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diff --git a/1449-0.txt b/1449-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c577a2b --- /dev/null +++ b/1449-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18992 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1449 *** + +THE VALLEY OF THE MOON + +By Jack London + + + + +BOOK I + + + +CHAPTER 1 + +“You hear me, Saxon? Come on along. What if it is the Bricklayers? I'll +have gentlemen friends there, and so'll you. The Al Vista band'll be +along, an' you know it plays heavenly. An' you just love dancin'---” + +Twenty feet away, a stout, elderly woman interrupted the girl's +persuasions. The elderly woman's back was turned, and the back--loose, +bulging, and misshapen--began a convulsive heaving. + +“Gawd!” she cried out. “O Gawd!” + +She flung wild glances, like those of an entrapped animal, up and down +the big whitewashed room that panted with heat and that was thickly +humid with the steam that sizzled from the damp cloth under the irons of +the many ironers. From the girls and women near her, all swinging irons +steadily but at high pace, came quick glances, and labor efficiency +suffered to the extent of a score of suspended or inadequate movements. +The elderly woman's cry had caused a tremor of money-loss to pass among +the piece-work ironers of fancy starch. + +She gripped herself and her iron with a visible effort, and dabbed +futilely at the frail, frilled garment on the board under her hand. + +“I thought she'd got'em again--didn't you?” the girl said. + +“It's a shame, a woman of her age, and... condition,” Saxon answered, +as she frilled a lace ruffle with a hot fluting-iron. Her movements were +delicate, safe, and swift, and though her face was wan with fatigue and +exhausting heat, there was no slackening in her pace. + +“An' her with seven, an' two of 'em in reform school,” the girl at the +next board sniffed sympathetic agreement. “But you just got to come +to Weasel Park to-morrow, Saxon. The Bricklayers' is always +lively--tugs-of-war, fat-man races, real Irish jiggin', an'... an' +everything. An' the floor of the pavilion's swell.” + +But the elderly woman brought another interruption. She dropped her iron +on the shirtwaist, clutched at the board, fumbled it, caved in at the +knees and hips, and like a half-empty sack collapsed on the floor, her +long shriek rising in the pent room to the acrid smell of scorching +cloth. The women at the boards near to her scrambled, first, to the hot +iron to save the cloth, and then to her, while the forewoman hurried +belligerently down the aisle. The women farther away continued +unsteadily at their work, losing movements to the extent of a minute's +set-back to the totality of the efficiency of the fancy-starch room. + +“Enough to kill a dog,” the girl muttered, thumping her iron down on its +rest with reckless determination. “Workin' girls' life ain't what it's +cracked up. Me to quit--that's what I'm comin' to.” + +“Mary!” Saxon uttered the other's name with a reproach so profound that +she was compelled to rest her own iron for emphasis and so lose a dozen +movements. + +Mary flashed a half-frightened look across. + +“I didn't mean it, Saxon,” she whimpered. “Honest, I didn't. I wouldn't +never go that way. But I leave it to you, if a day like this don't get +on anybody's nerves. Listen to that!” + +The stricken woman, on her back, drumming her heels on the floor, was +shrieking persistently and monotonously, like a mechanical siren. Two +women, clutching her under the arms, were dragging her down the aisle. +She drummed and shrieked the length of it. The door opened, and a vast, +muffled roar of machinery burst in; and in the roar of it the drumming +and the shrieking were drowned ere the door swung shut. Remained of the +episode only the scorch of cloth drifting ominously through the air. + +“It's sickenin',” said Mary. + +And thereafter, for a long time, the many irons rose and fell, the pace +of the room in no wise diminished; while the forewoman strode the +aisles with a threatening eye for incipient breakdown and hysteria. +Occasionally an ironer lost the stride for an instant, gasped or sighed, +then caught it up again with weary determination. The long summer day +waned, but not the heat, and under the raw flare of electric light the +work went on. + +By nine o'clock the first women began to go home. The mountain of fancy +starch had been demolished--all save the few remnants, here and there, +on the boards, where the ironers still labored. + +Saxon finished ahead of Mary, at whose board she