"Well, you didn't hear nothing about no raid, did you?"
"How the hell would I hear. You think they'd come and tell me they was going to knock my can off? Get hold of yourself, Root. You got the pants scared off you. You're going to make me nervous if you don't cut it out."
II
They approached a low, square building, black and heavy in the darkness. Their feet pounded on a wooden sidewalk. "Nobody here, yet," said Dick. "Let's open her up and get some light." They had come to a deserted store. The old show-windows were opaque with dirt. A Lucky Strike poster was stuck to the glass on one side while a big cardboard Coca-Cola lady stood like a ghost in the other. Dick threw open the double doors and walked in. He struck a match and lighted a kerosene lamp, got the chimney back in place, and set the lamp on an up-ended apple box. "Come on, Root, we got to get things ready."
The walls of the building were scabrous with streaked whitewash. A pile of dusty newspapers had been kicked into a comer. The two back windows were laced with cobwebs. Except for three apple boxes, there was nothing at all in the store.
Root walked to one of the boxes and took out a large poster bearing a portrait of a man done in harsh reds and blacks. He tacked the portrait to the whitewashed wall behind the lamp. Then he tacked another poster beside it, a large red symbol on a white background. Last he up-ended another apple box and piled leaflets and little paper-bound books on it. His footsteps were loud on the bare wooden floor. "Light the other lamp, Dick! It's too damned dark in here."
"Scared of the dark, too, kid?"
"No. The men will be here pretty soon. We want to have more light when they come. What time is it?"
Dick looked at his watch. "Quarter to eight. Some of the guys ought to be here pretty soon now." He put his hands in the breast pockets of his peajacket and stood loosely by the box of pamphlets. There was nothing to sit on. The black and red portrait stared harshly out at the room. Root leaned against the wall.
The light from one of the lamps yellowed, and the flame slowly sank down. Dick stepped over to it. "I thought you said there was plenty of oil. This one's dry."
"I thought there was plenty. Look! The other one's nearly full. We can pour some of that oil in this lamp."
"How we going to do that? We got to put them both out to pour the oil. You got any matches?"
Root felt through his pockets. "Only two."
"Now, you see? We got to hold this meeting with only one lamp. I should've looked things over this afternoon. I was busy in town, though. I thought I could leave it to you."
"Maybe we could quick pour some of this oil in a can and then pour it into the other lamp."
"Yeah, and then set the joint on fire. You're a hell of a helper."
Root leaned back against the wall again. "I wish they'd come. What time is it, Dick?"
"Five after eight."
"Well, what's keeping them? What are they waiting for? Did you tell them eight o'clock?"
"Oh! Shut up, kid. You'll get my goat pretty soon. I don't know what's keeping them. Maybe they got cold feet. Now shut up for a little while." He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket again. "Got a cigarette, Root?"
"No."
It was very still. Nearer the center of the town, automobiles were moving; the mutter of their engines and an occasional horn sounded. A dog barked unexcitedly at one of the houses nearby. The wind ruffled the locust trees in whishing gusts.
"Listen, Dick! Do you hear voices? I think they're coming." They turned their heads and strained to listen.
"I don't hear nothing. You just thought you heard it."
Root walked to one of the dirty windows and looked out. Coming back, he paused at the pile of pamphlets and straightened them neatly. "What time is it now, Dick?"
"Keep still, will you? You'll drive me nuts. You got to have guts for this job. For God's sake show some guts."
"Well, I never been out before, Dick."
"Do you think anybody couldn't tell that? You sure make it plain enough."
The wind gusted sharply in the locust trees. The front doors clicked and one of them opened slowly, squeaking a little at the hinges. The breeze came in, ruffled the pile of dusty newspapers in the comer and sailed the posters out from the wall like curtains.
"Shut that door, Root.... No, leave it open. Then we can hear them coming better." He looked at his watch. "It's nearly half-past eight."
"Do you think they'll come? How long we going to wait, if they don't show up?"
The older man stared at the open door. "We ain't going to leave here before nine-thirty at the earliest. We got orders to hold this meeting."
