The Octopus : A Story of California

“Well,” objected Annixter, a surly note in his voice, “I WAS going to RIDE over.” “Oh, never mind, then,” returned Presley easily. “I was to blame for forgetting it. Don’t bother about it. I’ll come over some of these days and get it myself.”

Annixter hung up the transmitter with a vehement wrench and stamped out of the room, banging the door. He found his rubber coat hanging in the hallway and swung into it with a fierce movement of the shoulders that all but started the seams. Everything seemed to conspire to thwart him. It was just like that absent-minded, crazy poet, Presley, to forget his wheel. Well, he could come after it himself. He, Annixter, would ride SOME horse, anyhow. When he came out upon the porch he saw the wheel leaning against the fence where Presley had left it. If it stayed there much longer the rain would catch it. Annixter ripped out an oath. At every moment his ill-humour was increasing. Yet, for all that, he went back to the stable, pushing the bicycle before him, and countermanded his order, directing the stableman to get the buggy ready. He himself carefully stowed Presley’s bicycle under the seat, covering it with a couple of empty sacks and a tarpaulin carriage cover.

While he was doing this, the stableman uttered an exclamation and paused in the act of backing the horse into the shafts, holding up a hand, listening.

From the hollow roof of the barn and from the thick velvet-like padding of dust over the ground outside, and from among the leaves of the few nearby trees and plants there came a vast, monotonous murmur that seemed to issue from all quarters of the horizon at once, a prolonged and subdued rustling sound, steady, even, persistent.

“There’s your rain,” announced the stableman. “The first of the season.”

“And I got to be out in it,” fumed Annixter, “and I suppose those swine will quit work on the big barn now.”

When the buggy was finally ready, he put on his rubber coat, climbed in, and without waiting for the stableman to raise the top, drove out into the rain, a new-lit cigar in his teeth. As he passed the dairy-house, he saw Hilma standing in the doorway, holding out her hand to the rain, her face turned upward toward the grey sky, amused and interested at this first shower of the wet season. She was so absorbed that she did not see Annixter, and his clumsy nod in her direction passed unnoticed.

“She did it on purpose,” Annixter told himself, chewing fiercely on his cigar. “Cuts me now, hey? Well, this DOES settle it. She leaves this ranch before I’m a day older.”

He decided that he would put off his tour of inspection till the next day. Travelling in the buggy as he did, he must keep to the road which led to Derrick’s, in very roundabout fashion, by way of Guadalajara. This rain would reduce the thick dust of the road to two feet of viscid mud. It would take him quite three hours to reach the ranch house on Los Muertos. He thought of Delaney and the buckskin and ground his teeth. And all this trouble, if you please, because of a fool feemale girl. A fine way for him to waste his time. Well, now he was done with it. His decision was taken now. She should pack.

Steadily the rain increased. There was no wind. The thick veil of wet descended straight from sky to earth, blurring distant outlines, spreading a vast sheen of grey over all the landscape. Its volume became greater, the prolonged murmuring note took on a deeper tone. At the gate to the road which led across Dyke’s hop-fields toward Guadalajara, Annixter was obliged to descend and raise the top of the buggy. In doing so he caught the flesh of his hand in the joint of the iron elbow that supported the top and pinched it cruelly. It was the last misery, the culmination of a long train of wretchedness. On the instant he hated Hilma Tree so fiercely that his sharply set teeth all but bit his cigar in two.

While he was grabbing and wrenching at the buggy-top, the water from his hat brim dripping down upon his nose, the horse, restive under the drench of the rain, moved uneasily.

“Yah-h-h you!” he shouted, inarticulate with exasperation. “You—you—Gor-r-r, wait till I get hold of you. WHOA, you!”

But there was an interruption. Delaney, riding the buckskin, came around a bend in the road at a slow trot and Annixter, getting into the buggy again, found himself face to face with him.

“Why, hello, Mr. Annixter,” said he, pulling up. “Kind of sort of wet, isn’t it?”

Annixter, his face suddenly scarlet, sat back in his place abruptly, exclaiming:

“Oh—oh, there you are, are you?”

“I’ve been down there,” explained Delaney, with a motion of his head toward the railroad, “to mend that break in the fence by the Long Trestle and I thought while I was about it I’d follow down along the fence toward Guadalajara to see if there were any more breaks. But I guess it’s all right.”

