The Desert of Wheat. Zane Grey
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