The Octopus, Frank Norris [books you need to read txt] 📗

Annixter grumbled that he was in a hurry, but waited, nevertheless, while Dyke again approached the clerk.

“I shall want some empty cars of you people this fall,” he explained. “I’m a hop-raiser now, and I just want to make sure what your rates on hops are. I’ve been told, but I want to make sure. Savvy?” There was a long delay while the clerk consulted the tariff schedules, and Annixter fretted impatiently. Dyke, growing uneasy, leaned heavily on his elbows, watching the clerk anxiously. If the tariff was exorbitant, he saw his plans brought to naught, his money jeopardised, the little tad, Sidney, deprived of her education. He began to blame himself that he had not long before determined definitely what the railroad would charge for moving his hops. He told himself he was not much of a business man; that he managed carelessly.

“Two cents,” suddenly announced the clerk with a certain surly indifference.

“Two cents a pound?”

“Yes, two cents a pound—that’s in carload lots, of course. I won’t give you that rate on smaller consignments.”

“Yes, carload lots, of course … two cents. Well, all right.”

He turned away with a great sigh of relief.

“He sure did have me scared for a minute,” he said to Annixter, as the two went down to the street, “fiddling and fussing so long. Two cents is all right, though. Seems fair to me. That fiddling of his was all put on. I know ‘em, these railroad heelers. He knew I was a discharged employee first off, and he played the game just to make me seem small because I had to ask favours of him. I don’t suppose the General Office tips its slavees off to act like swine, but there’s the feeling through the whole herd of them. ‘Ye got to come to us. We let ye live only so long as we choose, and what are ye going to do about it? If ye don’t like it, git out.’”

Annixter and the engineer descended to the street and had a drink at the Yosemite bar, and Annixter went into the General Store while Dyke bought a little pair of red slippers for Sidney. Before the salesman had wrapped them up, Dyke slipped a dime into the toe of each with a wink at Annixter.

“Let the little tad find ‘em there,” he said behind his hand in a hoarse whisper. “That’ll be one on Sid.”

“Where to now?” demanded Annixter as they regained the street. “I’m going down to the Post Office and then pull out for the ranch. Going my way?”

Dyke hesitated in some confusion, tugging at the ends of his fine blonde beard.

“No, no. I guess I’ll leave you here. I’ve got—got other things to do up the street. So long.”

The two separated, and Annixter hurried through the crowd to the Post Office, but the mail that had come in on that morning’s train was unusually heavy. It was nearly half an hour before it was distributed. Naturally enough, Annixter placed all the blame of the delay upon the railroad, and delivered himself of some pointed remarks in the midst of the waiting crowd. He was irritated to the last degree when he finally emerged upon the sidewalk again, cramming his mail into his pockets. One cause of his bad temper was the fact that in the bundle of Quien Sabe letters was one to Hilma Tree in a man’s handwriting.

“Huh!” Annixter had growled to himself, “that pip Delaney. Seems now that I’m to act as go-between for ‘em. Well, maybe that feemale girl gets this letter, and then, again, maybe she don’t.”

But suddenly his attention was diverted. Directly opposite the Post Office, upon the corner of the street, stood quite the best business building of which Bonneville could boast. It was built of Colusa granite, very solid, ornate, imposing. Upon the heavy plate of the window of its main floor, in gold and red letters, one read the words: “Loan and Savings Bank of Tulare County.” It was of this bank that S. Behrman was president. At the street entrance of the building was a curved sign of polished brass, fixed upon the angle of the masonry; this sign bore the name, “S. Behrman,” and under it in smaller letters were the words, “Real Estate, Mortgages.”

As Annixter’s glance fell upon this building, he was surprised to see Dyke standing upon the curb in front of it, apparently reading from a newspaper that he held in his hand. But Annixter promptly discovered that he was not reading at all. From time to time the former engineer shot a swift glance out of the corner of his eye up and down the street. Annixter jumped at a conclusion. An idea suddenly occurred to him. Dyke was watching to see if he was observed—was waiting an opportunity when no one who knew him should be in sight. Annixter stepped back a little, getting a telegraph pole somewhat between him and the other. Very interested, he watched what was going on. Pretty soon Dyke thrust the paper into his pocket and sauntered slowly to the windows of a stationery store, next the street entrance of S. Behrman’s offices. For a few seconds he stood there, his back turned, seemingly absorbed in the display, but eyeing the street narrowly nevertheless; then he turned around, gave a last look about and stepped swiftly into the doorway by the great brass sign. He disappeared. Annixter came from behind the telegraph pole with a flush of actual shame upon his face. There had been something so slinking, so mean, in the movements and manner of this great, burly honest fellow of an engineer, that he could not help but feel ashamed for him. Circumstances were such that a simple business transaction was to Dyke almost culpable, a degradation, a thing to be concealed.

“Borrowing money of S. Behrman,” commented Annixter, “mortgaging your little homestead to the railroad, putting your neck in the halter. Poor fool! The pity of it. Good Lord, your hops must pay you big, now, old man.”

