Chapter IX

           OnDivisionNumberThreeoftheLosMuertosranchthewheathadalreadybeencut,andS.BehrmanonacertainmorninginthefirstweekofAugustdroveacrosstheopenexpanseofstubbletowardthesouthwest,hiseyessearchingthehorizonforthefeatherofsmokethatwouldmarkthelocationofthesteamharvester.However,hesawnothing.Thestubbleextendedonwardapparentlytotheverymarginoftheworld.

           Atlength,S.Behrmanhaltedhisbuggyandbroughtouthisfieldglassesfrombeneaththeseat.Hestoodupinhisplaceand,adjustingthelenses,swepttheprospecttothesouthandwest.Itwasthesameasthoughtheseaoflandwere,inreality,theocean,andhe,lostinanopenboat,werescanningthewastethroughhisglasses,lookingforthesmokeofasteamer,hulldown,belowthehorizon.“Wonder,”hemuttered,“ifthey’reworkingonFourthismorning?”

           Atlength,hemurmuredan“Ah”ofsatisfaction.Fartothesouthintothewhitesheenofsky,immediatelyoverthehorizon,hemadeoutafaintsmudge—theharvesterbeyonddoubt.

           ThitherS.Behrmanturnedhishorse’shead.Itwasallofanhour’sdriveovertheunevengroundandthroughthecracklingstubble,butatlengthhereachedtheharvester.Hefound,however,thatithadbeenhalted.Thesacksewers,togetherwiththeheader-man,werestretchedonthegroundintheshadeofthemachine,whiletheengineerandseparator-manwerepotteringaboutaportionoftheworks.

           “What’sthematter,Billy?”demandedS.Behrmanreiningup.

           Theengineerturnedabout.

           “Thegrainisheavyinhere.