Octopus — Book II, Chapter 7, Part 3
But Presley found that it was impossible for him to stay at Los Muertos that day.
Gloom and the shadow of tragedy brooded heavy over the place.
A great silence pervaded everything, a silence broken only by the subdued coming and going of the undertaker and his assistants.
When Presley, having resolved to go into Bonneville, came out through the doorway of the house, he found the undertaker tying a long strip of crape to the bell-handle.
Presley saddled his pony and rode into town.
By this time, after long hours of continued reflection upon one subject, a sombre brooding malevolence, a deep-seated desire of revenge, had grown big within his mind.
The first numbness had passed off; familiarity with what had been done had blunted the edge of horror, and now the impulse of retaliation prevailed.
At first, the sullen anger of defeat, the sense of outrage, had only smouldered, but the more he brooded, the fiercer flamed his rage.
Sudden paroxysms of wrath gripped him by the throat; abrupt outbursts of fury injected his eyes with blood.
He ground his teeth, his mouth filled with curses, his hands clenched till they grew white and bloodless.
Was the Railroad to triumph then in the end?
After all those months of preparation, after all those grandiloquent resolutions, after all the arrogant presumption of the League!
The League!
what a farce;
what had it amounted to when the crisis came?
Was the Trust to crush them all so easily?
Was S. Behrman to swallow Los Muertos?
S.
Behrman!
Presley saw him plainly, huge, rotund, white; saw his jowl tremulous and obese, the roll of fat over his collar sprinkled with sparse hairs, the great stomach with its brown linen vest and heavy watch chain of hollow links, clinking against the buttons of imitation pearl.
And this man was to crush Magnus Derrick--had already stamped the life from such men as Harran and Annixter.
This man, in the name of the Trust, was to grab Los Muertos as he had grabbed Quien Sabe, and after Los Muertos, Broderson's ranch, then Osterman's, then others, and still others, the whole valley, the whole State.
Presley beat his forehead with his clenched fist as he rode on.
“No,” he cried, “no, kill him, kill him, kill him with my hands.
” The idea of it put him beside himself.
Oh, to sink his fingers deep into the white, fat throat of the man, to clutch like iron into the great puffed jowl of him, to wrench out the life, to batter it out, strangle it out, to pay him back for the long years of extortion and oppression, to square accounts for bribed jurors, bought judges, corrupted legislatures, to have justice for the trick of the Ranchers' Railroad Commission, the charlatanism of the “ten per cent.
cut,” the ruin of Dyke, the seizure of Quien Sabe, the murder of Harran, the assassination of Annixter!
It was in such mood that he reached Caraher's. The saloon-keeper had just opened his place and was standing in his doorway, smoking his pipe.
Presley dismounted and went in and the two had a long talk.
When, three hours later, Presley came out of the saloon and rode on towards Bonneville, his face was very pale, his lips shut tight, resolute, determined.
His manner was that of a man whose mind is made up.
The hour for the mass meeting at the Opera House had been set for one o'clock, but long before noon the street in front of the building and, in fact, all the streets in its vicinity, were packed from side to side with a shifting, struggling, surging, and excited multitude.
There were few women in the throng, but hardly a single male inhabitant of either Bonneville or Guadalajara was absent.
Men had even come from Visalia and Pixley.
It was no longer the crowd of curiosity seekers that had thronged around Hooven's place by the irrigating ditch; the People were no longer confused, bewildered.
A full realisation of just what had been done the day before was clear now in the minds of all.
Business was suspended; nearly all the stores were closed.
Since early morning the members of the League had put in an appearance and rode from point to point, their rifles across their saddle pommels.
Then, by ten o'clock, the streets had begun to fill up, the groups on the corners grew and merged into one another; pedestrians, unable to find room on the sidewalks, took to the streets.
Hourly the crowd increased till shoulders touched and elbows, till free circulation became impeded, then congested, then impossible.
The crowd, a solid mass, was wedged tight from store front to store front.
And from all this throng, this single unit, this living, breathing organism--the People--there rose a droning, terrible note.