Annixter lunched at the Yosemite Hotel, and then later on, toward the middle of the afternoon, rode out of the town at a canter by the way of the Upper Road that paralleled the railroad tracks and that ran diametrically straight between Bonneville and Guadalajara. About half-way between the two places he overtook Father Sarria trudging back to San Juan, his long cassock powdered with dust. He had a wicker crate in one hand, and in the other, in a small square valise, the materials for the Holy Sacrament. Since early morning the priest had covered nearly fifteen miles on foot, in order to administer Extreme Unction to a moribund good-for-nothing, a greaser, half Indian, half Portuguese, who lived in a remote corner of Osterman’s stock range, at the head of a canon there. But he had returned by way of Bonneville to get a crate that had come for him from San Diego. He had been notified of its arrival the day before.

Annixter pulled up and passed the time of day with the priest.

“I don’t often get up your way,” he said, slowing down his horse to accommodate Sarria’s deliberate plodding. Sarria wiped the perspiration from his smooth, shiny face .

“You? Well, with you it is different,” he answered. “But there are a great many Catholics in the county—some on your ranch. And so few come to the Mission. At High Mass on Sundays, there are a few—Mexicans and Spaniards from Guadalajara mostly; but weekdays, for matins, vespers, and the like, I often say the offices to an empty church—‘the voice of one crying in the wilderness.’ You Americans are not good churchmen. Sundays you sleep—you read the newspapers.”

“Well, there’s Vanamee,” observed Annixter. “I suppose he’s there early and late.”

Sarria made a sharp movement of interest.

“Ah, Vanamee—a strange lad; a wonderful character, for all that. If there were only more like him. I am troubled about him. You know I am a very owl at night. I come and go about the Mission at all hours. Within the week, three times I have seen Vanamee in the little garden by the Mission, and at the dead of night. He had come without asking for me. He did not see me. It was strange. Once, when I had got up at dawn to ring for early matins, I saw him stealing away out of the garden. He must have been there all the night. He is acting queerly. He is pale; his cheeks are more sunken than ever. There is something wrong with him. I can’t make it out. It is a mystery. Suppose you ask him?”

“Not I. I’ve enough to bother myself about. Vanamee is crazy in the head. Some morning he will turn up missing again, and drop out of sight for another three years. Best let him alone, Sarria. He’s a crank. How is that greaser of yours up on Osterman’s stock range?”

“Ah, the poor fellow—the poor fellow,” returned the other, the tears coming to his eyes. “He died this morning—as you might say, in my arms, painfully, but in the faith, in the faith. A good fellow.”

“A lazy, cattle-stealing, knife-in-his-boot Dago.”

“You misjudge him. A really good fellow on better acquaintance.”

Annixter grunted scornfully. Sarria’s kindness and good-will toward the most outrageous reprobates of the ranches was proverbial. He practically supported some half-dozen families that lived in forgotten cabins, lost and all but inaccessible, in the far corners of stock range and canyon. This particular greaser was the laziest, the dirtiest, the most worthless of the lot. But in Sarria’s mind, the lout was an object of affection, sincere, unquestioning. Thrice a week the priest, with a basket of provisions—cold ham, a bottle of wine, olives, loaves of bread, even a chicken or two—toiled over the interminable stretch of country between the Mission and his cabin. Of late, during the rascal’s sickness, these visits had been almost daily. Hardly once did the priest leave the bedside that he did not slip a half-dollar into the palm of his wife or oldest daughter. And this was but one case out of many.

His kindliness toward animals was the same. A horde of mange-corroded curs lived off his bounty, wolfish, ungrateful, often marking him with their teeth, yet never knowing the meaning of a harsh word. A burro, overfed, lazy, incorrigible, browsed on the hill back of the Mission, obstinately refusing to be harnessed to Sarria’s little cart, squealing and biting whenever the attempt was made; and the priest suffered him, submitting to his humour, inventing excuses for him, alleging that the burro was foundered, or was in need of shoes, or was feeble from extreme age. The two peacocks, magnificent, proud, cold-hearted, resenting all familiarity, he served with the timorous, apologetic affection of a queen’s lady-in-waiting, resigned to their disdain, happy if only they condescended to enjoy the grain he spread for them.

At the Long Trestle, Annixter and the priest left the road and took the trail that crossed Broderson Creek by the clumps of grey-green willows and led across Quien Sabe to the ranch house, and to the Mission farther on. They were obliged to proceed in single file here, and Annixter, who had allowed the priest to go in front, promptly took notice of the wicker basket he carried. Upon his inquiry, Sarria became confused. “It was a basket that he had had sent down to him from the city.”

“Well, I know—but what’s in it?”

“Why—I’m sure—ah, poultry—a chicken or two.”

“Fancy breed?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it, a fancy breed.” At the ranch house, where they arrived toward five o’clock, Annixter insisted that the priest should stop long enough for a glass of sherry. Sarria left the basket and his small black