CHAPTER IX

On Division Number Three of the Los Muertos ranch the wheat had already
been cut, and S. Behrman on a certain morning in the first week of
August drove across the open expanse of stubble toward the southwest,
his eyes searching the horizon for the feather of smoke that would
mark the location of the steam harvester. However, he saw nothing. The
stubble extended onward apparently to the very margin of the world.

At length, S. Behrman halted his buggy and brought out his field glasses
from beneath the seat. He stood up in his place and, adjusting the
lenses, swept the prospect to the south and west. It was the same as
though the sea of land were, in reality, the ocean, and he, lost in an
open boat, were scanning the waste through his glasses, looking for the
smoke of a steamer, hull down, below the horizon. "Wonder," he muttered,
"if they're working on Four this morning?"

At length, he murmured an "Ah" of satisfaction. Far to the south into
the white sheen of sky, immediately over the horizon, he made out a
faint smudge--the harvester beyond doubt.

Thither S. Behrman turned his horse's head. It was all of an hour's
drive over the uneven ground and through the crackling stubble, but at
length he reached the harvester. He found, however, that it had been
halted. The sack sewers, together with the header-man, were stretched
on the ground in the shade of the machine, while the engineer and
separator-man were pottering about a portion of the works.

"What's the matter, Billy?" demanded S. Behrman reining up.

The engineer turned about.

"The grain is heavy in here. We thought we'd better increase the speed
of the cup-carrier, and pulled up to put in a smaller sprocket."

S. Behrman nodded to say that was all right, and added a question.

"How is she going?"

"Anywheres from twenty-five to thirty sacks to the acre right along
here; nothing the matter with THAT I guess."

"Nothing in the world, Bill."

One of the sack sewers interposed:

"For the last half hour we've been throwing off three bags to the
minute."

"That's good, that's good."

It was more than good; it was "bonanza," and all that division of the
great ranch was thick with just such wonderful wheat. Never had Los
Muertos been more generous, never a season more successful. S. Behrman
drew a long breath of satisfaction. He knew just how great was his share
in the lands which had just been absorbed by the corporation he served,
j