The night sounds came in more clearly through the open door--the dance of dry locust leaves on the road, the slow steady barking of the dog. On the wall the red and black portrait was menacing in the dim light. It floated out at the bottom again. Dick looked around at it. "Listen, kid," he said quietly. "I know you're scared. When you're scared, just take a look at him." He indicated the picture with his thumb. "He wasn't scared. Just remember about what he did."
The boy considered the portrait. "You suppose he wasn't ever scared?"
Dick reprimanded him sharply. "If he was, nobody ever found out about it. You take that for a lesson and don't go opening up for everybody to show them how you feel."
"You're a good guy, Dick. I don't know what I'll do when I get sent out alone."
"You'll be all right kid. You got stuff in you. I can tell that. You just never been under fire."
Root glanced quickly at the door. "Listen! You hear somebody coming?"
"Lay off that stuff! When they get here, they'll get here."
"Well--let's close the door. It's kind of cold in here. Listen! There is somebody coming."
Quick footsteps sounded on the road, broke into a run and crossed the wooden sidewalk. A man in overalls and a painter's cap ran into the room. He was panting and winded. "You guys better scram," he said. "There's a raiding party coming. None of the boys is coming to the meeting. They was going to let you take it, but I wouldn't do that. Come on! Get your stuff together and get out. That party's on the way."
Root's face was pale and tight. He looked nervously at Dick. The older man shivered. He thrust his hands into his breast pockets and slumped his shoulders. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for telling us. You run along. We'll be all right."
"The others was just going to leave you take it," the man said.
Dick nodded. "Sure, they can't see the future. They can't see beyond their nose. Run along now before you get caught."
"Well, ain't you guys coming? I'll help carry some of your stuff."
"We're going to stay," Dick said woodenly. "We got orders to stay. We got to take it."
The man was moving toward the door. He turned back. "Want me to stay with you?"
"No, you're a good guy. No need for you to stay. We could maybe use you some other time."
"Well, I did what I could."
III
Dick and Root heard him cross the wooden sidewalk and trot off into the darkness. The night resumed its sounds. The dead leaves scraped along the ground. The motors hummed from the center of the town.
Root looked at Dick. He could see that the man's fists were doubled up in his breast pockets. The face muscles were stiff, but he smiled at the boy. The posters drifted out from the wall and settled back again.
"Scared, kid?"
Root bristled to deny it, and then gave it up. "Yes, I'm scared. Maybe I won't be no good at this."
"Take hold, kid!" Dick said fiercely. "You take hold!"
Dick quoted to him, " 'The men of little spirit must have an example of stead--steadfastness. The people at large must have an example of injustice.' There it is, Root. That's orders." He relapsed into silence. The barking dog increased his tempo.
"I guess that's them," said Root. "Will they kill us, do you think?"
"No, they don't very often kill anybody."
"But they'll hit us and kick us, won't th
ey? They'll hit us in the face with sticks and break our nose. Big Mike, they broke his jaw in three places."
"Take hold, kid! You take hold! And listen to me; if some one busts you, it isn't him that's doing it, it's the System. And it isn't you he's busting. He's taking a crack at the Principle. Can you remember that?"
"I don't want to run, Dick. Honest to God I don't. If I start to run, you hold me, will you?"
Dick walked near and touched him on the shoulder. "You'll be all right. I can tell a guy that will stick."
"Well, hadn't we better hide the lit'ature so it won't all get burned?"
"No--somebody might put a book in his pocket and read it later. Then it would be doing some good. Leave the books there. And shut up now! Talking only makes it worse."
The dog had gone back to his slow, spiritless barking. A rush of wind brought a scurry of dead leaves in the open door. The portrait poster blew out and came loose at one corner. Root walked over and pinned it back. Somewhere in the town, an automobile squealed its brakes.
"Hear anything, Dick? Hear them coming yet?"
"No."
"Listen, Dick. Big Mike lay two days with his jaw broke before anybody'd help him."
