ed and that house
of tragedy had quieted down, he still remained in his place by the open
window of his little room, looking off across the leagues of growing
wheat, watching the slow kindling of the dawn. Horror weighed
intolerably upon him. Monstrous things, huge, terrible, whose names he
knew only too well, whirled at a gallop through his imagination, or rose
spectral and grisly before the eyes of his mind. Harran dead, Annixter
dead, Broderson dead, Osterman, perhaps, even at that moment dying.
Why, these men had made up his world. Annixter had been his best friend,
Harran, his almost daily companion; Broderson and Osterman were familiar
to him as brothers. They were all his associates, his good friends, the
group was his environment, belonging to his daily life. And he, standing
there in the dust of the road by the irrigating ditch, had seen them
shot. He found himself suddenly at his table, the candle burning at
his elbow, his journal before him, writing swiftly, the desire for
expression, the craving for outlet to the thoughts that clamoured
tumultuous at his brain, never more insistent, more imperious. Thus he
wrote:

"Dabney dead, Hooven dead, Harran dead, Annixter dead, Broderson dead,
Osterman dying, S. Behrman alive, successful; the Railroad in possession
of Quien Sabe. I saw them shot. Not twelve hours since I stood there at
the irrigating ditch. Ah, that terrible moment of horror and confusion!
powder smoke--flashing pistol barrels--blood stains--rearing horses--men
staggering to their death--Christian in a horrible posture, one rigid
leg high in the air across his saddle--Broderson falling sideways into
the ditch--Osterman laying himself down, his head on his arms, as if
tired, tired out. These things, I have seen them. The picture of this
day's work is from henceforth part of my mind, part of ME. They have
done it, S. Behrman and the owners of the railroad have done it, while
all the world looked on, while the people of these United States looked
on. Oh, come now and try your theories upon us, us of the ranchos, us,
who have suffered, us, who KNOW. Oh, talk to US now of the 'rights
of Capital,' talk to US of the Trust, talk to US of the 'equilibrium
between the classes.' Try your ingenious ideas upon us. WE KNOW. I
cannot tell whether or not your theories are excellent. I do not know if
your ideas are plausible. I do not know how practical is your scheme of
society. I do not know if the Railroad has a ri