“Wait till we get Lenore out of the way,” replied Anderson

“Boss, me an’ Bill can answer fer thet outfit as it stands, an’ no risks fer nobody,” put in Jake, coolly.

Anderson’s reply was cut short by a loud explosion.  It frightened Lenore.  She imagined one of the steam-engines had blown up.

“That thresher’s on fire,” shouted Dorn, pointing toward a big machine that was attached by an endless driving belt to an engine.

The workmen, uttering yells and exclamations, ran toward the scene of the new accident, leaving Anderson, his daughter, and the foreman behind.  Smoke was pouring out of the big harvester.  The harvest-hands ran wildly around, shouting and calling, evidently unable to do anything.  The line of wagons full of wheat-sheaves broke up; men dragged at the plunging horses.  Then flame followed the smoke out of the thresher.

“I’ve heard of threshers catchin’ fire,” said Anderson, as if dumfounded, “but I never seen one....  Now how on earth did that happen?”

“Another trick, Anderson,” replied Dorn.  “Some I.W.W. has stuffed a handful of matches into a wheat-sheaf.  Or maybe a small bomb!”

“Ah-huh!...  Come on, let’s go over an’ see my money burn up....  Kurt, I’m gettin’ some new education these days.”

Dorn appeared to be unable to restrain himself.  He hurried on ahead of the others.  And Anderson whispered to Lenore, “I’ll bet somethin’s comin’ off!”

This alarmed Lenore, yet it also thrilled her.

The threshing-machine burned like a house of cards.  Farm-hands came running from all over the field.  But nothing, manifestly, could be done to save the thresher.  Anderson, holding his daughter’s arm, calmly watched it burn.  There was excitement all around; it had not been communicated, however, to the rancher.  He looked thoughtful.  The foreman darted among the groups of watchers and his distress was very plain.  Dorn had gotten out of sight.  Lenore still held his coat and wondered what he was doing.  She was thoroughly angry and marveled at her father’s composure.  The big thresher was reduced to a blazing, smoking hulk in short order.

Dorn came striding up.  His face was pale and his mouth set.

“Mr. Anderson, you’ve got to make a strong stand—­and quick,” he said, deliberately.

“I reckon.  An’ I’m ready, if it’s the right time,” replied the rancher.  “But what can we prove?”

“That’s proof,” declared Dorn, pointing at the ruined thresher.  “Do you know all your honest hands?”

“Yes, an’ I’ve got enough to clean up this outfit in no time.  We’re only waitin’.”

“What for?”

“Wal, I reckon for what’s just come off.”

“Don’t let them go any farther....  Look at these fellows.  Can’t you tell the I.W.W.’s from the others?”

“No, I can’t unless I count all the new harvest-hands I.W.W.’s.”

“Every one you don’t know here is in with that gang,” declared Dorn, and he waved a swift hand at the groups.  His eyes swept piercingly over, and apparently through, the men nearest at hand.