He led the way up the dusty dark steps to the balcony, and on to the rear where the ceiling sharply slanted. They established themselves in seats by the wall. The air had a dry smell of old tobacco and stale perfumes; of face powders. Brandon had a minute of coughing.
When they had entered, only a few seats were occupied. That instant, the crowd crushed in. Men and women jostled one another in the narrow aisles; the chairs filled up; some of the younger men jumped over chair-backs, as sheep over rocks. Hardin and Brandon leaned over to see the inrush. They saw Barton’s shriveled body and leonine head borne in by his friends. Senator Graves was entering a proscenium box with his companion.
“That’s Hawkins, who represents the Eastern syndicate that’s bargaining for the A B C,” informed Brandon.
“I could have got that land for ten cents an acre when I began this work, if I’d looked out for myself! It would have been better if I had looked out for myself; what thanks do I get for only working for the valley?” grouched Hardin. “What’s Graves holding out for?”
“One thousand an acre, and he’ll get it,” answered Brandon. “That soil is as rich as gold dust. Hello, there’s Watts, of Water Company Number Two; and John Francis, and Green and Ford. They’ve not sent representatives from the water companies, Hardin! They’ve come as a body!”
His excitement communicated itself speedily to his companion.
“Something’s going to drop, sure!”
“And Wilson, with Petrie. I didn’t know he was in any of the water companies.”
“Is there anything in the valley he’s not in?” All of them with the idea of making money; all but himself!
Down in the orchestra, Black from the Wistaria was haranguing a group of gesticulating ranchers. Phrases climbed to the men on the balcony seats. “Keep their pledges. Promise makers. Let them look at our crops!”