Your peculiar point +of view makes it look different. I am no weak, timid, love-sick girl +afraid to let you go!... I've given you good, honorable, patriotic +reasons for your exemption from draft. Can you see that?" + +"Yes. I grant all your claims. I know wheat well enough to tell you that +if vastly more wheat-raising is not done the world will starve. That +would hold good for the United States in forty years without war." + +"Then if you see my point why are you opposed to it?" she asked. + +"Because I am Kurt Dorn," he replied, bitterly. + +His tone, his gloom made her shiver. It would take all her intelligence +and wit and reason to understand him, and vastly more than that to +change him. She thought earnestly. This was to be an ordeal profoundly +more difficult than the confession of her love. It was indeed a crisis +dwarfing the other she had met. She sensed in him a remarkably strange +attitude toward this war, compared with that of her brother or other +boys she knew who had gone. + +"Because you are Kurt Dorn," she said, thoughtfully. "It's in the name, +then.... But I think it a pretty name--a good name. Have I not consented +to accept it as mine--for life?" + +He could not answer that. Blindly he reached out with a shaking hand, to +find hers, to hold it close. Lenore felt the tumult in him. She was +shocked. A great tenderness, sweet and motherly, flooded over her. + +"Dearest, in this dark hour--that was so bright a little while ago--you +must not keep anything from me," she replied. "I will be true to you. I +will crush my selfish hopes. I will be your mother.... tell me why you +must go to war because you are Kurt Dorn." + +"My father was German. He hated this country--yours and mine. He plotted +with the I.W.W. He hated your father and wanted to destroy him.... +Before he died he realized his crime. For so I take the few words he +spoke to Jerry. But all the same he was a traitor to my country. I bear +his name. I have German in me.... And by God I'm going to pay!" + +His deep, passionate tones struck into Lenore's heart. She fought with a +rising terror. She was beginning to understand him. How helpless she +felt--how she prayed for inspiration--for wisdom! + +"Pay!... How?" she asked. + +"In the only way possible. I'll see that a Dorn goes to war--who will +show his American blood--who will fight and kill--and be killed!" + +His passion, then, was more than patriotism. It had its springs in the +very core of his being. He had, it seemed, a debt that he must pay. But +there was more than this in his grim determination. And Lenore divined +that it lay hidden in his bitter reference to his German blood. He hated +that--doubted himself because of it. She realized now that to keep him +from going to war would be to make him doubt his manhood and eventually +to despise himself. No longer could she think of persuading him to stay +home. She must forget herself. She knew then that she had the power to +keep him and she could use it, but she must not do so. This tragic thing +was a matter of his soul. But if he went to war with this bitter +obsession, with this wrong motive, this passionate desire to spill blood +in him that he hated, he would lose his soul. He must be changed. All +her love, all her woman's flashing, subtle thought concentrated on this +fact. How strange the choice that had been given her! Not only must she +relinquish her hope of keeping him home, but she must perhaps go to +desperate ends to send him away with a changed spirit. The moment of +decision was agony for her. + +"Kurt, this is a terrible hour for both of us," she said, "but, thank +Heaven, you have confessed to me. Now I will confess to you." + +"Confess?... You?... What nonsense!" he exclaimed. But in his surprise +he lifted his head from his hands to look at her. + +"When we came in here my mind was made up to make you stay home. Father +begged me to do it, and I had my own selfish motive. It was love. Oh, I +do love you, Kurt, more than you can dream of!... I justified my +resolve. I told you that. But I wanted you. I wanted your love--your +presence. I longed for a home with you as husband--master--father to my +babies. I dreamed of all. It filled me with terror to think of you going +to war. You might be crippled--mangled--murdered.... Oh, my dear, I +could not bear the thought!... So I meant to overcome you. I had it all +planned. I meant to love you--to beg you--to kiss you--to make you +stay--" + +"Lenore, what are you saying?" he cried, in shocked amaze. + +She flung her arms round his neck. "Oh, I could--I could have kept you!" +she answered, low voiced and triumphant. "It fills me with joy.... Tell +me I could have kept you--tell me." + +"Yes. I've no power to resist you. But I might have hated--" + +"Hush!... It's all might have.... I've risen above myself." + +"Lenore, you distress me. A little while ago you bewildered me with your +sweetness and love.... Now--you look like an angel or a goddess.... Oh, +to have your face like this--always with me! Yet it distresses me--so +terrible in purpose. What are you about to tell me? I see something--" + +"Listen," she broke in. "I meant to make you weak. I implore you now to +be strong. You must go to war! But with all my heart and soul I beg you +to go with a changed spirit.... You were about to do a terrible thing. +You hated the German in you and meant to kill it by violence. You +despised the German blood and you meant to spill it. Like a wild man you +would have rushed to fight, to stab and beat, to murder--and you would +have left your breast open for a bayonet-thrust.... Oh, I know it!... +Kurt, you are horribly wrong. That is no way to go to war.... War is a +terrible business, but men don't wage it for motives such as yours. We +Americans all have different strains of blood--English--French--German. +One is as good as another. You are obsessed--you are out of your head on +this German question. You must kill that idea--kill it with one +bayonet-thrust of sense.... You must go to war as my soldier--with my +ideal. Your country has called you to help uphold its honor, its pledged +word. You must fight to conquer an enemy who threatens to destroy +freedom.... You must be brave, faithful, merciful, clean--an American +soldier!... You are only one of a million. You have no personal need for +war. You are as good, as fine, as noble as any man--my choice, sir, of +all the men in the world!... I am sending you. I am giving you up.... +Oh, my darling--you will never know how hard it is!... But go! Your life +has been sad. You have lost so much. I feel in my woman's heart what +will be--if only you'll change--if you see God in this as I see. Promise +me. Love that which you hated. Prove for yourself what I believe. Trust +me--promise me... Then--oh, I know God will send you back to me!" + +He fell upon his knees before her to bury his face in her lap. His whole +frame shook. His hands plucked at her dress. A low sob escaped him. + +"Lenore," he whispered, brokenly, "I can't see God in this--for me!... I +can't promise!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +Thirty masked men sat around a long harvest mess-table. Two lanterns +furnished light enough to show a bare barnlike structure, the +rough-garbed plotters, the grim set of hard lips below the half-masks, +and big hands spread out, ready to draw from the hat that was passing. + +The talk was low and serious. No names were spoken. A heavy man, at the +head of the table, said: "We thirty, picked men, represent the country. +Let each member here write on his slip of paper his choice of punishment +for the I.W.W.'s--death or deportation...." + +The members of the band bent their masked faces and wrote in a dead +silence. A noiseless wind blew through the place. The lanterns +flickered; huge shadows moved on the walls. When the papers had been +passed back to the leader he read them. + +"Deportation," he announced. "So much for the I.W.W. men.... Now for the +leader.... But before we vote on what to do with Glidden let me read an +extract from one of his speeches. This is authentic. It has been +furnished by the detective lately active in our interest. Also it has +been published. I read it because I want to bring home to you all an +issue that goes beyond our own personal fortunes here." + +Leaning toward the flickering flare of the lantern, the leader read from +a slip of paper: "If the militia are sent out here to hinder the I.W.W. +we will make it so damned hot for the government that no troops will be +able to go to France.... I don't give a damn what this country is +fighting for.... I am fighting for the rights of labor.... American +soldiers are Uncle Sam's scabs in disguise." + +The deep, impressive voice ended. The leader's huge fist descended upon +the table with a crash. He gazed up and down the rows of sinister masked +figures. "Have you anything to say?" + +"No," replied one. + +"Pass the slips," said another. + +And then a man, evidently on in years, for his hair was gray and he +looked bent, got up. "Neighbors," he began "I lived here in the early +days. For the last few years I've been apologizing for my home town. I +don't want to apologize for it any longer." + +He sat down. And a current seemed to wave from him around that dark +square of figures. The leader cleared his throat as if he had much to +say, but he did not speak. Instead he passed the hat. Each man drew +forth a slip of paper and wrote upon it. The action was not slow. +Presently the hat returned round the table to the leader. He spilled its +contents, and with steady hand picked up the first slip of paper. + +"Death!" he read, sonorously, and laid it down to pick up another. Again +he spoke that grim word. The third brought forth the same, and likewise +the next, and all, until the verdict had been called out thirty times. + +"At daylight we'll meet," boomed out that heavy voice. "Instruct +Glidden's guards to make a show of resistance.... We'll hang Glidden to +the railroad bridge. Then each of you get your gangs together. Round up +all the I.W.W.'s. Drive them to the railroad yard. There we'll put them +aboard a railroad train of empty cars. And that train will pass under +the bridge where Glidden will be hanging.... We'll escort them out of +the country." + + * * * * * + +That August dawn was gray and cool, with gold and pink beginning to +break over the dark eastern ranges. The town had not yet awakened. It +slept unaware of the stealthy forms passing down the gray road and of +the distant hum of motor-cars and trot of hoofs. + +Glidden's place of confinement was a square warehouse, near the edge of +town. Before the improvised jail guards paced up and down, strangely +alert. + +Daylight had just cleared away the gray when a crowd of masked men +appeared as if by magic and bore down upon the guards. There was an +apparent desperate resistance, but, significantly, no cries or shots. +The guards were overpowered and bound. + +The door of the jail yielded to heavy blows of an ax. In the corner of a +dim, bare room groveled Glidden, bound so that he had little use of his +body. But he was terribly awake. When six men entered he asked, +hoarsely: "What're you--after?... What--you mean?" + +They jerked him erect. They cut the bonds from his legs. They dragged +him out into the light of breaking day. + +When he saw the masked and armed force he cried: "My God!... What'll +you--do with me?" + +Ghastly, working, sweating, his face betrayed his terror. + +"You're to be hanged by the neck," spoke a heavy, solemn voice. + +The man would have collapsed but for the strong hands that upheld him. + +"What--for?" he gasped. + +"For I.W.W. crimes--for treason--for speeches no American can stand in +days like these." Then this deep-voiced man read to Glidden words of his +own. + +"Do you recognize that?" + +Glidden saw how he had spoken his own doom. "Yes, I said that," he had +nerve left to say. "But--I insist on arrest--trial--justice!... I'm no +criminal.... I've big interests behind me.... You'll suffer--" + +A loop of a lasso, slung over his head and jerked tight, choked off his +intelligible utterance. But as the silent, ruthless men dragged him away +he gave vent to terrible, half-strangled cries. + +The sun rose red over the fertile valley--over the harvest fields and +the pastures and the orchards, and over the many towns that appeared +lost in the green and gold of luxuriance. + +In the harvest districts west of the river all the towns were visited by +swift-flying motor-cars that halted long enough for a warning to be +shouted to the citizens, "Keep off the streets!" + +Simultaneously armed forces of men, on foot and on horseback, too +numerous to count, appeared in the roads and the harvest fields. + +They accosted every man they met. If he were recognized or gave proof of +an honest identity he was allowed to go; otherwise he was marched along +under arrest. These armed forces were thorough in their search, and in +the country districts they had an especial interest in likely +camping-places, and around old barns and straw-stacks. In the towns they +searched every corner that was big enough to hide a man. + +So it happened that many motley groups of men were driven toward the +railroad line, where they were held until a freight-train of empty +cattle-cars came along. This train halted long enough to have the I.W.W. +contingent driven aboard, with its special armed guard following, and +then it proceeded on to the next station. As stations were many, so were +the halts, and news of the train with its strange freight flashed ahead. +Crowds lined the railroad tracks. Many boys and men in these crowds +carried rifles and pistols which they leveled at the I.W.W. prisoners as +the train passed. Jeers and taunts and threats accompanied this +presentation of guns. + +Before the last station of that wheat district was reached full three +hundred members of the I.W.W., or otherwise suspicious characters, were +packed into the open cars. At the last stop the number was greatly +augmented, and the armed forces were cut down to the few guards who were +to see the I.W.W. deported from the country. Here provisions and +drinking-water were put into the cars. And amid a hurrahing roar of +thousands the train with its strange load slowly pulled out. + +It did not at once gather headway. The engine whistled a prolonged +blast--a signal or warning not lost on many of its passengers. + +From the front cars rose shrill cries that alarmed the prisoners in the +rear. The reason soon became manifest. Arms pointed and eyes stared at +the figure of a man hanging from a rope fastened to the center of a high +bridge span under which the engine was about to pass. + +The figure swayed in the wind. It turned half-way round, disclosing a +ghastly, distorted face, and a huge printed placard on the breast, then +it turned back again. Slowly the engine drew one car-load after another +past the suspended body of the dead man. There were no more cries. All +were silent in that slow-moving train. All faces were pale, all eyes +transfixed. + +The placard on the hanged man's breast bore in glaring red a strange +message: _Last warning_. 3-7-77. + +The figures were the ones used in the frontier days by vigilantes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +A dusty motor-car climbed the long road leading up to the Neuman ranch. +It was not far from Wade, a small hamlet of the wheat-growing section, +and the slopes of the hills, bare and yellow with waving grain, bore +some semblance to the Bend country. Four men--a driver and three +cowboys--were in the automobile. + +A big stone gate marked the entrance to Neuman's ranch. Cars and +vehicles lined the roadside. Men were passing in and out. Neuman's home +was unpretentious, but his barns and granaries and stock-houses were +built on a large scale. + +"Bill, are you goin' in with me after this pard of the Kaiser's?" +inquired Jake, leisurely stretching himself as the car halted. He opened +the door and stiffly got out. "Gimme a hoss any day fer gittin' places!" + +"Jake, my regard fer your rep as Anderson's foreman makes me want to hug +the background," replied Bill. "I've done a hell of a lot these last +forty-eight hours." + +"Wal, I reckon you have, Bill, an' no mistake.... But I was figgerin' on +you wantin' to see the fun." + +"Fun!... Jake, it 'll be fun enough fer me to sit hyar an' smoke in the +shade, an' watch fer you to come a-runnin' from thet big German +devil.... Pard, they say he's a bad man!" + +"Sure. I know thet. All them Germans is bad." + +"If the boss hadn't been so dog-gone strict about gun-play I'd love to +go with you," responded Bill. "But he didn't give me no orders. You're +the whole outfit this round-up." + +"Bill, you'd have to take orders from me," said Jake, coolly. + +"Sure. Thet's why I come with Andy." + +The other cowboy, called Andy, manifested uneasiness, and he said: "Aw, +now, Jake, you ain't a-goin' to ask me to go in there?... An' me hatin' +Germans the way I do!" + +"Nope. I guess I'll order Bill to go in an' fetch Neuman out," replied +Jake, complacently, as he made as if to re-enter the car. + +Bill collapsed in his seat. "Jake," he expostulated, weakly, "this job +was given you because of your rep fer deploomacy.... Sure I haven't none +of thet.... An' you, Jake, why you're the smoothest an' slickest talker +thet ever come to the Northwest." + +Evidently Jake had a vulnerable point. He straightened up with a little +swagger. "Wal, you watch me," he said. "I'll fetch the big Dutchman +eatin' out of my hand.... An' say, when we git him in the car an' start +back let's scare the daylights out of him." + +"Thet'd be powerful fine. But how?" + +"You fellers take a hunch from me," replied Jake. And he strode off up +the lane toward the ranch-house. + +Jake had been commissioned to acquaint Neuman with the fact that recent +developments demanded his immediate presence at "Many Waters." The +cowboy really had a liking for the job, though he pretended not to. + +Neuman had not yet begun harvesting. There were signs to Jake's +experienced eye that the harvest-hands were expected this very day. Jake +fancied he knew why the rancher had put off his harvesting. And also he +knew that the extra force of harvest-hands would not appear. He was +regarded with curiosity by the women members of the Neuman household, +and rather enjoyed it. There were several comely girls in evidence. Jake +did not look a typical Northwest foreman and laborer. Booted and +spurred, with his gun swinging visibly, and his big sombrero and gaudy +scarf, he looked exactly what he was, a cowman of the open ranges. + +His inquiries elicited the fact that Neuman was out in the fields, +waiting for the harvest-hands. + +"Wal, if he's expectin' thet outfit of I.W.W.'s he'll never harvest," +said Jake, "for some of them is hanged an' the rest run out of the +country." + +Jake did not wait to see the effect of his news. He strode back toward +the fields, and with the eye of a farmer he appraised the barns and +corrals, and the fields beyond. Neuman raised much wheat, and enough +alfalfa to feed his stock. His place was large and valuable, but not +comparable to "Many Waters." + +Out in the wheat-fields were engines with steam already up, with +combines and threshers and wagons waiting for the word to start. Jake +enjoyed the keen curiosity roused by his approach. Neuman strode out +from a group of waiting men. He was huge of build, ruddy-faced and +bearded, with deep-set eyes. + +"Are you Neuman?" inquired Jake. + +"That's me," gruffly came the reply. + +"I'm Anderson's foreman. I've been sent over to tell you thet you're +wanted pretty bad at 'Many Waters.'" + +The man stared incredulously. "What?... Who wants me?" + +"Anderson. An' I reckon there's more--though I ain't informed." + +Neuman rumbled a curse. Amaze dominated him. "Anderson!... Well, I don't +want to see him," he replied. + +"I reckon you don't," was the cowboy's cool reply. + +The rancher looked him up and down. However familiar his type was to +Anderson, it was strange to Neuman. The cowboy breathed a potential +force. The least significant thing about his appearance was that +swinging gun. He seemed cool and easy, with hard, keen eyes. Neuman's +face took a shade off color. + +"But I'm going to harvest to-day," he said. "I'm late. I've a hundred +hands coming." + +"Nope. You haven't none comin'," asserted Jake. + +"What!" ejaculated Neuman. + +"Reckon it's near ten o'clock," said the cowboy. "We run over here +powerful fast." + +"Yes, it's near ten," bellowed Neuman, on the verge of a rage.... "I +haven't harvest-hands coming!... What's this talk?" + +"Wal, about nine-thirty I seen all your damned I.W.W.'s, except what was +shot an' hanged, loaded in a cattlecar an' started out of the country." + +A blow could not have hit harder than the cowboy's biting speech. +Astonishment and fear shook Neuman before he recovered control of +himself. + +"If it's true, what's that to me?" he bluffed, in hoarse accents. + +"Neuman, I didn't come to answer questions," said the cowboy, curtly. +"My boss jest sent me fer you, an' if you bucked on comin', then I was +to say it was your only chance to avoid publicity an' bein' run out of +the country." + +Neuman was livid of face now and shaking all over his huge frame. + +"Anderson threatens me!" he shouted. "Anderson suspicions me!... _Gott +in Himmel_!... Me he always cheated! An' now he insults--" + +"Say, it ain't healthy to talk like thet about my boss," interrupted +Jake, forcibly. "An' we're wastin' time. If you don't go with me we'll +be comin' back--the whole outfit of us!... Anderson means you're to face +his man!" + +"What man?" + +"Dorn. Young Dorn, son of old Chris Dorn of the Bend.... Dorn has some +things to tell you thet you won't want made public.... Anderson's givin' +you a square deal. If it wasn't fer thet I'd sling my gun on you!... Do +you git my hunch?" + +The name of Dorn made a slack figure of the aggressive Neuman. + +"All right--I go," he said, gruffly, and without a word to his men he +started off. + +Jake followed him. Neuman made a short cut to the gate, thus avoiding a +meeting with any of his family. At the road, however, some men observed +him and called in surprise, but he waved them back. + +"Bill, you an' Andy collect yourselves an' give Mr. Neuman a seat," said +Jake, as he opened the door to allow the farmer to enter. + +The two cowboys gave Neuman the whole of the back seat, and they +occupied the smaller side seats. Jake took his place beside the driver. + +"Burn her up!" was his order. + +The speed of the car made conversation impossible until the limits of a +town necessitated slowing down. Then the cowboys talked. For all the +attention they paid to Neuman, he might as well not have been present. +Before long the driver turned into a road that followed a railroad track +for several miles and then crossed it to enter a good-sized town. The +streets were crowded with people and the car had to be driven slowly. At +this juncture Jake suggested. + +"Let's go down by the bridge." + +"Sure," agreed his allies. + +Then the driver turned down a still more peopled street that sloped a +little and evidently overlooked the railroad tracks. Presently they came +in sight of a railroad bridge, around which there appeared to be an +excited yet awestruck throng. All faces were turned up toward the +swaying form of a man hanging by a rope tied to the high span of the +bridge. + +"Wal, Glidden's hangin' there yet," remarked Jake, cheerfully. + +With a violent start Neuman looked out to see the ghastly placarded +figure, and then he sank slowly back in his seat. The cowboys apparently +took no notice of him. They seemed to have forgotten his presence. + +"Funny they'd cut all the other I.W.W.'s down an' leave Glidden hangin' +there," observed Bill. + +"Them vigilantes sure did it up brown," added Andy. "I was dyin' to join +the band. But they didn't ask me." + +"Nor me," replied Jake, regretfully. "An' I can't understand why, onless +it was they was afeared I couldn't keep a secret." + +"Who is them vigilantes, anyhow?" asked Bill, curiously. + +"Wal, I reckon nobody knows. But I seen a thousand armed men this +mornin'. They sure looked bad. You ought to have seen them poke the +I.W.W.'s with cocked guns." + +"Was any one shot?" queried Andy. + +"Not in the daytime. Nobody killed by this Citizens' Protective League, +as they call themselves. They just rounded up all the suspicious men an' +herded them on to thet cattle-train an' carried them off. It was at +night when the vigilantes worked--masked an' secret an' sure bloody. +Jest like the old vigilante days! ... An' you can gamble they ain't +through yet." + +"Uncle Sam won't need to send any soldiers here." + +"Wal, I should smile not. Thet'd be a disgrace to the Northwest. It was +a bad time fer the I.W.W. to try any tricks on us." + +Jake shook his lean head and his jaw bulged. He might have been +haranguing, cowboy-like, for the benefit of the man they feigned not to +notice, but it was plain, nevertheless, that he was angry. + +"What gits me wuss 'n them I.W.W.'s is the skunks thet give Uncle Sam +the double-cross," said Andy, with dark face. "I'll stand fer any man +an' respect him if he's aboveboard an' makes his fight in the open. But +them coyotes thet live off the land an' pretend to be American when they +ain't--they make me pisen mad." + +"I heerd the vigilantes has marked men like thet," observed Bill. + +"I'll give you a hunch, fellers," replied Jake, grimly. "By Gawd! the +West won't stand fer traitors!" + +All the way to "Many Waters," where it was possible to talk and be +heard, the cowboys continued in like strain. And not until the driver +halted the car before Anderson's door did they manifest any awareness of +Neuman. + +"Git out an' come in," said Jake to the pallid, sweating rancher. + +He led Neuman into the hall and knocked upon Anderson's study door. It +was opened by Dorn. + +"Wal, hyar we are," announced Jake, and his very nonchalance attested to +pride. + +Anderson was standing beside his desk. He started, and his hand flashed +back significantly as he sighted his rival and enemy. + +"No gun-play, boss, was your orders," said Jake. "An' Neuman ain't +packin' no gun." + +It was plain that Anderson made a great effort at restraint. But he +failed. And perhaps the realization that he could not kill this man +liberated his passion. Then the two big ranchers faced each +other--Neuman livid and shaking, Anderson black as a thunder-cloud. + +"Neuman, you hatched up a plot with Glidden to kill me," said Anderson, +bitterly. + +Neuman, in hoarse, brief answer, denied it. + +"Sure! Deny it. What do we care? ... We've got you, Neuman," burst out +Anderson, his heavy voice ringing with passion. "But it's not your +low-down plot thet's r'iled me. There's been a good many men who've +tried to do away with me. I've outplayed you in many a deal. So your +personal hate for me doesn't count. I'm sore--an' you an' me can't live +in the same place, because you're a damned traitor. You've lived here +for twenty years. You've grown rich off the country. An' you'd sell us +to your rotten Germany. What I think of you for that I'm goin' to tell +you." + +Anderson paused to take a deep breath. Then he began to curse Neuman. +All the rough years of his frontier life, as well as the quieter ones of +his ranching days, found expression in the swift, thunderous roll of his +terrible scorn. Every vile name that had ever been used by cowboy, +outlaw, gambler, leaped to Anderson's stinging tongue. All the keen, +hard epithets common to the modern day he flung into Neuman's face. And +he ended with a profanity that was as individual in character as its +delivery was intense. + +"I'm callin' you for my own relief," he concluded, "an' not that I +expect to get under your hide." + +Then he paused. He wiped the beaded drops from his forehead, and he +coughed and shook himself. His big fists unclosed. Passion gave place to +dignity. + +"Neuman, it's a pity you an' men like you can't see the truth. That's +the mystery to me--why any one who had spent half a lifetime an' +prospered here in our happy an' beautiful country could ever hate it. I +never will understand that. But I do understand that America will never +harbor such men for long. You have your reasons, I reckon. An' no doubt +you think you're justified. That's the tragedy. You run off from +hard-ruled Germany. You will not live there of your own choice. You +succeed here an' live in peace an' plenty.... An', by God! you take up +with a lot of foreign riffraff an' double-cross the people you owe so +much!... What's wrong with your mind?... Think it over.... An' that's +the last word I have for you." + +Anderson, turning to his desk, took up a cigar and lighted it. He was +calm again. There was really sadness where his face had shown only fury. +Then he addressed Dorn. + +"Kurt, it's up to you now," he said. "As my superintendent an' some-day +partner, what you'll say goes with me.... I don't know what bein' square +would mean in relation to this man." + +Anderson sat down heavily in his desk chair and his face became obscured +in cigar smoke. + +"Neuman, do you recognize me?" asked Dorn, with his flashing eyes on the +rancher. + +"No," replied Neuman. + +"I'm Chris Dorn's son. My father died a few days ago. He overtaxed his +heart fighting fire in the wheat ... Fire set by I.W.W. men. Glidden's +men! ... They burned our wheat. Ruined us!" + +Neuman showed shock at the news, at the sudden death of an old friend, +but he did not express himself in words. + +"Do you deny implication in Glidden's plot to kill Anderson?" demanded +Dorn. + +"Yes," replied Neuman. + +"Well, you're a liar!" retorted Dorn. "I saw you with Glidden and my +father. I followed you at Wheatly--out along the railroad tracks. I +slipped up and heard the plot. It was I who snatched the money from my +father." + +Neuman's nerve was gone, but with his stupid and stubborn process of +thought he still denied, stuttering incoherently. + +"Glidden has been hanged," went on Dorn. "A vigilante band has been +organized here in the valley. Men of your known sympathy will not be +safe, irrespective of your plot against Anderson. But as to that, +publicity alone will be enough to ruin you.... Americans of the West +will not tolerate traitors.... Now the question you've got to decide is +this. Will you take the risks or will you sell out and leave the +country?" + +"I'll sell out," replied Neuman. + +"What price do you put on your ranch as it stands?" + +"One hundred thousand dollars." + +Dorn turned to Anderson and asked, "Is it worth that much?" + +"No. Seventy-five thousand would be a big price," replied the rancher. + +"Neuman, we will give you seventy-five thousand for your holdings. Do +you accept?" + +"I have no choice," replied Neuman, sullenly. + +"Choice!" exclaimed Dorn. "Yes, you have. And you're not being cheated. +I've stated facts. You are done in this valley. You're ruined _now!_ And +Glidden's fate stares you in the face.... Will you sell and leave the +country?" + +"Yes," came the deep reply, wrenched from a stubborn breast. + +"Go draw up your deeds, then notify us," said Dorn, with finality. + +Jake opened the door. Stolidly and slowly Neuman went out, precisely as +he had entered, like a huge man in conflict with unintelligible +thoughts. + +"Send him home in the car," called Anderson. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +For two fleeting days Lenore Anderson was happy when she forgot, +miserable when she remembered. Then the third morning dawned. + +At the breakfast-table her father had said, cheerily, to Dorn: "Better +take off your coat an' come out to the fields. We've got some job to +harvest that wheat with only half-force.... But, by George! my trouble's +over." + +Dorn looked suddenly blank, as if Anderson's cheery words had recalled +him to the realities of life. He made an incoherent excuse and left the +table. + +"Ah-huh!" Anderson's characteristic exclamation might have meant little +or much. "Lenore, what ails the boy?" + +"Nothing that I know of. He has been as--as happy as I am," she replied. + +"Then it's all settled?" + +"Father, I--I--" + +Kathleen's high, shrill, gleeful voice cut in: "Sure it's settled! Look +at Lenorry blush!" + +Lenore indeed felt the blood stinging face and neck. Nevertheless, she +laughed. + +"Come into my room," said Anderson. + +She followed him there, and as he closed the door she answered his +questioning look by running into his arms and hiding her face. + +"Wal, I'll be dog-goned!" the rancher ejaculated, with emotion. He held +her and patted her shoulder with his big hand. "Tell me, Lenore." + +"There's little to tell," she replied, softly. "I love him--and he loves +me so--so well that I've been madly happy--in spite of--of--" + +"Is that all?" asked Anderson, dubiously. + +"Is not that enough?" + +"But Dorn's lovin' you so well doesn't say he'll not go to war." + +And it was then that forgotten bitterness returned to poison Lenore's +cup of joy. + +"Ah!"