With that they emerged upon the harvest-field. Machines and engines dotted the golden slope, and wherever they were located stood towering straw-stacks. Horses and men and wagons were strung out as far as the eye could see. Long streams of chaff and dust and smoke drifted upward.
"Lenore, there's trouble in the very air," said Dorn. "Look!"
She saw a crowd of men gathering round one of the great combine-harvesters. Some one was yelling.
"Let's stay away from trouble," replied Lenore. "We've enough of our own."
"I'm going over there," declared Dorn. "Perhaps you'd better wait for me—or go back."
"Well! You're the first boy who ever—"
"Come on," he interrupted, with grim humor. "I'd rather enjoy your seeing me break loose—as I will if there's any I.W.W. trickery."
Before they got to the little crowd Lenore both heard and saw her father. He was in a rage and not aware of her presence. Jake and Bill, the cowboys, hovered over him. Anderson strode to and fro, from one side of the harvester to the other. Lenore did not recognize any of the harvest-hands, and even the driver was new to her. They were not a typical Western harvest crew, that was certain. She did not like their sullen looks, and Dorn's muttered imprecation, the moment he neared them, confirmed her own opinion.
Anderson's foreman stood gesticulating, pale and anxious of face.
"No, I don't hold you responsible," roared the rancher. "But I want action.… I want to know why this machine's broke down."