by Zane Grey
“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 IWW, 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 today . . . over to Vale, an’ then to Huntsville. 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,” he 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 thoughts 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 IWWs 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 hawk-like 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 or 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 today.”
“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 IWW,” he went on. “Whatever that organization might have been last year, it’s gone wild this year . . . There are interests that have used the IWW. I’m only an agent, and I’m not high up, either. I see what the government will do to the IWW 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 IWW 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.
“Certainly. They have men are all over, and these men work in secret with the pro-German Americans. 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 Big Bend, the first time your father went to see Dorn’s wheat. Glidden’s playing the IWW 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. He was weak, cheap, egotistical, and a liar. Lenore divined that his later words held no truth.
“Mister Ruenke, you are a detestable coward,” she said with quivering scorn. “I let you imagine . . . Oh, I can’t speak it! You . . . you . . . German spy, traitor, beast!”
“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 sudde
nly 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, you she-cat, or you’ll kill yourself!” shouted Nash hoarsely. Lenore fell back, almost fainting, with the swift realization of what had happened.
Chapter Nine
Kurt Dorn had indeed no hope of ever seeing Lenore Anderson again, and he suffered a pang that seemed to leave his heart numb, although Anderson’s timely visit might turn out as providential as the saving rainstorm. 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 fulfillment 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 IWW 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 Big 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 an 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 IWW tricks.”
“Dorn, the IWW 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 nationwide propaganda by the German interests that 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 Krupp. 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 IWW men now at Krupp.”
“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 IWW.”
“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 Krupp 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 today I learned the IWW 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 Neppel with me. I’ll drop you there. You can hire a car and make Krupp 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 a
ppears 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 IWW. 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 Neppel,” 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 IWW. 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 Neppel, which was reached so speedily that Kurt could scarcely credit his eyes, the official said: “You’ll hear from me. Good bye and good luck.”
Kurt hired a young man he knew to drive him over to Krupp. All the way Kurt brooded about his father’s strange action. The old man had left home before the rainstorm. 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 Krupp and left the car at the railroad station. Krupp was a fairly good-size 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.