“Oh, you guess it’s all right, do you?” observed Annixter through his teeth.

“Why—why—yes,” returned the other, bewildered at the truculent ring in Annixter’s voice. “I mended that break by the Long Trestle just now and–

“Well, why didn’t you mend it a week ago?” shouted Annixter wrathfully. “I’ve been looking for you all the morning, I have, and who told you you could take that buckskin? And the sheep were all over the right of way last night because of that break, and here that filthy pip, S. Behrman, comes down here this morning and wants to make trouble for me.” Suddenly he cried out, “What do I FEED you for? What do I keep you around here for? Think it’s just to fatten up your carcass, hey?”

“Why, Mr. Annixter–” began Delaney.

“And don’t TALK to me,” vociferated the other, exciting himself with his own noise. “Don’t you say a word to me even to apologise. If I’ve spoken to you once about that break, I’ve spoken fifty times.”

“Why, sir,” declared Delaney, beginning to get indignant, “the sheep did it themselves last night.”

“I told you not to TALK to me,” clamoured Annixter.

“But, say, look here–”

“Get off the ranch. You get off the ranch. And taking that buckskin against my express orders. I won’t have your kind about the place, not much. I’m easy-going enough, Lord knows, but I don’t propose to be imposed on ALL the time. Pack off, you understand and do it lively. Go to the foreman and tell him I told him to pay you off and then clear out. And, you hear me,” he concluded, with a menacing outthrust of his lower jaw, “you hear me, if I catch you hanging around the ranch house after this, or if I so much as see you on Quien Sabe, I’ll show you the way off of it, my friend, at the toe of my boot. Now, then, get out of the way and let me pass.”

Angry beyond the power of retort, Delaney drove the spurs into the buckskin and passed the buggy in a single bound. Annixter gathered up the reins and drove on muttering to himself, and occasionally looking back to observe the buckskin flying toward the ranch house in a spattering shower of mud, Delaney urging her on, his head bent down against the falling rain.

“Huh,” grunted Annixter with grim satisfaction, a certain sense of good humour at length returning to him, “that just about takes the saleratus out of YOUR dough, my friend.”

A little farther on, Annixter got out of the buggy a second time to open another gate that let him out upon the Upper Road, not far distant from Guadalajara. It was the road that connected that town with Bonneville and that ran parallel with the railroad tracks. On the other side of the track he could see the infinite extension of the brown, bare land of Los Muertos, turning now to a soft, moist welter of fertility under the insistent caressing of the rain. The hard, sun-baked clods were decomposing, the crevices between drinking the wet with an eager, sucking noise. But the prospect was dreary; the distant horizons were blotted under drifting mists of rain; the eternal monotony of the earth lay open to the sombre low sky without a single adornment, without a single variation from its melancholy flatness. Near at hand the wires between the telegraph poles vibrated with a faint humming under the multitudinous fingering of the myriad of falling drops, striking among them and dripping off steadily from one to another. The poles themselves were dark and swollen and glistening with wet, while the little cones of glass on the transverse bars reflected the dull grey light of the end of the afternoon.

As Annixter was about to drive on, a freight train passed, coming from Guadalajara, going northward toward Bonneville, Fresno and San Francisco. It was a long train, moving slowly, methodically, with a measured coughing of its locomotive and a rhythmic cadence of its trucks over the interstices of the rails. On two or three of the flat cars near its end, Annixter plainly saw Magnus Derrick’s ploughs, their bright coating of red and green paint setting a single brilliant note in all this array of grey and brown.

Annixter halted, watching the train file past, carrying Derrick’s ploughs away from his ranch, at this very time of the first rain, when they would be most needed. He watched it, silent, thoughtful, and without articulate comment. Even after it passed he sat in his place a long time, watching it lose itself slowly in the distance, its prolonged rumble diminishing to a faint murmur. Soon he heard the engine sounding its whistle for the Long Trestle.

But the moving train no longer carried with it that impression of terror and destruction that had so thrilled Presley’s imagination the night before. It passed slowly on its way with a mournful roll of wheels, like the passing of a cortege, like a file of artillery-caissons charioting dead bodies; the engine’s smoke enveloping it in a mournful veil, leaving a sense of melancholy in its wake, moving past there, lugubrious, lamentable, infinitely sad under the grey sky and under the grey mist of rain which continued to fall with a subdued, rustling sound, steady, persistent, a vast monotonous murmur that seemed to come from all quarters of the horizon at once.