... she whispered. + +"Good Lord! Lenore, you don't mean you an' Dorn have been alone all the +time these few days--an' you haven't settled that war question?" queried +Anderson, in amaze. + +"Yes.... How strange!... But since--well, since something +happened--we--we forgot," she replied, dreamily. + +"Wal, go back to it," said Anderson, forcibly. "I want Dorn to help +me.... Why, he's a wonder!... He's saved the situation for us here in +the valley. Every rancher I know is praisin' him high. An' he sure +treated Neuman square. An' here I am with three big wheat-ranches on my +hands!... Lenore, you've got to keep him home." + +"Dad!... I--I could not!" replied Lenore. She was strangely realizing an +indefinable change in herself. "I can't try to keep him from going to +war. I never thought of that since--since we confessed our love.... But +it's made some difference.... It'll kill me, I think, to let him go--but +I'd die before I'd ask him to stay home." + +"Ah-huh!" sighed Anderson, and, releasing her, he began to pace the +room. "I don't begin to understand you, girl. But I respect your +feelin's. It's a hell of a muddle!... I'd forgotten the war myself while +chasin' off them I.W.W.'s.... But this war has _got_ to be reckoned +with!... Send Dorn to me!" + +Lenore found Dorn playing with Kathleen. These two had become as brother +and sister. + +"Kurt, dad wants to see you," said Lenore seriously. + +Dorn looked startled, and the light of fun on his face changed to a +sober concern. + +"You told him?" + +"Yes, Kurt, I told him what little I had to tell." + +He gave her a strange glance and then slowly went toward her father's +study. Lenore made a futile attempt to be patient. She heard her +father's deep voice, full and earnest, and she heard Dorn's quick, +passionate response. She wondered what this interview meant. Anderson +was not one to give up easily. He had set his heart upon holding this +capable young man in the great interests of the wheat business. Lenore +could not understand why she was not praying that he be successful. But +she was not. It was inexplicable and puzzling--this change in her--this +end of her selfishness. Yet she shrank in terror from an impinging +sacrifice. She thrust the thought from her with passionate physical +gesture and with stern effort of will. + +Dorn was closeted with her father for over an hour. When he came out he +was white, but apparently composed. Lenore had never seen his eyes so +piercing as when they rested upon her. + +"Whew!" he exclaimed, and wiped his face. "Your father has my poor old +dad--what does Kathleen say?--skinned to a frazzle!" + +"What did he say?" asked Lenore, anxiously. + +"A lot--and just as if I didn't know it all better than he knows," +replied Dorn, sadly. "The importance of wheat; his three ranches and +nobody to run them; his growing years; my future and a great opportunity +as one of the big wheat men of the Northwest; the present need of the +government; his only son gone to war, which was enough for his +family.... And then he spoke of you--heiress to 'Many Waters'--what a +splendid, noble girl you were--like your mother! What a shame to ruin +your happiness--your future!... He said you'd make the sweetest of +wives--the truest of mothers!... Oh, my God!" + +Lenore turned away her face, shocked to her heart by his tragic passion. +Dorn was silent for what seemed a long time. + +"And--then he cussed me--hard--as no doubt I deserved," added Dorn. + +"But--what did you say?" she whispered. + +"I said a lot, too," replied Dorn, remorsefully. + +"Did--did you--?" began Lenore, and broke off, unable to finish. + +"I arrived--to where I am now--pretty dizzy," he responded, with a smile +that was both radiant and sorrowful. He took her hands and held them +close. "Lenore!... if I come home from the war--still with my arms and +legs--whole--will you marry me?" + +"Only come home _alive_, and no matter what you lose, yes!--yes!" she +whispered, brokenly. + +"But it's a conditional proposal, Lenore," he insisted. "You must never +marry half a man." + +"I will marry _you_!" she cried, passionately. + +It seemed to her that she loved him all the more, every moment, even +though he made it so hard for her. Then through blurred, dim eyes she +saw him take something from his pocket and felt him put a ring on her +finger. + +"It fits! Isn't that lucky," he said, softly. "My mother's ring, +Lenore...." + +He kissed her hand. + +Kathleen was standing near them, open-eyed and open-mouthed, in an +ecstasy of realization. + +"Kathleen, your sister has promised to marry me--when I come from the +war," said Dorn to the child. + +She squealed with delight, and, manifestly surrendering to a +long-considered temptation, she threw her arms around his neck and +hugged him close. + +"It's perfectly grand!" she cried. "But what a chump you are for going +at all--when you could marry Lenorry!" + +That was Kathleen's point of view, and it must have coincided somewhat +with Mr. Anderson's. + +"Kathleen, you wouldn't have me be a slacker?" asked Dorn, gently. + +"No. But we let Jim go," was her argument. + +Dorn kissed her, then turned to Lenore. "Let's go out to the fields." + + * * * * * + +It was not a long walk to the alfalfa, but by the time she got there +Lenore's impending woe was as if it had never been. Dorn seemed +strangely gay and unusually demonstrative; apparently he forgot the +war-cloud in the joy of the hour. That they were walking in the open +seemed not to matter to him. + +"Kurt, some one will see you," Lenore remonstrated. + +"You're more beautiful than ever to-day," he said, by way of answer, and +tried to block her way. + +Lenore dodged and ran. She was fleet, and eluded him down the lane, +across the cut field, to a huge square stack of baled alfalfa. But he +caught her just as she got behind its welcome covert. Lenore was far +less afraid of him than of laughing eyes. Breathless, she backed up +against the stack. + +"You're--a--cannibal!" she panted. But she did not make much resistance. + +"You're--a goddess!" he replied. + +"Me!... Of what?" + +"Why, of 'Many Waters'!... Goddess of wheat!... The sweet, waving wheat, +rich and golden--the very spirit of life!" + +"If anybody sees you--mauling me--this way--I'll not seem a goddess to +him.... My hair is down--my waist--Oh, Kurt!" + +Yet it did not very much matter how she looked or what happened. Beyond +all was the assurance of her dearness to him. Suddenly she darted away +from him again. Her heart swelled, her spirit soared, her feet were +buoyant and swift. She ran into the uncut alfalfa. It was thick and +high, tangling round her feet. Here her progress was retarded. Dorn +caught up with her. His strong hands on her shoulders felt masterful, +and the sweet terror they inspired made her struggle to get away. + +"You shall--not--hold me!" she cried. + +"But I will. You must be taught--not to run," he said, and wrapped her +tightly in his arms. + +"Now surrender your kisses meekly!" + +"I--surrender!... But, Kurt, someone will see... Dear, we'll go +back--or--somewhere--" + +"Who can see us here but the birds?" he said, and the strong hands held +her fast. "You will kiss me--enough--right now--even if the whole +world--looked on!" he said, ringingly. "Lenore, my soul!... Lenore, I +love you!" + +He would not be denied. And if she had any desire to deny him it was +lost in the moment. She clasped his neck and gave him kiss for kiss. + +But her surrender made him think of her. She felt his effort to let her +go. + +Lenore's heart felt too big for her breast. It hurt. She clung to his +hand and they walked on across the field and across a brook, up the +slope to one of Lenore's favorite seats. And there she wanted to rest. +She smoothed her hair and brushed her dress, aware of how he watched +her, with his heart in his eyes. + +Had there ever in all the years of the life of the earth been so perfect +a day? How dazzling the sun! What heavenly blue the sky! And all beneath +so gold, so green! A lark caroled over Lenore's head and a quail +whistled in the brush below. The brook babbled and gurgled and murmured +along, happy under the open sky. And a soft breeze brought the low roar +of the harvest fields and the scent of wheat and dust and straw. + +Life seemed so stingingly full, so poignant, so immeasurably worth +living, so blessed with beauty and richness and fruitfulness. + +"Lenore, your eyes are windows--and I can see into your soul. I can +read--and first I'm uplifted and then I'm sad." + +It was he who talked and she who listened. This glorious day would be +her strength when the--Ah! but she would not complete a single bitter +thought. + +She led him away, up the slope, across the barley-field, now cut and +harvested, to the great, swelling golden spaces of wheat. Far below, the +engines and harvesters were humming. Here the wheat waved and rustled in +the wind. It was as high as Lenore's head. + +"It's fine wheat," observed Dorn. "But the wheat of my desert hills was +richer, more golden, and higher than this." + +"No regrets to-day!" murmured Lenore, leaning to him. + +There was magic in those words--the same enchantment that made the hours +fly. She led him, at will, here and there along the rustling-bordered +lanes. From afar they watched the busy harvest scene, with eyes that +lingered long on a great, glittering combine with its thirty-two horses +plodding along. + +"I can drive them. Thirty-two horses!" she asserted, proudly. + +"No!" + +"Yes. Will you come? I will show you." + +"It is a temptation," he said, with a sigh. "But there are eyes there. +They would break the spell." + +"Who's talking about eyes now?" she cried. + +They spent the remainder of that day on the windy wheat-slope, high up, +alone, with the beauty and richness of "Many Waters" beneath them. And +when the sun sent its last ruddy and gold rays over the western hills, +and the weary harvesters plodded homeward, Lenore still lingered, loath +to break the spell. For on the way home, she divined, he would tell her +he was soon to leave. + +Sunset and evening star! Their beauty and serenity pervaded Lenore's +soul. Surely there was a life somewhere else, beyond in that infinite +space. And the defeat of earthly dreams was endurable. + +They walked back down the wheat lanes hand in hand, as dusk shadowed the +valley; and when they reached the house he told her gently that he must +go. + +"But--you will stay to-night?" she whispered. + +"No. It's all arranged," he replied, thickly. "They're to drive me +over--my train's due at eight.... I've kept it--till the last few +minutes." + +They went in together. + +"We're too late for dinner," said Lenore, but she was not thinking of +that, and she paused with head bent. "I--I want to say good-by to +you--here." She pointed to the dim, curtained entrance of the +living-room. + +"I'd like that, too," he replied. "I'll go up and get my bag. Wait." + +Lenore slowly stepped to that shadowed spot beyond the curtains where +she had told her love to Dorn; and there she stood, praying and fighting +for strength to let him go, for power to conceal her pain. The one great +thing she could do was to show him that she would not stand in the way +of his duty to himself. She realized then that if he had told her +sooner, if he were going to remain one more hour at "Many Waters," she +would break down and beseech him not to leave her. + +She saw him come down-stairs with his small hand-bag, which he set down. +His face was white. His eyes burned. But her woman's love made her +divine that this was not a shock to his soul, as it was to hers, but +stimulation--a man's strange spiritual accounting to his fellow-men. + +He went first into the dining-room, and Lenore heard her mother's and +sisters' voices in reply to his. Presently he came out to enter her +father's study. Lenore listened, but heard no sound there. Outside, a +motor-car creaked and hummed by the window, to stop by the side porch. +Then the door of her father's study opened and closed, and Dorn came to +where she was standing. + +Lenore did precisely as she had done a few nights before, when she had +changed the world for him. But, following her kiss, there was a terrible +instant when, with her arms around his neck, she went blind at the +realization of loss. She held to him with a savage intensity of +possession. It was like giving up life. She knew then, as never before, +that she had the power to keep him at her side. But a thought saved her +from exerting it--the thought that she could not make him less than +other men--and so she conquered. + +"Lenore, I want you to think always--how you loved me," he said. + +"Loved you? Oh, my boy! It seems your lot has been hard. You've +toiled--you've lost all--and now..." + +"Listen," he interrupted, and she had never heard his voice like that. +"The thousands of boys who go to fight regard it a duty. For our +country!... I had that, but more.... My father was German... and he was +a traitor. The horror for me is that I hate what is German in _me_.... I +will have to kill that. But you've helped me.... I know I'm American. +I'll do my duty, whatever it is. I would have gone to war only a beast +with my soul killed before I ever got there.... With no hope--no +possibility of return!... But you love me!... Can't you see--how great +the difference?" + +Lenore understood and felt it in his happiness. "Yes, Kurt, I know.... +Thank God, I've helped you.... I want you to go. I'll pray always. I +believe you will come back to me.... Life could not be so utterly +cruel..." She broke off. + +"Life can't rob me now--nor death," he cried, in exaltation. "I have +your love. Your face will always be with me--as now--lovely and +brave!... Not a tear!... And only that sweet smile like an angel's!... +Oh, Lenore, what a girl you are!" + +"Say good-by--and go," she faltered. Another moment would see her +weaken. + +"Yes, I must hurry." His voice was a whisper--almost gone. He drew a +deep breath. "Lenore--my promised wife--my star for all the black +nights--God bless you--keep you!... Good-by!" + +She spent all her strength in her embrace, all her soul in the passion +of her farewell kiss. Then she stood alone, tottering, sinking. The +swift steps, now heavy and uneven, passed out of the hall--the door +closed--the motor-car creaked and rolled away--the droning hum ceased. + +For a moment of despairing shock, before the storm broke, Lenore blindly +wavered there, unable to move from the spot that had seen the beginning +and the end of her brief hour of love. Then she summoned strength to +drag herself to her room, to lock her door. + +Alone! In the merciful darkness and silence and loneliness!... She need +not lie nor play false nor fool herself here. She had let him go! +Inconceivable and monstrous truth! For what?... It was not now with her, +that deceiving spirit which had made her brave. But she was a woman. She +fell upon her knees beside her bed, shuddering. + +That moment was the beginning of her sacrifice, the sacrifice she shared +in common now with thousands of other women. Before she had pitied; now +she suffered. And all that was sweet, loving, noble, and motherly--all +that was womanly--rose to meet the stretch of gray future, with its +endless suspense and torturing fear, its face of courage for the light +of day, its despair for the lonely night, and its vague faith in the +lessons of life, its possible and sustaining and eternal hope of God. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + Camp--, _October_--. + + Dear Sister Lenore,--It's been long since I wrote you. I'm sorry, + dear. But I haven't just been in shape to write. Have been + transferred to a training-camp not far from New York. I don't like + it. The air is raw, penetrating, different from our high mountain + air in the West. So many gray, gloomy days! And wet--why you never + saw a rain in Washington! Fine bunch of boys, though. We get up in + the morning at 4:30. Sweep the streets of the camp! I'm glad to get + up and sweep, for I'm near frozen long before daylight. Yesterday I + peeled potatoes till my hands were cramped. Nine million spuds, I + guess! I'm wearing citizen's clothes--too thin, by gosh!--and + sleeping in a tent, on a canvas cot, with one blanket. Wouldn't care + a--(scoose me, sis)--I wouldn't mind if I had a real gun, and some + real fighting to look forward to. Some life, I don't think! But I + meant to tell you why I'm here. + + You remember how I always took to cowboys. Well, I got chummy with a + big cow puncher from Montana. His name was Andersen. Isn't that + queer? His name same as mine except for the last e where I have o. + He's a Swede or Norwegian. True-blue American? Well, I should smile. + Like all cowboys! He's six feet four, broad as a door, with a flat + head of an Indian, and a huge, bulging chin. Not real handsome, but + say! he's one of the finest fellows that ever lived. We call him + Montana. + + There were a lot of rough-necks in our outfit, and right away I got + in bad. You know I never was much on holding my temper. Anyway, I + got licked powerful fine, as dad would say, and I'd been all beaten + up but for Montana. That made us two fast friends, and sure some + enemies, you bet. + + We had the tough luck to run into six of the rough-necks, just + outside of the little town, where they'd been drinking. I never + heard the name of one of that outfit. We weren't acquainted at all. + Strange how they changed my soldier career, right at the start! This + day, when we met them, they got fresh, and of course I had to start + something. I soaked that rough-neck, sis, and don't you forget it. + Well, it was a fight, sure. I got laid out--not knocked out, for I + could see--but I wasn't any help to pard Montana. It looked as if he + didn't need any. The rough-necks jumped him. Then, one after + another, he piled them up in the road. Just a swing--and down went + each one--cold. But the fellow I hit came to and, grabbing up a + pick-handle, with all his might he soaked Montana over the head. + What an awful crack! Montana went down, and there was blood + everywhere. + + They took Montana to the hospital, sewed up his head. It wasn't long + before he seemed all right again, but he told me sometimes he felt + queer. Then they put us on a troop-train, with boys from California + and all over, and we came East. I haven't seen any of those other + Western boys, though, since we got here. + + One day, without any warning, Montana keeled over, down and out. + Paralysis! They took him to a hospital in New York. No hope, the + doctors said, and he was getting worse all the time. But some New + York surgeon advised operation, anyway. So they opened that + healed-over place in his head, where the pick-handle hit--and what + do you think they found? A splinter off that pick-handle, stuck two + inches under his skull, in his brain! They took it out. Every day + they expected Montana to die. But he didn't. But he _will_ die. I + went over to see him. He's unconscious part of the time--crazy the + rest. No part of his right side moves! It broke me all up. Why + couldn't that soak he got have been on the Kaiser's head? + + I tell you, Lenore, a fellow has his eye teeth cut in this getting + ready to go to war. It makes me sick. I enlisted to fight, not to be + chased into a climate that doesn't agree with me--not to sweep roads + and juggle a wooden gun. There are a lot of things, but say! I've + got to cut out that kind of talk. + + I feel almost as far away from you all as if I were in China. But + I'm nearer France! I hope you're well and standing pat, Lenore. + Remember, you're dad's white hope. I was the black sheep, you know. + Tell him I don't regard my transfer as a disgrace. The officers + didn't and he needn't. Give my love to mother and the girls. Tell + them not to worry. Maybe the war will be over before--I'll write you + often now, so cheer up. + + Your loving brother, + + Jim. + + + Camp--, _October_--. + + My Dearest Lenore,--If my writing is not very legible it is because + my hand shakes when I begin this sweet and sacred privilege of + writing to my promised wife. My other letter was short, and this is + the second in the weeks since I left you. What an endless time! You + must understand and forgive me for not writing oftener and for not + giving you definite address. + + I did not want to be in the Western regiment, for reasons hard to + understand. I enlisted in New York and am trying hard to get into + the Rainbow Division, with some hope of success. There is nothing to + me in being a member of a crack regiment, but it seems that this one + will see action first of all American units. I don't want to be an + officer, either. + + How will it be possible for me to write you as I want to--letters + that will be free of the plague of myself--letters that you can + treasure if I never come back? Sleeping and waking, I never forget + the wonderful truth of your love for me. It did not seem real when I + was with you, but, now that we are separated, I know that it is + real. Mostly my mind contains only two things--this constant memory + of you, and that other terrible thing of which I will not speak. All + else that I think or do seems to be mechanical. + + The work, the training, is not difficult for me, though so many boys + find it desperately hard. You know I followed a plow, and that is + real toil. Right now I see the brown fallow hills and the great + squares of gold. But visions or thoughts of home are rare. That is + well, for they hurt like a stab. I cannot think now of a single + thing connected with my training here that I want to tell you. Yet + some things I must tell. For instance, we have different + instructors, and naturally some are more forcible than others. We + have one at whom the boys laugh. He tickles them. They like him. But + he is an ordeal for me. The reason is that in our first bayonet + practice, when we rushed and thrust a stuffed bag, he made us yell, + _"God damn you, German--die!"_ I don't imagine this to be general + practice in army exercises, but the fact is he started us that way. + I can't forget. When I begin to charge with a bayonet those words + leap silently, but terribly, to my lips. Think of this as reality, + Lenore--a sad and incomprehensible truth in 1917. All in me that is + spiritual, reasonable, all that was once hopeful, revolts at this + actuality and its meaning. But there is another side, that dark one, + which revels in anticipation. It is the cave-man in me, hiding by + night, waiting with a bludgeon to slay. I am beginning to be struck + by the gradual change in my comrades. I fancied that I alone had + suffered a retrogression. I have a deep consciousness of baseness + that is going to keep me aloof from them. I seem to be alone with my + own soul. Yet I seem to be abnormally keen to impressions. I feel + what is going on in the soldiers' minds, and it shocks me, set me + wondering, forces me to doubt myself. I keep saying it must be my + peculiar way of looking at things. + + Lenore, I remember your appeal to me. Shall I ever forget your sweet + face--your sad eyes when you bade me hope in God?--I am trying, but + I do not see God yet. Perhaps that is because of my morbidness--my + limitations. Perhaps I will face him over there, when I go down into + the Valley of the Shadow. One thing, however, I do begin to see is + that there is a divinity in men. Slowly something divine is + revealing itself to me. To give up work, property, friends, sister, + mother, home, sweetheart, to sacrifice all and go out to fight for + country, for honor--that indeed is divine. It is beautiful. It + inspires a man and lifts his head. But, alas! if he is a thinking + man, when he comes in contact with the actual physical preparation + for war, he finds that the divinity was the hour of his sacrifice + and that, to become a good soldier, he must change, forget, grow + hard, strong, merciless, brutal, humorous, and callous, all of which + is to say base. I see boys who are tender-hearted, who love life, + who were born sufferers, who cannot inflict pain! How many silent + cries of protest, of wonder, of agony, must go up in the night over + this camp! The sum of them would be monstrous. The sound of them, if + voiced, would be a clarion blast to the world. It is sacrifice that + is divine, and not the making of an efficient soldier. + + I shall write you endlessly. The action of writing relieves me. I + feel less burdened now. Sometimes I cannot bear the burden of all + this unintelligible consciousness. My mind is not large enough. + Sometimes I feel that I am going to be every soldier and every + enemy--each one in his strife or his drifting or his agony or his + death. But despite that feeling I seem alone in a horde. I make no + friends. I have no way to pass my leisure but writing. I can hardly + read at all. When off duty the boys amuse themselves in a hundred + ways--going to town, the theaters, and movies; chasing the girls + (especially that to judge by their talk); play; boxing; games; and I + am sorry to add, many of them gamble and drink. But I cannot do any + of these things. I cannot forget what I am here for. I cannot forget + that I am training to kill men. Never do I forget that soon I will + face death. What a terrible, strange, vague thrill that sends + shivering over me! Amusement and forgetfulness are past for Kurt + Dorn. I am concerned with my soul. I am fighting that black passion + which makes of me a sleepless watcher and thinker. + + If this war only lets me live long enough to understand its meaning! + Perhaps that meaning will be the meaning of life, in which case I am + longing for the unattainable. But underneath it all must be a + colossal movement of evolution, of spiritual growth--or of + retrogression. Who knows? When I ask myself what I am going to fight + for, I answer--for my country, as a patriot--for my hate, as an + individual. My time is almost up. I go on duty. The rain is roaring + on the thin roof. How it rains in this East! Whole days and nights + it pours. I cannot help but think of my desert hills, always so + barren and yellow, with the dust-clouds whirling. One day of this + rain, useless and wasted here, would have saved the Bend crop of + wheat. Nature is almost as inscrutable as God. + + Lenore, good-by for this time. Think of me, but not as lonely or + unhappy or uncomfortable out there in the cold, raw, black, wet + night. I will be neither. Some one--a spirit--will keep beside me as + I step the beat. I have put unhappiness behind me. And no rain or + mud or chill will ever feaze me. + + Yours with love, + + Kurt Dorn. + + + Camp--, _October_--. + + Dear Sister Lenore,--After that little letter of yours I could do + nothing more than look up another pin like the one I sent Kathleen. + I inclose it. Hope you will wear it. + + I'm very curious to see what your package contains. It hasn't + arrived yet. All the mail comes late. That makes the boys sore. + + The weather hasn't been so wet lately as when I last wrote, but it's + colder. Believe me these tents are not steam-heated! But we grin and + try to look happy. It's not the most cheerful thing to hear the old + call in the morning and tumble out in the cold gray dawn. Say! I've + got two blankets now. _Two!_ Just time for mess, then we hike down + the road. I'm in for artillery now, I guess. The air service really + fascinated me, but you can't have what you want in this business. + + _Saturday_.