yes, then kissed
him on the mouth.

Meanwhile, the news had spread. The multitude rose to its feet. Women
and men, with pale faces, looked at each other speechless, or broke
forth into inarticulate exclamations. A strange, unfamiliar murmur took
the place of the tumultuous gaiety of the previous moments. A sense of
dread, of confusion, of impending terror weighed heavily in the air.
What was now to happen?

When Annixter got back to Osterman, he found a number of the Leaguers
already assembled. They were all mounted. Hooven was there and Harran,
and besides these, Garnett of the Ruby ranch and Gethings of the San
Pablo, Phelps the foreman of Los Muertos, and, last of all, Dabney,
silent as ever, speaking to no one. Presley came riding up.

"Best keep out of this, Pres," cried Annixter.

"Are we ready?" exclaimed Gethings.

"Ready, ready, we're all here."

"ALL. Is this all of us?" cried Annixter. "Where are the six hundred men
who were going to rise when this happened?"

They had wavered, these other Leaguers. Now, when the actual crisis
impended, they were smitten with confusion. Ah, no, they were not going
to stand up and be shot at just to save Derrick's land. They were
not armed. What did Annixter and Osterman take them for? No, sir; the
Railroad had stolen a march on them. After all his big talk Derrick had
allowed them to be taken by surprise. The only thing to do was to call
a meeting of the Executive Committee. That was the only thing. As for
going down there with no weapons in their hands, NO, sir. That was
asking a little TOO much. "Come on, then, boys," shouted Osterman,
turning his back on the others. "The Governor says to meet him at
Hooven's. We'll make for the Long Trestle and strike the trail to
Hooven's there."

They set off. It was a terrible ride. Twice during the scrambling
descent from the hills, Presley's pony fell beneath him. Annixter, on
his buckskin, and Osterman, on his thoroughbred, good horsemen both,
led the others, setting a terrific pace. The hills were left behind.
Broderson Creek was crossed and on the levels of Quien Sabe, straight
through the standing wheat, the nine horses, flogged and spurred,
stretched out to their utmost. Their passage through the wheat sounded
like the rip and tear of a gigantic web of cloth. The landscape on
either hand resolved itself into a long blur. Tears came to the eyes,
flying pebbles, clods of earth, grains of wheat flung up in the flight,
stu