CHAPTER III

When Annixter arrived at the Los Muertos ranch house that same evening, he found a little group already assembled in the dining-room. Magnus Derrick, wearing the frock coat of broadcloth that he had put on for the occasion, stood with his back to the fireplace. Harran sat close at hand, one leg thrown over the arm of his chair. Presley lounged on the sofa, in corduroys and high laced boots, smoking cigarettes. Broderson leaned on his folded arms at one corner of the dining table, and Genslinger, editor and proprietor of the principal newspaper of the county, the “Bonneville Mercury,” stood with his hat and driving gloves under his arm, opposite Derrick, a half-emptied glass of whiskey and water in his hand.

As Annixter entered he heard Genslinger observe: “I’ll have a leader in the ‘Mercury’ to-morrow that will interest you people. There’s some talk of your ranch lands being graded in value this winter. I suppose you will all buy?”

In an instant the editor’s words had riveted upon him the attention of every man in the room. Annixter broke the moment’s silence that followed with the remark:

“Well, it’s about time they graded these lands of theirs.”

The question in issue in Genslinger’s remark was of the most vital interest to the ranchers around Bonneville and Guadalajara. Neither Magnus Derrick, Broderson, Annixter, nor Osterman actually owned all the ranches which they worked. As yet, the vast majority of these wheat lands were the property of the P. and S. W. The explanation of this condition of affairs went back to the early history of the Pacific and Southwestern, when, as a bonus for the construction of the road, the national government had granted to the company the odd numbered sections of land on either side of the proposed line of route for a distance of twenty miles. Indisputably, these sections belonged to the P. and S. W. The even-numbered sections being government property could be and had been taken up by the ranchers, but the railroad sections, or, as they were called, the “alternate sections,” would have to be purchased direct from the railroad itself.

But this had not prevented the farmers from “coming in” upon that part of the San Joaquin. Long before this the railroad had thrown open these lands, and, by means of circulars, distributed broadcast throughout the State, had expressly invited settlement thereon. At that time patents had not been issued to the railroad for their odd-numbered sections, but as soon as the land was patented the railroad would grade it in value and offer it for sale, the first occupants having the first chance of purchase. The price of these lands was to be fixed by the price the government put upon its own adjoining lands—about two dollars and a half per acre.

With cultivation and improvement the ranches must inevitably appreciate in value. There was every chance to make fortunes. When the railroad lands about Bonneville had been thrown open, there had been almost a rush in the matter of settlement, and Broderson, Annixter, Derrick, and Osterman, being foremost with their claims, had secured the pick of the country. But the land once settled upon, the P. and S. W. seemed to be in no hurry as to fixing exactly the value of its sections included in the various ranches and offering them for sale. The matter dragged along from year to year, was forgotten for months together, being only brought to mind on such occasions as this, when the rumour spread that the General Office was about to take definite action in the affair.

“As soon as the railroad wants to talk business with me,” observed Annixter, “about selling me their interest in Quien Sabe, I’m ready. The land has more than quadrupled in value. I’ll bet I could sell it to-morrow for fifteen dollars an acre, and if I buy of the railroad for two and a half an acre, there’s boodle in the game.”

“For two and a half!” exclaimed Genslinger. “You don’t suppose the railroad will let their land go for any such figure as that, do you? Wherever did you get that idea?”

“From the circulars and pamphlets,” answered Harran, “that the railroad issued to us when they opened these lands. They are pledged to that. Even the P. and S. W. couldn’t break such a pledge as that. You are new in the country, Mr. Genslinger. You don’t remember the conditions upon which we took up this land.”

“And our improvements,” exclaimed Annixter. “Why, Magnus and I have put about five thousand dollars between us into that irrigating ditch already. I guess we are not improving the land just to make it valuable for the railroad people. No matter how much we improve the land, or how much it increases in value, they have got to stick by their agreement on the basis of two-fifty per acre. Here’s one case where the P. and S. W. DON’T get everything in sight.”

Genslinger frowned, perplexed.

