an
had proposed the plan of the Ranchers' Railroad Commission. Magnus
Derrick sat at the head of the table, in his buttoned frock coat.
Whiskey bottles and siphons of soda-water were within easy reach.
Presley, who by now was considered the confidential friend of every
member of the Committee, lounged as before on the sofa, smoking
cigarettes, the cat Nathalie on his knee. Besides Magnus and Annixter,
Osterman was present, and old Broderson and Harran; Garnet from the
Ruby Rancho and Gethings of the San Pablo, who were also members of the
Executive Committee, were on hand, preoccupied, bearded men, smoking
black cigars, and, last of all, Dabney, the silent old man, of whom
little was known but his name, and who had been made a member of the
Committee, nobody could tell why.

"My son Lyman should be here, gentlemen, within at least ten minutes.
I have sent my team to meet him at Bonneville," explained Magnus, as he
called the meeting to order. "The Secretary will call the roll."

Osterman called the roll, and, to fill in the time, read over the
minutes of the previous meeting. The treasurer was making his report as
to the funds at the disposal of the League when Lyman arrived.

Magnus and Harran went forward to meet him, and the Committee rather
awkwardly rose and remained standing while the three exchanged
greetings, the members, some of whom had never seen their commissioner,
eyeing him out of the corners of their eyes.

Lyman was dressed with his usual correctness. His cravat was of the
latest fashion, his clothes of careful design and unimpeachable fit. His
shoes, of patent leather, reflected the lamplight, and he carried a
drab overcoat over his arm. Before being introduced to the Committee, he
excused himself a moment and ran to see his mother, who waited for him
in the adjoining sitting-room. But in a few moments he returned, asking
pardon for the delay.

He was all affability; his protruding eyes, that gave such an unusual,
foreign appearance to his very dark face, radiated geniality. He was
evidently anxious to please, to produce a good impression upon the
grave, clumsy farmers before whom he stood. But at the same time,
Presley, watching him from his place on the sofa, could imagine that he
was rather nervous. He was too nimble in his cordiality, and the little
gestures he made in bringing his cuffs into view and in touching the
ends of his tight, black mustache with the ball of his thumb were
repeated wi