It was not yet the wild, fierce clamour of riot and insurrection, shrill, high pitched; but it was a beginning, the growl of the awakened brute, feeling the iron in its flank, heaving up its head with bared teeth, the throat vibrating to the long, indrawn snarl of wrath.
Thus the forenoon passed, while the people, their bulk growing hourly vaster, kept to the streets, moving slowly backward and forward, oscillating in the grooves of the thoroughfares, the steady, low-pitched growl rising continually into the hot, still air.
Then, at length, about twelve o'clock, the movement of the throng assumed definite direction.
It set towards the Opera House.
Presley, who had left his pony at the City livery stable, found himself caught in the current and carried slowly forward in its direction.
His arms were pinioned to his sides by the press, the crush against his body was all but rib-cracking, he could hardly draw his breath.
All around him rose and fell wave after wave of faces, hundreds upon hundreds, thousands upon thousands, red, lowering, sullen.
All were set in one direction and slowly, slowly they advanced, crowding closer, till they almost touched one another.
For reasons that were inexplicable, great, tumultuous heavings, like ground-swells of an incoming tide, surged over and through the multitude.
At times, Presley, lifted from his feet, was swept back, back, back, with the crowd, till the entrance of the Opera House was half a block away; then, the returning billow beat back again and swung him along, gasping, staggering, clutching, till he was landed once more in the vortex of frantic action in front of the foyer.
Here the waves were shorter, quicker, the crushing pressure on all sides of his body left him without strength to utter the cry that rose to his lips; then, suddenly the whole mass of struggling, stamping, fighting, writhing men about him seemed, as it were, to rise, to lift, multitudinous, swelling, gigantic.
A mighty rush dashed Presley forward in its leap.
There was a moment's whirl of confused sights, congested faces, opened mouths, bloodshot eyes, clutching hands; a moment's outburst of furious sound, shouts, cheers, oaths; a moment's jam wherein Presley veritably believed his ribs must snap like pipestems and he was carried, dazed, breathless, helpless, an atom on the crest of a storm-driven wave, up the steps of the Opera House, on into the vestibule, through the doors, and at last into the auditorium of the house itself.
There was a mad rush for places; men disdaining the aisle, stepped from one orchestra chair to another, striding over the backs of seats, leaving the print of dusty feet upon the red plush cushions.
In a twinkling the house was filled from stage to topmost gallery.
The aisles were packed solid, even on the edge of the stage itself men were sitting, a black fringe on either side of the footlights.
The curtain was up, disclosing a half-set scene,--the flats, leaning at perilous angles,--that represented some sort of terrace, the pavement, alternate squares of black and white marble, while red, white, and yellow flowers were represented as growing from urns and vases.
A long, double row of chairs stretched across the scene from wing to wing, flanking a table covered with a red cloth, on which was set a pitcher of water and a speaker's gavel.
Promptly these chairs were filled up with members of the League, the audience cheering as certain well-known figures made their appearance--Garnett of the Ruby ranch, Gethings of the San Pablo, Keast of the ranch of the same name, Chattern of the Bonanza, elderly men, bearded, slow of speech, deliberate.
Garnett opened the meeting; his speech was plain, straightforward, matter-of-fact.
He simply told what had happened.
He announced that certain resolutions were to be drawn up.
He introduced the next speaker.
This one pleaded for moderation.
He was conservative.
All along he had opposed the idea of armed resistance except as the very last resort.
He “deplored” the terrible affair of yesterday.
He begged the people to wait in patience, to attempt no more violence.
He informed them that armed guards of the League were, at that moment, patrolling Los Muertos, Broderson's, and Osterman's. It was well known that the United States marshal confessed himself powerless to serve the writs.
There would be no more bloodshed.
“We have had,” he continued, “bloodshed enough, and I want to say right here that I am not so sure but what yesterday's terrible affair might have been avoided.
A gentleman whom we all esteem, who from the first has been our recognised leader, is, at this moment, mourning the loss of a young son, killed before his eyes.
God knows that I sympathise, as do we all, in the affliction of our President.
I am sorry for him.
My heart goes out to him in this hour of distress, but, at the same time, the position of the League must be defined.