“I AM new in the country, as Harran says,” he answered, “but it seems to me that there’s no fairness in that proposition. The presence of the railroad has helped increase the value of your ranches quite as much as your improvements. Why should you get all the benefit of the rise in value and the railroad nothing? The fair way would be to share it between you.”

“I don’t care anything about that,” declared Annixter. “They agreed to charge but two-fifty, and they’ve got to stick to it.”

“Well,” murmured Genslinger, “from what I know of the affair, I don’t believe the P. and S. W. intends to sell for two-fifty an acre, at all. The managers of the road want the best price they can get for everything in these hard times.”

“Times aren’t ever very hard for the railroad,” hazards old Broderson.

Broderson was the oldest man in the room. He was about sixty-five years of age, venerable, with a white beard, his figure bent earthwards with hard work.

He was a narrow-minded man, painfully conscientious in his statements lest he should be unjust to somebody; a slow thinker, unable to let a subject drop when once he had started upon it. He had no sooner uttered his remark about hard times than he was moved to qualify it.

“Hard times,” he repeated, a troubled, perplexed note in his voice; “well, yes—yes. I suppose the road DOES have hard times, maybe. Everybody does—of course. I didn’t mean that exactly. I believe in being just and fair to everybody. I mean that we’ve got to use their lines and pay their charges good years AND bad years, the P. and S. W. being the only road in the State. That is—well, when I say the only road—no, I won’t say the ONLY road. Of course there are other roads. There’s the D. P. and M. and the San Francisco and North Pacific, that runs up to Ukiah. I got a brother-in-law in Ukiah. That’s not much of a wheat country round Ukiah though they DO grow SOME wheat there, come to think. But I guess it’s too far north. Well, of course there isn’t MUCH. Perhaps sixty thousand acres in the whole county—if you include barley and oats. I don’t know; maybe it’s nearer forty thousand. I don’t remember very well. That’s a good many years ago. I–”

But Annixter, at the end of all patience, turned to Genslinger, cutting short the old man:

“Oh, rot! Of course the railroad will sell at two-fifty,” he cried. “We’ve got the contracts.”

“Look to them, then, Mr. Annixter,” retorted Genslinger significantly, “look to them. Be sure that you are protected.”

Soon after this Genslinger took himself away, and Derrick’s Chinaman came in to set the table.

“What do you suppose he meant?” asked Broderson, when Genslinger was gone.

“About this land business?” said Annixter. “Oh, I don’t know. Some tom fool idea. Haven’t we got their terms printed in black and white in their circulars? There’s their pledge.”

“Oh, as to pledges,” murmured Broderson, “the railroad is not always TOO much hindered by those.”

“Where’s Osterman?” demanded Annixter, abruptly changing the subject as if it were not worth discussion. “Isn’t that goat Osterman coming down here to-night?”

“You telephoned him, didn’t you, Presley?” inquired Magnus.

Presley had taken Princess Nathalie upon his knee stroking her long, sleek hair, and the cat, stupefied with beatitude, had closed her eyes to two fine lines, clawing softly at the corduroy of Presley’s trousers with alternate paws.

“Yes, sir,” returned Presley. “He said he would be here.”

And as he spoke, young Osterman arrived.

He was a young fellow, but singularly inclined to baldness. His ears, very red and large, stuck out at right angles from either side of his head, and his mouth, too, was large—a great horizontal slit beneath his nose. His cheeks were of a brownish red, the cheek bones a little salient. His face was that of a comic actor, a singer of songs, a man never at a loss for an answer, continually striving to make a laugh. But he took no great interest in ranching and left the management of his land to his superintendents and foremen, he, himself, living in Bonneville. He was a poser, a wearer of clothes, forever acting a part, striving to create an impression, to draw attention to himself. He was not without a certain energy, but he devoted it to small ends, to perfecting himself in little accomplishments, continually running after some new thing, incapable of persisting long in any one course. At one moment his mania would be fencing; the next, sleight-of-hand tricks; the next, archery. For upwards of one month he had devoted himself to learning how to play two banjos simultaneously, then abandoning this had developed a sudden passion for stamped leather work and had made a quantity of purses, tennis belts, and hat bands, which he presented to young ladies of his acquaintance. It was his policy never to make an enemy. He was liked far better than he was respected. People spoke of him as “that goat Osterman,” or “that fool Osterman kid,” and invited him to dinner. He was of the sort who somehow cannot be ignored. If only because of his clamour he made himself important. If he had one abiding trait, it was his desire of astonishing people, and in some way, best known to himself, managed to cause the circulation of the most extraordinary stories wherein he, himself, was the chief actor. He was glib, voluble, dexterous, ubiquitous, a teller of funny stories, a cracker of jokes.

