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Updated: June 24, 2025
On the porch outside Caraher met him. "Is he is he " began the saloon-keeper. "Yes, he's dead," cried Presley. "They're all dead, murdered, shot down, dead, dead, all of them. Whose turn is next?" "That's the way they killed my wife, Presley." "Caraher," cried Presley, "give me your hand. I've been wrong all the time. The League is wrong. All the world is wrong.
For all the tragedy of his wife's death, Caraher was none the less an evil influence among the ranchers, an influence that worked only to the inciting of crime.
Derrick, it is terrible into an awful rage, cursing, swearing, grinding his teeth, his hands clenched over his head, stamping so that the house shakes, and saying that if S. Behrman don't give him back his money, he will kill him with his two hands. But that isn't the worst, Mr. Derrick. He goes to Mr. Caraher's saloon now, and stays there for hours, and listens to Mr. Caraher.
As the wagon passed out from under the eucalyptus trees about the ranch house, taking Mrs. Dyke, Sidney, and the one-time engineer back to the hop ranch, Presley leaning from his window heard the latter remark: "Caraher is right. There is only one thing they listen to, and that's dynamite." The following day Presley drove Magnus over to Guadalajara to take the train for San Francisco.
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.
He left him wrangling with Caraher, who still persisted in adding chartreuse, and stepped out into the dance to see how things were getting on. It was the interval between two dances. In and around a stall at the farther end of the floor, where lemonade was being served, was a great throng of young men.
At length Annixter made himself heard: "All out of the room but the ranch owners," he shouted. "Hooven, Caraher, Dyke, you'll have to clear out. This is a family affair. Presley, you and your friend can remain." Reluctantly the others filed through the door.
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