hority and who
likes to go his own gait without accounting to anybody. We--the rest of
us Leaguers--never were informed as to what was going on. We supposed,
of course, that watch was being kept on the Railroad so as we wouldn't
be taken by surprise as we were yesterday. And it seems no watch was
kept at all, or if there was, it was mighty ineffective. Our idea was to
forestall any movement on the part of the Railroad and then when we
knew the marshal was coming down, to call a meeting of our Executive
Committee and decide as to what should be done. We ought to have had
time to call out the whole League. Instead of that, what happens? While
we're all off chasing rabbits, the Railroad is allowed to steal a march
on us and when it is too late, a handful of Leaguers is got together and
a fight is precipitated and our men killed. I'M sorry for our President,
too. No one is more so, but I want to put myself on record as believing
he did a hasty and inconsiderate thing. If he had managed right, he
could have had six hundred men to oppose the Railroad and there would
not have been any gun fight or any killing. He DIDN'T manage right and
there WAS a killing and I don't see as how the League ought to be
held responsible. The idea of the League, the whole reason why it
was organised, was to protect ALL the ranches of this valley from the
Railroad, and it looks to me as if the lives of our fellow-citizens
had been sacrificed, not in defending ALL of our ranches, but just in
defence of one of them--Los Muertos--the one that Mr. Derrick owns."

The speaker had no more than regained his seat when a man was seen
pushing his way from the back of the stage towards Garnett. He handed
the rancher a note, at the same time whispering in his ear. Garnett read
the note, then came forward to the edge of the stage, holding up his
hand. When the audience had fallen silent he said:

"I have just received sad news. Our friend and fellow-citizen, Mr.
Osterman, died this morning between eleven and twelve o'clock."

Instantly there was a roar. Every man in the building rose to his feet,
shouting, gesticulating. The roar increased, the Opera House trembled
to it, the gas jets in the lighted chandeliers vibrated to it. It was a
raucous howl of execration, a bellow of rage, inarticulate, deafening.

A tornado of confusion swept whirling from wall to wall and the madness
of the moment seized irresistibly upon Presley. He forgot himself; he no
longer w