paused on the way out. + +“Saturday night an' another week gone,” Mary said mournfully, her young +cheeks pallid and hollowed, her black eyes blue-shadowed and tired. +“What d'you think you've made, Saxon?” + +“Twelve and a quarter,” was the answer, just touched with pride. “And I'd +a-made more if it wasn't for that fake bunch of starchers.” + +“My! I got to pass it to you,” Mary congratulated. “You're a sure fierce +hustler--just eat it up. Me--I've only ten an' a half, an' for a hard +week... See you on the nine-forty. Sure now. We can just fool around +until the dancin' begins. A lot of my gentlemen friends'll be there in +the afternoon.” + +Two blocks from the laundry, where an arc-light showed a gang of toughs +on the corner, Saxon quickened her pace. Unconsciously her face set +and hardened as she passed. She did not catch the words of the muttered +comment, but the rough laughter it raised made her guess and warmed her +checks with resentful blood. Three blocks more, turning once to left and +once to right, she walked on through the night that was already growing +cool. On either side were workingmen's houses, of weathered wood, +the ancient paint grimed with the dust of years, conspicuous only for +cheapness and ugliness. + +Dark it was, but she made no mistake, the familiar sag and screeching +reproach of the front gate welcome under her hand. She went along the +narrow walk to the rear, avoided the missing step without thinking about +it, and entered the kitchen, where a solitary gas-jet flickered. +She turned it up to the best of its flame. It was a small room, not +disorderly, because of lack of furnishings to disorder it. The plaster, +discolored by the steam of many wash-days, was crisscrossed with cracks +from the big earthquake of the previous spring. The floor was ridged, +wide-cracked, and uneven, and in front of the stove it was worn through +and repaired with a five-gallon oil-can hammered flat and double. A +sink, a dirty roller-towel, several chairs, and a wooden table completed +the picture. + +An apple-core crunched under her foot as she drew a chair to the table. +On the frayed oilcloth, a supper waited. She attempted the cold beans, +thick with grease, but gave them up, and buttered a slice of bread. + +The rickety house shook to a heavy, prideless tread, and through the +inner door came Sarah, middle-aged, lop-breasted, hair-tousled, her face +lined with care and fat petulance. + +“Huh, it's you,” she grunted a greeting. “I just couldn't keep things +warm. Such a day! I near died of the heat. An' little Henry cut his lip +awful. The doctor had to put four stitches in it.” + +Sarah came over and stood mountainously by the table. + +“What's the matter with them beans?” she challenged. + +“Nothing, only...” Saxon caught her breath and avoided the threatened +outburst. “Only I'm not hungry. It's been so hot all day. It was +terrible in the laundry.” + +Recklessly she took a mouthful of the cold tea that had been steeped so +long that it was like acid in her mouth, and recklessly, under the eye +of her sister-in-law, she swallowed it and the rest of the cupful. She +wiped her mouth on her handkerchief and got up. + +“I guess I'll go to bed.” + +“Wonder you ain't out to a dance,” Sarah sniffed. “Funny, ain't it, you +come home so dead tired every night, an' yet any night in the week you +can get out an' dance unearthly hours.” + +Saxon started to speak, suppressed herself with tightened lips, then +lost control and blazed out. “Wasn't you ever young?” + +Without waiting for reply, she turned to her bedroom, which opened +directly off the kitchen. It was a small room, eight by twelve, and the +earthquake had left its marks upon the plaster. A bed and chair of cheap +pine and a very ancient chest of drawers constituted the furniture. +Saxon had known this chest of drawers all her life. The vision of it +was woven into her earliest recollections. She knew it had crossed the +plains with her people in a prairie schooner. It was of solid mahogany. +One end was cracked and dented from the capsize of the wagon in Rock +Canyon. A bullet-hole, plugged, in the face of the top drawer, told of +the fight with the Indians at Little Meadow. Of these happenings her +mother had told her; also had she told that the chest had come with the +family originally from England in a day even earlier than the day on +which George Washington was born. + +Above the chest of drawers, on the wall, hung a small looking-glass. +Thrust under the molding were photographs of young men and women, and of +picnic groups wherein the young men, with