Meanwhile, Annixter, Phelps, and Presley continued on their way toward Bonneville. In a short time they had turned into the County Road by the great watering-tank, and proceeded onward in the shade of the interminable line of poplar trees, the wind-break that stretched along the roadside bordering the Broderson ranch. But as they drew near to Caraher's saloon and grocery, about half a mile outside of Bonneville, they recognised Harran's horse tied to the railing in front of it. Annixter left the others and went in to see Harran.
“Harran,” he said, when the two had sat down on either side of one of the small tables, “you've got to make up your mind one way or another pretty soon. What are you going to do? Are you going to stand by and see the rest of the Committee spending money by the bucketful in this thing and keep your hands in your pockets? If we win, you'll benefit just as much as the rest of us. I suppose you've got some money of your own—you have, haven't you? You are your father's manager, aren't you?”
Disconcerted at Annixter's directness, Harran stammered an affirmative, adding:
“It's hard to know just what to do. It's a mean position for me, Buck. I want to help you others, but I do want to play fair. I don't know how to play any other way. I should like to have a line from the Governor as to how to act, but there's no getting a word out of him these days. He seems to want to let me decide for myself.”
“Well, look here,” put in Annixter. “Suppose you keep out of the thing till it's all over, and then share and share alike with the Committee on campaign expenses.”
Harran fell thoughtful, his hands in his pockets, frowning moodily at the toe of his boot. There was a silence. Then:
“I don't like to go it blind,” he hazarded. “I'm sort of sharing the responsibility of what you do, then. I'm a silent partner. And, then—I don't want to have any difficulties with the Governor. We've always got along well together. He wouldn't like it, you know, if I did anything like that.” “Say,” exclaimed Annixter abruptly, “if the Governor says he will keep his hands off, and that you can do as you please, will you come in? For God's sake, let us ranchers act together for once. Let's stand in with each other in ONE fight.”
Without knowing it, Annixter had touched the right spring.
“I don't know but what you're right,” Harran murmured vaguely. His sense of discouragement, that feeling of what's-the-use, was never more oppressive. All fair means had been tried. The wheat grower was at last with his back to the wall. If he chose his own means of fighting, the responsibility must rest upon his enemies, not on himself.
“It's the only way to accomplish anything,” he continued, “standing in with each other... well,... go ahead and see what you can do. If the Governor is willing, I'll come in for my share of the campaign fund.”