The older man turned angrily on him. One doubled fist came out of his peajacket pocket. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy. He walked close and put an arm about his shoulders. "Listen to me close, kid," he said. "I don't know much, but I been through this mill before. I can tell you this for sure. When it comes--it won't hurt. I don't know why, but it won't. Even if they kill you it won't hurt." He dropped his arm and moved toward the front door. He looked out and listened in two directions before he came back into the room.
"Hear anything?"
"No. Not a thing."
"What--do you think is keeping them?"
"How do you suppose I'd know?"
Root swallowed thickly. "Maybe they won't come. Maybe it was all a lie that fella told us, just a joke."
"Maybe."
"Well, are--we going to wait all night to get our cans knocked off?"
Dick mimicked him. "Yes, we're going to wait all night to get our cans knocked off."
The wind sounded in one big fierce gust and then dropped away completely. The dog stopped barking. A train screamed for the crossing and went crashing by, leaving the night more silent than before. In a house nearby, an alarm clock went off. Dick said, "Somebody goes to work early. Night watchman, maybe." His voice was too loud in the stillness. The front door squeaked slowly shut.
"What time is it now, Dick?"
"Quarter-past nine."
"Jesus! Only that? I thought it was about morning.... Don't you wish they'd come and get it over, Dick? Listen, Dick!--I thought I heard voices."
They stood stiffly, listening. Their heads were bent forward. "You hear voices, Dick?"
"I think so. Like they're talking low."
The dog barked again, fiercely this time. A little quiet murmur of voices could be heard. "Look, Dick! I thought I saw somebody out the back window."
The older man chuckled uneasily. "That's so we can't get away. They got the place surrounded. Take hold, kid! They're coming now. Remember about it's not them, it's the System."
There came a rushing clatter of footsteps. The doors burst open. A crowd of men thronged in, roughly dressed men, wearing black hats. They carried clubs and sticks in their hands. Dick and Root stood erect, their chins out, their eyes dropped and nearly closed.
Once inside, the raiders were uneasy. They stood in a half-circle about the two men, scowling, waiting for some one to move.
Young Root glanced sidewise at Dick and saw that the older man was looking at him coldly, critically, as though he judged his deportment. Root shoved his trembling hands in his pockets. He forced himself forward. His voice was shrill with fright. "Comrades," he shouted, "you're just men like we are. We're all brothers--" A piece of two-by-four lashed out and struck him on the side of the head with a fleshy thump. Root went down to his knees and steadied himself with his hands.
The men stood still, glaring.
Root climbed slowly to his feet. His split ear spilled a red stream down his neck. The side of his face was mushy and purple. He got himself erect again. His breath burst passionately. His hands were steady now, his voice sure and strong. His eyes were hot with an ecstasy. "Can't you see?" he shouted. "It's all for you. We're doing it for you. All of it. You don't know what you're doing."
"Kill the red rats!"
Some one giggled hysterically. And then the wave came. As he went down, Root caught a moment's glimpse of Dick's face smiling a tight, hard smile.
IV
He came near the surface several times, but didn't quite make it into consciousness. At last he opened his eyes and knew things. His face and head were heavy with bandages. He could only see a line of light between his puffed eyelids. For a time he lay, trying to think his way out. Then he heard Dick's voice near to him.
"You awake, kid?"
Root tried his voice and found that it croaked pretty badly. "I guess so."
"They sure worked out on your head. I thought you was gone. You was right about your nose. It ain't going to be very pretty."
"What'd they do to you, Dick?"
"Oh, they bust my arm and a couple of ribs. You got to learn to turn your face down to the ground. That saves your eyes." He paused and drew a careful breath. "Hurts some to breathe when you get a rib bust. We are lucky. The cops picked us up and took us in."
"Are we in jail, Dick?"
"Yeah! Hospital cell."
"What they got on the book?"
He heard Dick try to chuckle, and gasp when it hurt him. "Inciting to riot. We'll get six months, I guess. The cops got the lit'ature."
"You won't tell them I'm under age, will you, Dick?"
"No. I won't. You better shut up. Your voice don't sound so hot. Take it easy."