hats rakishly on the backs of +their heads, encircled the girls with their arms. Farther along on the +wall were a colored calendar and numerous colored advertisements and +sketches torn out of magazines. Most of these sketches were of horses. +From the gas-fixture hung a tangled bunch of well-scribbled dance +programs. + +Saxon started to take off her hat, but suddenly sat down on the bed. +She sobbed softly, with considered repression, but the weak-latched +door swung noiselessly open, and she was startled by her sister-in-law's +voice. + +“NOW what's the matter with you? If you didn't like them beans--” + +“No, no,” Saxon explained hurriedly. “I'm just tired, that's all, and my +feet hurt. I wasn't hungry, Sarah. I'm just beat out.” + +“If you took care of this house,” came the retort, “an' cooked an' +baked, an' washed, an' put up with what I put up, you'd have something +to be beat out about. You've got a snap, you have. But just wait.” Sarah +broke off to cackle gloatingly. “Just wait, that's all, an' you'll +be fool enough to get married some day, like me, an' then you'll get +yours--an' it'll be brats, an' brats, an' brats, an' no more dancin', +an' silk stockin's, an' three pairs of shoes at one time. You've got a +cinch--nobody to think of but your own precious self--an' a lot of young +hoodlums makin' eyes at you an' tellin' you how beautiful your eyes +are. Huh! Some fine day you'll tie up to one of 'em, an' then, mebbe, on +occasion, you'll wear black eyes for a change.” + +“Don't say that, Sarah,” Saxon protested. “My brother never laid hands +on you. You know that.” + +“No more he didn't. He never had the gumption. Just the same, he's +better stock than that tough crowd you run with, if he can't make a +livin' an' keep his wife in three pairs of shoes. Just the same he's +oodles better'n your bunch of hoodlums that no decent woman'd wipe her +one pair of shoes on. How you've missed trouble this long is beyond me. +Mebbe the younger generation is wiser in such things--I don't know. But I +do know that a young woman that has three pairs of shoes ain't thinkin' +of anything but her own enjoyment, an' she's goin' to get hers, I can +tell her that much. When I was a girl there wasn't such doin's. My +mother'd taken the hide off me if I done the things you do. An' she +was right, just as everything in the world is wrong now. Look at your +brother, a-runnin' around to socialist meetin's, an' chewin' hot air, +an' diggin' up extra strike dues to the union that means so much bread +out of the mouths of his children, instead of makin' good with his +bosses. Why, the dues he pays would keep me in seventeen pairs of shoes +if I was nannygoat enough to want 'em. Some day, mark my words, he'll +get his time, an' then what'll we do? What'll I do, with five mouths to +feed an' nothin' comin' in?” + +She stopped, out of breath but seething with the tirade yet to come. + +“Oh, Sarah, please won't you shut the door?” Saxon pleaded. + +The door slammed violently, and Saxon, ere she fell to crying again, +could hear her sister-in-law lumbering about the kitchen and talking +loudly to herself. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Each bought her own ticket at the entrance to Weasel Park. And each, as +she laid her half-dollar down, was distinctly aware of how many pieces +of fancy starch were represented by the coin. It was too early for the +crowd, but bricklayers and their families, laden with huge lunch-baskets +and armfuls of babies, were already going in--a healthy, husky race +of workmen, well-paid and robustly fed. And with them, here and there, +undisguised by their decent American clothing, smaller in bulk and +stature, weazened not alone by age but by the pinch of lean years and +early hardship, were grandfathers and mothers who had patently first +seen the light of day on old Irish soil. Their faces showed content and +pride as they limped along with this lusty progeny of theirs that had +fed on better food. + +Not with these did Mary and Saxon belong. They knew them not, had no +acquaintances among them. It did not matter whether the festival were +Irish, German, or Slavonian; whether the picnic was the Bricklayers', +the Brewers', or the Butchers'. They, the girls, were of the dancing +crowd that swelled by a certain constant percentage the gate receipts of +all the picnics. + +They strolled about among the booths where peanuts were grinding +and popcorn was roasting in preparation for the day, and went on +and inspected the dance floor of the pavilion. Saxon, clinging to an +imaginary partner, essayed a few steps