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Updated: May 1, 2025
He spoke glowingly of that magnificent section of wheat that absolutely must be saved. He promised Kurt every horse and every man on his farm. But he refused the five hundred dollars. "Oh, say, you'll have to accept it," declared Kurt. "You've done me good turns," asserted Olsen. "But nothing like this. Why, this will be a rush job, with all the men and horses and machines and wagons I can get.
It was full dark on Beta Continent now, where Leonard Kellogg had killed a Fuzzy named Goldilocks and Jack Holloway had killed a gunman named Kurt Borch. That angered him, too; hell of a gunman! Clear shot at the broad of a man's back, and still got himself killed. Borch hadn't been any better choice than Kellogg himself. What was the matter with him; couldn't he pick men for jobs any more?
This was the day, he remembered, when the wealthy rancher of Ruxton was to look over old Chris Dorn's wheat-fields. Dorn owed thirty-thousand dollars and interest for years, mostly to Anderson. Kurt hated the debt and resented the visit, but he could not help acknowledging that the rancher had been lenient and kind.
"That I cannot do, seeing as how it lies in the way my brain is put together. Do you think I can break open my skull and hand you a piece of what is inside? No, you jump with me tonight or else I must wait to grab the next one who lands here." Kurt stood up. His last words were spoken matter-of-factly, and Ross believed he meant exactly what he said. But Ross hesitated.
"If you don't go, then you will never be General Dorn, will you? What a pity!" "I'll go. And then it will be 'Private Dorn missing. No relatives," he replied. That froze Lenore. Her heart quaked. She gazed down upon him with all her soul in her eyes. She knew it and did not care. But he could not see. "Good night, Kurt Dorn," she called, and ran to her room.
Walking back with the weary crowd, Kurt felt a clearer breeze upon his face. Smoke was not flying so thickly. Over the western hill, through a rift in the clouds, peeped a star. The only other light he saw twinkled far down the lane. It was that of a lantern. Dark forms barred it now and then. Slowly Kurt recovered his breath.
Kurt had heard the swishing pattering impact of those swarms of small shot. The I.W.W. gang ran pell-mell down the open track, away from Kurt and toward the light. As he reloaded the gun he saw men running from all points to join the gang.
"I'll be going some the next two weeks." "It's deplorable that most of the wheat in this section is a failure," said the official. "But we must make up for that next year. I see you have one magnificent wheat-field. But, fact is, I heard of that long before I got here." "Yes? Where?" ejaculated Kurt, quick to catch a significance in the other's words. "I've motored direct from Wheatly.
In the newspapers they rave about shorter hours, more pay, acknowledgment of the union. But any fool would see, if he read them laws I showed you, that this I.W.W. is not straight." "Mr. Anderson, what steps have you taken down in your country?" queried Kurt.
Kurt, standing in a corner with a note-book, was busily scribbling down his melancholy thoughts, but he did not show his verses to anyone, as the tragic feeling in them might have drawn remarks from Bruno which he might not have been able to endure.
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