“To save its own tracks!” yelled a voice from the balcony.
Marshall sent a soft smile heavenward. “Incidentally. And its traffic. Why don’t you say it? We don’t deny that. The Overland Pacific’s no altruist.”
There was a jeer which rose into a chorus. “Altruist! Octopus. That’s what it is.”
Marshall’s hand went up. “If you want to hear me?” He waved away Babcock’s descending gavel. “I was told it would cost two hundred thousand dollars to close that break of yours. Do you want the actual figures? It has eaten already a million, and the work is not yet done. You know the history of the undertaking. The Desert Reclamation Company was in straits. Faraday promised his help on the condition that the affairs of the Desert Reclamation Company would be controlled by his company. He took the control. He inherited—what? Not good will. Threats, damage suits. Do you think that snow-slide of complaints is going to encourage him to go on? This is what I came here to talk to you about. You ranchers don’t want to cut your own throat. Now, there’s a good deal going on about which you are in the dark. Faraday’s got a right to feel he’s shouldered an old man of the sea. He’s been trying to dislodge it. He’s appealed to the president. Ever since we came into this, the cry from Washington has been, ‘Do this the way we like, or we’ll not take it off your hands.’” A murmur of angry voices started somewhere, swelling toward the balcony.
“We don’t want the government—” began the rising voices. Marshall’s voice rang out:
“But the government wants—you! Unless you will help save your own homes, the government will have to, in time. It’s got to. Up there at Laguna, have you seen it? There’s nothing going on. They’re watching us. That’s a useless toy if our works are washed out. Faraday says this to you—” Not a sound in the stilled house. “Unless you withdraw your damage suits, he won’t advance another damned cent.”
Sharply he sat down before the audience realized that his message was finished. The house had not found its voice, when Babcock’s gavel was pounding again for attention. The question, he felt, had not been put to them completely. Perhaps, they did not gather the full import of Mr. Marshall’s message. Mr. MacLean would follow Mr. Marshall.
MacLean’s superb figure rose from a tree-paneled background.
“He should sing Brown October Ale,” suggested Brandon to Hardin humorously.
Hardin’s eyes were on MacLean. What did he know about it? What could he tell those men that they did not know? MacLean was a figurehead in the reorganized irrigation company. Why hadn’t they called on him, Hardin? He knew more about the involved history of the two companies than the whole bunch on the stage down yonder. He could have told them, he could have called on their justice, their memory—