of the dip-waltz. Mary clapped +her hands. + +“My!” she cried. “You're just swell! An' them stockin's is peaches.” + +Saxon smiled with appreciation, pointed out her foot, velvet-slippered +with high Cuban heels, and slightly lifted the tight black skirt, +exposing a trim ankle and delicate swell of calf, the white flesh +gleaming through the thinnest and flimsiest of fifty-cent black silk +stockings. She was slender, not tall, yet the due round lines of +womanhood were hers. On her white shirtwaist was a pleated jabot of +cheap lace, caught with a large novelty pin of imitation coral. Over the +shirtwaist was a natty jacket, elbow-sleeved, and to the elbows she wore +gloves of imitation suede. The one essentially natural touch about her +appearance was the few curls, strangers to curling-irons, that escaped +from under the little naughty hat of black velvet pulled low over the +eyes. + +Mary's dark eyes flashed with joy at the sight, and with a swift +little run she caught the other girl in her arms and kissed her in +a breast-crushing embrace. She released her, blushing at her own +extravagance. + +“You look good to me,” she cried, in extenuation. “If I was a man I +couldn't keep my hands off you. I'd eat you, I sure would.” + +They went out of the pavilion hand in hand, and on through the sunshine +they strolled, swinging hands gaily, reacting exuberantly from the week +of deadening toil. They hung over the railing of the bear-pit, shivering +at the huge and lonely denizen, and passed quickly on to ten minutes of +laughter at the monkey cage. Crossing the grounds, they looked down into +the little race track on the bed of a natural amphitheater where the +early afternoon games were to take place. After that they explored the +woods, threaded by countless paths, ever opening out in new surprises +of green-painted rustic tables and benches in leafy nooks, many of +which were already pre-empted by family parties. On a grassy slope, +tree-surrounded, they spread a newspaper and sat down on the short grass +already tawny-dry under the California sun. Half were they minded to +do this because of the grateful indolence after six days of insistent +motion, half in conservation for the hours of dancing to come. + +“Bert Wanhope'll be sure to come,” Mary chattered. “An' he said he was +going to bring Billy Roberts--'Big Bill,' all the fellows call him. He's +just a big boy, but he's awfully tough. He's a prizefighter, an' all the +girls run after him. I'm afraid of him. He ain't quick in talkin'. He's +more like that big bear we saw. Brr-rf! Brr-rf!--bite your head +off, just like that. He ain't really a prize-fighter. He's a +teamster--belongs to the union. Drives for Coberly and Morrison. But +sometimes he fights in the clubs. Most of the fellows are scared of him. +He's got a bad temper, an' he'd just as soon hit a fellow as eat, just +like that. You won't like him, but he's a swell dancer. He's heavy, +you know, an' he just slides and glides around. You wanta have a dance +with'm anyway. He's a good spender, too. Never pinches. But my!--he's +got one temper.” + +The talk wandered on, a monologue on Mary's part, that centered always +on Bert Wanhope. + +“You and he are pretty thick,” Saxon ventured. + +“I'd marry'm to-morrow,” Mary flashed out impulsively. Then her face +went bleakly forlorn, hard almost in its helpless pathos. “Only, he +never asks me. He's...” Her pause was broken by sudden passion. “You +watch out for him, Saxon, if he ever comes foolin' around you. He's no +good. Just the same, I'd marry him to-morrow. He'll never get me any +other way.” Her mouth opened, but instead of speaking she drew a long +sigh. “It's a funny world, ain't it?” she added. “More like a scream. +And all the stars are worlds, too. I wonder where God hides. Bert +Wanhope says there ain't no God. But he's just terrible. He says the +most terrible things. I believe in God. Don't you? What do you think +about God, Saxon?” + +Saxon shrugged her shoulders and laughed. + +“But if we do wrong we get ours, don't we?” Mary persisted. “That's what +they all say, except Bert. He says he don't care what he does, he'll +never get his, because when he dies he's dead, an' when he's dead he'd +like to see any one put anything across on him that'd wake him up. Ain't +he terrible, though? But it's all so funny. Sometimes I get scared when +I think God's keepin' an eye on me all the time. Do you think he knows +what I'm sayin' now? What do you think he looks like, anyway?” + +“I don't know,” Saxon answered. “He's just a funny proposition.” + +“Oh!” the other