--This letter will be in sections. No use sending you a + little dab of news now and then. I'll write when I can, and mail + when the letter assumes real proportions. Your package arrived and I + was delighted. I think I slept better last night on your little + pillow than any night since we were called out. My pillow before was + your sleeveless jersey. + + It's after three A.M. and I'm on guard--that is, battery guard, and + I have to be up from midnight to reveille, not on a post, but in my + tent, so that if any of my men (I'm a corporal now), whom I relieve + every two hours, get into trouble they can call me. Non-coms. go on + guard once in six days, so about every sixth night I get along with + no sleep. + + We have been ordered to do away with all personal property except + shaving outfit and absolutely necessary articles. We can't keep a + foot-locker, trunk, valise, or even an ordinary soap-box in our + tents. Everything must be put in one barrack bag, a canvas sack just + like a laundry-bag. + + Thank the girls for the silk handkerchief and candy they sent. I + sure have the sweetest sisters of any boy I know. I never + appreciated them when I had them. I'm learning bitter truths these + days. And tell mother I'll write her soon. Thank her for the pajamas + and the napkins. Tell her I'm sorry a soldier has no use for either. + + This morning I did my washing of the past two weeks, and I was so + busy that I didn't hear the bugle blow, and thereby got on the + "black book." Which means that I won't get any time off soon. + + Before I forget, Lenore, let me tell you that I've taken ten + thousand dollars' life insurance from the government, in your favor + as beneficiary. This costs me only about six and a half dollars per + month, and in case of my death--Well, I'm a soldier, now. Please + tell Rose I've taken a fifty-dollar Liberty Bond of the new issue + for her. This I'm paying at the rate of five dollars per month and + it will be delivered to her at the end of ten months. Both of these, + of course, I'm paying out of my government pay as a soldier. The + money dad sent me I spent like water, lent to the boys, threw away. + Tell him not to send me any more. Tell him the time has come for Jim + Anderson to make good. I've a rich dad and he's the best dad any + harum-scarum boy ever had. I'm going to prove more than one thing + this trip. + + We hear so many rumors, and none of them ever come true. One of them + is funny--that we have so many rich men with political influence in + our regiment that we will never get to France! Isn't that the limit? + But it's funny because, if we have rich men, I'd like to see them. + Still, there are thirty thousand soldiers here, and in my neck of + the woods such rumors are laughed and cussed at. We hear also that + we're going to be ordered South. I wish that would come true. It's + so cold and drab and muddy and monotonous. + + My friend Montana fooled everybody. He didn't die. He seems to be + hanging on. Lately he recovered consciousness. Told me he had no + feeling on his left side, except sometimes his hand itched, you + know, like prickly needles. But Montana will never be any good + again. That fine big cowboy! He's been one grand soldier. It sickens + me sometimes to think of the difference between what thrilled me + about this war game and what we get. Maybe, though--There goes my + call. I must close. Love to all. + + Jim. + + + New York City, _October_--. + + Dearest Lenore,--It seems about time that I had a letter from you. + I'm sure letters are on the way, but they do not come quickly. The + boys complain of the mail service. Isn't it strange that there is + not a soul to write me except you? Jeff, my farm-hand, will write me + whenever I write him, which I haven't done yet. + + I'm on duty here in New York at an armory bazaar. It's certainly the + irony of fate. Why did the officer pick on me, I'd like to know? But + I've never complained of an order so far, and I'm standing it. + Several of us--and they chose the husky boys--have been sent over + here, for absolutely no purpose that I can see except to exhibit + ourselves in uniform. It's a woman's bazaar, to raise money for + war-relief work and so on. The hall is almost as large as that field + back of your house, and every night it is packed with people, mostly + young. My comrades are having fun out of it, but I feel like a fish + out of water. + + Just the same, Lenore, I'm learning more every day. If I was not so + disgusted I'd think this was a wonderful opportunity. As it is, I + regard it only as an experience over which I have no control and + that interests me in spite of myself. New York is an awful + place--endless, narrow, torn-up streets crowded with hurrying + throngs, taxicabs, cars, and full of noise and dust. I am always + choked for air. And these streets reek. Where do the people come + from and where are they going? They look wild, as if they had to go + somewhere, but did not know where that was. I've no time or + inclination to see New York, though under happier circumstances I + think I'd like to. + + People in the East seem strange to me. Still, as I never mingled + with many people in the West, I cannot say truly whether Eastern + people are different from Western people. But I think so. Anyway, + while I was in Spokane, Portland, San Francisco, and Los Angeles I + did not think people were greatly concerned about the war. Denver + people appeared not to realize there was a war. But here in New York + everything is war. You can't escape it. You see that war will soon + obsess rich and poor, alien and neutral and belligerent, pacifist + and militarist. Since I wrote you last I've tried to read the + newspapers sent to us. It's hard to tell you which makes me the + sicker--the prattle of the pacifist or the mathematics of the + military experts. Both miss the spirit of men. Neither has any soul. + I think the German minds must all be mathematical. + + But I want to write about the women and girls I see, here in New + York, in the camps and towns, on the trains, everywhere. Lenore, the + war has thrown them off their balance. I have seen and studied at + close hand women of all classes. Believe me, as the boys say, I have + thought more than twice whether or not I would tell you the stark + truth. But somehow I am impelled to. I have an overwhelming + conviction that all American girls and mothers should know what the + truth is. They will never be told, Lenore, and most would never + believe if they were told. And that is one thing wrong with people. + + I believe every soldier, from the time he enlists until the war is + ended, should be kept away from women. This is a sweeping statement + and you must take into account the mind of him who makes it. But I + am not leaping at conclusions. The soldier boys have terrible peril + facing them long before they get to the trenches. Not all, or nearly + all, the soldiers are going to be vitally affected by the rottenness + of great cities or by the mushroom hotbeds of vice springing up near + the camps. These evils exist and are being opposed by military and + government, by police and Y.M.C.A., and good influence of good + people. But they will never wholly stamp it out. + + Nor do I want to say much about the society women who are "rushing" + the officers. There may be one here and there with her heart in the + right place, but with most of them it must be, first, this something + about war that has unbalanced women; and secondly, a fad, a novelty, + a new sentimental stunt, a fashion set by some leader. Likewise I + want to say but little about the horde of common, street-chasing, + rattled-brained women and girls who lie in wait for soldiers at + every corner, so to speak. All these, to be sure, may be + unconsciously actuated by motives that do not appear on the surface; + and if this be true, their actions are less bold, less raw than they + look. + + What I want to dwell upon is my impression of something strange, + unbalanced, incomprehensible, about the frank conduct of so many + well-educated, refined, and good women I see; and about the + eagerness, restlessness, the singular response of nice girls to + situations that are not natural. + + To-night a handsome, stylishly gowned woman of about thirty came up + to me with a radiant smile and a strange brightness in her eyes. + There were five hundred couples dancing on the floor, and the music + and sound of sliding feet made it difficult to hear her. She said: + "You handsome soldier boy! Come dance with me?" I replied politely + that I did not dance. Then she took hold of me and said, "I'll teach + you." I saw a wedding-ring on the hand she laid on my arm. Then I + looked straight at her, "Madam, very soon I'll be learning the dance + of death over in France, and my mind's concerned with that." She + grew red with anger. She seemed amazed. And she snapped, "Well, you + _are_ a queer soldier!" Later I watched her flirting and dancing + with an officer. + + Overtures and advances innumerable have been made to me, ranging + from the assured possession-taking onslaught like this woman's to + the slight, subtle something, felt more than seen, of a more complex + nature. And, Lenore, I blush to tell you this, but I've been mobbed + by girls. They have a thousand ways of letting a soldier _know!_ I + could not begin to tell them. But I do not actually realize what it + is that is conveyed, that I know; and I am positive the very large + majority of soldiers _misunderstand_. At night I listen to the talks + of my comrades, and, well--if the girls only heard! Many times I go + out of hearing, and when I cannot do that I refuse to hear. + + Lenore, I am talking about nice girls now. I am merciless. There are + many girls like you--they seem like you, though none so pretty. I + mean, you know, there are certain manners and distinctions that at + once mark a really nice girl. For a month I've been thrown here and + there, so that it seems I've seen as many girls as soldiers. I have + been sent to different entertainments given for soldiers. At one + place a woman got up and invited the girls to ask the boys to dance. + At another a crowd of girls were lined up wearing different ribbons, + and the boys marched along until each one found the girl wearing a + ribbon to match the one he wore. That was his partner. It was + interesting to see the eager, mischievous, brooding eyes of these + girls as they watched and waited. Just as interesting was it to see + this boy's face when he found his partner was ugly, and that boy + swell with pride when he found he had picked a "winner." It was all + adventure for both boys and girls. But I saw more than that in it. + Whenever I could not avoid meeting a girl I tried to be agreeable + and to talk about war, and soldiers, and what was going on. I did + not dance, of course, and I imagine more than one girl found me a + "queer soldier." + + It always has touched me, though, to see and feel the sweetness, + graciousness, sympathy, kindness, and that other indefinable + something, in the girls I have met. How they made me think of you, + Lenore! No doubt about their hearts, their loyalty, their + Americanism. Every soldier who goes to France can fight for some + girl! They make you feel that. I believe I have gone deeper than + most soldiers in considering what I will call war-relation of the + sexes. If it is normal, then underneath it all is a tremendous + inscrutable design of nature or God. If that be true, actually true, + then war must be inevitable and right! How horrible! My thoughts + confound me sometimes. Anyway, the point I want to make is this: I + heard an officer tell an irate father, whose two daughters had been + insulted by soldiers: "My dear sir, it is regrettable. These men + will be punished. But they are not greatly to blame, because so many + girls throw themselves at their heads. Your daughters did not, of + course, but they should not have come here." That illustrates the + fixed idea of the military, all through the ranks--_Women throw + themselves at soldiers!_ It is true that they do. But the idea is + false, nevertheless, because the mass of girls are misunderstood. + + Misunderstood!--I can tell you why. Surely the mass of American + girls are nice, fine, sweet, wholesome. They are young. The news of + war liberates something in them that we can find no name for. But it + must be noble. A soldier! The very name, from childhood, is one to + make a girl thrill. What then the actual thing, the uniform, + invested somehow with chivalry and courage, the clean-cut athletic + young man, somber and fascinating with his intent eyes, his serious + brow, or his devil-may-care gallantry, the compelling presence of + him that breathes of his sacrifice, of his near departure to + privation, to squalid, comfortless trenches, to the fire and hell of + war, to blood and agony and death--in a word to fight, fight, fight + for women!... So through this beautiful emotion women lose their + balance and many are misunderstood. Those who would not and could + not be bold are susceptible to advances that in an ordinary time + would not affect them. War invests a soldier with a glamour. Love at + first sight, flirtations, rash intimacies, quick engagements, + immediate marriages. The soldier who is soon going away to fight and + perhaps to die strikes hard at the very heart of a girl. Either she + is not her real self then, or else she is suddenly transported to a + womanhood that is instinctive, elemental, universal for the future. + She feels what she does not know. She surrenders because there is an + imperative call to the depths of her nature. She sacrifices because + she is the inspiritor of the soldier, the reward for his loss, the + savior of the race. If women are the spoils of barbarous conquerors, + they are also the sinews, the strength, the soul of defenders. + + And so, however you look at it, war means for women sacrifice, + disillusion, heartbreak, agony, doom. I feel that so powerfully that + I am overcome; I am sick at the gaiety and playing; I am full of + fear, wonder, admiration, and hopeless pity for them. + + No man can tell what is going on in the souls of soldiers while + noble women are offering love and tenderness, throwing themselves + upon the altar of war, hoping blindly to send their great spirits + marching to the front. Perhaps the man who lives through the war + will feel the change in his soul if he cannot tell it. Day by day I + think I see a change in my comrades. As they grow physically + stronger they seem to grow spiritually lesser. But maybe that is + only my idea. I see evidences of fear, anger, sullenness, moodiness, + shame. I see a growing indifference to fatigue, toil, pain. As these + boys harden physically they harden mentally. Always, 'way off there + is the war, and that seems closely related to the near duty + here--what it takes to make a man. These fellows will measure men + differently after this experience with sacrifice, obedience, labor, + and pain. In that they will become great. But I do not think these + things stimulate a man's mind. Changes are going on in me, some of + which I am unable to define. For instance, physically I am much + bigger and stronger than I was. I weigh one hundred and eighty + pounds! As for my mind, something is always tugging at it. I feel + that it grows tired. It wants to forget. In spite of my will, all of + these keen desires of mine to know everything lag and fail often, + and I catch myself drifting. I see and feel and hear without + thinking. I am only an animal then. At these times sight of blood, + or a fight, or a plunging horse, or a broken leg--and these sights + are common--affects me little until I am quickened and think about + the meaning of it all. At such moments I have a revulsion of + feeling. With memory comes a revolt, and so on, until I am the + distressed, inquisitive, and morbid person I am now. I shudder at + what war will make me. Actual contact with earth, exploding guns, + fighting comrades, striking foes, will make brutes of us all. It is + wrong to shed another man's blood. If life was meant for that why do + we have progress? I cannot reconcile a God with all this horror. I + have misgivings about my mind. If I feel so acutely here in safety + and comfort, what shall I feel over there in peril and agony? I fear + I shall laugh at death. Oh, Lenore, consider that! To laugh in the + ghastly face of death! If I yield utterly to a fiendish joy of + bloody combat, then my mind will fail, and that in itself would be + evidence of God. + + I do not read over my letters to you, I just write. Forgive me if + they are not happier. Every hour I think of you. At night I see your + face in the shadow of the tent wall. And I love you unutterably. + + Faithfully, + + Kurt Dorn. + + + Camp ----, _November_ --, + + Dear Sister,--It's bad news I've got for you this time. Something + bids me tell you, though up to now I've kept unpleasant facts to + myself. + + The weather has knocked me out. My cold came back, got worse and + worse. Three days ago I had a chill that lasted for fifteen minutes. + I shook like a leaf. It left me, and then I got a terrible pain in + my side. But I didn't give in, which I feel now was a mistake. I + stayed up till I dropped. + + I'm here in the hospital. It's a long shed with three stoves, and a + lot of beds with other sick boys. My bed is far away from a stove. + The pain is bad yet, but duller, and I've fever. I'm pretty sick, + honey. Tell mother and dad, but not the girls. Give my love to all. + And don't worry. It'll all come right in the end. This beastly + climate's to blame. + + + _Later_,--It's night now. I was interrupted. I'll write a few more + lines. Hope you can read them. It's late and the wind is moaning + outside. It's so cold and dismal. The fellow in the bed next to me + is out of his head. Poor devil! He broke his knee, and they put off + the operation--too busy! So few doctors and so many patients! And + now he'll lose his leg. He's talking about home. Oh, Lenore! _Home!_ + I never knew what home was--till now. + + I'm worse to-night. But I'm always bad at night. Only, to-night I + feel strange. There's a weight on my chest, besides the pain. That + moan of wind makes me feel so lonely. There's no one here--and I'm + so cold. I've thought a lot about you girls and mother and dad. Tell + dad I made good. + + Jim + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +Jim's last letter was not taken seriously by the other members of the +Anderson family. The father shook his head dubiously. "That ain't like +Jim," but made no other comment. Mrs. Anderson sighed. The young sisters +were not given to worry. Lenore, however, was haunted by an unwritten +meaning in her brother's letter. + +Weeks before, she had written to Dorn and told him to hunt up Jim. No +reply had yet come from Dorn. Every day augmented her uneasiness, until +it was dreadful to look for letters that did not come. All this +fortified her, however, to expect calamity. Like a bolt out of the clear +sky it came in the shape of a telegram from Camp ---- saying that Jim +was dying. + +The shock prostrated the mother. Jim had been her favorite. Mr. Anderson +left at once for the East. Lenore had the care of her mother and the +management of "Many Waters" on her hands, which duties kept her +mercifully occupied. Mrs. Anderson, however, after a day, rallied +surprisingly. Lenore sensed in her mother the strength of the spirit +that sacrificed to a noble and universal cause. It seemed to be Mrs. +Anderson's conviction that Jim had been shot, or injured by accident in +gun-training, or at least by a horse. Lenore did not share her mother's +idea and was reluctant to dispel it. On the evening of the fifth day +after Mr. Anderson's departure a message came, saying that he had +arrived too late to see Jim alive. Mrs. Anderson bore the news bravely, +though she weakened perceptibly. + +The family waited then for further news. None came. Day after day +passed. Then one evening, while Lenore strolled in the gloaming, +Kathleen came running to burst out with the announcement of their +father's arrival. He had telephoned from Vale for a car to meet him. + +Not long after that, Lenore, who had gone to her room, heard the return +of the car and recognized her father's voice. She ran down in time to +see him being embraced by the girls, and her mother leaning with bowed +head on his shoulder. + +"Yes, I fetched Jim--back," he said, steadily, but very low. "It's all +arranged.... An' we'll bury him to-morrow." + +"Oh--dad!" cried Lenore. + +"Hello, my girl!" he replied, and kissed her. "I'm sorry to tell you I +couldn't locate Kurt Dorn.... That New York--an' that trainin' camp!" + +He held up his hands in utter futility of expression. Lenore's quick +eyes noted his face had grown thin and haggard, and she made sure with a +pang that his hair was whiter. + +"I'm sure glad to be home," he said, with a heavy expulsion of breath. +"I want to clean up an' have a bite to eat." + + * * * * * + +Lenore was so disappointed at failing to hear from Dorn that she did not +think how singular it was her father did not tell more about Jim. Later +he seemed more like himself, and told them simply that Jim had +contracted pneumonia and died without any message for his folk at home. +This prostrated Mrs. Anderson again. + +Later Lenore sought her father in his room. He could not conceal from +her that he had something heartrending on his mind. Then there was more +than tragedy in his expression. Lenore felt a leap of fear at what +seemed her father's hidden anger. She appealed to him--importuned him. +Plainer it came to her that he wanted to relieve himself of a burden. +Then doubling her persuasions, she finally got him to talk. + +"Lenore, it's not been so long ago that right here in this room Jim +begged me to let him enlist. He wasn't of age. But would I let him +go--to fight for the honor of our country--for the future safety of our +home?... We all felt the boy's eagerness, his fire, his patriotism. +Wayward as he's been, we suddenly were proud of him. We let him go. We +gave him up. He was a part of our flesh an' blood--sent by us +Andersons--to do our share." + +Anderson paused in his halting speech, and swallowed hard. His white +face twitched strangely and his brow was clammy. Lenore saw that his +piercing gaze looked far beyond her for the instant that he broke down. + +"Jim was a born fighter," the father resumed. "He wasn't vicious. He +just had a leanin' to help anybody. As a lad he fought for his little +pards--always on the right side--an' he always fought fair.... This +opportunity to train for a soldier made a man of him. He'd have made his +mark in the war. Strong an' game an' fierce, he'd ... he'd ... Well, +he's dead--he's _dead!_... Four months after enlistment he's dead.... +An' he never had a rifle in his hands! He never had his hands on a +machine-gun or a piece of artillery!... He never had a uniform! He never +had an overcoat! He never ..." + +Then Mr. Anderson's voice shook so that he had to stop to gain control. +Lenore was horrified. She felt a burning stir within her. + +"Lemme get this--out," choked Anderson, his face now livid, his veins +bulging. "I'm drove to tell it. I was near all day locatin' Jim's +company. Found the tent where he'd lived. It was cold, damp, muddy. +Jim's messmates spoke high of him. Called him a prince!... They all owed +him money. He'd done many a good turn for them. He had only a thin +blanket, an' he caught cold. All the boys had colds. One night he gave +that blanket to a boy sicker than he was. Next day he got worse.... +There was miles an' miles of them tents. I like to never found the +hospital where they'd sent Jim. An' then it was six o'clock in the +mornin'--a raw, bleak day that'd freeze one of us to the marrow. I had +trouble gettin' in. But a soldier went with me an'--an' ..." + +Anderson's voice went to a whisper, and he looked pityingly at Lenore. + +"That hospital was a barn. No doctors! Too early.... The nurses weren't +in sight. I met one later, an', poor girl! she looked ready to drop +herself!... We found Jim in one of the little rooms. No heat! It was +winter there.... Only a bed!... Jim lay on the floor, dead! He'd fallen +or pitched off the bed. He had on only his underclothes that he had +on--when he--left home.... He was stiff--an' must have--been dead--a +good while." + +Lenore held out her trembling hands. "Dead--Jim dead--like that!" she +faltered. + +"Yes. He got pneumonia," replied Anderson, hoarsely. "The camp was full +of it." + +"But--my God! Were not the--the poor boys taken care of?" implored +Lenore, faintly. + +"It's a terrible time. All was done that _could_ be done!" + +"Then--it was all--for nothing?" + +"All! All! Our boy an' many like him--the best blood of our +country--Western blood--dead because ... because ..." + +Anderson's voice failed him. + +"Oh, Jim! Oh, my brother!... Dead like a poor neglected dog! Jim--who +enlisted to fight--for--" + +Lenore broke down then and hurried away to her room. + +With great difficulty Mrs. Anderson was revived, and it became manifest +that the prop upon which she had leaned had been slipped from under her. +The spirit which had made her strong to endure the death of her boy +failed when the sordid bald truth of a miserable and horrible waste of +life gave the lie to the splendid fighting chance Jim had dreamed of. + +When Anderson realized that she was fading daily he exhausted himself in +long expositions of the illness and injury and death common to armies in +the making. More deaths came from these causes than from war. It was the +elision of the weaker element--the survival of the fittest; and some, +indeed very many, mothers must lose their sons that way. The government +was sound at the core, he claimed; and his own rage was at the few +incompetents and profiteers. These must be weeded out--a process that +was going on. The gigantic task of a government to draft and prepare a +great army and navy was something beyond the grasp of ordinary minds. +Anderson talked about what he had seen and heard, proving the wonderful +stride already made. But all that he said now made no impression upon +Mrs. Anderson. She had made her supreme sacrifice for a certain end, and +that was as much the boy's fiery ambition to fight as it was her duty, +common with other mothers, to furnish a man at the front. What a +hopeless, awful sacrifice! She sank under it. + +Those were trying days for Lenore, just succeeding her father's return; +and she had little time to think of herself. When the mail came, day +after day, without a letter from Dorn, she felt the pang in her breast +grow heavier. Intimations crowded upon her of impending troubles that +would make the present ones seem light. + +It was not long until the mother was laid to rest beside the son. + +When that day ended, Lenore and her father faced each other in her room, +where he had always been wont to come for sympathy. They gazed at each +other, with hard, dry eyes. Stark-naked truth--grim reality--the nature +of this catastrophe--the consciousness of war--dawned for each in the +look of the other. Brutal shock and then this second exceeding bitter +woe awakened their minds to the futility of individual life. + +"Lenore--it's over!" he said, huskily, as he sank into a chair. "Like a +nightmare!... What have I got to live for?" + +"You have us girls," replied Lenore. "And if you did not have us there +would be many others for you to live for.... Dad, can't you see--_now_?" + +"I reckon. But I'm growin' old an' mebbe I've quit." + +"No, dad, you'll never quit. Suppose all we Americans quit. That'd mean +a German victory. Never! Never! Never!" + +"By God! you're right!" he ejaculated, with the trembling strain of his +face suddenly fixing. Blood and life shot into his eyes. He got up +heavily and began to stride to and fro before her. "You see clearer than +me. You always did, Lenore." + +"I'm beginning to see, but I can't tell you," replied Lenore, closing +her eyes. Indeed, there seemed a colossal vision before her, veiled and +strange. "Whatever happens, we _cannot_ break. It's because of the war. +We have our tasks--greater now than ever we believe could be thrust upon +us. Yours to show men what you are made of! To raise wheat as never +before in your life! Mine to show my sisters and my friends--all the +women--what their duty is. We must sacrifice, work, prepare, and fight +for the future." + +"I reckon," he nodded solemnly. "Loss of mother an' Jim changes this +damned war. Whatever's in my power to do must go on. So some one can +take it up when I--" + +"That's the great conception, dad," added Lenore, earnestly. "We are +tragically awakened. We've been surprised--terribly struck in the dark. +Something monstrous and horrible!... I can feel the menace in it for +all--over every family in this broad land." + +"Lenore, you said once that Jim--Now, how'd you know it was all over for +him?" + +"A woman's heart, dad. When I said good-by to Jim I knew it was good-by +forever." + +"Did you feel that way about Kurt Dorn?" + +"No. He will come back to me. I dream it. It's in my spirit--my instinct +of life, my flesh-and-blood life of the future--it's in my belief in +God. Kurt Dorn's ordeal will be worse than death for him. But I believe +as I pray--that he will come home alive." + +"Then, after all, you do hope," said her father. "Lenore, when I was +down East, I seen what women were doin'. The bad women are good an' the +good women are great. I think women have more to do with war then men, +even if they do stay home. It must be because women are mothers.... +Lenore, you've bucked me up. I'll go at things now. The need for wheat +next year will be beyond calculation. I'll buy ten thousand acres of +that wheatland round old Chris Dorn's farm. An' my shot at the Germans +will be wheat. I'll raise a million bushels!" + + * * * * * + +Next morning in the mail was a long, thick envelope addressed to Lenore +in handwriting that shook her heart and made her fly to the seclusion of +her room. + + New York City, _November_ --. + + DEAREST,--when you receive this I will be in France. + +Then Lenore sustained a strange shock. The beloved handwriting faded, +the thick sheets of paper fell; and all about her seemed dark and +whirling, as the sudden joy and excitement stirred by the letter changed +to sickening pain. + +"_France!_ He's in France?" she whispered. "Oh, Kurt!" A storm of love +and terror burst over her. It had the onset and the advantage of a +bewildering surprise. It laid low, for the moment, her fortifications of +sacrifice, strength, and resolve. She had been forced into womanhood, +and her fear, her agony, were all the keener for the intelligence and +spirit that had repudiated selfish love. Kurt Dorn was in France in the +land of the trenches! Strife possessed her and had a moment of raw, +bitter triumph. She bit her lips and clenched her fists, to restrain the +impulse to rush madly around the room, to scream out her fear and hate. +With forcing her thought, with hard return to old well-learned +arguments, there came back the nobler emotions. But when she took up the +letter again, with trembling hands, her heart fluttered high and sick, +and she saw the words through blurred eyes. + + ...I'll give the letter to an ensign, who has promised to mail it + the moment he gets back to New York. + + Lenore, your letter telling me about Jim was held up in the mail. + But thank goodness, I got it in time. I'd already been transferred, + and expected orders any day to go on board the transport, where I am + writing now. I'd have written you, or at least telegraphed you, + yesterday, after seeing Jim, if I had not expected to see him again + to-day. But this morning we were marched on board and I cannot even + get this letter off to you. + + Lenore, your brother is a very sick boy. I lost some hours finding + him. They did not want to let me see him. But I implored--said that + I was engaged to his sister--and finally I got in. The nurse was + very sympathetic. But I didn't care for the doctors in charge. They + seemed hard, hurried, brusque. But they have their troubles. The + hospital was a long barracks, and it was full of cripples. + + The nurse took me into a small, bare room, too damp and cold for a + sick man, and I said so. She just looked at me. + + Jim looks like you more than any other of the Andersons. I + recognized that at the same moment I saw how very sick he was. They + had told me outside that he had a bad case of pneumonia. He was + awake, perfectly conscious, and he stared at me with eyes that set + my heart going. + + "Hello, Jim!" I said, and offered my hand, as I sat down on the bed. + He was too weak to shake hands. + + "Who're you?" he asked. He couldn't speak very well. When I told him + my name and that I was his sister's fiancé his face changed so he + did not look like the same person. It was beautiful. Oh, it showed + how homesick he was! Then I talked a blue streak about you, about + the girls, about "Many Waters"--how I lost my wheat, and everything. + He was intensely interested, and when I got through he whispered + that he guessed Lenore had picked a "winner." What do you think of + that? He was curious about me, and asked me questions till the nurse + made him stop. I was never so glad about anything as I was about the + happiness it evidently gave him to meet me and hear from home. I + promised to come next day if we did not sail. Then he showed what I + must call despair. He must have been passionately eager to get to + France. The nurse dragged me out. Jim called weakly after me: + "Good-by, Kurt. Stick some Germans for me!" I'll never forget his + tone nor his look.... Lenore, he doesn't expect to get over to + France. + + I questioned the nurse, and she shook her head doubtfully. She + looked sad. She said Jim had been the lion of his regiment. I + questioned a doctor, and he was annoyed. He put me off with a sharp + statement that Jim was not in danger. But I think he is. I hope and + pray he recovers. + + _Thursday_. + + We sailed yesterday. It was a wonderful experience, leaving Hoboken. + Our transport and the dock looked as if they had a huge swarm of + yellow bees hanging over everything. The bees were soldiers. The + most profound emotion I ever had--except the one when you told me + you loved me--came over me as the big boat swung free of the + dock--of the good old U.S., of home. I wanted to jump off and swim + through the eddying green water to the piles and hide in them till + the boat had gone. As we backed out, pulled up tugs, and got started + down the river, my thrills increased, until we passed the Statue of + Liberty--and then I couldn't tell how I felt. One thing, I could not + see very well.... I gazed beyond the colossal statue that France + gave to the U.S.