Naturally enough, he was heavily in debt, but carried the burden of it with perfect nonchalance. The year before S. Behrman had held mortgages for fully a third of his crop and had squeezed him viciously for interest. But for all that, Osterman and S. Behrman were continually seen arm-in-arm on the main street of Bonneville. Osterman was accustomed to slap S. Behrman on his fat back, declaring:

“You’re a good fellow, old jelly-belly, after all, hey?”

As Osterman entered from the porch, after hanging his cavalry poncho and dripping hat on the rack outside, Mrs. Derrick appeared in the door that opened from the dining-room into the glass-roofed hallway just beyond. Osterman saluted her with effusive cordiality and with ingratiating blandness.

“I am not going to stay,” she explained, smiling pleasantly at the group of men, her pretty, wide-open brown eyes, with their look of inquiry and innocence, glancing from face to face, “I only came to see if you wanted anything and to say how do you do.”

She began talking to old Broderson, making inquiries as to his wife, who had been sick the last week, and Osterman turned to the company, shaking hands all around, keeping up an incessant stream of conversation.

“Hello, boys and girls. Hello, Governor. Sort of a gathering of the clans to-night. Well, if here isn’t that man Annixter. Hello, Buck. What do you know? Kind of dusty out to-night.”

At once Annixter began to get red in the face, retiring towards a corner of the room, standing in an awkward position by the case of stuffed birds, shambling and confused, while Mrs. Derrick was present, standing rigidly on both feet, his elbows close to his sides. But he was angry with Osterman, muttering imprecations to himself, horribly vexed that the young fellow should call him “Buck” before Magnus’s wife. This goat Osterman! Hadn’t he any sense, that fool? Couldn’t he ever learn how to behave before a feemale? Calling him “Buck” like that while Mrs. Derrick was there. Why a stable-boy would know better; a hired man would have better manners. All through the dinner that followed Annixter was out of sorts, sulking in his place, refusing to eat by way of vindicating his self-respect, resolving to bring Osterman up with a sharp turn if he called him “Buck” again.

The Chinaman had made a certain kind of plum pudding for dessert, and Annixter, who remembered other dinners at the Derrick’s, had been saving himself for this, and had meditated upon it all through the meal. No doubt, it would restore all his good humour, and he believed his stomach was so far recovered as to be able to stand it.

But, unfortunately, the pudding was served with a sauce that he abhorred—a thick, gruel-like, colourless mixture, made from plain water and sugar. Before he could interfere, the Chinaman had poured a quantity of it upon his plate.

“Faugh!” exclaimed Annixter. “It makes me sick. Such—such SLOOP. Take it away. I’ll have mine straight, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s good for your stomach, Buck,” observed young Osterman; “makes it go down kind of sort of slick; don’t you see? Sloop, hey? That’s a good name.”

“Look here, don’t you call me Buck. You don’t seem to have any sense, and, besides, it ISN’T good for my stomach. I know better. What do YOU know about my stomach, anyhow? Just looking at sloop like that makes me sick.”

A little while after this the Chinaman cleared away the dessert and brought in coffee and cigars. The whiskey bottle and the syphon of soda-water reappeared. The men eased themselves in their places, pushing back from the table, lighting their cigars, talking of the beginning of the rains and the prospects of a rise in wheat. Broderson began an elaborate mental calculation, trying to settle in his mind the exact date of his visit to Ukiah, and Osterman did sleight-of-hand tricks with bread pills. But Princess Nathalie, the cat, was uneasy. Annixter was occupying her own particular chair in which she slept every night. She could not go to sleep, but spied upon him continually, watching his every movement with her lambent, yellow eyes, clear as amber.

Then, at length, Magnus, who was at the head of the table, moved in his place, assuming a certain magisterial attitude. “Well, gentlemen,” he observed, “I have lost my case against the railroad, the grain-rate case. Ulsteen decided against me, and now I hear rumours to the effect that rates for the hauling of grain are to be advanced.”