The eyes of the dining-room followed the party as they filed past the buzzing tables. Faraday was not in town; Marshall represented that power. As he walked out, bowing right and left, his right hand occasionally extended in his well-known oratorical, courteous gesture. His black tie was stringing down his shirt-front; his black clothes were the worse for his lunch. But no one, save the eastern girls, saw spots or tie. The future of that valley lay in that man’s hand, no matter how Black or Grace might harangue. In five minutes, the dining-room was emptied.
The main street was lined with groups of ranchers, who had driven in to the advertised meeting. On some of the wagons, men were finishing their basket lunches. The sun was mild; the sky clear.
Hardin overheard bits of eager argument as he threaded the crowded street, his head down, avoiding recognition.
“The Service’ll try to get in.” “The O. P.’s got a good thing.” “I tell you, the railroad’s in a hole.” “Faraday’s a fathead.”
As snow gently falling, had gathered the first damage suits of the ranchers. The last flood had precipitated a temperamental storm. Men were suing for the possible values of their farms, impossible values of crops. Not alone the companies had been blanketed with the accusing papers, but against Mexico the white drifts had piled up. Mexico! No one knew better than Hardin how absurd it was to accuse the sister country of responsibility. A pretty pickle they were in! Where was it all going to end?
The town teemed with importance. In the whole valley, this was the one place which could house the expected crowd. The spectacular new city, which had sprung full grown from the head of its Jovian promoter, Petrie, whose outlying lands must be brought into value, had justified itself. It had offered its theater. Toward that white-painted building, fresh as crude wine, the groups were turning. To Hardin, borne along with the stream which overflowed from the narrow walks, came the memory of a forgotten tale: a palace raised in a single night was scarcely more spectacular than this town of a year’s growth. A theater, a steam-laundry, an ice-plant, and his eyes included two new book-stores, new at least to him. Where would all this have been if it had not been for him? And what was he? An outcast in their midst, no one speaking to him! But they’d need him yet; they’d be turning to him. It would be all right, somehow! He’d make Gert proud of him!
Groups of men were standing around the entrance to the Valley Theater, where the lithographed bill-boards were still proclaiming five weeks of grand and comic opera. One week of successful programs, the preceding spring, and the roistering singers had disbanded to form a melon company. They had rented a tract, some tents, and had gone in pursuit of swift money. After the harvesting of their crops, the heat of the summer and the clink of the dollars in their pockets had discouraged the completion of the engagement. Abandoning their intention, the genial troupe had swept out of the steaming valley to tell their merry story on the Rialto.
In the lobby, Hardin ran up against Brandon, who was following a news scent. Through the valley it was being rumored that subscriptions were to be asked for the completion of the work. If this were the intention, there would be a hot meeting, worth sending to the Sun. The war-horse was treading battle-ground.
“You are going on the platform?” assumed the newspaper man. “No? Then will you sit with me?”
“If you will sit up-stairs,” scowled Hardin, “I don’t want to be dragged on to the platform.”