Something (to his idea not much) had been done to catch at that life in passing, but its poet had not yet arisen.The few sporadic attempts, thus he told himself, had only touched the keynote.He strove for the diapason, the great song that should embrace in itself a whole epoch, a complete era, the voice of an entire people, wherein all people should be included--they and their legends, their folk lore, their fightings, their loves and their lusts, their blunt, grim humour, their stoicism under stress, their adventures, their treasures found in a day and gambled in a night, their direct, crude speech, their generosity and cruelty, their heroism and bestiality, their religion and profanity, their self-sacrifice and obscenity--a true and fearless setting forth of a passing phase of history, un-compromising, sincere; each group in its proper environment; the valley, the plain, and the mountain; the ranch, the range, and the mine--all this, all the traits and types of every community from the Dakotas to the Mexicos, from Winnipeg to Guadalupe, gathered together, swept together, welded and riven together in one single, mighty song, the Song of the West.That was what he dreamed, while things without names--thoughts for which no man had yet invented words, terrible formless shapes, vague figures, colossal, monstrous, distorted-- whirled at a gallop through his imagination.
As Harran came up, Presley reached down into the pouches of the sun-bleached shooting coat he wore and drew out and handed him the packet of letters and papers.
"Here's the mail.I think I shall go on.""But dinner is ready," said Harran; "we are just sitting down."Presley shook his head."No, I'm in a hurry.Perhaps I shall have something to eat at Guadalajara.I shall be gone all day."He delayed a few moments longer, tightening a loose nut on his forward wheel, while Harran, recognising his father's handwriting on one of the envelopes, slit it open and cast his eye rapidly over its pages.
"The Governor is coming home," he exclaimed, "to-morrow morning on the early train; wants me to meet him with the team at Guadalajara; AND," he cried between his clenched teeth, as he continued to read, "we've lost the case.""What case? Oh, in the matter of rates?"Harran nodded, his eyes flashing, his face growing suddenly scarlet.
"Ulsteen gave his decision yesterday," he continued, reading from his father's letter."He holds, Ulsteen does, that 'grain rates as low as the new figure would amount to confiscation of property, and that, on such a basis, the railroad could not be operated at a legitimate profit.As he is powerless to legislate in the matter, he can only put the rates back at what they originally were before the commissioners made the cut, and it is so ordered.' That's our friend S.Behrman again," added Harran, grinding his teeth."He was up in the city the whole of the time the new schedule was being drawn, and he and Ulsteen and the Railroad Commission were as thick as thieves.He has been up there all this last week, too, doing the railroad's dirty work, and backing Ulsteen up.'Legitimate profit, legitimate profit,'"he broke out."Can we raise wheat at a legitimate profit with a tariff of four dollars a ton for moving it two hundred miles to tide-water, with wheat at eighty-seven cents? Why not hold us up with a gun in our faces, and say, 'hands up,' and be done with it?"He dug his boot-heel into the ground and turned away to the house abruptly, cursing beneath his breath.
"By the way," Presley called after him, "Hooven wants to see you.