--'way across the water and the ships and the docks + toward the West that I was leaving. Feeling like mine then only + comes once to a man in his life. First I seemed to see all the vast + space, the farms, valleys, woods, deserts, rivers, and mountains + between me and my golden wheat-hills. Then I saw my home, and it was + as if I had a magnificent photograph before my very eyes. A sudden + rush of tears blinded me. Such a storm of sweetness, regret, memory! + Then at last you--_you_ as you stood before me last, the very + loveliest girl in all the world. My heart almost burst, and in the + wild, sick pain of the moment I had a strange, comforting flash of + thought that a man who could leave you must be impelled by something + great in store for him. I feel that. I told you once. To laugh at + death! That is what I shall do. But perhaps that is not the great + experience which will come to me. + + I saw the sun set in the sea, 'way back toward the western horizon, + where the thin, dark line that was land disappeared in the red glow. + The wind blows hard. The water is rough, dark gray, and cold. I like + the taste of the spray. Our boat rolls heavily and many boys are + already sick. I do not imagine the motion will affect me. It is + stuffy below-deck. I'll spend what time I can above, where I can see + and feel. It was dark just now when I came below. And as I looked + out into the windy darkness and strife I was struck by the + strangeness of the sea and how it seemed to be like my soul. For a + long time I have been looking into my soul, and I find such + ceaseless strife, such dark, unlit depths, such chaos. These + thoughts and emotions, always with me, keep me from getting close to + my comrades. No, not me, but it keeps them away from me. I think + they regard me strangely. They all talk of submarines. They are + afraid. Some will lose sleep at night. But I never think of a + submarine when I gaze out over the tumbling black waters. What I + think of, what I am going after, what I need seems far, far away. + Always! I am no closer now than when I was at your home. So it has + not to do with distance. And Lenore, maybe it has not to do with + trenches or Germans. + + _Wednesday_. + + It grows harder to get a chance to write and harder for me to + express myself. When I could write I have to work or am on duty; + when I have a little leisure I am somehow clamped. This old chugging + boat beats the waves hour after hour, all day and all night. I can + feel the vibration when I'm asleep. Many things happen that would + interest you, just the duty and play of the soldiers, for that + matter, and the stories I hear going from lip to lip, and the + accidents. Oh! so much happens. But all these rush out of my mind + the moment I sit down to write. There is something at work in me as + vast and heaving as the ocean. + + At first I had a fear, a dislike of the ocean. But that is gone. It + is indescribable to stand on the open deck at night as we are + driving on and on and on--to look up at the grand, silent stars, + that know, that understand, yet are somehow merciless--to look out + across the starlit, moving sea. Its ceaseless movement at first + distressed me; now I feel that it is perpetually moving to try to + become still. To seek a level! To find itself! To quiet down to + peace! But that will never be. And I think if the ocean is not like + the human heart, then what is it like? + + This voyage will be good for me. The hard, incessant objective life, + the physical life of a soldier, somehow comes to a halt on board + ship. And every hour now is immeasurable for me. Whatever the + mystery of life, of death, of what drives me, of why I cannot help + fight the demon in me, of this thing called war--the certainty is + that these dark, strange nights on the sea have given me a hope and + faith that the truth is not utterly unattainable. + + _Sunday._ + + We're in the danger zone now, with destroyers around us and a + cruiser ahead. I am all eyes and ears. I lose sleep at night from + thinking so hard. The ship doctor stopped me the other day--studied + my face. Then he said: "You're too intense. You think too hard.... + Are you afraid?" And I laughed in his face. "Absolutely no!" I told + him. "Then forget--and mix with the boys. Play--cut up--fight--do + anything but _think!_" That doctor is a good chap, but he doesn't + figure Kurt Dorn if he imagines the Germans can kill me by making me + think. + + We're nearing France now, and the very air is charged. An aeroplane + came out to meet us--welcome us, I guess, and it flew low. The + soldiers went wild. I never had such a thrill. That air game would + just suit me, if I were fitted for it. But I'm no mechanic. Besides, + I'm too big and heavy. My place will be in the front line with a + bayonet. Strange how a bayonet fascinates me! + + They say we can't write home anything about the war. I'll write you + something, whenever I can. Don't be unhappy if you do not hear + often--or if my letters cease to come. My heart and my mind are full + of you. Whatever comes to me--the training over here--the going to + the trenches--the fighting--I shall be safe if only I can remember + you. + + With love, + + Kurt. + +Lenore carried that letter in her bosom when she went out to walk in the +fields, to go over the old ground she and Kurt had trod hand in hand. +From the stone seat above the brook she watched the sunset. All was +still except the murmur of the running water, and somehow she could not +long bear that. As the light began to shade on the slopes, she faced +them, feeling, as always, a strength come to her from their familiar +lines. Twilight found her high above the ranch, and absolutely alone. +She would have this lonely hour, and then, all her mind and energy must +go to what she knew was imperative duty. She would work to the limit of +her endurance. + +It was an autumn twilight, with a cool wind, gray sky, and sad, barren +slopes. The fertile valley seemed half obscured in melancholy haze, and +over toward the dim hills beyond night had already fallen. No stars, no +moon, no afterglow of sunset illumined the grayness that in this hour +seemed prophetic of Lenore's future. + +"'Safe!' he said. 'I shall be safe if only I can remember you,'" she +whispered to herself, wonderingly. "What did he mean?" + +Pondering the thought, she divined it had to do with Dorn's singular +spiritual mood. He had gone to lend his body as so much physical brawn, +so much weight, to a concerted movement of men, but his mind was apart +from a harmony with that. Lenore felt that whatever had been the +sacrifice made by Kurt Dorn, it had been passed with his decision to go +to war. What she prayed for then was something of his spirit. + +Slowly, in the gathering darkness, she descended the long slope. The +approaching night seemed sad, with autumn song of insects. All about her +breathed faith, from the black hills above, the gray slopes below, from +the shadowy void, from the murmuring of insect life in the grass. The +rugged fallow ground under her feet seemed to her to be a symbol of +faith--faith that winter would come and pass--the spring sun and rain +would burst the seeds of wheat--and another summer would see the golden +fields of waving grain. If she did not live to see them, they would be +there just the same; and so life and nature had faith in its promise. +That strange whisper was to Lenore the whisper of God. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +Through the pale obscurity of a French night, cool, raw, moist, with a +hint of spring in its freshness, a line of soldiers plodded along the +lonely, melancholy lanes. Wan starlight showed in the rifts between the +clouds. Neither dark nor light, the midnight hour had its unreality in +this line of marching men; and its reality in the dim, vague hedges, its +spectral posts, its barren fields. + +Rain had ceased to fall, but a fine, cold, penetrating mist filled the +air. The ground was muddy in places, slippery in others; and here and +there it held pools of water ankle-deep. The stride of the marching men +appeared short and dragging, without swing or rhythm. It was weary, yet +full of the latent power of youth, of unused vitality. Stern, clean-cut, +youthful faces were set northward, unchanging in the shadowy, pale +gleams of the night. These faces lifted intensely whenever a strange, +muffled, deep-toned roar rolled out of the murky north. The night looked +stormy, but that rumble was not thunder. Fifty miles northward, beyond +that black and mysterious horizon, great guns were booming war. + +Sometimes, as the breeze failed, the night was silent except for the +slow, sloppy tramp of the marching soldiers. Then the low voices were +hushed. When the wind freshened again it brought at intervals those +deep, significant detonations which, as the hours passed, seemed to grow +heavier and more thunderous. + +At length a faint gray light appeared along the eastern sky, and +gradually grew stronger. The dawn of another day was close at hand. It +broke as if reluctantly, cold and gray and sunless. + +The detachment of United States troops halted for camp outside of the +French village of A----. + +Kurt Dorn was at mess with his squad. + +The months in France had flown away on wings of training and absorbing +and waiting. Dorn had changed incalculably. But all he realized of it +was that he weighed one hundred and ninety pounds and that he seemed to +have lived a hundred swift lives. All that he saw and felt became part +of him. His comrades had been won to him as friends by virtue of his +ever-ready helping hand, by his devotion to training, by his +close-lipped acceptance of all the toils and knocks and pains common to +the making of a soldier. The squad lived together as one large family of +brothers. Dorn's comrades had at first tormented him with his German +name; they had made fun of his abstraction and his letter-writing; they +had misunderstood his aloofness. But the ridicule died away, and now, in +the presaged nature of events, his comrades, all governed by the +physical life of the soldier, took him for a man. + +Perhaps it might have been chance, or it might have been true of all the +American squads, but the fact was that Dorn's squad was a strangely +assorted set of young men. Perhaps that might have been Dorn's +conviction from coming to live long with them. They were a part of the +New York Division of the --th, all supposed to be New York men. As a +matter of fact, this was not true. Dorn was a native of Washington. +Sanborn was a thick-set, sturdy fellow with the clear brown tan and +clear brown eyes of the Californian. Brewer was from South Carolina, a +lean, lanky Southerner, with deep-set dark eyes. Dixon hailed from +Massachusetts, from a fighting family, and from Harvard, where he had +been a noted athlete. He was a big, lithe, handsome boy, red-faced and +curly-haired. Purcell was a New-Yorker, of rich family, highly +connected, and his easy, clean, fine ways, with the elegance of his +person, his blond distinction, made him stand out from his khaki-clad +comrades, though he was clad identically with them. Rogers claimed the +Bronx to be his home and he was proud of it. He was little, almost +undersized, but a knot of muscle, a keen-faced youth with Irish blood in +him. These particular soldiers of the squad were closest to Dorn. + +Corporal Bob Owens came swinging in to throw his sombrero down. + +"What's the orders, Bob?" some one inquired. + +"We're going to rest here," he replied. + +The news was taken impatiently by several and agreeably by the majority. +They were all travel-stained and worn. Dorn did not comment on the news, +but the fact was that he hated the French villages. They were so old, so +dirty, so obsolete, so different from what he had been accustomed to. +But he loved the pastoral French countryside, so calm and picturesque. +He reflected that soon he would see the devastation wrought by the Huns. + +"Any news from the front?" asked Dixon. + +"I should smile," replied the corporal, grimly. + +"Well, open up, you clam!" + +Owens thereupon told swiftly and forcibly what he had heard. More +advance of the Germans--it was familiar news. But somehow it was taken +differently here within sound of the guns. Dorn studied his comrades, +wondering if their sensations were similar to his. He expressed nothing +of what he felt, but all the others had something to say. Hard, cool, +fiery, violent speech that differed as those who uttered it differed, +yet its predominant note rang fight. + +"Just heard a funny story," said Owens, presently. + +"Spring it," somebody replied. + +"This comes from Berlin, so they say. According to rumor, the Kaiser and +the Crown Prince seldom talk to each other. They happened to meet the +other day. And the Crown Prince said: 'Say, pop, what got us into this +war?' + +"The Emperor replied, 'My son, I was deluded.' + +"'Oh, sire, impossible!' exclaimed the Prince. 'How could it be?' + +"'Well, some years ago I was visited by a grinning son-of-a-gun from New +York--no other than the great T.R. I took him around. He was most +interested in my troops. After he had inspected them, and particularly +the Imperial Guard, he slapped me on the back and shouted, "Bill, you +could lick the world!" ... And, my son, I fell for it!'" + +This story fetched a roar from every soldier present except Dorn. An +absence of mirth in him had been noted before. + +"Dorn, can't you laugh!" protested Dixon. + +"Sure I can--when I hear something funny," replied Dorn. + +His comrades gazed hopelessly at him. + +"My Lawd! boy, thet was shore funny," drawled Brewer with his lazy +Southern manner. + +"Kurt, you're not human," said Owens, sadly. "That's why they call you +Demon Dorn." + +All the boys in the squad had nicknames. In Dorn's case several had been +applied by irrepressible comrades before one stuck. The first one +received a poor reception from Kurt. The second happened to be a great +blunder for the soldier who invented it. He was not in Dorn's squad, but +he knew Dorn pretty well, and in a moment of deviltry he had coined for +Dorn the name "Kaiser Dorn." Dorn's reaction to this appellation was +discomfiting and painful for the soldier. As he lay flat on the ground, +where Dorn had knocked him, he had struggled with a natural rage, +quickly to overcome it. He showed the right kind of spirit. He got up. +"Dorn, I apologize. I was only in fun. But some fun is about as funny as +death." On the way out he suggested a more felicitous name--Demon Dorn. +Somehow the boys took to that. It fitted many of Dorn's violent actions +in training, especially the way he made a bayonet charge. Dorn objected +strenuously. But the name stuck. No comrade or soldier ever again made a +hint of Dorn's German name or blood. + +"Fellows, if a funny story can't make Dorn laugh, he's absolutely a dead +one," said Owens. + +"Spring a new one, quick," spoke up some one. "Gee! it's great to +laugh.... Why, I've not heard from home for a month!" + +"Dorn, will you beat it so I can spring this one?" queried Owens. + +"Sure," replied Dorn, amiably, as he started away. "I suppose you think +me one of these I-dare-you-to-make-me-laugh sort of chaps." + +"Forget her, Dorn--come out of it!" chirped up Rogers. + +To Dorn's regret, he believed that he failed his comrades in one way, +and he was always trying to make up for it. Part of the training of a +soldier was the ever-present need and duty of cheerfulness. Every member +of the squad had his secret, his own personal memory, his inner +consciousness that he strove to keep hidden. Long ago Dorn had divined +that this or that comrade was looking toward the bright side, or +pretending there was one. They all played their parts. Like men they +faced this incomprehensible duty, this tremendous separation, this dark +and looming future, as if it was only hard work that must be done in +good spirit. But Dorn, despite all his will, was mostly silent, aloof, +brooding, locked up in his eternal strife of mind and soul. He could not +help it. Notwithstanding all he saw and divined of the sacrifice and +pain of his comrades, he knew that his ordeal was infinitely harder. It +was natural that they hoped for the best. He had no hope. + +"Boys," said Owens, "there's a squad of Blue Devils camped over here in +an old barn. Just back from the front. Some one said there wasn't a man +in it who hadn't had a dozen wounds, and some twice that many. We must +see that bunch. Bravest soldiers of the whole war! They've been through +the three years--at Verdun--on the Marne--and now this awful Flanders +drive. It's up to us to see them." + +News like this thrilled Dorn. During all the months he had been in +France the deeds and valor of these German-named Blue Devils had come to +him, here and there and everywhere. Dorn remembered all he heard, and +believed it, too, though some of the charges and some of the burdens +attributed to these famed soldiers seemed unbelievable. His opportunity +had now come. With the moving up to the front he would meet reality; and +all within him, the keen, strange eagerness, the curiosity that +perplexed, the unintelligible longing, the heat and burn of passion, +quickened and intensified. + +Not until late in the afternoon, however, did off duty present an +opportunity for him to go into the village. It looked the same as the +other villages he had visited, and the inhabitants, old men, old women +and children, all had the somber eyes, the strained, hungry faces, the +oppressed look he had become accustomed to see. But sad as were these +inhabitants of a village near the front, there was never in any one of +them any absence of welcome to the Americans. Indeed, in most people he +met there was a quick flashing of intense joy and gratitude. The +Americans had come across the sea to fight beside the French. That was +the import, tremendous and beautiful. + +Dorn met Dixon and Rogers on the main street of the little village. They +had been to see the Blue Devils. + +"Better stay away from them," advised Dixon, dubiously. + +"No!... Why?" ejaculated Dorn. + +Dixon shook his head. "Greatest bunch I ever looked at. But I think they +resented our presence. Pat and I were talking about them. It's strange, +Dorn, but I believe these Blue Devils that have saved France and +England, and perhaps America, too, don't like our being here." + +"Impossible!" replied Dorn. + +"Go and see for yourself," put in Rogers. "I believe we all ought to +look them over." + +Thoughtfully Dorn strode on in the direction indicated, and presently he +arrived at the end of the village, where in an old orchard he found a +low, rambling, dilapidated barn, before which clusters of soldiers in +blue lounged around smoking fires. As he drew closer he saw that most of +them seemed fixed in gloomy abstraction. A few were employed at some +task of hand, and several bent over the pots on fires. Dorn's sweeping +gaze took in the whole scene, and his first quick, strange impression +was that these soldiers resembled ghouls who had lived in dark holes of +mud. + +Kurt meant to make the most of his opportunity. To him, in his peculiar +need, this meeting would be of greater significance than all else that +had happened to him in France. The nearest soldier sat on a flattened +pile of straw around which the ground was muddy. At first glance Kurt +took him to be an African, so dark were face and eyes. No one heeded +Kurt's approach. The moment was poignant to Kurt. He spoke French fairly +well, so that it was emotion rather than lack of fluency which made his +utterance somewhat unintelligible. The soldier raised his head. His face +seemed a black flash--his eyes piercingly black, staring, deep, full of +terrible shadow. They did not appear to see in Kurt the man, but only +the trim, clean United States army uniform. Kurt repeated his address, +this time more clearly. + +The Frenchman replied gruffly, and bent again over the faded worn coat +he was scraping with a knife. Then Kurt noticed two things--the man's +great, hollow, spare frame and the torn shirt, stained many colors, one +of which was dark red. His hands resembled both those of a mason, with +the horny callous inside, and those of a salt-water fisherman, with +bludgy fingers and barked knuckles that never healed. + +Dorn had to choose his words slowly, because of unfamiliarity with +French, but he was deliberate, too, because he wanted to say the right +thing. His eagerness made the Frenchman glance up again. But while Dorn +talked of the long waits, the long marches, the arrival at this place, +the satisfaction at nearing the front, his listener gave no sign that he +heard. But he did hear, and so did several of his comrades. + +"We're coming strong," he went on, his voice thrilling. "A million of us +this year! We're untrained. We'll have to split up among English and +French troops and learn how from you. But we've come--and we'll fight!" + +Then the Frenchman put on his coat. That showed him to be an officer. He +wore medals. The dark glance he then flashed over Dorn was different +from his first. It gave Dorn both a twinge of shame and a thrill of +pride. It took in Dorn's characteristic Teutonic blond features, and +likewise an officer's swift appreciation of an extraordinarily splendid +physique. + +"You've German blood," he said. + +"Yes. But I'm American," replied Dorn, simply, and he met that +soul-searching black gaze with all his intense and fearless spirit. Dorn +felt that never in his life had he been subjected to such a test of his +manhood, of his truth. + +"My name's Huon," said the officer, and he extended one of the huge +deformed hands. + +"Mine's Dorn," replied Kurt, meeting that hand with his own. + +Whereupon the Frenchman spoke rapidly to the comrade nearest him, so +rapidly that all Kurt could make of what he said was that here was an +American soldier with a new idea. They drew closer, and it became +manifest that the interesting idea was Kurt's news about the American +army. It was news here, and carefully pondered by these Frenchmen, as +slowly one by one they questioned him. They doubted, but Dorn convinced +them. They seemed to like his talk and his looks. Dorn's quick faculties +grasped the simplicity of these soldiers. After three terrible years of +unprecedented warfare, during which they had performed the impossible, +they did not want a fresh army to come along and steal their glory by +administering a final blow to a tottering enemy. Gazing into those +strange, seared faces, beginning to see behind the iron mask, Dorn +learned the one thing a soldier lives, fights, and dies for--glory. + +Kurt Dorn was soon made welcome. He was made to exhaust his knowledge of +French. He was studied by eyes that had gleamed in the face of death. +His hand was wrung by hands that had dealt death. How terribly he felt +that! And presently, when his excitement and emotion had subsided to the +extent that he could really see what he looked at, then came the reward +of reality, with all its incalculable meaning expressed to him in the +gleaming bayonets, in the worn accoutrements, in the greatcoats like +clapboards of mud, in the hands that were claws, in the feet that +hobbled, in the strange, wonderful significance of bodily presence, +standing there as proof of valor, of man's limitless endurance. In the +faces, ah! there Dorn read the history that made him shudder and lifted +him beyond himself. For there in those still, dark faces, of boys grown +old in three years, shone the terror of war and the spirit that had +resisted it. + +Dorn, in his intensity, in the over-emotion of his self-centered +passion, so terribly driven to prove to himself something vague yet +all-powerful, illusive yet imperious, divined what these Blue Devil +soldiers had been through. His mind was more than telepathic. Almost it +seemed that souls were bared to him. These soldiers, quiet, intent, made +up a grim group of men. They seemed slow, thoughtful, plodding, wrapped +and steeped in calm. But Dorn penetrated all this, and established the +relation between it and the nameless and dreadful significance of their +weapons and medals and uniforms and stripes, and the magnificent +vitality that was now all but spent. + +Dorn might have resembled a curious, adventure-loving boy, to judge from +his handling of rifles and the way he slipped a strong hand along the +gleaming bayonet-blades. But he was more than the curious youth: he had +begun to grasp a strange, intangible something for which he had no name. +Something that must be attainable for him! Something that, for an hour +or a moment, would make him a fighter not to be slighted by these +supermen! + +Whatever his youth or his impelling spirit of manhood, the fact was that +he inspired many of these veterans of the bloody years to Homeric +narratives of the siege of Verdun, of the retreat toward Paris, of the +victory of the Marne, and lastly of the Kaiser's battle, this last and +most awful offensive of the resourceful and frightful foe. + +Brunelle told how he was the last survivor of a squad at Verdun who had +been ordered to hold a breach made in a front stone wall along the out +posts. How they had faced a bombardment of heavy guns--a whistling, +shrieking, thundering roar, pierced by the higher explosion of a +bursting shell--smoke and sulphur and gas--the crumbling of walls and +downward fling of shrapnel. How the lives of soldiers were as lives of +gnats hurled by wind and burned by flame. Death had a manifold and +horrible diversity. A soldier's head, with ghastly face and conscious +eyes, momentarily poised in the air while the body rode away invisibly +with an exploding shell! He told of men blown up, shot through and +riddled and brained and disemboweled, while their comrades, grim and +unalterable, standing in a stream of blood, lived through the rain of +shells, the smashing of walls, lived to fight like madmen the detachment +following the bombardment, and to kill them every one. + +Mathie told of the great retreat--how men who had fought for days, who +were unbeaten and unafraid, had obeyed an order they hated and could not +understand, and had marched day and night, day and night, eating as they +toiled on, sleeping while they marched, on and on, bloody-footed, +desperate, and terrible, filled with burning thirst and the agony of +ceaseless motion, on with dragging legs and laboring breasts and +red-hazed eyes, on and onward, unquenchable, with the spirit of France. + +Sergeant Delorme spoke of the sudden fierce about-face at the Marne, of +the irresistible onslaught of men whose homes had been invaded, whose +children had been murdered, whose women had been enslaved, of a ruthless +fighting, swift and deadly, and lastly of a bayonet charge by his own +division, running down upon superior numbers, engaging them in +hand-to-hand conflict, malignant and fatal, routing them over a field of +blood and death. + +"Monsieur Dorn, do you know the French use of a bayonet?" asked Delorme. + +"No," replied Dorn. + +"_Allons!_ I will show you," he said, taking up two rifles and handing +one to Dorn. "Come. It is so--and so--a trick. The boches can't face +cold steel.... Ah, monsieur, you have the supple wrists of a juggler! +You have the arms of a giant! You have the eyes of a duelist! You will +be one grand spitter of German pigs!" + +Dorn felt the blanching of his face, the tingling of his nerves, the +tightening of his muscles. A cold and terrible meaning laid hold of him +even in the instant when he trembled before this flaming-eyed French +veteran who complimented him while he instructed. How easily, Dorn +thought, could this soldier slip the bright bayonet over his guard and +pierce him from breast to back! How horrible the proximity of that +sinister blade, with its glint, its turn, its edge, so potently +expressive of its history! Even as Dorn crossed bayonets with this +inspired Frenchman he heard a soldier comrade say that Delorme had let +daylight through fourteen boches in that memorable victory of the Marne. + +"You are very big and strong and quick, monsieur," said the officer +Huon, simply. "In bayonet-work you will be a killer of boches." + +In their talk and practice and help, in their intent to encourage the +young American soldier, these Blue Devils one and all dealt in frank and +inevitable terms of death. That was their meaning in life. It was +immeasurably horrible for Dorn, because it seemed a realization of his +imagined visions. He felt like a child among old savages of a war tribe. +Yet he was fascinated by this close-up suggestion of man to man in +battle, of German to American, of materialist to idealist, and beyond +all control was the bursting surge of his blood. The exercises he had +gone through, the trick he had acquired, somehow had strange power to +liberate his emotion. + +The officer Huon spoke English, and upon his words Dorn hung spellbound. + +"You Americans have the fine dash, the nerve. You will perform wonders. +But you don't realize what this war is. You will perish of sheer +curiosity to see or eagerness to fight. But these are the least of the +horrors of this war. + +"Actual fighting is to me a relief, a forgetfulness, an excitement, and +is so with many of my comrades. We have survived wounds, starvation, +shell-shock, poison gas and fire, the diseases of war, the awful toil of +the trenches. And each and every one of us who has served long bears in +his mind the particular horror that haunts him. I have known veterans to +go mad at the screaming of shells. I have seen good soldiers stand upon +a trench, inviting the fire that would end suspense. For a man who hopes +to escape alive this war is indeed the ninth circle of hell. + +"My own particular horrors are mud, water, and cold. I have lived in +dark, cold mud-holes so long that my mind concerning them is not right. +I know it the moment I come out to rest. Rest! Do you know that we +cannot rest? The comfort of this dirty old barn, of these fires, of this +bare ground is so great that we cannot rest, we cannot sleep, we cannot +do anything. When I think of the past winter I do not remember injury +and agony for myself, or the maimed and mangled bodies of my comrades. I +remember only the horrible cold, the endless ages of waiting, the +hopeless misery of the dugouts, foul, black rat-holes that we had to +crawl into through sticky mud and filthy water. Mud, water, and cold, +with the stench of the dead clogging your nostrils! That to me is +war!... _Les Misérables!_ You Americans will never know that, thank God. +For it could not be endured by men who did not belong to this soil. +After all, the filthy water is half blood and the mud is part of the +dead of our people." + +Huon talked on and on, with the eloquence of a Frenchman who relieves +himself of a burden. He told of trenches dug in a swamp, lived in and +fought in, and then used for the graves of the dead, trenches that had +to be lived in again months afterward. The rotting dead were everywhere. +When they were covered the rain would come to wash away the earth, +exposing them again. That was the strange refrain of this soldier's +moody lament--the rain that fell, the mud that forever held him rooted +fast in the tracks of his despair. He told of night and storm, of a +weary squad of men, lying flat, trying to dig in under cover of rain and +darkness, of the hell of cannonade over and around them. He told of +hours that blasted men's souls, of death that was a blessing, of escape +that was torture beyond the endurance of humans. Crowning that night of +horrors piled on horrors, when he had seen a dozen men buried alive in +mud lifted by a monster shell, when he had seen a refuge deep +underground opened and devastated by a like projectile, came a +cloud-burst that flooded the trenches and the fields, drowning soldiers +whose injuries and mud-laden garments impeded their movements, and +rendering escape for the others an infernal labor and a hideous +wretchedness, unutterable and insupportable. + +Round the camp-fires the Blue Devils stood or lay, trying to rest. But +the habit of the trenches was upon them. Dorn gazed at each and every +soldier, so like in strange resemblance, so different in physical +characteristics; and the sad, profound, and terrifying knowledge came to +him of what they must have in their minds. He realized that all he +needed was to suffer and fight and live through some little part of the +war they had endured and then some truth would burst upon him. It was +there in the restless steps, in the prone forms, in the sunken, glaring +eyes. What soldiers, what men, what giants! Three and a half years of +unnamable and indescribable fury of action and strife of thought! Not +dead, nor stolid like oxen, were these soldiers of France. They had a +simplicity that seemed appalling. We have given all; we have stood in +the way, borne the brunt, saved you--this was flung at Dorn, not out of +their thought, but from their presence. The fact that they were there +was enough. He needed only to find these bravest of brave warriors real, +alive, throbbing men. + +Dorn lingered there, loath to leave. The great lesson of his life held +vague connection in some way with this squad of French privates. But he +could not pierce the veil. This meeting came as a climax to four months +of momentous meetings with the best and the riffraff of many nations. +Dorn had studied, talked, listened, and learned. He who had as yet given +nothing, fought no enemy, saved no comrade or refugee or child in all +this whirlpool of battling millions, felt a profound sense of his +littleness, his ignorance. He who had imagined himself unfortunate had +been blind, sick, self-centered. Here were soldiers to whom comfort and +rest were the sweetest blessings upon the earth, and they could not +grasp them. No more could they grasp them than could the gaping +civilians and the distinguished travelers grasp what these grand hulks +of veteran soldiers had done. Once a group of civilians halted near the +soldiers. An officer was their escort. He tried to hurry them on, but +failed. Delorme edged away into the gloomy, damp barn rather than meet +such visitors. Some of his comrades followed suit. Ferier, the +incomparable of the Blue Devils, the wearer of all the French medals and +the bearer of twenty-five wounds received in battle--he sneaked away, +afraid and humble and sullen, to hide himself from the curious. That +action of Ferier's was a revelation to Dorn. He felt a sting of shame. +There were two classes of people in relation to this war--those who went +to fight and those who stayed behind. What had Delorme or Mathie or +Ferier to do with the world of selfish, comfortable, well-fed men? Dorn +heard a million voices of France crying out the bitter truth--that if +these war-bowed veterans ever returned alive to their homes it would be +with hopes and hearts and faiths burned out, with hands forever lost to +their old use, with bodies that the war had robbed. + +Dorn bade his new-made friends adieu, and in the darkening twilight he +hurried toward his own camp. + +"If I could go back home now, honorably and well, I would never do it," +he muttered. "I couldn't bear to live knowing what I know now--unless I +had laughed at this death, and risked it--and dealt it!" + +He was full of gladness, of exultation, in contemplation of the +wonderful gift the hours had brought him. More than any men of history +or present, he honored these soldiers the Germans feared. Like an +Indian, Dorn respected brawn, courage, fortitude, silence, aloofness. + +"There was a divinity in those soldiers," he soliloquized. "I felt it in +their complete ignorance of their greatness. Yet they had pride, +jealousy. Oh, the mystery of it all!... When my day comes I'll last one +short and terrible hour. I would never make a soldier like one of them. +No American could. They are Frenchmen whose homes have been despoiled." + +In the tent of his comrades that night Dorn reverted from old habit, and +with a passionate eloquence he told all he had seen and heard, and much +that he had felt. His influence on these young men, long established, +but subtle and unconscious, became in that hour a tangible fact. He +stirred them. He felt them thoughtful and sad, and yet more unflinching, +stronger and keener for the inevitable day. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +The monstrous possibility that had consumed Kurt Dorn for many months at +last became an event--he had arrived on the battle-front in France. + +All afternoon the company of United States troops had marched from far +back of the line, resting, as darkness came on, at a camp of reserves, +and then going on. Artillery fire had been desultory during this march; +the big guns that had rolled their thunder miles and miles were now +silent. But an immense activity and a horde of soldiers back of the +lines brought strange leaden oppression to Kurt Dorn's heart. + +The last slow travel of his squad over dark, barren space and through +deep, narrow, winding lanes in the ground had been a nightmare ending to +the long journey. France had not yet become clear to him; he was a +stranger in a strange land; in spite of his tremendous interest and +excitement, all seemed abstract matters of his feeling, the plague of +himself made actuality the substance of dreams. That last day, the +cumulation of months of training and travel, had been one in which he +had observed, heard, talked and felt in a nervous and fevered +excitement. But now he imagined he could not remember any of it. His +poignant experience with the Blue Devils had been a reality he could +never forget, but now this blackness of subterranean cavern, this damp, +sickening odor of earth, this presence of men, the strange, muffled +sounds--all these were unreal. How had he come here? His mind labored +with a burden strangely like that on his chest. A different, utterly +unfamiliar emotion seemed rising over him. Maybe that was because he was +very tired and very sleepy. Sometime that night he must go on duty. He +ought to sleep. It was impossible. He could not close his eyes. An +effort to attend to what he was actually doing disclosed the fact that +he was listening with all his strength. For what? He could not answer +then. He heard the distant, muffled sounds, and low voices nearer, and +thuds and footfalls. His comrades were near him; he heard their +breathing; he felt their presence. They were strained and intense; like +him, they were locked up in their own prison of emotions. + +Always heretofore, on nights that he lay sleepless, Dorn had thought of +the two things dearest on earth to him--Lenore Anderson and the golden +wheat-hills of his home. This night he called up Lenore's image. It hung +there in the blackness, a dim, pale phantom of her sweet face, her +beautiful eyes, her sad lips, and then it vanished. Not at all could he +call up a vision of his beloved wheat-fields. So the suspicion that +something was wrong with his mind became a certainty. It angered him, +quickened his sensitiveness, even while he despaired. He ground his +teeth and clenched his fists and swore to realize his presence there, +and to rise to the occasion as had been his vaunted ambition. + +Suddenly he felt something slimy and hairy against his wrist--then a +stinging bite. A rat! A trench rat that lived on flesh! He flung his arm +violently and beat upon the soft earth. The incident of surprise and +disgust helped Dorn at least in one way. His mind had been set upon a +strange and supreme condition of his being there, of an emotion about to +overcome him. The bite of a rat, drawing blood, made a literal fact of +his being a soldier, in a dugout at the front waiting in the blackness +for his call to go on guard. This incident proved to Dorn his +limitations, and that he was too terribly concerned with his feelings +ever to last long as a soldier. But he could not help himself. His +pulse, his heart, his brain, all seemed to beat, beat, beat with a +nameless passion. + +Was he losing his nerve--was he afraid? His denial did not reassure him. +He understood that patriotism and passion were emotions, and that the +realities of a soldier's life were not. + +Dorn forced himself to think of realities, hoping thus to get a grasp +upon his vanishing courage. And memory helped him. Not so many days, +weeks, months back he had been a different man. At Bordeaux, when his +squad first set foot upon French soil! That was a splendid reality. How +he had thrilled at the welcome of the French sailors! + +Then he thought of the strenuous round of army duties, of training +tasks, of traveling in cold box-cars, of endless marches, of camps and +villages, of drills and billets. Never to be forgotten was that morning, +now seemingly long ago, when an officer had ordered the battalion to +pack. "We are going to the front!" he announced. Magic words! What +excitement, what whooping, what bragging and joy among the boys, what +hurry and bustle and remarkable efficiency! That had been a reality of +actual experience, but the meaning of it, the terrible significance, had +been beyond the mind of any American. + +"I'm here--at the front--now," whispered Dorn to himself. "A few rods +away are Germans!" ... Inconceivable--no reality at all! He went on with +his swift account of things, with his mind ever sharpening, with that +strange, mounting emotion flooding to the full, ready to burst its +barriers. When he and his comrades had watched their transport trains +move away--when they had stood waiting for their own trains--had the +idea of actual conflict yet dawned upon them? Dorn had to answer No. He +remembered that he had made few friends among the inhabitants of towns +and villages where he had stayed. What leisure time he got had been +given to a seeking out of sailors, soldiers, and men of all races, with +whom he found himself in remarkable contact. The ends of the world +brought together by one war! How could his memory ever hold all that had +come to him? But it did. Passion liberated it. He saw now that his eye +was a lens, his mind a sponge, his heart a gulf. + +Out of the hundreds of thousands of American troops in France, what +honor it was to be in the chosen battalion to go to the front! Dorn +lived only with his squad, but he felt the envy of the whole army. What +luck! To be chosen from so many--to go out and see the game through +quickly! He began to consider that differently now. The luck might be +with the soldiers left behind. Always, underneath Dorn's perplexity and +pondering, under his intelligence and spirit at their best, had been a +something deeply personal, something of the internal of him, a selfish +instinct. It was the nature of man--self-preservation. + +Like a tempest swept over Dorn the most significant ordeal and lesson of +his experience in France--that wonderful reality when he met the Blue +Devils and they took him in. However long he lived, his life must +necessarily be transformed from contact with those great men. + +The night march over the unending roads, through the gloom and the +spectral starlight, with the dull rumblings of cannon shocking his +heart--that Dorn lived over, finding strangely a minutest detail of +observation and a singular veracity of feeling fixed in his memory. + +Afternoon of that very day, at the reserve camp somewhere back there, +had brought an officer's address to the soldiers, a strong and emphatic +appeal as well as order--to obey, to do one's duty, to take no chances, +to be eternally vigilant, to believe that every man had advantage on his +side, even in war, if he were not a fool or a daredevil. Dorn had +absorbed the speech, remembered every word, but it all seemed futile +now. Then had come the impressive inspection of equipment, a careful +examination of gas-masks, rifles, knapsacks. After that the order to +march! + +Dorn imagined that he had remembered little, but he had remembered all. +Perhaps the sense of strange unreality was only the twist in his mind. +Yet he did not know where he was--what part of France--how far north or +south on the front line--in what sector. Could not that account for the +sense of feeling lost? + +Nevertheless, he was there at the end of all this incomprehensible +journey. He became possessed by an irresistible desire to hurry. Once +more Dorn attempted to control the far-flinging of his thoughts--to come +down to earth. The earth was there under his hand, soft, sticky, moldy, +smelling vilely. He dug his fingers into it, until the feel of something +like a bone made him jerk them out. Perhaps he had felt a stone. A tiny, +creeping, chilly shudder went up his back. Then he remembered, he felt, +he saw his little attic room, in the old home back among the wheat-hills +of the Northwest. Six thousand miles away! He would never see that room +again. What unaccountable vagary of memory had ever recalled it to him? +It faded out of his mind. + +Some of his comrades whispered; now and then one rolled over; none +snored, for none of them slept. Dorn felt more aloof from them than +ever. How isolated each one was, locked in his own trouble! Every one of +them, like himself, had a lonely soul. Perhaps they were facing it. He +could not conceive of a careless, thoughtless, emotionless attitude +toward this first night in the front-line trench. + +Dorn gradually grew more acutely sensitive to the many faint, rustling, +whispering sounds in and near the dugout. + +A soldier came stooping into the opaque square of the dugout door. His +rifle, striking the framework, gave out a metallic clink. This fellow +expelled a sudden heavy breath as if throwing off an oppression. + +"Is that you, Sanborn?" This whisper Dorn recognized as Dixon's. It was +full of suppressed excitement. + +"Yes." + +"Guess it's my turn next. How--how does it go?" + +Sanborn's laugh had an odd little quaver. "Why, so far as I know, I +guess it's all right. Damn queer, though. I wish we'd got here in +daytime.... But maybe that wouldn't help." + +"Humph!... Pretty quiet out there?" + +"So Bob says, but what's he know--more than us? I heard guns up the +line, and rifle-fire not so far off." + +"Can you see any--" + +"Not a damn thing--yet everything," interrupted Sanborn, enigmatically. + +"Dixon!" called Owens, low and quickly, from the darkness. + +Dixon did not reply. His sudden hard breathing, the brushing of his +garments against the door, then swift, soft steps dying away attested to +the fact of his going. + +Dorn tried to compose himself to rest, if not to sleep. He heard Sanborn +sit down, and then apparently stay very still for some time. All of a +sudden he whispered to himself. Dorn distinguished the word "hell." + +"What's ailin' you, pard?" drawled Brewer. + +Sanborn growled under his breath, and when some one else in the dugout +quizzed him curiously he burst out: "I'll bet you galoots the state of +California against a dill pickle that when your turn comes you'll be +sick in your gizzards!" + +"We'll take our medicine," came in the soft, quiet voice of Purcell. + +No more was said. The men all pretended to fall asleep, each ashamed to +let his comrade think he was concerned. + +A short, dull, heavy rumble seemed to burst the outer stillness. For a +moment the dugout was silent as a tomb. No one breathed. Then came a jar +of the earth, a creaking of shaken timbers. Some one gasped +involuntarily. Another whispered: + +"By God! the real thing!" + +Dorn wondered how far away that jarring shell had alighted. Not so far! +It was the first he had ever heard explode near him. Roaring of cannon, +exploding of shell--this had been a source of every-day talk among his +comrades. But the jar, the tremble of the earth, had a dreadful +significance. Another rumble, another jar, not so heavy or so near this +time, and then a few sharply connected reports, clamped Dorn as in a +cold vise. Machine-gun shots! Many thousand machine-gun shots had he +heard, but none with the life and the spite and the spang of these. Did +he imagine the difference? Cold as he felt, he began to sweat, and +continually, as he wiped the palms of his hands, they grew wet again. A +queer sensation of light-headedness and weakness seemed to possess him. +The roots of his will-power seemed numb. Nevertheless, all the more +revolving and all-embracing seemed his mind. + +The officer in his speech a few hours back had said the sector to which +the battalion had been assigned was alive. By this he meant that active +bombardment, machine-gun fire, hand-grenade throwing, and gas-shelling, +or attack in force might come any time, and certainly must come as soon +as the Germans suspected the presence of an American force opposite +them. + +That was the stunning reality to Dorn--the actual existence of the Huns +a few rods distant. But realization of them had not brought him to the +verge of panic. He would not flinch at confronting the whole German +army. Nor did he imagine he put a great price upon his life. Nor did he +have any abnormal dread of pain. Nor had the well-remembered teachings +of the Bible troubled his spirit. Was he going to be a coward because of +some incalculable thing in him or force operating against him? Already +he sat there, shivering and sweating, with the load on his breast +growing laborsome, with all his sensorial being absolutely at keenest +edge. + +Rapid footfalls halted his heart-beats. They came from above, outside +the dugout, from the trench. + +"Dorn, come out!" called the corporal. + +Dorn's response was instant. But he was as blind as if he had no eyes, +and he had to feel his way to climb out. The indistinct, blurred form of +the corporal seemed half merged in the pale gloom of the trench. A cool +wind whipped at Dorn's hot face. Surcharged with emotion, the nature of +which he feared, Dorn followed the corporal, stumbling and sliding over +the wet boards, knocking bits of earth from the walls, feeling a sick +icy gripe in his bowels. Some strange light flared up--died away. +Another rumble, distinct, heavy, and vibrating! To his left somewhere +the earth received a shock. Dorn felt a wave of air that was not wind. + +The corporal led the way past motionless men peering out over the top of +the wall, and on to a widening, where an abutment of filled bags loomed +up darkly. Here the corporal cautiously climbed up breaks in the wall +and stooped behind the fortification. Dorn followed. His legs did not +feel natural. Something was lost out of them. Then he saw the little +figure of Rogers beside him. Dorn's turn meant Rogers's relief. How pale +against the night appeared the face of Rogers! As he peered under his +helmet at Dorn a low whining passed in the air overhead. Rogers started +slightly. A thump sounded out there, interrupting the corporal, who had +begun to speak. He repeated his order to Dorn, bending a little to peer +into his face. Dorn tried to open his lips to say he did not understand, +but his lips were mute. Then the corporal led Rogers away. + +That moment alone, out in the open, with the strange, windy pall of +night--all-enveloping, with the flares, like sheet-lightning, along the +horizon, with a rumble here and a roar there, with whistling fiends +riding the blackness above, with a series of popping, impelling reports +seemingly close in front--that drove home to Kurt Dorn a cruel and +present and unescapable reality. + +At that instant, like bitter fate, shot up a rocket, or a star-flare of +calcium light, bursting to expose all underneath in pitiless radiance. +With a gasp that was a sob, Dorn shrank flat against the wall, staring +into the fading circle, feeling a creep of paralysis. He must be seen. +He expected the sharp, biting series of a machine-gun or the bursting of +a bomb. But nothing happened, except that the flare died away. It had +come from behind his own lines. Control of his muscles had almost +returned when a heavy boom came from the German side. Miles away, +perhaps, but close! That boom meant a great shell speeding on its +hideous mission. It would pass over him. He listened. The wind came from +that side. It was cold; it smelled of burned powder; it carried sounds +he was beginning to appreciate--shots, rumbles, spats, and thuds, +whistles of varying degree, all isolated sounds. Then he caught a +strange, low moaning. It rose. It was coming fast. It became an +o-o-o-O-O-O! Nearer and nearer! It took on a singing whistle. It was +passing--no--falling!... A mighty blow was delivered to the earth--a +jar--a splitting shock to windy darkness; a wave of heavy air was flung +afar--and then came the soft, heavy thumping of falling earth. + +That shell had exploded close to the place where Dorn stood. It +terrified him. It reduced him to a palpitating, stricken wretch, utterly +unable to cope with the terror. It was not what he had expected. What +were words, anyhow? By words alone he had understood this shell thing. +Death was only a word, too. But to be blown to atoms! It came every +moment to some poor devil; it might come to him. But that was not +fighting. Somewhere off in the blackness a huge iron monster belched +this hell out upon defenseless men. Revolting and inconceivable truth! + +It was Dorn's ordeal that his mentality robbed this hour of novelty and +of adventure, that while his natural, physical fear incited panic and +nausea and a horrible, convulsive internal retching, his highly +organized, exquisitely sensitive mind, more like a woman's in its +capacity for emotion, must suffer through imagining the infinite agonies +that he might really escape. Every shell then must blow him to bits; +every agony of every soldier must be his. + +But he knew what his duty was, and as soon as he could move he began to +edge along the short beat. Once at the end he drew a deep and shuddering +breath, and, fighting all his involuntary instincts, he peered over the +top. An invisible thing whipped close over his head. It did not whistle; +it cut. Out in front of him was only thick, pale gloom, with spectral +forms, leading away to the horizon, where flares, like sheet-lightning +of a summer night's storm, ran along showing smoke and bold, ragged +outlines. Then he went to the other end to peer over there. His eyes +were keen, and through long years of habit at home, going about at night +without light, he could see distinctly where ordinary sight would meet +only a blank wall. The flat ground immediately before him was bare of +living or moving objects. That was his duty as sentinel here--to make +sure of no surprise patrol from the enemy lines. It helped Dorn to +realize that he could accomplish this duty even though he was in a +torment. + +That space before him was empty, but it was charged with current. Wind, +shadow, gloom, smoke, electricity, death, spirit--whatever that current +was, Dorn felt it. He was more afraid of that than the occasional +bullets which zipped across. Sometimes shots from his own squad rang out +up and down the line. Off somewhat to the north a machine-gun on the +Allies' side spoke now and then spitefully. Way back a big gun boomed. +Dorn listened to the whine of shells from his own side with a far +different sense than that with which he heard shells whine from the +enemy. How natural and yet how unreasonable! Shells from the other side +came over to destroy him; shells from his side went back to save him. +But both were shot to kill! Was he, the unknown and shrinking novice of +a soldier, any better than an unknown and shrinking soldier far across +there in the darkness? What was equality? But these were Germans! That +thing so often said--so beaten into his brain--did not convince out here +in the face of death. + + * * * * * + +Four o'clock! With the gray light came a gradually increasing number of +shells. Most of them struck far back. A few, to right and left, dropped +near the front line. The dawn broke--such a dawn as he never dreamed +of--smoky and raw, with thunder spreading to a circle all around the +horizon. + +He was relieved. On his way in he passed Purcell at the nearest post. +The elegant New-Yorker bore himself with outward calm. But in the gray +dawn he looked haggard and drawn. Older! That flashed through Dorn's +mind. A single night had contained years, more than years. Others of the +squad had subtly changed. Dixon gave him a penetrating look, as if he +wore a mask, under which was a face of betrayal, of contrast to that +soldier bearing, of youth that was gone forever. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +The squad of men to which Dorn belonged had to be on the lookout +continually for an attack that was inevitable. The Germans were feeling +out the line, probably to verify spy news of the United States troops +taking over a sector. They had not, however, made sure of this fact. + +The gas-shells came over regularly, making life for the men a kind of +suffocation most of the time. And the great shells that blew enormous +holes in front and in back of their position never allowed a relaxation +from strain. Drawn and haggard grew the faces that had been so clean-cut +and brown and fresh. + + * * * * * + +One evening at mess, when the sector appeared quiet enough to permit of +rest, Rogers was talking to some comrades before the door of the dugout. + +"It sure got my goat, that little promenade of ours last night over into +No Man's Land," he said. "We had orders to slip out and halt a German +patrol that was supposed to be stealing over to our line. We crawled on +our bellies, looking and listening every minute. If that isn't the +limit! My heart was in my mouth. I couldn't breathe. And for the first +moments, if I'd run into a Hun, I'd had no more strength than a rabbit. +But all seemed clear. It was not a bright night--sort of opaque and +gloomy--shadows everywhere. There wasn't any patrol coming. But Corporal +Owens thought he heard men farther on working with wire. We crawled some +more. And we must have got pretty close to the enemy lines--in fact, we +had--when up shot one of those damned calcium flares. We all burrowed +into the ground. I was paralyzed. It got as light as noon--strange +greenish-white flare. It magnified. Flat as I lay, I saw the German +embankments not fifty yards away. I made sure we were goners. Slowly the +light burned out. Then that machine-gun you all heard began to rattle. +Something queer about the way every shot of a machine-gun bites the air. +We heard the bullets, low down, right over us. Say, boys, I'd almost +rather be hit and have it done with!... We began to crawl back. I wanted +to run. We all wanted to. But Owens is a nervy guy and he kept +whispering. Another machine-gun cut loose, and bullets rained over us. +Like hail they hit somewhere ahead, scattering the gravel. We'd almost +reached our line when Smith jumped up and ran. He said afterward that he +just couldn't help himself. The suspense was awful. I know. I've been a +clerk in a bank! Get that? And there I was under a hail of Hun lead, +without being able to understand why, or feel that any time had passed +since giving up my job to go to war. Queer how I saw my old desk!... +Well, that's how Smith got his. I heard the bullets spat him, sort of +thick and soft.... Ugh!... Owens and I dragged him along, and finally +into the trench. He had a bullet through his shoulder and leg. Guess +he'll live, all right.... Boys, take this from me. Nobody can _tell_ you +what a machine-gun is like. A rifle, now, is not so much. You get shot +at, and you know the man must reload and aim. That takes time. But a +machine-gun! Whew! It's a comb--a fine-toothed comb--and you're the +louse it's after! You hear that steady rattle, and then you hear bullets +everywhere. Think of a man against a machine-gun! It's not a square +deal." + +Dixon was one of the listeners. He laughed. + +"Rogers, I'd like to have been with you. Next time I'll volunteer. You +had action--a run for your money. That's what I enlisted for. Standing +still--doing nothing but wait--that drives me half mad. My years of +football have made action necessary. Otherwise I go stale in mind and +body.... Last night, before you went on that scouting trip, I had been +on duty two hours. Near midnight. The shelling had died down. All became +quiet. No flares--no flashes anywhere. There was a luminous kind of glow +in the sky--moonlight through thin clouds. I had to listen and watch. +But I couldn't keep back my thoughts. There I was, a soldier, facing No +Man's Land, across whose dark space were the Huns we have come to regard +as devils in brutality, yet less than men.... And I thought of home. No +man knows what home really is until he stands that lonely midnight +guard. A shipwrecked sailor appreciates the comforts he once had; a +desert wanderer, lost and starving, remembers the food he once wasted; a +volunteer soldier, facing death in the darkness, thinks of his home! It +is a hell of a feeling!... And, thinking of home, I remembered my girl. +I've been gone four months--have been at the front seven days (or is it +seven years?) and last night in the darkness she came to me. Oh yes! she +was there! She seemed reproachful, as she was when she coaxed me not to +enlist. My girl was not one of the kind who sends her lover to war and +swears she will die an old maid unless he returns. Mine begged me to +stay home, or at least wait for the draft. But I wasn't built that way. +I enlisted. And last night I felt the bitterness of a soldier's fate. +All this beautiful stuff is bunk!... My girl is a peach. She had many +admirers, two in particular that made me run my best down the stretch. +One is club-footed. He couldn't fight. The other is all yellow. Him she +liked best. He had her fooled, the damned slacker.... I wish I could +believe I'd get safe back home, with a few Huns to my credit--the Croix +de Guerre--and an officer's uniform. That would be great. How I could +show up those fellows!... But I'll get killed--as sure as God made +little apples I'll get killed--and she will marry one of the men who +would not fight!" + +It was about the middle of a clear morning, still cold, but the sun was +shining. Guns were speaking intermittently. Those soldiers who were off +duty had their gas-masks in their hands. All were gazing intently +upward. + +Dorn sat a little apart from them. He, too, looked skyward, and he was +so absorbed that he did not hear the occasional rumble of a distant gun. +He was watching the airmen at work--the most wonderful and famous +feature of the war. It absolutely enthralled Dorn. As a boy he had loved +to watch the soaring of the golden eagles, and once he had seen a great +wide-winged condor, swooping along a mountain-crest. How he had envied +them the freedom of the heights--the loneliness of the unscalable +crags--the companionship of the clouds! Here he gazed and marveled at +the man-eagles of the air. + +German planes had ventured over the lines, flying high, and English +planes had swept up to intercept them. One was rising then not far away, +climbing fast, like a fish-hawk with prey in its claws. Its color, its +framework, its propeller, and its aviator showed distinctly against the +sky. The buzzing, high-pitched drone of its motor floated down. + +The other aeroplanes, far above, had lost their semblance to mechanical +man-driven machines. They were now the eagles of the air. They were +rising, circling, diving in maneuvers that Dorn knew meant pursuit. But +he could not understand these movements. To him the air-battle looked as +it must have looked to an Indian. Birds of prey in combat! Dorn recalled +verses he had learned as a boy, written by a poet who sang of future +wars in the air. What he prophesied had come true. Was there not a sage +now who could pierce the veil of the future and sing of such a thing as +sacred human life? Dorn had his doubts. Poets and dreamers appeared not +to be the men who could halt materialism. Strangely then, as Dorn gazed +bitterly up at these fierce fliers who fought in the heavens, he +remembered the story of the three wise men and of Bethlehem. Was it only +a story? Where on this sunny spring morning was Christ, and the love of +man for man? + +At that moment one of the forward aeroplanes, which was drifting back +over the enemy lines, lost its singular grace of slow, sweeping +movement. It poised in the air. It changed shape. It pitched as if from +wave to wave of wind. A faint puff of smoke showed. Tiny specks, visible +to Dorn's powerful eyes, seemed to detach themselves and fall, to be +followed by the plane itself in sheer downward descent. + +Dorn leaped to his feet. What a thrilling and terrible sight! His +comrades stood bareheaded, red faces uplifted, open-mouthed and wild +with excitement, not daring to disobey orders and yell at the top of +their lungs. Dorn felt, strong above the softened wonder and thought of +a moment back, a tingling, pulsating wave of gushing blood go over him. +Like his comrades, he began to wave his arms and stamp and bite his +tongue. + +Swiftly the doomed plane swept down out of sight. Gone! At that instant +something which had seemed like a bird must have become a broken mass. +The other planes drifted eastward. + +Dorn gasped, and broke the spell on him. He was hot and wet with sweat, +quivering with a frenzy. How many thousand soldiers of the Allies had +seen that downward flight of the boche? Dorn pitied the destroyed +airman, hated himself, and had all the fury of savage joy that had been +in his comrades. + + * * * * * + +Dorn, relieved from guard and firing-post, rushed back to the dugout. He +needed the dark of that dungeon. He crawled in and, searching out the +remotest, blackest corner, hidden from all human eyes, and especially +his own, he lay there clammy and wet all over, with an icy, sickening +rend, like a wound, in the pit of his stomach. He shut his eyes, but +that did not shut out what he saw. "_So help me God!