But Magnus was in every sense the "prominent man." In whatever circle he moved he was the chief figure.Instinctively other men looked to him as the leader.He himself was proud of this distinction; he assumed the grand manner very easily and carried it well.As a public speaker he was one of the last of the followers of the old school of orators.He even carried the diction and manner of the rostrum into private life.It was said of him that his most colloquial conversation could be taken down in shorthand and read off as an admirable specimen of pure, well-chosen English.He loved to do things upon a grand scale, to preside, to dominate.In his good humour there was something Jovian.When angry, everybody around him trembled.But he had not the genius for detail, was not patient.The certain grandiose lavishness of his disposition occupied itself more with results than with means.He was always ready to take chances, to hazard everything on the hopes of colossal returns.In the mining days at Placerville there was no more redoubtable poker player in the county.He had been as lucky in his mines as in his gambling, sinking shafts and tunnelling in violation of expert theory and finding "pay" in every case.Without knowing it, he allowed himself to work his ranch much as if he was still working his mine.The old-time spirit of '49, hap-hazard, unscientific, persisted in his mind.Everything was a gamble--who took the greatest chances was most apt to be the greatest winner.The idea of manuring Los Muertos, of husbanding his great resources, he would have scouted as niggardly, Hebraic, ungenerous.
Magnus climbed into the buggy, helping himself with Harran's outstretched hand which he still held.The two were immensely fond of each other, proud of each other.They were constantly together and Magnus kept no secrets from his favourite son.
"Well, boy."
"Well, Governor."
"I am very pleased you came yourself, Harran.I feared that you might be too busy and send Phelps.It was thoughtful."Harran was ahout to reply, but at that moment Magnus caught sight of the three flat cars loaded with bright-painted farming machines which still remained on the siding above the station.
He laid his hands on the reins and Harran checked the team.
"Harran," observed Magnus, fixing the machinery with a judicial frown, "Harran, those look singularly like our ploughs.Drive over, boy."The train had by this time gone on its way and Harran brought the team up to the siding.
"Ah, I was right," said the Governor."'Magnus Derrick, Los Muertos, Bonneville, from Ditson & Co., Rochester.' These are ours, boy."Harran breathed a sigh of relief.
"At last," he answered, "and just in time, too.We'll have rain before the week is out.I think, now that I am here, I will telephone Phelps to send the wagon right down for these.Istarted blue-stoning to-day."
Magnus nodded a grave approval.
"That was shrewd, boy.As to the rain, I think you are well informed; we will have an early season.The ploughs have arrived at a happy moment.""It means money to us, Governor," remarked Harran.
But as he turned the horses to allow his father to get into the buggy again, the two were surprised to hear a thick, throaty voice wishing them good-morning, and turning about were aware of S.Behrman, who had come up while they were examining the ploughs.Harran's eyes flashed on the instant and through his nostrils he drew a sharp, quick breath, while a certain rigour of carriage stiffened the set of Magnus Derrick's shoulders and back.Magnus had not yet got into the buggy, but stood with the team between him and S.Behrman, eyeing him calmly across the horses' backs.S.Behrman came around to the other side of the buggy and faced Magnus.
He was a large, fat man, with a great stomach; his cheek and the upper part of his thick neck ran together to form a great tremulous jowl, shaven and blue-grey in colour; a roll of fat, sprinkled with sparse hair, moist with perspiration, protruded over the back of his collar.He wore a heavy black moustache.
On his head was a round-topped hat of stiff brown straw, highly varnished.A light-brown linen vest, stamped with innumerable interlocked horseshoes, covered his protuberant stomach, upon which a heavy watch chain of hollow links rose and fell with his difficult breathing, clinking against the vest buttons of imitation mother-of-pearl.
S.Behrman was the banker of Bonneville.But besides this he was many other things.He was a real estate agent.He bought grain;he dealt in mortgages.He was one of the local political bosses, but more important than all this, he was the representative of the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad in that section of Tulare County.The railroad did little business in that part of the country that S.Behrman did not supervise, from the consignment of a shipment of wheat to the management of a damage suit, or even to the repair and maintenance of the right of way.During the time when the ranchers of the county were fighting the grain-rate case, S.Behrman had been much in evidence in and about the San Francisco court rooms and the lobby of the legislature in Sacramento.He had returned to Bonneville only recently, a decision adverse to the ranchers being foreseen.The position he occupied on the salary list of the Pacific and Southwestern could not readily be defined, for he was neither freight agent, passenger agent, attorney, real-estate broker, nor political servant, though his influence in all these offices was undoubted and enormous.But for all that, the ranchers about Bonneville knew whom to look to as a source of trouble.There was no denying the fact that for Osterman, Broderson, Annixter and Derrick, S.Behrman was the railroad.
"Mr.Derrick, good-morning," he cried as he came up."Good-morning, Harran.Glad to see you back, Mr.Derrick." He held out a thick hand.
Magnus, head and shoulders above the other, tall, thin, erect, looked down upon S.Behrman, inclining his head, failing to see his extended hand.
