“Yes or no! By God, sir, do you dare equivocate with me? Yes or no; have you reduced the Bonneville rate?”
“No.”
“And answer ME,” shouted Harran, leaning far across the table, “answer ME. Were you paid by the Railroad to leave the San Joaquin rate untouched?”
Lyman, whiter than ever, turned furious upon his brother.
“Don't you dare put that question to me again.”
“No, I won't,” cried Harran, “because I'll TELL you to your villain's face that you WERE paid to do it.”
On the instant the clamour burst forth afresh. Still on their feet, the ranchers had, little by little, worked around the table, Magnus alone keeping his place. The others were in a group before Lyman, crowding him, as it were, to the wall, shouting into his face with menacing gestures. The truth that was a lie, the certainty of a trust betrayed, a pledge ruthlessly broken, was plain to every one of them.
“By the Lord! men have been shot for less than this,” cried Osterman. “You've sold us out, you, and if you ever bring that dago face of yours on a level with mine again, I'll slap it.”
“Keep your hands off,” exclaimed Lyman quickly, the aggressiveness of the cornered rat flaming up within him. “No violence. Don't you go too far.”
“How much were you paid? How much were you paid?” vociferated Harran.