“That wasn’t bad,” murmured Brandon, opening his note-book.
“Ladies,” bowed the Mexican. “Gentlemen, Mr. Chairman. It is with an appreciation of the honor that I accepted for to-day the invitation of Mr. Marshall to speak before you, to speak to you; I must tell you first my thought as I sat there and looked at you, the youth, the flower of the American people. A few years ago, we were calling this the great Colorado Desert; now, the world calls it the hothouse of America. This theater is built over the bones of gold-seekers, who dared death in this dreaded desert to find what was buried in those mountains beyond. The man, I say, who crossed this desert, took the hazard of death. It was a countryman of mine who piloted, fifteen years ago, a little band of men, across the desert. Perhaps he camped on this very spot. It is not impossible! It is here, perhaps, that he got his inspiration. He saw a wonderful territory; he dreamed to quicken it with the useless waters of the Colorado. You will all agree that it was Guillermo Estrada who dreamed the dream that has come true; that it was through him that some of your countrymen secured their privilege to reclaim this land. Later, when one of your countrymen found he could not fulfil his promise to you, the promise to deliver water to your ranches, he came to my nation and got permission to cut into the river on our territory. Most gladly did Porfirio Diaz grant that privilege. For that, to-day, you are suing him. This, I am told, is your complaint.”
His abrupt pause betrayed a confused murmur of voices. De la Vega’s polite ear tried to differentiate the phrases. There was a jumble of sound. De la Vega looked inquiringly at Babcock, who waved him on.
“It has nothing to do with the history, but I would like to say in passing that so assured were your people of our friendly feeling toward you that they did not wait to receive permission from Mexico to make the cut. Your people were in a hurry. Your crops were in danger. First the lack of water, then too much water damaged your valley. A few acres—”
A voice from the crowd cried out, “A few acres? Thousands of acres.” Instantly others were on their feet. “Thousands of acres. Ruin.” One man was shouting himself apoplectic.
Babcock’s gavel sounded a sharp staccato on the table.
“Thousands of acres.” De la Vega was unruffled. “And more than that. The valley, it must be remembered, does not stop at the line. Mexican lands, too, have been scoured by the action, the result of the action of your irrigation company. It was a mutual,” he paused, and a quaint word came to his need. “A mutual bereavement. It did not occur to us to accuse you of our troubles. Your damage suits pained and astonished us. But they gave us also a suggestion.”
The rustling and the murmurs suddenly ceased. A prescient hush waited on De la Vega. “You have been advised to sue us. To sue us for giving you that concession. Therefore, the only answer is for us to withdraw that concession! You accuse us, for giving it to you. That concession is valuable. What else can we do? Before your damage suits were filed, we were approached by others for the same privilege. If you do not withdraw your suits, my nation sends word to you that you may not take water from the Colorado River through Mexican soil. You will not be without water probably long; I have said that concession is valuable! Other arrangements will probably be made so that the valley will be given water. I would like to take your answer to my government.”
It was several seconds before the house got its breath. The import of the diplomat’s words was astounding. Barton got to his feet, yelling with his great bass voice, “Betrayed!” His shrunken finger indicated a youth with “R. S.” in black letters on his collar. “The valley has been betrayed.”
In the balcony, the uproar was deafening. Around Hardin and Brandon words were thudding like bullets. “Reclamation Service.” “That’s their game.” “The concession!” “They won’t get it.” “Betrayed. We are betrayed.”