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“Of course nobody would buy, and we hugged ourselves we was so durned slick. Oh, my! Now, here comes along one of them bloody trusts that’s eating this country up, and goes to the land company and buys the foreclosed land for a song. It goes all the cheaper because its known far and wide that we elected the sheriff not to enforce writs, but to resist ’em; and the same with all the officers; and we’re ready to shoot down any man that tries to push us off the earth. That scared folks, and the investment company sold cheap as dirt. They knew they couldn’t git anybody to take up a farm ’round here. Look a’ there!” He jerked the point of the switch that served for whip in the direction of a dark bulk looming against the glowing belt of red in the west. The outlines of a ruined chimney toppled over the misshapen roof. The door and window openings gaped forlornly; doors and windows were gone long since, wrenched off for other needs. Bit by bit the house had been nibbled at–here a porch platform taken, there a patch of weather-boarding, shingles pulled from the roof, the corn crib a wreck, the outbuildings carried away piece-meal–until, a sadder ruin than fire leaves, it faced the sunset and the prairie.

“That farm belonged to as hard-working, smart a feller as ever handled a plow. Look at them fields, gone to desolation like everything else, but the furrows used to be as straight’s a line with a ruler. He fought the hard times and the drought till his wife died, and then he said to me, ‘I’m beat; I’m going to take the baby back to Winnie’s folks. If I’d only gone last year I could have took Winnie, too. The company kin have my farm, and I hope to God it’ll be the curse to them it’s been to me!’ There the farm is. And look further down”–shifting the switch to another direction–“there’s another dropping to pieces. Lord, when I think of the stories they told me about the crops when I fust came and put in four hundred dollars that I’d worked hard for in a saw-mill, and I think how we used to set ’round the fire evenings, my wife and I, talking about how the town was a-growing and what it would be when the trees was growed and our children was going to school, and how we’d have a cabinet organ and we’d have a top buggy, and we’d send for her mother, who didn’t jest like it with Bill’s wife–we was jest like children, making believe! But that ain’t what I was driving at. Here it is. We calculated that we’d be let alone, because the poor, miserable remnants of stock and machines and farms we got simply wasn’t worth outside folks taking, and inside folks wouldn’t risk their lives by dispossessing us. That’s how we sized it up, ain’t it?”

“I don’t see yet what you’re after, Wesley.”

“You will. We reasoned that way. But along comes this company, this–trust, that’s clean against the laws and don’t give a curse for that, and it buys up the whole outfit. I tell you, Mr. Robbins, there ain’t five men in this community that that trust ain’t got the legal right to turn out on the prairies to-morrow. They’ve all been foreclosed, and the year of grace is up. Most of us here ain’t got no show at all–legally. And so they send a man down here to see about gitting out writs and finishing us up.”

“But who’ll they get to buy, Wesley Orr?”

“They’re not needing much buying. They’re on to a new scheme–going to turn all these farms into big pastures and fatten cattle with alfalfa, raise it and ship it; then the lower part of the county, down below town, they intend to run a ditch through from the river and irrigate it. They will fetch in a colony who’ll pay them about ten times what they paid, I expect, and–“