The Octopus

The Octopus

BOOK 1

Just after passing Caraher's saloon, on the County Road that ran south

from Bonneville, and that divided the Broderson ranch from that of Los

Muertos, Presley was suddenly aware of the faint and prolonged blowing

of a steam whistle that he knew must come from the railroad shops near

the depot at Bonneville. In starting out from the ranch house that

morning, he had forgotten his watch, and was now perplexed to know

whether the whistle was blowing for twelve or for one o'clock. He hoped

the former. Early that morning he had decided to make a long excursion

through the neighbouring country, partly on foot and partly on his

bicycle, and now noon was come already, and as yet he had hardly

started. As he was leaving the house after breakfast, Mrs. Derrick had

asked him to go for the mail at Bonneville, and he had not been able to

refuse.

He took a firmer hold of the cork grips of his handlebars--the road

being in a wretched condition after the recent hauling of the crop--and

quickened his pace. He told himself that, no matter what the time was,

he would not stop for luncheon at the ranch house, but would push on

to Guadalajara and have a Spanish dinner at Solotari's, as he had

originally planned.

There had not been much of a crop to haul that year. Half of the wheat

on the Broderson ranch had failed entirely, and Derrick himself had

hardly raised more than enough to supply seed for the winter's sowing.

But such little hauling as there had been had reduced the roads

thereabouts to a lamentable condition, and, during the dry season of the

past few months, the layer of dust had deepened and thickened to such

an extent that more than once Presley was obliged to dismount and trudge

along on foot, pushing his bicycle in front of him.

It was the last half of September, the very end of the dry season, and

all Tulare County, all the vast reaches of the San Joaquin Valley--in

fact all South Central California, was bone dry, parched, and baked

and crisped after four months of cloudless weather, when the day seemed

always at noon, and the sun blazed white hot over the valley from the

Coast Range in the west to the foothills of the Sierras in the east.

As Presley drew near to the point where what was known as the Lower Road

struck off through the Rancho de Los Muertos, leading on to Guadalajara,

he came upon one of the county watering-tanks, a great, iron-hooped

tower of wood, straddling clumsily on its four uprights by the roadside.

Since the day of its completion, the storekeepers and retailers of

Bonneville had painted their advertisements upon it. It was a landmark.

In that reach of level fields, the white letters upon it could be read

for miles. A watering-trough stood near by, and, as he was very thirsty,

Presley resolved to stop for a moment to get a drink.

He drew abreast of the tank and halted there, leaning his bicycle

against the fence. A couple of men in white overalls were repainting

the surface of the tank, seated on swinging platforms that hung by hooks

from the roof. They were painting a sign--an advertisement. It was all

but finished and read, “S. Behrman, Real Estate, Mortgages, Main Street,

Bonneville, Opposite the Post Office.” On the horse-trough that stood

in the shadow of the tank was another freshly painted inscription: “S.

Behrman Has Something To Say To You.”

As Presley straightened up after drinking from the faucet at one end of

the horse-trough, the watering-cart itself laboured into view around

the turn of the Lower Road. Two mules and two horses, white with dust,

strained leisurely in the traces, moving at a snail's pace, their limp

ears marking the time; while perched high upon the seat, under a yellow