Black had touched the deep note. This was the answer. This was what they wanted to say.
“You ask us to help you, us, we who are taxed already to our breaking point. You say your company won’t go any further. What does that help mean to you? Poverty? A few thousands, a million to the O. P., a corporation, what does a loss mean to them? Poverty! I tell you, no. A smaller dividend, maybe, to whom? Yes, to whom? To the men who live in Fifth Avenue, whose wives are dragged about in limousines. Withdraw their suits? Help Faraday, and ruin men like Parrish? Men of the valley, what is your answer to Faraday?”
The crowd was on its feet, swaying and pushing. The air was fetid with breaths. Wilson’s crowd had forgotten its lorgnettes. “No,” yelled the ranchers. “We say, no.”
A boy made his way from the wings, a yellow envelope in his hand.
Babcock waved him on to Marshall. The audience was crying itself hoarse. Babcock lost control of the meeting in that minute of turning. Hollister, of the Palo Verde, was striving to be heard; Babcock’s hammer sounded in vain. But Marshall’s eye had caught a spark from the yellow sheet. He sprang forward, throwing the despatch toward MacLean. His excitement caught the eye of the crowd. “The river!” There was a sudden hush. “The river’s out again!” A groan swept through the house, there was a break toward the doors.
Marshall’s voice halted them. “Men of the valley.” The audience, swayed again, listened. “Hear me. The river’s running away again down yonder. This is a message from Rickard. It’s broken through the levee. It’s started for the valley. Now, who’s going to stop it? Who can stop it? Can you? Where’s your force, your equipment? Who can rush to that call but the company you are hounding? I gave you Faraday’s message. His hand’s on the table. Not another cent from him unless you withdraw those suits. You say you have given me your answer, Black’s answer. Now the river plays a trick. It calls your bluff. Shall we stop the river, men of the valley? We can. Will you withdraw your suits? You can. What is your answer now, Imperial Valley?”
The scene broke into bedlam. Men jumped to their chairs, to the velvet rim of the boxes, all talking, screaming, gesticulating at once. The Yellow Dragon was never so fearfully visualized. Out of the chaos of men’s voices came a woman’s shriek, “For God’s sake, save our homes.” It pitched the panic note. “Save the valley! Stop the river!”
Marshall’s Indian eyes were reading that mass of scared faces as though it were a sheet of typed paper. “Barton,” he called through the din. “Where’s Barton?”
Two men lifted Barton’s puny figure upon their shoulders. His vibrant voice rolled above the shouting. “The valley withdraws its suits against the company.”
“Then the company,” yelled Marshall’s oratory, “the company withdraws the river from the valley!” Pandemonium was loose. There were cheers, and the sound of women sobbing. Barton was carried out on the shoulders of his henchmen. Black led a crowd out, haranguing to the street. Morton’s party waited for the house to empty. De la Vega, from the wings, watched the scene with polite curiosity.