"You had better go the trail.It will save a little time and Iam in a hurry.Put your sacks on the horses' backs.And, Cutter, if you see Hooven when you go by his place, tell him Iwant him, and, by the way, take a look at the end of the irrigating ditch when you get to it.See how they are getting along there and if Billy wants anything.Tell him we are expecting those new scoops down to-morrow or next day and to get along with what he has until then....How's everything on Four?...All right, then.Give your seed to Phelps when you get here if I am not about.I am going to Guadalajara to meet the Governor.He's coming down to-day.And that makes me think;we lost the case, you know.I had a letter from the Governor yesterday....Yes, hard luck.S.Behrman did us up.Well, good-bye, and don't lose any time with that seed.I want to blue-stone to-day."After telephoning Cutter, Harran put on his hat, went over to the barns, and found Phelps.Phelps had already cleaned out the vat which was to contain the solution of blue-stone, and was now at work regrading the seed.Against the wall behind him ranged the row of sacks.Harran cut the fastenings of these and examined the contents carefully, taking handfuls of wheat from each and allowing it to run through his fingers, or nipping the grains between his nails, testing their hardness.
The seed was all of the white varieties of wheat and of a very high grade, the berries hard and heavy, rigid and swollen with starch.
"If it was all like that, sir, hey?" observed Phelps.
Harran put his chin in the air.
"Bread would be as good as cake, then," he answered, going from sack to sack, inspecting the contents and consulting the tags affixed to the mouths.
"Hello," he remarked, "here's a red wheat.Where did this come from?""That's that red Clawson we sowed to the piece on Four, north the Mission Creek, just to see how it would do here.We didn't get a very good catch.""We can't do better than to stay by White Sonora and Propo,"remarked Harran."We've got our best results with that, and European millers like it to mix with the Eastern wheats that have more gluten than ours.That is, if we have any wheat at all next year."A feeling of discouragement for the moment bore down heavily upon him.At intervals this came to him and for the moment it was overpowering.The idea of "what's-the-use" was upon occasion a veritable oppression.Everything seemed to combine to lower the price of wheat.The extension of wheat areas always exceeded increase of population; competition was growing fiercer every year.The farmer's profits were the object of attack from a score of different quarters.It was a flock of vultures descending upon a common prey--the commission merchant, the elevator combine, the mixing-house ring, the banks, the warehouse men, the labouring man, and, above all, the railroad.Steadily the Liverpool buyers cut and cut and cut.Everything, every element of the world's markets, tended to force down the price to the lowest possible figure at which it could be profitably farmed.Now it was down to eighty-seven.It was at that figure the crop had sold that year; and to think that the Governor had seen wheat at two dollars and five cents in the year of the Turko-Russian War!
He turned back to the house after giving Phelps final directions, gloomy, disheartened, his hands deep in his pockets, wondering what was to be the outcome.So narrow had the margin of profit shrunk that a dry season meant bankruptcy to the smaller farmers throughout all the valley.He knew very well how widespread had been the distress the last two years.With their own tenants on Los Muertos, affairs had reached the stage of desperation.
Derrick had practically been obliged to "carry" Hooven and some of the others.The Governor himself had made almost nothing during the last season; a third year like the last, with the price steadily sagging, meant nothing else but ruin.
But here he checked himself.Two consecutive dry seasons in California were almost unprecedented; a third would be beyond belief, and the complete rest for nearly all the land was a compensation.They had made no money, that was true; but they had lost none.Thank God, the homestead was free of mortgage;one good season would more than make up the difference.
He was in a better mood by the time he reached the driveway that led up to the ranch house, and as he raised his eyes toward the house itself, he could not but feel that the sight of his home was cheering.The ranch house was set in a great grove of eucalyptus, oak, and cypress, enormous trees growing from out a lawn that was as green, as fresh, and as well-groomed as any in a garden in the city.This lawn flanked all one side of the house, and it was on this side that the family elected to spend most of its time.The other side, looking out upon the Home ranch toward Bonneville and the railroad, was but little used.A deep porch ran the whole length of the house here, and in the lower branches of a live-oak near the steps Harran had built a little summer house for his mother.To the left of the ranch house itself, toward the County Road, was the bunk-house and kitchen for some of the hands.From the steps of the porch the view to the southward expanded to infinity.There was not so much as a twig to obstruct the view.In one leap the eye reached the fine, delicate line where earth and sky met, miles away.The flat monotony of the land, clean of fencing, was broken by one spot only, the roof of the Division Superintendent's house on Three--a mere speck, just darker than the ground.Cutter's house on Four was not even in sight.That was below the horizon.