gasped. + +“He IS, just the same, from what all people say of him,” Saxon went on +stoutly. “My brother thinks he looks like Abraham Lincoln. Sarah thinks +he has whiskers.” + +“An' I never think of him with his hair parted,” Mary confessed, daring +the thought and shivering with apprehension. “He just couldn't have his +hair parted. THAT'D be funny.” + +“You know that little, wrinkly Mexican that sells wire puzzles?” Saxon +queried. “Well, God somehow always reminds me of him.” + +Mary laughed outright. + +“Now that IS funny. I never thought of him like that. How do you make it +out?” + +“Well, just like the little Mexican, he seems to spend his time peddling +puzzles. He passes a puzzle out to everybody, and they spend all their +lives tryin' to work it out. They all get stuck. I can't work mine out. +I don't know where to start. And look at the puzzle he passed Sarah. And +she's part of Tom's puzzle, and she only makes his worse. And they all, +an' everybody I know--you, too--are part of my puzzle.” + +“Mebbe the puzzles is all right,” Mary considered. “But God don't look +like that yellow little Greaser. THAT I won't fall for. God don't look +like anybody. Don't you remember on the wall at the Salvation Army it +says 'God is a spirit'?” + +“That's another one of his puzzles, I guess, because nobody knows what a +spirit looks like.” + +“That's right, too.” Mary shuddered with reminiscent fear. “Whenever I +try to think of God as a spirit, I can see Hen Miller all wrapped up in +a sheet an' runnin' us girls. We didn't know, an' it scared the life out +of us. Little Maggie Murphy fainted dead away, and Beatrice Peralta fell +an' scratched her face horrible. When I think of a spirit all I can see +is a white sheet runnin' in the dark. Just the same, God don't look like +a Mexican, an' he don't wear his hair parted.” + +A strain of music from the dancing pavilion brought both girls +scrambling to their feet. + +“We can get a couple of dances in before we eat,” Mary proposed. “An' +then it'll be afternoon an' all the fellows 'll be here. Most of them +are pinchers--that's why they don't come early, so as to get out of +taking the girls to dinner. But Bert's free with his money, an' so is +Billy. If we can beat the other girls to it, they'll take us to the +restaurant. Come on, hurry, Saxon.” + +There were few couples on the floor when they arrived at the pavilion, +and the two girls essayed the first waltz together. + +“There's Bert now,” Saxon whispered, as they came around the second +time. + +“Don't take any notice of them,” Mary whispered back. “We'll just keep +on goin'. They needn't think we're chasin' after them.” + +But Saxon noted the heightened color in the other's cheek, and felt her +quicker breathing. + +“Did you see that other one?” Mary asked, as she backed Saxon in a long +slide across the far end of the pavilion. “That was Billy Roberts. Bert +said he'd come. He'll take you to dinner, and Bert'll take me. It's +goin' to be a swell day, you'll see. My! I only wish the music'll hold +out till we can get back to the other end.” + +Down the floor they danced, on man-trapping and dinner-getting intent, +two fresh young things that undeniably danced well and that were +delightfully surprised when the music stranded them perilously near to +their desire. + +Bert and Mary addressed each other by their given names, but to Saxon +Bert was “Mr. Wanhope,” though he called her by her first name. The only +introduction was of Saxon and Billy Roberts. Mary carried it off with a +flurry of nervous carelessness. + +“Mr. Robert--Miss Brown. She's my best friend. Her first name's Saxon. +Ain't it a scream of a name?” + +“Sounds good to me,” Billy retorted, hat off and hand extended. “Pleased +to meet you, Miss Brown.” + +As their hands clasped and she felt the teamster callouses on his palm, +her quick eyes saw a score of things. About all that he saw was her +eyes, and then it was with a vague impression that they were blue. Not +till later in the day did he realize that they were gray. She, on +the contrary, saw his eyes as they really were--deep blue, wide, +and handsome in a sullen-boyish way. She saw that they were +straight-looking, and she liked them, as she had liked the glimpse she +had caught of his hand, and as she liked the contact of his hand itself. +Then, too, but not sharply, she had perceived the short, square-set +nose, the rosiness of cheek, and the firm, short upper lip, ere delight +centered her flash of gaze on the well-modeled, large clean mouth where +red lips smiled clear of the white, enviable teeth. A BOY, A GREAT