_" he whispered to +himself.... Six endless months had gone to the preparation of a deed +that had taken one second! That transformed him! His life on earth, his +spirit in the beyond, could never be now what they might have been. And +he sobbed through grinding teeth as he felt the disintegrating, +agonizing, irremediable forces at work on body, mind, and soul. + +He had blown out the brains of his first German. + +Fires of hell, in two long lines, bordering a barren, ghastly, hazy +strip of land, burst forth from the earth. From holes where men hid +poured thunder of guns and stream of smoke and screeching of iron. That +worthless strip of land, barring deadly foes, shook as with repeated +earthquakes. Huge spouts of black and yellow earth lifted, +fountain-like, to the dull, heavy bursts of shells. Pound and jar, +whistle and whine, long, broken rumble, and the rattling concatenation +of quick shots like metallic cries, exploding hail-storm of iron in the +air, a desert over which thousands of puffs of smoke shot up and swelled +and drifted, the sliding crash far away, the sibilant hiss swift +overhead. Boom! Weeeee--eeeeooooo! from the east. Boom! +Weeeee--eeeeooooo! from the west. + +At sunset there was no let-up. The night was all the more hideous. Along +the horizon flashed up the hot sheets of lightning that were not of a +summer storm. Angry, lurid, red, these upflung blazes and flames +illumined the murky sky, showing in the fitful and flickering intervals +wagons driving toward the front, and patrols of soldiers running toward +some point, and great upheavals of earth spread high. + +This heavy cannonading died away in the middle of the night until an +hour before dawn, when it began again with redoubled fury and lasted +until daybreak. + +Dawn came reluctantly, Dorn thought. He was glad. It meant a charge. +Another night of that hellish shrieking and bursting of shells would +kill his mind, if not his body. He stood on guard at a fighting-post. +Corporal Owens lay at his feet, wounded slightly. He would not retire. +As the cannons ceased he went to sleep. Rogers stood close on one side, +Dixon on the other. The squad had lived through that awful night. +Soldiers were bringing food and drink to them. All appeared grimly gay. + +Dorn was not gay. But he knew this was the day he would laugh in the +teeth of death. A slumbrous, slow heat burned deep in him, like a +covered fire, fierce and hot at heart, awaiting the wind. Watching +there, he did not voluntarily move a muscle, yet all his body twitched +like that of the trained athlete, strained to leap into the great race +of his life. + +An officer came hurrying through. The talking hushed. Men on guard, +backs to the trench, never moved their eyes from the forbidden land in +front. The officer spoke. Look for a charge! Reserves were close behind. +He gave his orders and passed on. + +Then an Allied gun opened up with a boom. The shell moaned on over. Dorn +saw where it burst, sending smoke and earth aloft. That must have been a +signal for a bombardment of the enemy all along this sector, for big and +little guns began to thunder and crack. + +The spectacle before Dorn's hard, keen eyes was one that he thought +wonderful. Far across No Man's Land, which sloped somewhat at that point +in the plain, he saw movement of troops and guns. His eyes were +telescopic. Over there the ground appeared grassy in places, with green +ridges rising, and patches of brush and straggling trees standing out +clearly. Faint, gray-colored squads of soldiers passed in sight with +helmets flashing in the sun; guns were being hauled forward; mounted +horsemen dashed here and there, vanishing and reappearing; and all +through that wide area of color and action shot up live black spouts of +earth crowned in white smoke that hung in the air after the earth fell +back. They were beautiful, these shell-bursts. Round balls of white +smoke magically appeared in the air, to spread and drift; long, yellow +columns or streaks rose here, and there leaped up a fan-shaped, dirty +cloud, savage and sinister; sometimes several shells burst close +together, dashing the upflung sheets of earth together and blending +their smoke; at intervals a huge, creamy-yellow explosion, like a +geyser, rose aloft to spread and mushroom, then to detach itself from +the heavier body it had upheaved, and float away, white and graceful, on +the wind. + +Sinister beauty! Dorn soon lost sight of that. There came a gnawing at +his vitals. The far scene of action could not hold his gaze. That dark, +uneven, hummocky break in the earth, which was a goodly number of rods +distant, yet now seemed close, drew a startling attention. Dorn felt his +eyes widen and pop. Spots and dots, shiny, illusive, bobbed along that +break, behind the mounds, beyond the farther banks. A yell as from one +lusty throat ran along the line of which Dorn's squad held the center. +Dorn's sight had a piercing intensity. All was hard under his grip--his +rifle, the boards and bags against which he leaned. Corporal Owens rose +beside him, bareheaded, to call low and fiercely to his men. + +The gray dots and shiny spots leaped up magically and appallingly into +men. German soldiers! Boches! Huns on a charge! They were many, but wide +apart. They charged, running low. + +Machine-gun rattle, rifle-fire, and strangled shouts blended along the +line. From the charging Huns seemed to come a sound that was neither +battle-cry nor yell nor chant, yet all of them together. The gray +advancing line thinned at points opposite the machine-guns, but it was +coming fast. + +Dorn cursed his hard, fumbling hands, which seemed so eager and fierce +that they stiffened. They burned, too, from their grip on the hot rifle. +Shot after shot he fired, missing. He could not hit a field full of +Huns. He dropped shells, fumbled with them at the breech, loaded wildly, +aimed at random, pulled convulsively. His brain was on fire. He had no +anger, no fear, only a great and futile eagerness. Yell and crack filled +his ears. The gray, stolid, unalterable Huns must be driven back. Dorn +loaded, crushed his rifle steady, pointed low at a great gray bulk, and +fired. That Hun pitched down out of the gray advancing line. The sight +almost overcame Dorn. Dizzy, with blurred eyes, he leaned over his gun. +His abdomen and breast heaved, and he strangled over his gorge. Almost +he fainted. But violence beside him somehow, great heaps of dust and +gravel flung over him, hoarse, wild yells in his ears, roused him. The +boches were on the line! He leaped up. Through the dust he saw charging +gray forms, thick and heavy. They plunged, as if actuated by one will. +Bulky blond men, ashen of face, with eyes of blue fire and brutal mouths +set grim--Huns! + +Up out of the shallow trench sprang comrades on each side of Dorn. No +rats to be cornered in a hole! Dorn seemed drawn by powerful hauling +chains. He did not need to climb! Four big Germans appeared +simultaneously upon the embankment of bags. They were shooting. One +swung aloft an arm and closed fist. He yelled like a demon. He was a +bomb-thrower. On the instant a bullet hit Dorn, tearing at the side of +his head, stinging excruciatingly, knocking him down, flooding his face +with blood. The shock, like a weight, held him down, but he was not +dazed. A body, khaki-clad, rolled down beside him, convulsively flopped +against him. He bounded erect, his ears filled with a hoarse and +clicking din, his heart strangely lifting in his breast. + +Only one German now stood upon the embankment of bags and he was the +threatening bomb-thrower. The others were down--gray forms wrestling +with brown. Dixon was lunging at the bomb-thrower, and, reaching him +with the bayonet, ran him through the belly. He toppled over with an +awful cry and fell hard on the other side of the wall of loaded bags. +The bomb exploded. In the streaky burst Dixon seemed to charge in +bulk--to be flung aside like a leaf by a gale. + +Little Rogers had engaged an enemy who towered over him. They feinted, +swung, and cracked their guns together, then locked bayonets. Another +German striding from behind stabbed Rogers in the back. He writhed off +the bloody bayonet, falling toward Dorn, showing a white face that +changed as he fell, with quiver of torture and dying eyes. + +That dormant inhibited self of Dorn suddenly was no more. Fast as a +flash he was upon the murdering Hun. Bayonet and rifle-barrel lunged +through him, and so terrible was the thrust that the German was thrown +back as if at a blow from a battering-ram. Dorn whirled the bloody +bayonet, and it crashed to the ground the rifle of the other German. +Dorn saw not the visage of the foe--only the thick-set body, and this he +ripped open in one mighty slash. The German's life spilled out horribly. + +Dorn leaped over the bloody mass. Owens lay next, wide-eyed, alive, but +stricken. Purcell fought with clubbed rifle, backing away from several +foes. Brewer was being beaten down. Gray forms closing in! Dorn saw +leveled small guns,, flashes of red, the impact of lead striking him. +But he heard no shots. The roar in his ears was the filling of a gulf. +Out of that gulf pierced his laugh. Gray forms--guns--bullets-- +bayonets--death--he laughed at them. His moment had come. Here +he would pay. His immense and terrible joy bridged the ages +between the past and this moment when he leaped light and swift, +like a huge cat, upon them. They fired and they hit, but Dorn sprang on, +tigerishly, with his loud and nameless laugh. Bayonets thrust at him +were straws. These enemies gave way, appalled. With sweep and lunge he +killed one and split a second's skull before the first had fallen. A +third he lifted and upset and gored, like a bull, in one single stroke. +The fourth and last of that group, screaming his terror and fury, ran in +close to get beyond that sweeping blade. He fired as he ran. Dorn +tripped him heavily, and he had scarcely struck the ground when that +steel transfixed his bulging throat. + +Brewer was down, but Purcell had been reinforced. Soldiers in brown came +on the run, shooting, yelling, brandishing. They closed in on the +Germans, and Dorn ran into that mêlée to make one thrust at each gray +form he encountered. + +Shriller yells along the line--American yells--the enemy there had given +ground! Dorn heard. He saw the gray line waver. He saw reserves running +to aid his squad. The Germans would be beaten back. There was whirling +blackness in his head through which he seemed to see. The laugh broke +hoarse and harsh from his throat. Dust and blood choked him. + +Another gray form blocked his leaping way. Dorn saw only low down, the +gray arms reaching with bright, unstained blade. His own bloody bayonet +clashed against it, locked, and felt the helplessness of the arms that +wielded it. An instant of pause--a heaving, breathless instinct of +impending exhaustion--a moment when the petrific mace of primitive man +stayed at the return of the human--then with bloody foam on his lips +Dorn spent his madness. + +A supple twist--the French trick--and Dorn's powerful lunge, with all +his ponderous weight, drove his bayonet through the enemy's lungs. + +"_Ka--ma--rod!_" came the strange, strangling cry. + +A weight sagged down on Dorn's rifle. He did not pull out the bayonet, +but as it lowered with the burden of the body his eyes, fixed at one +height, suddenly had brought into their range the face of his foe. + +A boy--dying on his bayonet! Then came a resurrection of Kurt Dorn's +soul. He looked at what must be his last deed as a soldier. His mind +halted. He saw only the ghastly face, the eyes in which he expected to +see hate, but saw only love of life, suddenly reborn, suddenly surprised +at death. + +"God save you, German! I'd give my life for yours!" + +Too late! Dorn watched the youth's last clutching of empty fingers, the +last look of consciousness at his conqueror, the last quiver. The youth +died and slid back off the rigid bayonet. War of men! + +A heavy thud sounded to the left of Dorn. A bursting flash hid the face +of his German victim. A terrific wind, sharp and hard as nails, lifted +Dorn into roaring blackness.... + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +"Many Waters" shone white and green under the bright May sunshine. Seen +from the height of slope, the winding brooks looked like silver bands +across a vast belt of rainy green and purple that bordered the broad +river in the bottom-lands. A summer haze filled the air, and hints of +gold on the waving wheat slopes presaged an early and bountiful harvest. + +It was warm up there on the slope where Lenore Anderson watched and +brooded. The breeze brought fragrant smell of fresh-cut alfalfa and the +rustling song of the wheat. The stately house gleamed white down on the +terraced green knoll; horses and cattle grazed in the pasture; workmen +moved like snails in the brown gardens; a motor-car crept along the road +far below, with its trail of rising dust. + +Two miles of soft green wheat-slope lay between Lenore and her home. She +had needed the loneliness and silence and memory of a place she had not +visited for many months. Winter had passed. Summer had come with its +birds and flowers. The wheat-fields were again waving, beautiful, +luxuriant. But life was not as it had been for Lenore Anderson. + +Kurt Dorn, private, mortally wounded!--So had read the brief and +terrible line in a Spokane newspaper, publishing an Associated Press +despatch of Pershing's casualty-list. No more! That had been the only +news of Kurt Dorn for a long time. A month had dragged by, of doubt, of +hope, of slow despairing. + +Up to the time of that fatal announcement Lenore had scarcely noted the +fleeting of the days. With all her spirit and energy she had thrown +herself into the organizing of the women of the valley to work for the +interests of the war. She had made herself a leader who spared no +effort, no sacrifice, no expense in what she considered her duty. +Conservation of food, intensive farm production, knitting for soldiers, +Liberty Loans and Red Cross--these she had studied and mastered, to the +end that the women of the great valley had accomplished work which won +national honor. It had been excitement, joy, and a strange fulfilment +for her. But after the shock caused by the fatal news about Dorn she had +lost interest, though she had worked on harder than ever. + +Just a night ago her father had gazed at her and then told her to come +to his office. She did so. And there he said: "You're workin' too hard. +You've got to quit." + +"Oh no, dad. I'm only tired to-night," she had replied. "Let me go on. +I've planned so--" + +"No!" he said, banging his desk. "You'll run yourself down." + +"But, father, these are war-times. Could I do less--could I think of--" + +"You've done wonders. You've been the life of this work. Some one else +can carry it on now. You'd kill yourself. An' this war has cost the +Andersons enough." + +"Should we count the cost?" she asked. + +Anderson had sworn. "No, we shouldn't. But I'm not goin' to lose my +girl. Do you get that hunch?... I've bought bonds by the bushel. I've +given thousands to your relief societies. I gave up my son Jim--an' that +cost us mother.... I'm raisin' a million bushels of wheat this year that +the government can have. An' I'm starvin' to death because I don't get +what I used to eat.... Then this last blow--Dorn!--that fine young +wheat-man, the best--Aw! Lenore..." + +"But, dad, is--isn't there any--any hope?" + +Anderson was silent. + +"Dad," she had pleaded, "if he were really dead--buried--oh! wouldn't I +feel it?" + +"You've overworked yourself. Now you've got to rest," her father had +replied, huskily. + +"But, dad ..." + +"I said no.... I've a heap of pride in what you've done. An' I sure +think you're the best Anderson of the lot. That's all. Now kiss me an' +go to bed." + +That explained how Lenore came to be alone, high up' on the vast +wheat-slope, watching and feeling, with no more work to do. The slow +climb there had proved to her how much she needed rest. But work even +under strain or pain would have been preferable to endless hours to +think, to remember, to fight despair. + +Mortally wounded! She whispered the tragic phrase. When? Where? How had +her lover been mortally wounded? That meant death. But no other word had +come and no spiritual realization of death abided in her soul. It seemed +impossible for Lenore to accept things as her father and friends did. +Nevertheless, equally impossible was it not to be influenced by their +practical minds. Because of her nervousness, of her overstrain, she had +lost a good deal of her mental poise; and she divined that the only help +for that was certainty of Dorn's fate. She could bear the shock if only +she could know positively. And leaning her face in her hands, with the +warm wind blowing her hair and bringing the rustle of the wheat, she +prayed for divination. + +No answer! Absolutely no mystic consciousness of death--of an end to her +love here on earth! Instead of that breathed a strong physical presence +of life all about her, in the swelling, waving slopes of wheat, in the +beautiful butterflies, in the singing birds low down and the soaring +eagles high above--life beating and surging in her heart, her veins, +unquenchable and indomitable. It gave the lie to her morbidness. But it +seemed only a physical state. How could she find any tangible hold on +realities? + +She lifted her face to the lonely sky, and her hands pressed to her +breast where the deep ache throbbed heavily. + +"It's not that I can't give him up," she whispered, as if impelled to +speak. "I _can_. I _have_ given him up. It's this torture of suspense. +Oh, not to _know!_... But if that newspaper had claimed him one of the +killed, I'd not believe." + +So Lenore trusted more to the mystic whisper of her woman's soul than to +all the unproven outward things. Still trust as she might, the voice of +the world dinned in her ears, and between the two she was on the rack. +Loss of Jim--loss of her mother--what unfilled gulfs in her heart! She +was one who loved only few, but these deeply. To-day when they were gone +was different from yesterday when they were here--different because +memory recalled actual words, deeds, kisses of loved ones whose life was +ended. Utterly futile was it for Lenore to try to think of Dorn in that +way. She saw his stalwart form down through the summer haze, coming with +his springy stride through the wheat. Yet--the words--mortally wounded! +They had burned into her thought so that when she closed her eyes she +saw them, darkly red, against the blindness of sight. Pain was a +sluggish stream with source high in her breast, and it moved with her +unquickened blood. If Dorn were really dead, what would become of her? +Selfish question for a girl whose lover had died for his country! She +would work, she would be worthy of him, she would never pine, she would +live to remember. But, ah! the difference to her! Never for her who had +so loved the open, the silken rustle of the wheat and the waving +shadows, the green-and-gold slopes, the birds of the air and the beasts +of the field, the voice of child and the sweetness of life--never again +would these be the same to her, if Dorn were gone forever. + +That ache in her heart had communicated itself to all her being. It +filled her mind and her body. Tears stung her eyes, and again they were +dry when tears would have soothed. Just as any other girl she wept, and +then she burned with fever. A longing she had only faintly known, a +physical thing which she had resisted, had become real, insistent, +beating. Through love and loss she was to be denied a heritage common to +all women. A weariness dragged at her. Noble spirit was not a natural +thing. It must be intelligence seeing the higher. But to be human was to +love life, to hate death, to faint under loss, to throb and pant with +heavy sighs, to lie sleepless in the long dark night, to shrink with +unutterable sadness at the wan light of dawn, to follow duty with a +laggard sense, to feel the slow ebb of vitality and not to care, to +suffer with a breaking heart. + + * * * * * + +Sunset hour reminded Lenore that she must not linger there on the slope. +So, following the grass-grown lane between the sections of wheat, she +wended a reluctant way homeward. Twilight was falling when she reached +the yard. The cooling air was full of a fragrance of flowers freshly +watered. Kathleen appeared on the path, evidently waiting for her. The +girl was growing tall. Lenore remembered with a pang that her full mind +had left little time for her to be a mother to this sister. Kathleen +came running, excited and wide-eyed. + +"Lenore, I thought you'd never come," she said. "I know something. Only +dad told me not to tell you." + +"Then don't," replied Lenore, with a little start. + +"But I'd never keep it," burst out Kathleen, breathlessly. "Dad's going +to New York." + +Lenore's heart contracted. She did not know how she felt. Somehow it was +momentous news. + +"New York! What for?" she asked. + +"He says it's about wheat. But he can't fool me. He told me not to +mention it to you." + +The girl was keen. She wanted to prepare Lenore, yet did not mean to +confide her own suppositions. Lenore checked a rush of curiosity. They +went into the house. Lenore hurried to change her outing clothes and +boots and then went down to supper. Rose sat at table, but her father +had not yet come in. Lenore called him. He answered, and presently came +tramping into the dining-room, blustering and cheerful. Not for many +months had Lenore given her father such close scrutiny as she did then. +He was not natural, and he baffled her. A fleeting, vague hope that she +had denied lodgment in her mind seemed to have indeed been wild and +unfounded. But the very fact that her father was for once unfathomable +made this situation remarkable. All through the meal Lenore trembled, +and she had to force herself to eat. + +"Lenore, I'd like to see you," said her father, at last, as he laid down +his napkin and rose. Almost he convinced her then that nothing was amiss +or different, and he would have done so if he had not been too clever, +too natural. She rose to follow, catching Kathleen's whisper: + +"Don't let him put it over on you, now!" + +Anderson lighted a big cigar, as always after supper, but to Lenore's +delicate sensitiveness he seemed to be too long about it. + +"Lenore, I'm takin' a run to New York--leave to-night at eight--an' I +want you to sort of manage while I'm gone. Here's some jobs I want the +men to do--all noted down here--an' you'll answer letters, 'phone calls, +an' all that. Not much work, you know, but you'll have to hang around. +Somethin' important might turn up." + +"Yes, dad. I'll be glad to," she replied. "Why--why this sudden trip?" + +Anderson turned away a little and ran his hand over the papers on his +desk. Did she only imagine that his hand shook a little? + +"Wheat deals, I reckon--mostly," he said. "An' mebbe I'll run over to +Washington." + +He turned then, puffing at his cigar, and calmly met her direct gaze. If +there were really more than he claimed in his going, he certainly did +not intend to tell her. Lenore tried to still her mounting emotion. +These days she seemed all imagination. Then she turned away her face. + +"Will you try to find out if Kurt Dorn died of his wound--and all about +him?" she asked, steadily, but very low. + +"Lenore, I sure will!" he exclaimed, with explosive emphasis. No doubt +the sincerity of that reply was an immense relief to Anderson. "Once in +New York, I can pull wires, if need be. I absolutely promise you I'll +find out--what--all you want to know." + +Lenore bade him good-by and went to her room, where calmness deserted +her for a while. Upon recovering, she found that the time set for her +father's departure had passed. Strangely, then the oppression that had +weighed upon her so heavily eased and lifted. The moment seemed one +beyond her understanding. She attributed her relief, however, to the +fact that her father would soon end her suspense in regard to Kurt Dorn. + +In the succeeding days Lenore regained her old strength and buoyancy, +and something of a control over the despondency which at times had made +life misery. + +A golden day of sunlight and azure blue of sky ushered in the month of +June. "Many Waters" was a world of verdant green. Lenore had all she +could do to keep from flying to the slopes. But as every day now brought +nearer the possibility of word from her father, she stayed at home. The +next morning about nine o'clock, while she was at her father's desk, the +telephone-bell rang. It did that many times every morning, but this ring +seemed to electrify Lenore. She answered the call hurriedly. + +"Hello, Lenore, my girl! How are you?" came rolling on the wire. + +"Dad! Dad! Is it--you?" cried Lenore, wildly. + +"Sure is. Just got here. Are you an' the girls O.K.?" + +"We're well--fine. Oh, dad ..." + +"You needn't send the car. I'll hire one." + +"Yes--yes--but, dad--Oh, tell me ..." + +"Wait! I'll be there in five minutes." + +She heard him slam up the receiver, and she leaned there, palpitating, +with the queer, vacant sounds of the telephone filling her ear. + +"Five minutes!" Lenore whispered. In five more minutes she would know. +They seemed an eternity. Suddenly a flood of emotion and thought +threatened to overwhelm her. Leaving the office, she hurried forth to +find her sisters, and not until she had looked everywhere did she +remember that they were visiting a girl friend. After this her motions +seemed ceaseless; she could not stand or sit still, and she was +continually going to the porch to look down the shady lane. At last a +car appeared, coming fast. Then she ran indoors quite aimlessly and out +again. But when she recognized her father all her outward fears and +tremblings vanished. The broad, brown flash of his face was reality. He +got out of the car lightly for so heavy a man, and, taking his valise, +he dismissed the chauffeur. His smile was one of gladness, and his +greeting a hearty roar. + +Lenore met him at the porch steps, seeing in him, feeling as she +embraced him, that he radiated a strange triumph and finality. + +"Say, girl, you look somethin' like your old self," he said, holding her +by the shoulders. "Fine! But you're a woman now.... Where are the kids?" + +"They're away," replied Lenore. + +"How you stare!" laughed Anderson, as with arm round her he led her in. +"Anythin' queer about your dad's handsome mug?" + +His jocular tone did not hide his deep earnestness. Never had Lenore +felt him so forceful. His ruggedness seemed to steady her nerves that +again began to fly. Anderson took her into his office, closed the door, +threw down his valise. + +"Great to be home!" he exploded, with heavy breath. + +Lenore felt her face blanch; and that intense quiver within her suddenly +stilled. + +"Tell me--quick!" she whispered. + +He faced her with flashing eyes, and all about him changed. "You're an +Anderson! You can stand shock?" + +"Any--any shock but suspense." + +"I lied about the wheat deal--about my trip to New York. I got news of +Dorn. I was afraid to tell you." + +"Yes?" + +"Dorn is alive," went on Anderson. + +Lenore's hands went out in mute eloquence. + +"He was all shot up. He can't live," hurried Anderson, hoarsely. "But +he's alive--he'll live to see you." + +"Oh! I knew, I _knew!_" whispered Lenore clasping her hands. "Oh, thank +God!" + +"Lenore, steady now. You're gettin' shaky. Brace there, my girl!... +Dorn's alive. I've brought him home. He's here." + +"_Here!_" screamed Lenore. + +"Yes. They'll have him here in half an hour." + +Lenore fell into her father's arms, blind and deaf to all outward +things. The light of day failed. But her consciousness did not fade. +Before it seemed a glorious radiance that was the truth lost for the +moment, blindly groping, in whirling darkness. When she did feel herself +again it was as a weak, dizzy, palpitating child, unable to stand. Her +father, in alarm, and probable anger with himself, was coaxing and +swearing in one breath. Then suddenly the joy that had shocked Lenore +almost into collapse forced out the weakness with amazing strength. She +blazed. She radiated. She burst into utterance too swift to understand. + +"Hold on there, girl!" interrupted Anderson. "You've got the bit in your +teeth.... Listen, will you? Let me talk. Well--well, there now.... Sure, +it's all right, Lenore. You made me break it sudden-like.... Listen. +There's all summer to talk. Just now you want to get a few details. Get +'em straight.... Dorn is on the way here. They put his stretcher--we've +been packin' him on one--into a motor-truck. There's a nurse come with +me--a man nurse. We'd better put Dorn in mother's room. That's the +biggest an' airiest. You hurry an' open up the windows an' fix the +bed.... An' don't go out of your head with joy. It's sure more 'n we +ever hoped for to see him alive, to get him home. But he's done for, +poor boy! He can't live.... An' he's in such shape that I don't want you +to see him when they fetch him in. Savvy, girl! You'll stay in your room +till we call you. An' now rustle." + + * * * * * + +Lenore paced and crouched and lay in her room, waiting, listening with +an intensity that hurt. When a slow procession of men, low-voiced and +soft-footed, carried Kurt Dorn into the house and up-stairs Lenore +trembled with a storm of emotion. All her former agitation, love, agony, +and suspense, compared to what she felt then, was as nothing. Not the +joy of his being alive, not the terror of his expected death, had so +charged her heart as did this awful curiosity to see him, to realize +him. + +At last a step--a knock--her father's voice: "Lenore--come!" + +Her ordeal of waiting was over. All else she could withstand. That +moment ended her weakness. Her blood leaped with the irresistable, +revivifying current of her spirit. Unlocking the door, Lenore stepped +out. Her father stood there with traces of extreme worry fading from his +tired face. At sight of her they totally vanished. + +"Good! You've got nerve. You can see him now alone. He's unconscious. +But he's not been greatly weakened by the trip. His vitality is +wonderful. He comes to once in a while. Sometimes he's rational. Mostly, +though, he's out of his head. An' his left arm is gone." + +Anderson said all this rapidly and low while they walked down the hall +toward the end room which had not been used since Mrs. Anderson's death. +The door was ajar. Lenore smelled strong, pungent odors of antiseptics. + +Anderson knocked softly. + +"Come out, you men, an' let my girl see him," he called. + +Doctor Lowell, the village practitioner Lenore had known for years, +tiptoed out, important and excited. + +"Lenore, it's to bad," he said, kindly, and he shook his head. + +Another man glided out with the movements of a woman. He was not young. +His aspect was pale, serious. + +"Lenore, this is Mr. Jarvis, the nurse.... Now--go in, an' don't forget +what I said." + +She closed the door and leaned back against it, conscious of the supreme +moment of her life. Dorn's face, strange yet easily recognizable, +appeared against the white background of the bed. That moment was +supreme because it showed him there alive, justifying the spiritual +faith which had persisted in her soul. If she had ever, in moments of +distraction, doubted God, she could never doubt again. + +The large room had been bright, with white curtains softly blowing +inward from the open windows. As she crept forward, not sure on her +feet, all seemed to blur, so that when she leaned over the still face to +kiss it she could not see clearly. Her lips quivered with that kiss and +with her sob of thankfulness. + +"My soldier!" + +She prayed then, with her head beside his on the pillow, and through +that prayer and the strange stillness of her lover she received a subtle +shock. Sweet it was to touch him as she bent with eyes hidden. Terrible +it would be to look--to see how the war had wrecked him. She tried to +linger there, all tremulous, all gratitude, all woman and mother. But an +incalculable force lifted her up from her knees. + +"Ah!" she gasped, as she saw him with cleared sight. A knife-blade was +at her heart. Kurt Dorn lay before her gaze--a man, and not the boy she +had sacrificed to war--a man by a larger frame, and by older features, +and by a change difficult to grasp. + +These features seemed a mask, transparent, unable to hide a beautiful, +sad, stern, and ruthless face beneath, which in turn slowly gave to her +startled gaze sloping lines of pain and shades of gloom, and the pale, +set muscles of forced manhood, and the faint hectic flush of fever and +disorder and derangement. A livid, angry scar, smooth, yet scarcely +healed, ran from his left temple back as far as she could see. That +established his identity as a wounded soldier brought home from the war. +Otherwise to Lenore his face might have been that of an immortal +suddenly doomed with the curse of humanity, dying in agony. She had +expected to see Dorn bronzed, haggard, gaunt, starved, bearded and +rough-skinned, bruised and battered, blinded and mutilated, with gray in +his fair hair. But she found none of these. Her throbbing heart sickened +and froze at the nameless history recorded in his face. Was it beyond +her to understand what had been his bitter experience? Would she never +suffer his ordeal? Never! That was certain. An insupportable sadness +pervaded her soul. It was not his life she thought of, but the youth, +the nobility, the splendor of him that war had destroyed. No intuition, +no divination, no power so penetrating as a woman's love! By that +piercing light she saw the transformed man. He knew. He had found out +all of physical life. His hate had gone with his blood. Deeds--deeds of +terror had left their imprint upon his brow, in the shadows under his +eyes, that resembled blank walls potent with invisible meaning. Lenore +shuddered through all her soul as she read the merciless record of the +murder he had dealt, of the strong and passionate duty that had driven +him, of the eternal remorse. But she did not see or feel that he had +found God; and, stricken as he seemed, she could not believe he was near +to death. + +This last confounding thought held her transfixed and thrilling, gazing +down at Dorn, until her father entered to break the spell and lead her +away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +It was night. Lenore should have been asleep, but she sat up in the dark +by the window. Underneath on the porch, her father, with his men as +audience, talked like a torrent. And Lenore, hearing what otherwise +would never have gotten to her ears, found listening irresistible. Slow, +dragging footsteps and the clinking of spurs attested to the approach of +cowboys. + +"Howdy, boys! Sit down an' be partic'lar quiet. Here's some smokes. I'm +wound up an' gotta go off or bust," Anderson said, "Well, as I was +sayin', we folks don't know there's a war, from all outward sign here in +the Northwest. But in that New York town I just come from--God Almighty! +what goin's-on! Boys, I never knew before how grand it was to be +American. New York's got the people, the money, an' it's the outgoin' +an' incomin' place of all pertainin' to this war. The Liberty Loan drive +was on. The streets were crowded. Bands an' parades, grand-opera stars +singin' on the corners, famous actors sellin' bonds, flags an' ribbons +an' banners everywhere, an' every third man you bumped into wearin' some +kind of uniform! An' the women were runnin' wild, like a stampede of +two-year-olds.... I rode down Fifth Avenue on one of them high-topped +buses with seats on. Talk about your old stage-coach--why, these 'buses +had 'em beat a mile! I've rode some in my day, but this was the ride of +my life. I couldn't hear myself think. Music at full blast, roar of +traffic, voices like whisperin' without end, flash of red an' white an' +blue, shine of a thousand automobiles down that wonderful street that's +like a canon! An' up overhead a huge cigar-shaped balloon, an' then an +airplane sailin' swift an' buzzin' like a bee. Them was the first +air-ships I ever seen. No wonder--Jim wanted to--" + +Anderson's voice broke a little at this juncture and he paused. All was +still except the murmur of the running water and the song of the +insects. Presently Anderson cleared his throat and resumed: + + "I saw five hundred Australian soldiers just arrived in New York by + way of Panama. Lean, wiry boys like Arizona cowboys. Looked good to + me! You ought to have heard the cheerin'. Roar an' roar, everywhere + they marched along. I saw United States sailors, marines, soldiers, + airmen, English officers, an' Scotch soldiers. Them last sure got my + eye. Funny plaid skirts they wore--an' they had bare legs. Three I + saw walked lame. An' all had medals. Some one said the Germans + called these Scotch 'Ladies from hell.' ... When I heard that I had + to ask questions, an' I learned these queer-lookin' + half-women-dressed fellows were simply hell with cold steel. An' + after I heard that I looked again an' wondered why I hadn't seen it. + I ought to know men!... Then I saw the outfit of Blue Devil + Frenchmen that was sent over to help stimulate the Liberty Loan. An' + when I seen them I took off my hat. I've knowed a heap of tough men + an' bad men an' handy men an' fightin' men in my day, but I reckoned + I never seen the like of the Blue Devils. I can't tell you why, + boys. Blue Devils is another German name for a regiment of French + soldiers. They had it on the Scotch-men. Any Western man, just to + look at them, would think of Wild Bill an' Billy the Kid an' + Geronimo an' Custer, an' see that mebbe the whole four mixed in one + might have made a Blue Devil. + + "My young friend Dorn, that's dyin' up-stairs, now--he had a name + given him. 