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Updated: June 22, 2025
The managers of the road want the best price they can get for everything in these hard times." "Times aren't ever very hard for the railroad," hazards old Broderson. Broderson was the oldest man in the room. He was about sixty-five years of age, venerable, with a white beard, his figure bent earthwards with hard work.
From their places in the ditch, Annixter, Osterman, Dabney, Harran, Hooven, Broderson, Cutter, and Phelps, their hands laid upon their revolvers, watched silently, alert, keen, ready for anything. At the Governor's words, they saw Ruggles pull sharply on the reins. The buggy came to a standstill, the riders doing likewise.
He resigned himself. In the end, and after much ostentatious opposition on the part of the railroad heelers, Lyman was nominated and subsequently elected. When this consummation was reached Magnus, Osterman, Broderson, and Annixter stared at each other. Their wildest hopes had not dared to fix themselves upon so easy a victory as this.
From where he sat, Vanamee, turning his head, could look out underneath the pear trees to the north. Close at hand, a little valley lay between the high ground on which the Mission was built, and the line of low hills just beyond Broderson Creek on the Quien Sabe.
"You see," he observed, "the rate between Mayfield and Oakland, for instance, has been reduced by twenty-five cents a ton." "Yes but but " said old Broderson, "it is rather unusual, isn't it, for wheat in that district to be sent to Oakland?"
The drive was to begin on the most western division of the Osterman ranch, whence it would proceed towards the southeast, crossing into the northern part of Quien Sabe on which Annixter had sown no wheat and ending in the hills at the headwaters of Broderson Creek, where a barbecue was to be held.
Magnus, two long revolvers lying on the embankment in front of him, was in the middle, Harran at his side. On either side, some five feet intervening between each man, stood the other Leaguers, their revolvers ready. Dabney, the silent old man, had taken off his coat. "Take your places between Mr. Osterman and Mr. Broderson," said Magnus, as the three men rode up.
She began talking to old Broderson, making inquiries as to his wife, who had been sick the last week, and Osterman turned to the company, shaking hands all around, keeping up an incessant stream of conversation. "Hello, boys and girls. Hello, Governor. Sort of a gathering of the clans to-night. Well, if here isn't that man Annixter. Hello, Buck. What do you know? Kind of dusty out to-night."
It led south and west into the low ground overgrown by grey-green willows by Broderson Creek, at this time of the rainy season a stream of considerable volume, farther on dipping sharply to pass underneath the Long Trestle of the railroad. On the other side of the right of way, Annixter was obliged to open the gate in Derrick's line fence.
"That affair outside," he observed, "will take care of itself, but here's a little orphan child that gets lonesome without company." Annixter began ladling the punch, filling the glasses. Osterman proposed a toast to Quien Sabe and the Biggest Barn. Their elbows crooked in silence. Old Broderson set down his glass, wiping his long beard and remarking: "That that certainly is very very agreeable.
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