BIG +MAN-BOY, was her thought; and, as they smiled at each other and their +hands slipped apart, she was startled by a glimpse of his hair--short +and crisp and sandy, hinting almost of palest gold save that it was too +flaxen to hint of gold at all. + +So blond was he that she was reminded of stage-types she had seen, such +as Ole Olson and Yon Yonson; but there resemblance ceased. It was a +matter of color only, for the eyes were dark-lashed and -browed, and +were cloudy with temperament rather than staring a child-gaze of wonder, +and the suit of smooth brown cloth had been made by a tailor. Saxon +appraised the suit on the instant, and her secret judgment was NOT A +CENT LESS THAN FIFTY DOLLARS. Further, he had none of the awkwardness +of the Scandinavian immigrant. On the contrary, he was one of those +rare individuals that radiate muscular grace through the ungraceful +man-garments of civilization. Every movement was supple, slow, and +apparently considered. This she did not see nor analyze. She saw only a +clothed man with grace of carriage and movement. She felt, rather than +perceived, the calm and certitude of all the muscular play of him, and +she felt, too, the promise of easement and rest that was especially +grateful and craved-for by one who had incessantly, for six days and at +top-speed, ironed fancy starch. As the touch of his hand had been good, +so, to her, this subtler feel of all of him, body and mind, was good. + +As he took her program and skirmished and joked after the way of young +men, she realized the immediacy of delight she had taken in him. +Never in her life had she been so affected by any man. She wondered to +herself: IS THIS THE MAN? + +He danced beautifully. The joy was hers that good dancers take when they +have found a good dancer for a partner. The grace of those slow-moving, +certain muscles of his accorded perfectly with the rhythm of the music. +There was never doubt, never a betrayal of indecision. She glanced at +Bert, dancing “tough” with Mary, caroming down the long floor with more +than one collision with the increasing couples. Graceful himself in his +slender, tall, lean-stomached way, Bert was accounted a good dancer; yet +Saxon did not remember ever having danced with him with keen pleasure. +Just a hit of a jerk spoiled his dancing--a jerk that did not occur, +usually, but that always impended. There was something spasmodic in his +mind. He was too quick, or he continually threatened to be too quick. +He always seemed just on the verge of overrunning the time. It was +disquieting. He made for unrest. + +“You're a dream of a dancer,” Billy Roberts was saying. “I've heard lots +of the fellows talk about your dancing.” + +“I love it,” she answered. + +But from the way she said it he sensed her reluctance to speak, and +danced on in silence, while she warmed with the appreciation of a +woman for gentle consideration. Gentle consideration was a thing rarely +encountered in the life she lived. IS THIS THE MAN? She remembered +Mary's “I'd marry him to-morrow,” and caught herself speculating on +marrying Billy Roberts by the next day--if he asked her. + +With eyes that dreamily desired to close, she moved on in the arms of +this masterful, guiding pressure. A PRIZE-FIGHTER! She experienced a +thrill of wickedness as she thought of what Sarah would say could she +see her now. Only he wasn't a prizefighter, but a teamster. + +Came an abrupt lengthening of step, the guiding pressure grew more +compelling, and she was caught up and carried along, though her +velvet-shod feet never left the floor. Then came the sudden control down +to the shorter step again, and she felt herself being held slightly from +him so that he might look into her face and laugh with her in joy at +the exploit. At the end, as the band slowed in the last bars, they, too, +slowed, their dance fading with the music in a lengthening glide that +ceased with the last lingering tone. + +“We're sure cut out for each other when it comes to dancin',” he said, +as they made their way to rejoin the other couple. + +“It was a dream,” she replied. + +So low was her voice that he bent to hear, and saw the flush in her +cheeks that seemed communicated to her eyes, which were softly warm +and sensuous. He took the program from her and gravely and gigantically +wrote his name across all the length of it. + +“An' now it's no good,” he dared. “Ain't no need for it.” + +He tore it across and tossed it aside. + +“Me for you, Saxon, for the next,” was Bert's greeting, as they came up. +“You take Mary for the next whirl, Bill.” + +“Nothin' doin', Bo,” was