This alarmed Lenore, yet it also thrilled her.
The threshing-machine burned like a house of cards. Farm-hands came running from all over the field. But nothing, manifestly, could be done to save the thresher. Anderson, holding his daughter's arm, calmly watched it burn. There was excitement all around; it had not been communicated, however, to the rancher. He looked thoughtful. The foreman darted among the groups of watchers and his distress was very plain. Dorn had gotten out of sight. Lenore still held his coat and wondered what he was doing. She was thoroughly angry and marveled at her father's composure. The big thresher was reduced to a blazing, smoking hulk in short order.
Dorn came striding up. His face was pale and his mouth set.
"Mr. Anderson, you've got to make a strong stand—and quick," he said, deliberately.
"I reckon. An' I'm ready, if it's the right time," replied the rancher. "But what can we prove?"
"That's proof," declared Dorn, pointing at the ruined thresher. "Do you know all your honest hands?"
"Yes, an' I've got enough to clean up this outfit in no time. We're only waitin'."
"What for?"
"Wal, I reckon for what's just come off."
"Don't let them go any farther.… Look at these fellows. Can't you tell the I.W.W.'s from the others?"