carried him farther out into the country, and
open empty fields, his anger lapsed, and the numbness of bewilderment
returned. He could not look one hour ahead into the future; could
formulate no plans even for the next day. He did not know what to do. He
was stuck.

With the limpness and inertia of a sack of sand, the reins slipping
loosely in his dangling fingers, his eyes fixed, staring between the
horses' heads, he allowed himself to be carried aimlessly along. He
resigned himself. What did he care? What was the use of going on? He was
stuck.

The team he was driving had once belonged to the Los Muertos stables and
unguided as the horses were, they took the county road towards Derrick's
ranch house. Dyke, all abroad, was unaware of the fact till, drawn
by the smell of water, the horses halted by the trough in front of
Caraher's saloon.

The ex-engineer dismounted, looking about him, realising where he was.
So much the worse; it did not matter. Now that he had come so far it was
as short to go home by this route as to return on his tracks. Slowly he
unchecked the horses and stood at their heads, watching them drink.

"I don't see," he muttered, "just what I am going to do."

Caraher appeared at the door of his place, his red face, red beard, and
flaming cravat standing sharply out from the shadow of the doorway. He
called a welcome to Dyke.

"Hello, Captain."

Dyke looked up, nodding his head listlessly.

"Hello, Caraher," he answered.

"Well," continued the saloonkeeper, coming forward a step, "what's the
news in town?"

Dyke told him. Caraher's red face suddenly took on a darker colour. The
red glint in his eyes shot from under his eyebrows. Furious, he vented a
rolling explosion of oaths.

"And now it's your turn," he vociferated. "They ain't after only the big
wheat-growers, the rich men. By God, they'll even pick the poor man's
pocket. Oh, they'll get their bellies full some day. It can't last
forever. They'll wake up the wrong kind of man some morning, the man
that's got guts in him, that will hit back when he's kicked and that
will talk to 'em with a torch in one hand and a stick of dynamite in the
other." He raised his clenched fists in the air. "So help me, God,"
he cried, "when I think it all over I go crazy, I see red. Oh, if the
people only knew their strength. Oh, if I could wake 'em up. There's not
only Shelgrim, but there's others. All the magnates, all the butchers,
all the blood-sucker