Root lay silent, muffled in a coat of dull pain. But in a moment he spoke again. "It didn't hurt, Dick. It was funny. I felt all full up--and good."
"You done fine, kid. You done as good as anybody I ever seen. I'll give you a blow to the committee. You just done fine."
Root struggled to get something straight in his head. "When they was busting me I wanted to tell them I didn't care."
"Sure, kid. That's what I told you. It wasn't them. It was the System. You don't want to hate them. They don't know no better."
Root spoke drowsily. The pain was muffling him under. "You remember in the Bible, Dick, how it says something like 'Forgive them because they don't know what they're doing'?"
Dick's reply was stern. "You lay off that religion stuff, kid." He quoted, " 'Religion is the opium of the people.' "
"Sure, I know," said Root. "But there wasn't no religion to it. It was just--I felt like saying that. It was just kind of the way I felt."
The Harness
Peter Randall was one of the most highly respected farmers of Monterey County. Once, before he was to make a little speech at a Masonic convention, the brother who introduced him referred to him as an example for young Masons of California to emulate. He was nearing fifty; his manner was grave and restrained, and he wore a carefully tended beard. From every gathering he reaped the authority that belongs to the bearded man. Peter's eyes were grave, too; blue and grave almost to the point of sorrowfulness. People knew there was force in him, but force held caged. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, his eyes grew sullen and mean, like the eyes of a bad dog; but that look soon passed, and the restraint and probity came back into his face. He was tall and broad. He held his shoulders back as though they were braced, and he sucked in his stomach like a soldier. Inasmuch as farmers are usually slouchy men, Peter gained an added respect because of his posture.
Concerning Peter's wife, Emma, people generally agreed that it was hard to see how such a little skin-and-bones woman could go on living, particularly when she was sick most of the time. She weighed eighty-seven pounds. At forty-five, her face was a
s wrinkled and brown as that of an old, old woman, but her dark eyes were feverish with a determination to live. She was a proud woman, who complained very little. Her father had been a thirty-third degree Mason and Worshipful Master of the Grand Lodge of California. Before he died he had taken a great deal of interest in Peter's Masonic career.
Once a year Peter went away for a week, leaving his wife alone on the farm. To neighbors who called to keep her company she invariably explained, "He's away on a business trip."
Each time Peter returned from a business trip, Emma was ailing for a month or two, and this was hard on Peter, for Emma did her own work and refused to hire a girl. When she was ill, Peter had to do the housework.
The Randall ranch lay across the Salinas River, next to the foothills. It was an ideal balance of bottom and upland. Forty-five acres of rich level soil brought from the cream of the county by the river in old times and spread out as flat as a board; and eighty acres of gentle upland for hay and orchard. The white farmhouse was as neat and restrained as its owners. The immediate yard was fenced, and in the garden, under Emma's direction, Peter raised button dahlias and immortelles, carnations and pinks.
From the front porch one could look down over the flat to the river with its sheath of willows and cottonwoods, and across the river to the beet fields, and past the fields to the bulbous dome of the Salinas courthouse. Often in the afternoon Emma sat in a rocking-chair on the front porch, until the breeze drove her in. She knitted constantly, looking up now and then to watch Peter working on the flat or in the orchard, or on the slope below the house.
The Randall ranch was no more encumbered with mortgage than any of the others in the valley. The crops, judiciously chosen and carefully tended, paid the interest, made a reasonable living and left a few hundred dollars every year toward paying off the principal. It was no wonder that Peter Randall was respected by his neighbors and that his seldom spoken words were given attention even when they were about the weather or the way things were going. Let Peter, say, "I'm going to kill a pig Saturday," and nearly every one of his hearers went home and killed a pig on Saturday. They didn't know why, but if Peter Randall was going to kill a pig, it seemed like a good, safe, conservative thing to do.
Peter and Emma were married for twenty-one years. They collected a houseful of good furniture, a number of framed pictures, vases of all shapes, and books of a sturdy type. Emma had no children. The house was unscarred, uncarved, unchalked. On the front and back porches footscrapers and thick cocoa-fiber mats kept dirt out of the house.