We owe it to ourselves, we owe it to the people of this county.
The League armed for the very purpose of preserving the peace, not of breaking it.
We believed that with six hundred armed and drilled men at our disposal, ready to muster at a moment's call, we could so overawe any attempt to expel us from our lands that such an attempt would not be made until the cases pending before the Supreme Court had been decided.
If when the enemy appeared in our midst yesterday they had been met by six hundred rifles, it is not conceivable that the issue would have been forced.
No fight would have ensued, and to-day we would not have to mourn the deaths of four of our fellow-citizens.
A mistake has been made and we of the League must not be held responsible.
” The speaker sat down amidst loud applause from the Leaguers and less pronounced demonstrations on the part of the audience.
A second Leaguer took his place, a tall, clumsy man, half-rancher, half-politician.
“I want to second what my colleague has just said,” he began.
“This matter of resisting the marshal when he tried to put the Railroad dummies in possession on the ranches around here, was all talked over in the committee meetings of the League long ago.
It never was our intention to fire a single shot.
No such absolute authority as was assumed yesterday was delegated to anybody.
Our esteemed President is all right, but we all know that he is a man who loves authority 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 was master of his emotions or his impulses.
All at once he found himself upon the stage, facing the audience, flaming with excitement, his imagination on fire, his arms uplifted in fierce, wild gestures, words leaping to his mind in a torrent that could not be withheld.
“One more dead,” he cried, “one more.
Harran dead, Annixter dead, Broderson dead, Dabney dead, Osterman dead, Hooven dead; shot down, killed, killed in the defence of their homes, killed in the defence of their rights, killed for the sake of liberty.
How long must it go on?
How long must we suffer?
Where is the end; what is the end?
How long must the iron-hearted monster feed on our life's blood?
How long must this terror of steam and steel ride upon our necks?
Will you never be satisfied, will you never relent, you, our masters, you, our lords, you, our kings, you, our task-masters, you, our Pharoahs.
Will you never listen to that command 'LET MY PEOPLE GO'?
Oh, that cry ringing down the ages.
Hear it, hear it.
It is the voice of the Lord God speaking in his prophets.
Hear it, hear it--'Let My people go!'
Rameses heard it in his pylons at Thebes, Caesar heard it on the Palatine, the Bourbon Louis heard it at Versailles, Charles Stuart heard it at Whitehall, the white Czar heard it in the Kremlin,--'LET MY PEOPLE GO.'
It is the cry of the nations, the great voice of the centuries; everywhere it is raised.
The voice of God is the voice of the People.
The people cry out 'Let us, the People, God's people, go.'
You, our masters, you, our kings, you, our tyrants, don't you hear us?
Don't you hear God speaking in us?
Will you never let us go?
How long at length will you abuse our patience?
How long will you drive us?
How long will you harass us?
Will nothing daunt you?
Does nothing check you?
Do you not know that to ignore our cry too long is to wake the Red Terror?
Rameses refused to listen to it and perished miserably.
Caesar refused to listen and was stabbed in the Senate House.
The Bourbon Louis refused to listen and died on the guillotine; Charles Stuart refused to listen and died on the block; the white Czar refused to listen and was blown up in his own capital.
Will you let it come to that?
Will you drive us to it?
We who boast of our land of freedom, we who live in the country of liberty?
Go on as you have begun and it WILL come to that.
Turn a deaf ear to that cry of 'Let My people go' too long and another cry will be raised, that you cannot choose but hear, a cry that you cannot shut out.
It will be the cry of the man on the street, the 'a la Bastille' that wakes the Red Terror and unleashes Revolution.
Harassed, plundered, exasperated, desperate, the people will turn at last as they have turned so many, many times before.
You, our lords, you, our task-masters, you, our kings; you have caught your Samson, you have made his strength your own.
You have shorn his head; you have put out his eyes; you have set him to turn your millstones, to grind the grist for your mills; you have made him a shame and a mock.
Take care, oh, as you love your lives, take care, lest some day calling upon the Lord his God he reach not out his arms for the pillars of your temples.
”