'Pears that this war-time is like the old days when we + used to hit on right pert names for everybody.... Demon Dorn they + called him, an' he got that handle before he ever reached France. + The boys of his outfit gave it to him because of the way he run wild + with a bayonet. I don't want my girl Lenore ever to know that. + + "A soldier named Owens told me a lot. He was the corporal of Dorn's + outfit, a sort of foreman, I reckon. Anyway, he saw Dorn every day + of the months they were in the service, an' the shell that done Dorn + made a cripple of Owens. This fellow Owens said Dorn had not got so + close to his bunk-mates until they reached France. Then he begun to + have influence over them. Owens didn't know how he did it--in fact, + never knew it at all until the outfit got to the front, somewhere in + northern France, in the first line. They were days in the first + line, close up to the Germans, watchin' an' sneakin' all the time, + shootin' an' dodgin', but they never had but one real fight. + + "That was when one mornin' the Germans came pilin' over on a charge, + far outnumberin' our boys. Then it happened. Lord! I wish I could + remember how Owens told that scrap! Boys, you never heard about a + real scrap. It takes war like this to make men fighters.... Listen, + now, an' I'll tell you some of the things that come off durin' this + German charge. I'll tell them just as they come to mind. There was a + boy named Griggs who ran the German barrage--an' that's a + gantlet--seven times to fetch ammunition to his pards. Another boy, + on the same errand, was twice blown off the road by explodin' + shells, an' then went back. Owens told of two of his company who + rushed a bunch of Germans, killed eight of them, an' captured their + machine-gun. Before that German charge a big shell came over an' + kicked up a hill of mud. Next day the Americans found their sentinel + buried in mud, dead at his post, with his bayonet presented. + + "Owens was shot just as he jumped up with his pards to meet the + chargin' Germans. He fell an' dragged himself against a wall of + bags, where he lay watchin' the fight. An' it so happened that he + faced Dorn's squad, which was attacked by three times their number. + He saw Dorn shot--go down, an' thought he was done--but no! Dorn + came up with one side of his face all blood. Dixon, a college + football man, rushed a German who was about to throw a bomb. Dixon + got him, an' got the bomb, too, when it went off. Little Rogers, an + Irish boy, mixed it with three Germans, an' killed one before he was + bayoneted in the back. Then Dorn, like the demon they'd named him, + went on the stampede. He had a different way with a bayonet, so + Owens claimed. An' Dorn was heavy, powerful, an' fast. He lifted an' + slung those two Germans, one after another, quick as that!--like + you'd toss a couple of wheat sheafs with your pitchfork, an' he sent + them rollin', with blood squirtin' all over. An' then four more + Germans were shootin' at him. Right into their teeth Dorn + run--laughin' wild an' terrible, Owens said, an' the Germans + couldn't stop that flashin' bayonet. Dorn ripped them all open, an' + before they'd stopped floppin' he was on the bunch that'd killed + Brewer an' were makin' it hard for his other pards.... Whew!--Owens + told it all as if it'd took lots of time, but that fight was like + lightnin' an' I can't remember how it was. Only Demon Dorn laid out + nine Germans before they retreated. _Nine!_ Owens seen him do it, + like a mad bull loose. Then the shell came over that put Dorn out, + an' Owens, too. + + "Well, Dorn had a mangled arm, an' many wounds. They amputated his + arm in France, patched him up, an' sent him back to New York with a + lot of other wounded soldiers. They expected him to die long ago. + But he hangs on. He's full of lead now. What a hell of a lot of + killin' some men take!... My boy Jim would have been like that! + + "So there, boys, you have a little bit of American fightin' come + home to you, straight an' true. I say that's what the Germans have + roused. Well, it was a bad day for them when they figgered + everythin' on paper, had it all cut an' dried, but failed to see the + spirit of men!" + +Lenore tore herself away from the window so that she could not hear any +more, and in the darkness of her room she began to pace to and fro, +beginning to undress for bed, shaking in some kind of a frenzy, scarcely +knowing what she was about, until sundry knocks from furniture and the +falling over a chair awakened her to the fact that she was in a tumult. + +"What--_am_ I--doing!" she panted, in bewilderment, reaching out in the +dark to turn on the light. + +Like awakening from a nightmare, she saw the bright light flash up. It +changed her feeling. Who was this person whose image stood reflected in +the mirror? Lenore's recognition of herself almost stunned her. What had +happened? She saw that her hair fell wildly over her bare shoulders; her +face shone white, with red spots in her cheeks; her eyes seemed balls of +fire; her lips had a passionate, savage curl; her breast, bare and +heaving, showed a throbbing, tumultuous heart. And as she realized how +she looked, it struck her that she felt an inexplicable passion. She +felt intense as steel, hot as fire, quivering with the pulsation of +rapid blood, a victim to irrepressible thrills that rushed over her from +the very soles of her feet to the roots of her hair. Something glorious, +terrible, and furious possessed her. When she understood what it was she +turned out the light and fell upon the bed, where, as the storm slowly +subsided, she thought and wondered and sorrowed, and whispered to +herself. + +The tale of Dorn's tragedy had stirred to the depths the primitive, +hidden, and unplumbed in the unknown nature of her. Just now she had +looked at herself, at her two selves--the white-skinned and fair-haired +girl that civilization had produced--and the blazing, panting, savage +woman of the bygone ages. She could not escape from either. The story of +Demon Dorn's terrible fight had retrograded her, for the moment, to the +female of the species, more savage and dangerous than the male. No use +to lie! She had gloried in his prowess. He was her man, gone out with +club, to beat down the brutes that would steal her from him. + +"Alas! What are we? What am I?" she whispered. "Do I know myself? What +could I not have done a moment ago?" + +She had that primitive thing in her, and, though she shuddered to +realize it, she had no regret. Life was life. That Dorn had laid low so +many enemies was grand to her, and righteous, since these enemies were +as cavemen come for prey. Even now the terrible thrills chased over her. +Demon Dorn! What a man! She had known just what he would do--and how his +spiritual life would go under. The woman of her gloried in his fight and +the soul of her sickened at its significance. No hope for any man or any +woman except in God! + +These men, these boys, like her father and Jake, like Dorn and his +comrades--how simple, natural, inevitable, elemental they were! They +loved a fight. They might hate it, too, but they loved it most. Life of +men was all strife, and the greatness in them came out in war. War +searched out the best and the worst in men. What were wounds, blood, +mangled flesh, agony, and death to men--to those who went out for +liberation of something unproven in themselves? Life was only a breath. +The secret must lie in the beyond, for men could not act that way for +nothing. Some hidden purpose through the ages! + + * * * * * + +Anderson had summoned a great physician, a specialist of world renown. +Lenore, of course, had not been present when the learned doctor examined +Kurt Dorn, but she was in her father's study when the report was made. +To Lenore this little man seemed all intellect, all science, all +electric current. + +He stated that Dorn had upward of twenty-five wounds, some of them +serious, most trivial, and all of them combined not necessarily fatal. +Many soldiers with worse wounds had totally recovered. Dorn's vitality +and strength had been so remarkable that great loss of blood and almost +complete lack of nourishment had not brought about the present grave +condition. + +"He will die, and that is best for him," said the specialist. "His case +is not extraordinary. I saw many like it in France during the first year +of war when I was there. But I will say that he must have been both +physically and mentally above the average before he went to fight. My +examination extended through periods of his unconsciousness and +aberration. Once, for a little time, he came to, apparently sane. The +nurse said he had noticed several periods of this rationality during the +last forty-eight hours. But these, and the prolonged vitality, do not +offer any hope. + +"An emotion of exceeding intensity and duration has produced lesions in +the kinetic organs. Some passion has immeasurably activated his brain, +destroying brain cells which might not be replaced. If he happened to +live he might be permanently impaired. He might be neurasthenic, +melancholic, insane at times, or even grow permanently so.... It is very +sad. He appears to have been a fine young man. But he will die, and that +really is best for him." + +Thus the man of science summed up the biological case of Kurt Dorn. When +he had gone Anderson wore the distressed look of one who must abandon +his last hope. He did not understand, though he was forced to believe. +He swore characteristically at the luck, and then at the great +specialist. + +"I've known Indian medicine-men who could give that doctor cards an' +spades," he exploded, with gruff finality. + +Lenore understood her father perfectly and imagined she understood the +celebrated scientist. The former was just human and the latter was +simply knowledge. Neither had that which caused her to go out alone into +the dark night and look up beyond the slow-rising slope to the stars. +These men, particularly the scientist, lacked something. He possessed +all the wonderful knowledge of body and brain, of the metabolism and +chemistry of the organs, but he knew nothing of the source of life. +Lenore accorded science its place in progress, but she hated its +elimination of the soul. Stronger than ever, strength to endure and to +trust pervaded her spirit. The dark night encompassing her, the vast, +lonely heave of wheat-slope, the dim sky with its steady stars--these +were voices as well as tangible things of the universe, and she was in +mysterious harmony with them. "Lift thine eyes to the hills from whence +cometh thy help!" + + * * * * * + +The day following the specialist's visit Dorn surprised the family +doctor, the nurse, Anderson, and all except Lenore by awakening to a +spell of consciousness which seemed to lift, for the time at least, the +shadow of death. + +Kathleen was the first to burst in upon Lenore with the wonderful news. +Lenore could only gasp her intense eagerness and sit trembling, hands +over her heart, while the child babbled. + +"I listened, and I peeped in," was Kathleen's reiterated statement. +"Kurt was awake. He spoke, too, but very soft. Say, he knows he's at +'Many Waters.' I heard him say, 'Lenore'.... Oh, I'm so happy, +Lenore--that before he dies he'll know you--talk to you." + +"Hush, child!" whispered Lenore. "Kurt's not going to die." + +"But they all say so. That funny little doctor yesterday--he made me +tired--but he said so. I heard him as dad put him into the car." + +"Yes, Kathie, I heard him, too, but I do not believe," replied Lenore, +dreamily. + +"Kurt doesn't look so--so sick," went on Kathleen. "Only--only I don't +know what--different, I guess. I'm crazy to go in--to see him. Lenore, +will they ever let me?" + +Their father's abrupt entrance interrupted the conversation. He was +pale, forceful, as when issues were at stake but were undecided. + +"Kathie, go out," he said. + +Lenore rose to face him. + +"My girl--Dorn's come to--an' he's asked for you. I was for lettin' him +see you. But Lowell an' Jarvis say no--not yet.... Now he might die any +minute. Seems to me he ought to see you. It's right. An' if you say +so--" + +"Yes," replied Lenore. + +"By Heaven! He shall see you, then," said Anderson, breathing hard. "I'm +justified even--even if it..." He did not finish his significant speech, +but left her abruptly. + +Presently Lenore was summoned. When she left her room she was in the +throes of uncontrolled agitation, and all down the long hallway she +fought herself. At the half-open door she paused to lean against the +wall. There she had the will to still her nerves, to acquire serenity; +and she prayed for wisdom to make her presence and her words of infinite +good to Dorn in this crisis. + + * * * * * + +She was not aware of when she moved--how she ever got to Dorn's bedside. +But seemingly detached from her real self, serene, with emotions locked, +she was there looking down upon him. + +"Lenore!" he said, with far-off voice that just reached her. Gladness +shone from his shadowy eyes. + +"Welcome home--my soldier boy!" she replied. Then she bent to kiss his +cheek and to lay hers beside it. + +"I never--hoped--to see you--again," he went on. + +"Oh, but I knew!" murmured Lenore, lifting her head. His right hand, +brown, bare, and rough, lay outside the coverlet upon his breast. It was +weakly reaching for her. Lenore took it in both hers, while she gazed +steadily down into his eyes. She seemed to see then how he was comparing +the image he had limned upon his memory with her face. + +"Changed--you're older--more beautiful--yet the same," he said. "It +seems--long ago." + +"Yes, long ago. Indeed I am older. But--all's well that ends well. You +are back." + +"Lenore, haven't you--been told--I can't live?" + +"Yes, but it's untrue," she replied, and felt that she might have been +life itself speaking. + +"Dear, something's gone--from me. Something vital gone--with the shell +that--took my arm." + +_"No!"_ she smiled down upon him. All the conviction of her soul and +faith she projected into that single word and serene smile--all that was +love and woman in her opposing death. A subtle, indefinable change came +over Dorn. + +"Lenore--I paid--for my father," he whispered. "I killed Huns!... I +spilled the--blood in me--I hated!... But all was wrong--wrong!" + +"Yes, but you could not help that," she said, piercingly. "Blame can +never rest upon you. You were only an--American soldier.... Oh, I know! +You were magnificent.... But your duty that way is done. A higher duty +awaits you." + +His eyes questioned sadly and wonderingly. + +"You must be the great sower of wheat." + +"Sower of wheat?" he whispered, and a light quickened in that +questioning gaze. + +"There will be starving millions after this war. Wheat is the staff of +life. You _must_ get well.... Listen!" + +She hesitated, and sank to her knees beside the bed. "Kurt, the day +you're able to sit up I'll marry you. Then I'll take you home--to your +wheat-hills." + +For a second Lenore saw him transformed with her spirit, her faith, her +love, and it was that for which she had prayed. She had carried him +beyond the hopelessness, beyond incredulity. Some guidance had divinely +prompted her. And when his mute rapture suddenly vanished, when he lost +consciousness and a pale gloom and shade fell upon his face, she had no +fear. + +In her own room she unleashed the strange bonds on her feelings and +suffered their recurrent surge and strife, until relief and calmness +returned to her. Then came a flashing uplift of soul, a great and +beautiful exaltation. Lenore felt that she had been gifted with +incalculable power. She had pierced Dorn's fatalistic consciousness with +the truth and glory of possible life, as opposed to the dark and evil +morbidity of war. She saw for herself the wonderful and terrible stairs +of sand which women had been climbing all the ages, and must climb on to +the heights of solid rock, of equality, of salvation for the human race. +She saw woman, the primitive, the female of the species, but she saw her +also as the mother of the species, made to save as well as perpetuate, +learning from the agony of child-birth and child-care the meaning of Him +who said, "Thou shalt not kill!" Tremendous would be the final +resistance of woman to the brutality of man. Women were to be the +saviors of humanity. It seemed so simple and natural that it could not +be otherwise. Lenore realized, with a singular conception of the +splendor of its truth, that when most women had found themselves, their +mission in life, as she had found hers, then would come an end to +violence, to greed, to hate, to war, to the black and hideous +imperfection of mankind. + +With all her intellect and passion Lenore opposed the theory of the +scientist and biologists. If they proved that strife and fight were +necessary to the development of man, that without violence and bloodshed +and endless contention the race would deteriorate, then she would say +that it would be better to deteriorate and to die. Women all would +declare against that, and in fact would never believe. She would never +believe with her heart, but if her intellect was forced to recognize +certain theories, then she must find a way to reconcile life to the +inscrutable designs of nature. The theory that continual strife was the +very life of plants, birds, beasts, and men seemed verified by every +reaction of the present; but if these things were fixed materialistic +rules of the existence of animated forms upon the earth, what then was +God, what was the driving force in Kurt Dorn that made war-duty some +kind of murder which overthrew his mind, what was the love in her heart +of all living things, and the nameless sublime faith in her soul? + +"If we poor creatures _must_ fight," said Lenore, and she meant this for +a prayer, "let the women fight eternally against violence, and let the +men forever fight their destructive instincts!" + + * * * * * + +From that hour the condition of Kurt Dorn changed for the better. Doctor +Lowell admitted that Lenore had been the one medicine which might defeat +the death that all except she had believed inevitable. + +Lenore was permitted to see him a few minutes every day, for which +fleeting interval she must endure the endless hours. But she discovered +that only when he was rational and free from pain would they let her go +in. What Dorn's condition was all the rest of the time she could not +guess. But she began to get inklings that it was very bad. + +"Dad, I'm going to insist on staying with Kurt as--as long as I want," +asserted Lenore, when she had made up her mind. + +This worried Anderson, and he appeared at a loss for words. + +"I told Kurt I'd marry him the very day he could sit up," continued +Lenore. + +"By George! that accounts," exclaimed her father. "He's been tryin' to +sit up, an' we've had hell with him." + +"Dad, he will get well. And all the sooner if I can be with him more. He +loves me. I feel I'm the only thing that counteracts--the--the madness +in his mind--the death in his soul." + +Anderson made one of his violent gestures. "I believe you. That hits me +with a bang. It takes a woman!... Lenore, what's your idea?" + +"I want to--to marry him," murmured Lenore. "To nurse him--to take him +home to his wheat-fields." + +"You shall have your way," replied Anderson, beginning to pace the +floor. "It can't do any harm. It might save him. An' anyway, you'll be +his wife--if only for ... By George! we'll do it. You never gave me a +wrong hunch in your life ... but, girl, it'll be hard for you to see him +when--when he has the spells." + +"Spells!" echoed Lenore. + +"Yes. You've been told that he raves. But you didn't know how. Why, it +gets even my nerve! It fascinated me, but once was enough. I couldn't +stand to see his face when his Huns come back to him." + +"His Huns!" ejaculated Lenore, shuddering. "What do you mean?" + +"Those Huns he killed come back to him. He fights them. You see him go +through strange motions, an' it's as if his left arm wasn't gone. He +used his right arm--an' the motions he makes are the ones he made when +he killed the Huns with his bayonet. It's terrible to watch him--the +look on his face!.... I heard at the hospital in New York that in France +they photographed him when he had one of the spells.... I'd hate to have +you see him then. But maybe after Doctor Lowell explains it, you'll +understand." + +"Poor boy! How terrible for him to live it all over! But when he gets +well--when he has his wheat-hills and me to fill his mind--those spells +will fade." + +"Maybe--maybe. I hope so. Lord knows it's all beyond me. But you're +goin' to have your way." + +Doctor Lowell explained to Lenore that Dorn, like all mentally deranged +soldiers, dreamed when he was asleep, and raved when he was out of his +mind, of only one thing--the foe. In his nightmares Dorn had to be held +forcibly. The doctor said that the remarkable and hopeful indication +about Dorn's condition was a gradual daily gain in strength and a +decline in the duration and violence of his bad spells. + +This assurance made Lenore happy. She began to relieve the worn-out +nurse during the day, and she prepared herself for the first ordeal of +actual experience of Dorn's peculiar madness. But Dorn watched her many +hours and would not or could not sleep while she was there; and the +tenth day of his stay at "Many Waters" passed without her seeing what +she dreaded. Meanwhile he grew perceptibly better. + +The afternoon came when Anderson brought a minister. Then a few moments +sufficed to make Lenore Dorn's wife. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +The remarkable happened. Scarcely had the minister left when Kurt Dorn's +smiling wonder and happiness sustained a break, as sharp and cold and +terrible as if nature had transformed him from man to beast. + +His face became like that of a gorilla. Struggling up, he swept his +right arm over and outward with singular twisting energy. A +bayonet-thrust! And for him his left arm was still intact! A savage, +unintelligible battle-cry, yet unmistakably German, escaped his lips. + +Lenore stood one instant petrified. Her father, grinding his teeth, +attempted to lead her away. But as Dorn was about to pitch off the bed, +Lenore, with piercing cry, ran to catch him and force him back. There +she held him, subdued his struggles, and kept calling with that +intensity of power and spirit which must have penetrated even his +delirium. Whatever influence she exerted, it quieted him, changed his +savage face, until he relaxed and lay back passive and pale. It was +possible to tell exactly when his reason returned, for it showed in the +gaze he fixed upon Lenore. + +"I had--one--of my fits!" he said, huskily. + +"Oh--I don't know what it was," replied Lenore, with quavering voice. +Her strength began to leave her now. Her arms that had held him so +firmly began to slip away. + +"Son, you had a bad spell," interposed Anderson, with his heavy +breathing. "First one she's seen." + +"Lenore, I laid out my Huns again," said Dorn, with a tragic smile. +"Lately I could tell when--they were coming back." + +"Did you know just now?" queried Lenore. + +"I think so. I wasn't really out of my head. I've known when I did that. +It's a strange feeling--thought--memory ... and action drives it away. +Then I seem always to _want_ to--kill my Huns all over again." + +Lenore gazed at him with mournful and passionate tenderness. "Do you +remember that we were just married?" she asked. + +"My wife!" he whispered. + +"Husband!... I knew you were coming home to me.... I knew you would not +die.... I know you will get well." + +"I begin to feel that, too. Then--maybe the black spells will go away." + +"They must or--or you'll lose me," faltered Lenore. "If you go on +killing your Huns over and over--it'll be I who will die." + +She carried with her to her room a haunting sense of Dorn's reception of +her last speech. Some tremendous impression it made on him, but whether +of fear of domination or resolve, or all combined, she could not tell. +She had weakened in mention of the return of his phantoms. But neither +Dorn nor her father ever guessed that, once in her room, she collapsed +from sheer feminine horror at the prospect of seeing Dorn change from a +man to a gorilla, and to repeat the savage orgy of remurdering his Huns. +That was too much for Lenore. She who had been invincible in faith, who +could stand any tests of endurance and pain, was not proof against a +spectacle of Dorn's strange counterfeit presentment of the actual and +terrible killing he had performed with a bayonet. + +For days after that she was under a strain which she realized would +break her if it was not relieved. It appeared to be solely her fear of +Dorn's derangement. She was with him almost all the daylight hours, +attending him, watching him sleep, talking a little to him now and then, +seeing with joy his gradual improvement, feeling each day the slow +lifting of the shadow over him, and yet every minute of every hour she +waited in dread for the return of Dorn's madness. It did not come. If it +recurred at night she never was told. Then after a week a more +pronounced change for the better in Dorn's condition marked a lessening +of the strain upon Lenore. A little later it was deemed safe to dismiss +the nurse. Lenore dreaded the first night vigil. She lay upon a couch in +Dorn's room and never closed her eyes. But he slept, and his slumber +appeared sound at times, and then restless, given over to dreams. He +talked incoherently, and moaned; and once appeared to be drifting into a +nightmare, when Lenore awakened him. Next day he sat up and said he was +hungry. Thereafter Lenore began to lose her dread. + + * * * * * + +"Well, son, let's talk wheat," said Anderson, cheerily, one beautiful +June morning, as he entered Dorn's room. + +"Wheat!" sighed Dorn, with a pathetic glance at his empty sleeve. "How +can I even do a man's work again in the fields?" + +Lenore smiled bravely at him. "You will sow more wheat than ever, and +harvest more, too." + +"I should smile," corroborated Anderson. + +"But how? I've only one arm," said Dorn. + +"Kurt, you hug me better with that one arm than you ever did with two +arms." replied Lenore, in sublime assurance. + +"Son, you lose that argument," roared Anderson. "Me an' Lenore stand +pat. You'll sow more an' better wheat than ever--than any other man in +the Northwest. Get my hunch?... Well, I'll tell you later.... Now see +here, let me declare myself about you. I seen it worries you more an' +more, now you're gettin' well. You miss that good arm, an' you feel the +pain of bullets that still lodge somewhere's in you, an' you think +you'll be a cripple always. Look things in the face square. Sure, +compared to what you once was, you'll be a cripple. But Kurt Dorn +weighin' one hundred an' ninety let loose on a bunch of Huns was some +man! My Gawd!... Forget that, an' forget that you'll never chop a cord +of wood again in a day. Look at facts like me an' Lenore. We gave you +up. An' here you're with us, comin' along fine, an' you'll be able to do +hard work some day, if you're crazy about it. Just think how good that +is for Lenore, an' me, too.... Now listen to this." Anderson unfolded a +newspaper and began to read: + + "Continued improvement, with favorable weather conditions, in the + winter-wheat states and encouraging messages from the Northwest + warrant an increase of crop estimates made two weeks ago and based + mainly upon the government's report. In all probability the yield + from winter fields will slightly exceed 600,000,000 bushels. + Increase of acreage in the spring states in unexpectedly large. For + example, Minnesota's Food Administrator says the addition in his + state is 40 per cent, instead of the early estimate of 20 per cent. + Throughout the spring area the plants have a good start and are in + excellent condition. It may be that the yield will rise to + 300,000,000 bushels, making a total of about 900,000,000. From such + a crop 280,000,000 could be exported in normal times, and by + conservation the surplus can easily be enlarged to 350,000,000 or + even 400,000,000. In Canada also estimates of acreage increase have + been too low. It was said that the addition in Alberta was 20 per + cent., but recent reports make it 40 per cent. Canada may harvest a + crop of 300,000,000 bushels, or nearly 70,000,000 more than last + year's. Our allies in Europe can safely rely upon the shipment of + 500,000,000 bushels from the United States and Canada. + + "After the coming harvest there will be an ample supply of wheat for + the foes of Germany at ports which can easily be reached. In + addition, the large surplus stocks in Australia and Argentina will + be available when ships can be spared for such service. And the + ships are coming from the builders. For more than a year to come + there will be wheat enough for our war partners, the Belgians, and + the northern European neutral countries with which we have trade + agreements." + +Lenore eagerly watched her husband's face in pleasurable anticipation, +yet with some anxiety. Wheat had been a subject little touched upon and +the war had never been mentioned. + +"Great!" he exclaimed, with a glow in his cheeks. "I've been wanting to +ask.... Wheat for the Allies and neutrals--for more than a year!... +Anderson, the United States will feed and save the world!" + +"I reckon. Son, we're sendin' thousands of soldiers a day now--ships are +buildin' fast--aeroplanes comin' like a swarm of bees--money for the +government to burn--an' every American gettin' mad.... Dorn, the Germans +don't know they're ruined!... What do you say?" + +Dorn looked very strange. "Lenore, help me stand up," he asked, with +strong tremor in his voice. + +"Oh, Kurt, you're not able yet," appealed Lenore. + +"Help me. I want _you_ to do it." + +Lenore complied, wondering and frightened, yet fascinated, too. She +helped him off the bed and steadied him on his feet. Then she felt him +release himself so he stood free. + +"What do I say? Anderson I say this. I killed Germans who had grown up +with a training and a passion for war. I've been a farmer. I did not +want to fight. Duty and hate forced me. The Germans I met fell before +me. I was shell-shot, shocked, gassed, and bayoneted. I took twenty-five +wounds, and then it was a shell that downed me. I saw my comrades kill +and kill before they fell. That is American. Our enemies are driven, +blinded, stolid, brutal, obsessed, and desperate. They are German. They +lack--not strength nor efficiency nor courage--but soul." + +White and spent, Dorn then leaned upon Lenore and got back upon his bed. +His passion had thrilled her. Anderson responded with an excitement he +plainly endeavored to conceal. + +"I get your hunch," he said. "If I needed any assurance, you've given it +to me. To hell with the Germans! Let's don't talk about them any +more.... An' to come back to our job. Wheat! Son, I've plans that 'll +raise your hair. We'll harvest a bumper crop at 'Many Waters' in July. +An' we'll sow two thousand acres of winter wheat. So much for 'Many +Waters.'