me doesn't count. I'm sore--an' you an' me can't live
in the same place, because you're a damned traitor. You've lived here
for twenty years. You've grown rich off the country. An' you'd sell us
to your rotten Germany. What I think of you for that I'm goin' to tell
you."

Anderson paused to take a deep breath. Then he began to curse Neuman.
All the rough years of his frontier life, as well as the quieter ones of
his ranching days, found expression in the swift, thunderous roll of his
terrible scorn. Every vile name that had ever been used by cowboy,
outlaw, gambler, leaped to Anderson's stinging tongue. All the keen,
hard epithets common to the modern day he flung into Neuman's face. And
he ended with a profanity that was as individual in character as its
delivery was intense.

"I'm callin' you for my own relief," he concluded, "an' not that I
expect to get under your hide."

Then he paused. He wiped the beaded drops from his forehead, and he
coughed and shook himself. His big fists unclosed. Passion gave place to
dignity.

"Neuman, it's a pity you an' men like you can't see the truth. That's
the mystery to me--why any one who had spent half a lifetime an'
prospered here in our happy an' beautiful country could ever hate it. I
never will understand that. But I do understand that America will never
harbor such men for long. You have your reasons, I reckon. An' no doubt
you think you're justified. That's the tragedy. You run off from
hard-ruled Germany. You will not live there of your own choice. You
succeed here an' live in peace an' plenty.... An', by God! you take up
with a lot of foreign riffraff an' double-cross the people you owe so
much!... What's wrong with your mind?... Think it over.... An' that's
the last word I have for you."

Anderson, turning to his desk, took up a cigar and lighted it. He was
calm again. There was really sadness where his face had shown only fury.
Then he addressed Dorn.

"Kurt, it's up to you now," he said. "As my superintendent an' some-day
partner, what you'll say goes with me.... I don't know what bein' square
would mean in relation to this man."

Anderson sat down heavily in his desk chair and his face became obscured
in cigar smoke.

"Neuman, do you recognize me?" asked Dorn, with his flashing eyes on the
rancher.

"No," replied Neuman.

"I'm Chris Dorn's son. My father died a few days ago. He overtaxed his
heart fighting fire in the wheat ... Fire set by I.W.W. men. Gl