第51章

Under protest, as he was particular to declare, and after interminable argument, Annixter had allowed himself to be reconciled with Osterman, and to be persuaded to reenter the proposed political "deal." A committee had been formed to finance the affair--Osterman, old Broderson, Annixter himself, and, with reservations, hardly more than a looker-on, Harran Derrick.Of this committee, Osterman was considered chairman.

Magnus Derrick had formally and definitely refused his adherence to the scheme.He was trying to steer a middle course.His position was difficult, anomalous.If freight rates were cut through the efforts of the members of the committee, he could not very well avoid taking advantage of the new schedule.He would be the gainer, though sharing neither the risk nor the expense.

But, meanwhile, the days were passing; the primary elections were drawing nearer.The committee could not afford to wait, and by way of a beginning, Osterman had gone to Los Angeles, fortified by a large sum of money--a purse to which Annixter, Broderson and himself had contributed.He had put himself in touch with Disbrow, the political man of the Denver, Pueblo and Mojave road, and had had two interviews with him.The telegram that Annixter received that morning was to say that Disbrow had been bought over, and would adopt Parrell as the D., P.and M.candidate for Railroad Commissioner from the third district.

One of the cooks brought up Annixter's breakfast that morning, and he went through it hastily, reading his mail at the same time and glancing over the pages of the "Mercury," Genslinger's paper.

The "Mercury," Annixter was persuaded, received a subsidy from the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad, and was hardly better than the mouthpiece by which Shelgrim and the General Office spoke to ranchers about Bonneville.

An editorial in that morning's issue said:

"It would not be surprising to the well-informed, if the long-deferred re-grade of the value of the railroad sections included in the Los Muertos, Quien Sabe, Osterman and Broderson properties was made before the first of the year.Naturally, the tenants of these lands feel an interest in the price which the railroad will put upon its holdings, and it is rumoured they expect the land will be offered to them for two dollars and fifty cents per acre.

It needs no seventh daughter of a seventh daughter to foresee that these gentlemen will be disappointed.""Rot!" vociferated Annixter to himself as he finished.He rolled the paper into a wad and hurled it from him.

"Rot! rot! What does Genslinger know about it?I stand on my agreement with the P.and S.W.--from two fifty to five dollars an acre--there it is in black and white.The road IS obligated.

And my improvements! I made the land valuable by improving it, irrigating it, draining it, and cultivating it.Talk to ME.Iknow better."

The most abiding impression that Genslinger's editorial made upon him was, that possibly the "Mercury" was not subsidised by the corporation after all.If it was; Genslinger would not have been led into making his mistake as to the value of the land.He would have known that the railroad was under contract to sell at two dollars and a half an acre, and not only this, but that when the land was put upon the market, it was to be offered to the present holders first of all.Annixter called to mind the explicit terms of the agreement between himself and the railroad, and dismissed the matter from his mind.He lit a cigar, put on his hat and went out.

The morning was fine, the air nimble, brisk.On the summit of the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well, the windmill was turning steadily in a breeze from the southwest.The water in the irrigating ditch was well up.There was no cloud in the sky.

Far off to the east and west, the bulwarks of the valley, the Coast Range and the foothills of the Sierras stood out, pale amethyst against the delicate pink and white sheen of the horizon.The sunlight was a veritable flood, crystal, limpid, sparkling, setting a feeling of gayety in the air, stirring up an effervescence in the blood, a tumult of exuberance in the veins.

But on his way to the barns, Annixter was obliged to pass by the open door of the dairy-house.Hilma Tree was inside, singing at her work; her voice of a velvety huskiness, more of the chest than of the throat, mingling with the liquid dashing of the milk in the vats and churns, and the clear, sonorous clinking of the cans and pans.Annixter turned into the dairy-house, pausing on the threshold, looking about him.Hilma stood bathed from head to foot in the torrent of sunlight that poured in upon her from the three wide-open windows.She was charming, delicious, radiant of youth, of health, of well-being.Into her eyes, wide open, brown, rimmed with their fine, thin line of intense black lashes, the sun set a diamond flash; the same golden light glowed all around her thick, moist hair, lambent, beautiful, a sheen of almost metallic lustre, and reflected itself upon her wet lips, moving with the words of her singing.The whiteness of her skin under the caress of this hale, vigorous morning light was dazzling, pure, of a fineness beyond words.Beneath the sweet modulation of her chin, the reflected light from the burnished copper vessel she was carrying set a vibration of pale gold.