--I got mad this summer. I blowed myself. I bought about all the +farms around yours up in the Bend country. Big harvest of spring wheat +comin'. You'll superintend that harvest, an' I'll look after ours +here.... An' you'll sow ten thousand acres of fallow on your own rich +hills--this fall. Do you get that? Ten thousand acres?" + +"Anderson!" gasped Dorn. + +"Yes, Anderson," mimicked the rancher. "My blood's up. But I'd never +have felt so good about it if you hadn't come back. The land's not all +paid for, but it's ours. We'll meet our notes. I've been up there twice +this spring. You'd never know a few hills had burned over last harvest. +Olsen, an' your other neighbors, or most of them, will work the land on +half-shares. You'll be boss. An' sure you'll be well for fall sowin'. +That'll make you the biggest sower of wheat in the Northwest." + +"My sower of wheat!" murmured Lenore, seeing his rapt face through +tears. + +"Dreams are coming true," he said, softly. "Lenore, just after I saw you +the second time--and fell so in love with you--I had vain dreams of you. +But even my wildest never pictured you as the wife of a wheat farmer. I +never dreamed you loved wheat." + +"But, ah, I do!" replied Lenore. "Why, when I was born dad bought 'Many +Waters' and sowed the slopes in wheat. I remember how he used to take me +up to the fields all green or golden. I've grown up with wheat. I'd +never want to live anywhere away from it. Oh, you must listen to me some +day while I tell you what _I_ know--about the history and romance of +wheat." + +"Begin," said Dorn, with a light of pride and love and wonder in his +gaze. + +"Leave that for some other time," interposed Anderson. "Son, would it +surprise you if I'd tell you that I've switched a little in my ideas +about the I.W.W.?" + +"No," replied Dorn. + +"Well, things happen. What made me think hard was the way that +government man got results from the I.W.W. in the lumber country. You +see, the government had to have an immense amount of timber for ships, +an' spruce for aeroplanes. Had to have it quick. An' all the lumbermen +an' loggers were I.W.W.--or most of them. Anyhow, all the strikin' +lumbermen last summer belonged to the I.W.W. These fellows believed that +under the capitalistic order of labor the workers an' their employers +had nothin' in common, an' the government was hand an' glove with +capital. Now this government official went up there an' convinced the +I.W.W. that the best interest of the two were identical. An' he got the +work out of them, an' the government got the lumber. He dealt with them +fairly. Those who were on the level he paid high an' considered their +wants. Those who were crooked he punished accordin' to their offense. +An' the innocent didn't have to suffer with the guilty. + +"That deal showed me how many of the I.W.W. could be handled. An' we've +got to reckon with the I.W.W. Most all the farm-hands in the country +belong to it. This summer I'll give the square harvesters what they +want, an' that's a big come-down for me. But I won't stand any +monkey-bizness from sore-headed disorganizers. If men want to work they +shall have work at big pay. You will follow out this plan up in the Bend +country. We'll meet this labor union half-way. After the war there may +come trouble between labor an capital. It begins to seem plain to me +that men who work hard ought to share somethin' of the profits. If that +doesn't settle the trouble, then we'll know we're up against an outfit +with socialist an' anarchist leaders. Time enough then to resort to +measures I regret we practised last summer." + +"Anderson, you're fine--you're as big as the hills!" burst out Dorn. +"But you know there was bad blood here last summer. Did you ever get +proof that German money backed the I.W.W. to strike and embarrass our +government?" + +"No. But I believe so, or else the I.W.W. leaders took advantage of a +critical time. I'm bound to say that now thousands of I.W.W. laborers +are loyal to the United States, and that made me switch." + +"I'll deal with them the same way," responded Dorn, with fervor. + +Then Lenore interrupted their discussion, and, pleading that Dorn was +quite worn out from excitement and exertion, she got her father to leave +the room. + + * * * * * + +The following several days Lenore devoted to the happy and busy task of +packing what she wanted to take to Dorn's home. She had set the date, +but had reserved the pleasure of telling him. Anderson had agreed to her +plan and decided to accompany them. + +"I'll take the girls," he said. "It'll be a fine ride for them. We'll +stay in the village overnight an' come back home next day.... Lenore, it +strikes me sudden-like, your leavin'.... What will become of me?" + +All at once he showed the ravages of pain and loss that the last year +had added to his life of struggle. Lenore embraced him and felt her +heart full. + +"Dad, I'm not leaving you," she protested. "He'll get well up +there--find his balance sooner among those desert wheat-hills. We will +divide our time between the two places. Remember, you can run up there +any day. Your interests are there now. Dad, don't think of it as +separation. Kurt has come into our family--and we're just going to be +away some of the time." + +Thus she won back a smile to the worn face. + +"We've all got a weak spot," he said, musingly. "Mine is here--an' it's +a fear of growin' old an' bein' left alone. That's selfish. But I've +lived, an' I reckon I've no more to ask for." + +Lenore could not help being sad in the midst of her increasing +happiness. Joy to some brought to others only gloom! Life was sunshine +and storm--youth and age. + +This morning she found Kathleen entertaining Dorn. This was the second +time the child had been permitted to see him, and the immense novelty +had not yet worn off. Kathleen was a hero-worshiper. If she had been +devoted to Dorn before his absence, she now manifested symptoms of +complete idolatry. Lenore had forbidden her to question Dorn about +anything in regard to the war. Kathleen never broke her promises, but it +was plain that Dorn had read the mute, anguished wonder and flame in her +eyes when they rested upon his empty sleeve, and evidently had told her +things. Kathleen was white, wide-eyed, and beautiful then, with all a +child's imagination stirred. + +"I've been telling Kathie how I lost my arm," explained Dorn. + +"I hate Germans! I hate war!" cried Kathleen, passionately. + +"My dear, hate them always," said Dorn. + +When Kathleen had gone Lenore asked Dorn if he thought it was right to +tell the child always to hate Germans. + +"Right!" exclaimed Dorn, with a queer laugh. Every day now he showed +signs of stronger personality. "Lenore, what I went through has confused +my sense of right and wrong. Some day perhaps it will all come clear. +But, Lenore, all my life, if I live to be ninety, I shall hate Germans." + +"Oh, Kurt, it's too soon for you to--to be less narrow, less +passionate," replied Lenore, with hesitation. "I understand. The day +will come when you'll not condemn a people because of a form of +government--of military class." + +"It will never come," asserted Dorn, positively. "Lenore, people in our +country do not understand. They are too far away from realities. But I +was six months in France. I've seen the ruined villages, thousands of +refugees--and I've met the Huns at the front. I _know_ I've seen the +realities. In regard to this war I can only feel. You've got to go over +there and see for yourself before you realize. You _can_ understand +this--that but for you and your power over me I'd be a worn-out, +emotionally _burnt_ out man. But through you I seem to be reborn. Still, +I shall hate Germans all my life, and in the after-life, what ever that +may be. I could give you a thousand reasons. One ought to suffice. +You've read, of course, about the regiment of Frenchmen called Blue +Devils. I met some of them--got friendly with them. They are +great--beyond words to tell! One of them told me that when his regiment +drove the Huns out of his own village he had found his mother +disemboweled, his wife violated and murdered, his sister left a maimed +thing to become the mother of a Hun, his daughter carried off, and his +little son crippled for life! ... These are cold facts. As long as I +live I will never forget the face of that Frenchman when he told me. Had +he cause to hate the Huns? Have I?... I saw all that in the faces of +those Huns who would have killed me if they could." + +Lenore covered her face with her hands. "Oh--horrible! ... Is there +nothing--no hope--only...?" She faltered and broke down. + +"Lenore, because there's hate does not prove there's nothing left.... +Listen. The last fight I had was with a boy. I didn't know it when we +met. I was rushing, head down, bayonet low. I saw only his body, his +blade that clashed with mine. To me his weapon felt like a toy in the +hands of a child. I swept it aside--and lunged. He screamed '_Kamarad_!' +before the blade reached him. Too late! I ran him through. Then I +looked. A boy of nineteen! He never ought to have been forced to meet +me. It was murder. I saw him die on my bayonet. I saw him slide off it +and stretch out.... I did not hate _him_ then. I'd have given my life +for his. I hated what he represented.... That moment was the end of me +as a soldier. If I had not been in range of the exploding shell that +downed me I would have dropped my rifle and have stood strengthless +before the next Hun.... So you see, though I killed them, and though I +hate now, there's something--something strange and inexplicable." + +"That something is the divine in you. It is God!... Oh, believe it, my +husband!" cried Lenore. + +Dorn somberly shook his head. "God! I did not find God out there. I +cannot see God's hand in this infernal war." + +"But _I_ can. What called you so resistlessly? What made you go?" + +"You know. The debt I thought I ought to pay. And duty to my country." + +"Then when the debt was paid, the duty fulfilled--when you stood +stricken at sight of that poor boy dying on your bayonet--what happened +in your soul?" + +"I don't know. But I saw the wrong of war. The wrong to him--the wrong +to me! I thought of no one else. Certainly not of God!" + +"If you had stayed your bayonet--if you had spared that boy, as you +would have done had you seen or heard him in time--what would that have +been?" + +"Pity, maybe, or scorn to slay a weaker foe." + +"No, no, no--I can't accept that," replied Lenore, passionately. "Can +you see beyond the physical?" + +"I see only that men will fight and that war will come again. Out there +I learned the nature of men." + +"If there's divinity in you there's divinity in every man. That will +oppose war--end it eventually. Men are not taught right. Education and +religion will bring peace on earth, good-will to man." + +"No, they will not. They never have done so. We have educated men and +religious men. Yet war comes despite them. The truth is that life is a +fight. Civilization is only skin-deep. Underneath man is still a savage. +He is a savage still because he wants the same he had to have when he +lived in primitive state. War isn't necessary to show how every man +fights for food, clothing, shelter. To-day it's called competition in +business. Look at your father. He has fought and beaten men like Neuman. +Look at the wheat farmers in my country. Look at the I.W.W. They all +fight. Look at the children. They fight even at their games. Their play +is a make-believe battle or escaping or funeral or capture. It must be +then that some kind of strife was implanted in the first humans and that +it is necessary to life." + +"Survival of the fittest!" exclaimed Lenore, in earnest bitterness. +"Kurt, we have changed. You are facing realities and I am facing the +infinite. You represent the physical, and I the spiritual. We must grow +into harmony with each other. We can't ever hope to learn the +unattainable truth of life. There is something beyond us--something +infinite which I believe is God. My soul finds it in you.... The first +effects of the war upon you have been trouble, sacrifice, pain, and +horror. You have come out of it impaired physically and with mind still +clouded. These will pass, and therefore I beg of you don't grow fixed in +absolute acceptance of the facts of evolution and materialism. They +cannot be denied, I grant. I see that they are realities. But also I see +beyond them. There is some great purpose running through the ages. In +our day the Germans have risen, and in the eyes of most of the world +their brutal force tends to halt civilization and kill idealism. But +that's only apparent--only temporary. We shall come out of this dark +time better, finer, wiser. The history of the world is a proof of a slow +growth and perfection. It will never be attained. But is not the growth +a beautiful and divine thing? Does it now oppose a hopeless prospect?... +Life is inscrutable. When I think--only think without faith--all seems +so futile. The poet says we are here as on a darkling plain, swept by +confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by +night.... Trust me, my husband! There is something in woman--the +instinct of creation--the mother--that feels what cannot be expressed. +It is the hope of the world." + +"The mother!" burst out Dorn. "I think of that--in you.... Suppose I +have a son, and war comes in his day. Suppose he is killed, as I killed +that poor boy!... How, then, could I reconcile that with this, this +something you feel so beautifully? This strange sense of God! This faith +in a great purpose of the ages!" + +Lenore trembled in the exquisite pain of the faith which she prayed was +beginning to illumine Dorn's dark and tragic soul. + +"If we are blessed with a son--and if he must go to war--to kill and be +killed--you will reconcile that with God because our son shall have been +taught what you should have been taught--what must be taught to all the +sons of the future." + +"What will--that be?" queried Dorn. + +"The meaning of life--the truth of immortality," replied Lenore. "We +live on--we improve. That is enough for faith." + +"How will that prevent war?" + +"It will prevent it--in the years to come. Mothers will take good care +that children from babyhood shall learn the _consequences_ of fight--of +war. Boys will learn that if the meaning of war to them is the wonder of +charge and thunder of cannon and medals of distinction, to their mothers +the meaning is loss and agony. They will learn the terrible difference +between your fury and eagerness to lunge with bayonet and your horror of +achievement when the disemboweled victims lie before you. The glory of a +statue to the great general means countless and nameless graves of +forgotten soldiers. The joy of the conquering army contrasts terribly +with the pain and poverty and unquenchable hate of the conquered." + +"I see what you mean," rejoined Dorn. "Such teaching of children would +change the men of the future. It would mean peace for the generations to +come. But as for my boy--it would make him a poor soldier. He would not +be a fighter. He would fall easy victim to the son of the father who had +not taught this beautiful meaning of life and terror of war. I'd want my +son to be a man." + +"That teaching--would make him--all the more a man," said Lenore, +beginning to feel faint. + +"But not in the sense of muscle, strength, courage, endurance. I'd +rather there never was peace than have my son inferior to another +man's." + +"My hope for the future is that _all_ men will come to teach their sons +the wrong of violence." + +"Lenore, never will that day come," replied Dorn. + +She saw in him the inevitableness of the masculine attitude; the +difference between man and woman; the preponderance of blood and energy +over the higher motives. She felt a weak little woman arrayed against +the whole of mankind. But she could not despair. Unquenchable as the sun +was this fire within her. + +"But it _might_ come?" she insisted, gently, but with inflexible spirit. + +"Yes, it might--if men change!" + +"You have changed." + +"Yes. I don't know myself." + +"If we do have a boy, will you let me teach him what I think is right?" +Lenore went on, softly. + +"Lenore! As if I would not!" he exclaimed. "I try to see your way, but +just because I can't I'll never oppose you. Teach _me_ if you can!" + +She kissed him and knelt beside his bed, grieved to see shadow return to +his face, yet thrilling that the way seemed open for her to inspire. But +she must never again choose to talk of war, of materialism, of anything +calculated to make him look into darkness of his soul, to ponder over +the impairment of his mind. She remembered the great specialist speaking +of lesions of the organic system, of a loss of brain cells. Her +inspiration must be love, charm, care--a healing and building process. +She would give herself in all the unutterableness and immeasurableness +of her woman's heart. She would order her life so that it would be a +fulfilment of his education, of a heritage from his fathers, a passion +born in him, a noble work through which surely he could be saved--the +cultivation of wheat. + +"Do you love me?" she whispered. + +"Do I!... Nothing could ever change my love for you." + +"I am your wife, you know." + +The shadow left his face. + +"Are you? Really? Lenore Anderson..." + +"Lenore Dorn. It is a beautiful name now." + +"It does sound sweet. But you--my wife? Never will I believe!" + +"You will have to--very soon." + +"Why?" A light, warm and glad and marveling, shone in his eyes. Indeed, +Lenore felt then a break in the strange aloofness of him--in his +impersonal, gentle acceptance of her relation to him. + +"To-morrow I'm going to take you home to your wheat-hills." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +Lenore told her conception of the history and the romance of wheat to +Dorn at this critical time when it was necessary to give a trenchant +call to hope and future. + +In the beginning man's struggle was for life and the mainstay of life +was food. Perhaps the original discoverer of wheat was a meat-eating +savage who, in roaming the forests and fields, forced by starvation to +eat bark and plant and berry, came upon a stalk of grain that chewed +with strange satisfaction. Perhaps through that accident he became a +sower of wheat. + +Who actually were the first sowers of wheat would never be known. They +were older than any history, and must have been among the earliest of +the human race. + +The development of grain produced wheat, and wheat was ground into +flour, and flour was baked into bread, and bread had for untold +centuries been the sustenance and the staff of life. + +Centuries ago an old Chaldean priest tried to ascertain if wheat had +ever grown wild. That question never was settled. It was universally +believed, however, that wheat had to have the cultivation of man. +Nevertheless, the origin of the plant must have been analogous to that +of other plants. Wheat-growers must necessarily have been people who +stayed long in one place. Wandering tribes could not till and sow the +fields. The origin of wheat furnished a legendary theme for many races, +and mythology contained tales of wheat-gods favoring chosen peoples. +Ancient China raised wheat twenty-seven centuries before Christ; grains +of wheat had been found in prehistoric ruins; the dwellers along the +Nile were not blind to the fertility of the valley. In the days of the +Pharaohs the old river annually inundated its low banks, enriching the +soil of vast areas, where soon a green-and-gold ocean of wheat waved and +shone under the hot Egyptian sun. The Arabs, on their weird beasts of +burden, rode from the desert wastes down to the land of waters and of +plenty. Rebekah, when she came to fill her earthen pitcher at the +palm-shaded well, looked out with dusky, dreamy eyes across the golden +grain toward the mysterious east. Moses, when he stood in the night, +watching his flock on the starlit Arabian waste, felt borne to him on +the desert wind a scent of wheat. The Bible said, "He maketh peace in +thy borders and filleth thee with the finest of the wheat." + +Black-bread days of the Middle Ages, when crude grinding made impure +flour, were the days of the oppressed peasant and the rich landowner, +dark days of toil and poverty and war, of blight and drought and famine; +when common man in his wretchedness and hunger cried out, "Bread or +blood!" + +But with the spreading of wheat came the dawn of a higher civilization; +and the story of wheat down to modern times showed the development of +man. Wheat-fields of many lands, surrounding homes of prosperous +farmers; fruitful toil of happy peoples; the miller and his humming +mill! + +When wheat crossed the ocean to America it came to strange and wonderful +fulfilment of its destiny. America, fresh, vast, and free, with its +sturdy pioneers ever spreading the golden grain westward; with the +advancing years when railroad lines kept pace with the indomitable +wheat-sowers; with unprecedented harvests yielding records to each +succeeding year; with boundless fields tilled and planted and harvested +by machines that were mechanical wonders; with enormous flour-mills, +humming and whirring, each grinding daily ten thousand barrels of flour, +pouring like a white stream from the steel rolls, pure, clean, and +sweet, the whitest and finest in the world! + +America, the new county, became in 1918 the salvation of starving +Belgium, the mainstay of England, the hope of France! Wheat for the +world! Wheat--that was to say food, strength, fighting life for the +armies opposed to the black, hideous, medieval horde of Huns! America to +succor and to save, to sacrifice and to sow, rising out of its peaceful +slumber to a mighty wrath, magnificent and unquenchable, throwing its +vast resources of soil, its endless streams of wheat, into the gulf of +war! It was an exalted destiny for a people. Its truth was a blazing +affront in the face of age-old autocracy. Fields and toil and grains of +wheat, first and last, the salvation of mankind, the freedom and the +food of the world! + + * * * * * + +Far up the slow-rising bulge of valley slope above the gleaming river +two cars climbed leisurely and rolled on over the height into what +seemed a bare and lonely land of green. + +It was a day in June, filled with a rich, thick, amber light, with a +fragrant warm wind blowing out of the west. + +At a certain point on this road, where Anderson always felt compelled to +halt, he stopped the car this day and awaited the other that contained +Lenore and Dorn. + +Lenore's joy in the ride was reflected in her face. Dorn rested +comfortably beside her, upon an improvised couch. As he lay half propped +up by pillows he could see out across the treeless land that he knew. +His eyes held a look of the returned soldier who had never expected to +see his native land again. Lenore, sensitive to every phase of his +feeling, watched him with her heart mounting high. + +Anderson got out of his car, followed by Kathleen, who looked glad and +mischievous and pretty as a wild rose. + +"I just never can get by this place," explained the rancher, as he came +and stood so that he could put a hand on Dorn's knee. "Look, son--an' +Lenore, don't you miss this." + +"Never fear, dad," replied Lenore, "it was I who first told you to look +here." + +"Terrible big and bare, but grand!" exclaimed Kathleen. + +Lenore looked first at Dorn's face as he gazed away across the length +and breadth of land. Could that land mean as much to him as it did +before he went to war? Infinitely more, she saw, and rejoiced. Her faith +was coming home to her in verities. Then she thrilled at the wide +prospect before her. + +It was a scene that she knew could not be duplicated in the world. Low, +slow-sloping, billowy green hills, bare and smooth with square brown +patches, stretched away to what seemed infinite distance. Valleys and +hills, with less fallow ground than ever before, significant and +striking: lost the meager details of clumps of trees and dots of houses +in a green immensity. A million shadows out of the west came waving over +the wheat. They were ripples of an ocean of grain. No dust-clouds, no +bleached roads, no yellow hills to-day! June, and the desert found its +analogy only in the sweep and reach! A thousand hills billowing away +toward that blue haze of mountain range where rolled the Oregon. Acreage +and mileage seemed insignificant. All was green--green, the fresh and +hopeful color, strangely serene and sweet and endless under the azure +sky. Beautiful and lonely hills they were, eloquent of toil, expressive +with the brown squares in the green, the lowly homes of men, the long +lines of roads running everywhither, overwhelmingly pregnant with +meaning--wheat--wheat--wheat--nothing but wheat, a staggering visual +manifestation of vital need, of noble promise. + +"That--that!" rolled out Anderson, waving his big hand, as if words were +useless. "Only a corner of the great old U.S.!... What would the Germans +say if they could look out over this?... What do _you_ say, Lenore?" + +"Beautiful!" she replied, softly. "Like the rainbow in the sky--God's +promise of life!" + +"An', Kathie, what do _you_ say?" went on Anderson. + +"Some wheat-fields!" replied Kathleen, with an air of woman's wisdom. +"Fetch on your young wheat-sowers, dad, and I'll pick out a husband." + +"An' _you_, son?" finished Anderson, as if wistfully, yet heartily +playing his last card. He was remembering Jim--the wild but beloved +son--the dead soldier. He was fearful for the crowning hope of his +years. + +"As ye sow--so shall ye reap!" was Dorn's reply, strong and thrilling. +And Lenore felt her father's strange, heart-satisfying content. + + * * * * * + +Twilight crept down around the old home on the hill. + +Dorn was alone, leaning at the window. He had just strength to lean +there, with uplifted head. Lenore had left him alone, divining his wish. +As she left him there came a sudden familiar happening in his brain, +like a snap-back, and the contending tide of gray forms--the +Huns--rushed upon him. He leaned there at the window, but just the same +he awaited the shock on the ramparts of the trench. A ferocious and +terrible storm of brain, that used to have its reaction in outward +violence, now worked inside him, like a hot wind that drove his blood. +During the spell he fought out his great fight--again for the thousandth +time he rekilled his foes. That storm passed through him without an +outward quiver. + +His Huns--charged again--bayoneted again--and he felt acute pain in the +left arm that was gone. He felt the closing of the hand which was not +there. His Huns lay in the shadow, stark and shapeless, with white faces +upward--a line of dead foes, remorseless and abhorrent to him, forever +damned by his ruthless spirit. He saw the boy slide off his bayonet, +beyond recall, murdered by some evil of which Dorn had been the motion. +Then the prone, gray forms vanished in the black gulf of Dorn's brain. + +"Lenore will never know--how my Huns come back to me," he whispered. + +Night with its trains of stars! Softly the darkness unfolded down over +the dim hills, lonely, tranquil, sweet. A night-bird caroled. The song +of insects, very faint and low, came to him like a still, sad music of +humanity, from over the hills, far away, in the strife-ridden world. The +world of men was there and life was incessant, monstrous, and +inconceivable. This old home of his--the old house seemed full of +well-remembered sounds of mouse and cricket and leaf against the roof +and soft night wind at the eaves--sounds that brought his boyhood back, +his bare feet on the stairs, his father's aloofness, his mother's love. + + * * * * * + +Then clearly floated to him a slow sweeping rustle of the wheat. +Breast-high it stood down there, outside his window, a moving body, +higher than the gloom. That rustle was a voice of childhood, youth, and +manhood, whispering to him, thrilling as never before. It was a growing +rustle, different from that when the wheat had matured. It seemed to +change and grow in volume, in meaning. The night wind bore it, but +life--bursting life was behind it, and behind that seemed to come a +driving and a mighty spirit. Beyond the growth of the wheat, beyond its +life and perennial gift, was something measureless and obscure, infinite +and universal. Suddenly Dorn saw that something as the breath and the +blood and the spirit of wheat--and of man. Dust and to dust returned +they might be, but this physical form was only the fleeting inscrutable +moment on earth, springing up, giving birth to seed, dying out for that +ever-increasing purpose which ran through the ages. + +A soft footfall sounded on the stairs. Lenore came. She leaned over him +and the starlight fell upon her face, sweet, luminous, beautiful. In the +sense of her compelling presence, in the tender touch of her hands, in +the whisper of woman's love, Dorn felt uplifted high above the dark pale +of the present with its war and pain and clouded mind to wheat--to the +fertile fields of a golden age to come. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Desert of Wheat, by Zane Grey + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10201 *** |