the retort. “Me an' Saxon's framed up to last +the day.” + +“Watch out for him, Saxon,” Mary warned facetiously. “He's liable to get +a crush on you.” + +“I guess I know a good thing when I see it,” Billy responded gallantly. + +“And so do I,” Saxon aided and abetted. + +“I'd 'a' known you if I'd seen you in the dark,” Billy added. + +Mary regarded them with mock alarm, and Bert said good-naturedly: + +“All I got to say is you ain't wastin' any time gettin' together. Just +the same, if' you can spare a few minutes from each other after a couple +more whirls, Mary an' me'd be complimented to have your presence at +dinner.” + +“Just like that,” chimed Mary. + +“Quit your kiddin',” Billy laughed back, turning his head to look into +Saxon's eyes. “Don't listen to 'em. They're grouched because they got to +dance together. Bert's a rotten dancer, and Mary ain't so much. Come on, +there she goes. See you after two more dances.” + + + +CHAPTER III + +They had dinner in the open-air, tree-walled dining-room, and Saxon +noted that it was Billy who paid the reckoning for the four. They knew +many of the young men and women at the other tables, and greetings and +fun flew back and forth. Bert was very possessive with Mary, almost +roughly so, resting his hand on hers, catching and holding it, and, +once, forcibly slipping off her two rings and refusing to return them +for a long while. At times, when he put his arm around her waist, Mary +promptly disengaged it; and at other times, with elaborate obliviousness +that deceived no one, she allowed it to remain. + +And Saxon, talking little but studying Billy Roberts very intently, was +satisfied that there would be an utter difference in the way he would do +such things... if ever he would do them. Anyway, he'd never paw a girl +as Bert and lots of the other fellows did. She measured the breadth of +Billy's heavy shoulders. + +“Why do they call you 'Big' Bill?” she asked. “You're not so very tall.” + +“Nope,” he agreed. “I'm only five feet eight an' three-quarters. I guess +it must be my weight.” + +“He fights at a hundred an' eighty,” Bert interjected. + +“Oh, cut it,” Billy said quickly, a cloud-rift of displeasure showing +in his eyes. “I ain't a fighter. I ain't fought in six months. I've quit +it. It don't pay.” + +“Yon got two hundred the night you put the Frisco Slasher to the bad,” + Bert urged proudly. + +“Cut it. Cut it now.--Say, Saxon, you ain't so big yourself, are you? +But you're built just right if anybody should ask you. You're round an' +slender at the same time. I bet I can guess your weight.” + +“Everybody guesses over it,” she warned, while inwardly she was puzzled +that she should at the same time be glad and regretful that he did not +fight any more. + +“Not me,” he was saying. “I'm a wooz at weight-guessin'. Just you watch +me.” He regarded her critically, and it was patent that warm approval +played its little rivalry with the judgment of his gaze. “Wait a +minute.” + +He reached over to her and felt her arm at the biceps. The pressure of +the encircling fingers was firm and honest, and Saxon thrilled to it. +There was magic in this man-boy. She would have known only irritation +had Bert or any other man felt her arm. But this man! IS HE THE MAN? she +was questioning, when he voiced his conclusion. + +“Your clothes don't weigh more'n seven pounds. And seven from--hum--say +one hundred an' twenty-three--one hundred an' sixteen is your stripped +weight.” + +But at the penultimate word, Mary cried out with sharp reproof: + +“Why, Billy Roberts, people don't talk about such things.” + +He looked at her with slow-growing, uncomprehending surprise. + +“What things?” he demanded finally. + +“There you go again! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Look! You've +got Saxon blushing!” + +“I am not,” Saxon denied indignantly. + +“An' if you keep on, Mary, you'll have me blushing,” Billy growled. “I +guess I know what's right an' what ain't. It ain't what a guy says, but +what he thinks. An' I'm thinkin' right, an' Saxon knows it. An' she an' +I ain't thinkin' what you're thinkin' at all.” + +“Oh! Oh!” Mary cried. “You're gettin' worse an' worse. I never think +such things.” + +“Whoa, Mary! Back up!” Bert checked her peremptorily. “You're in the +wrong stall. Billy never makes mistakes like that.” + +“But he needn't be so raw,” she persisted. + +“Come on, Mary, an' be good, an' cut that stuff,” was Billy's dismissal +of her, as he turned to Saxon. “How near did I come to it?” + +“One hundred and twenty-two,” she answered, looking deliberately at +Mary. “One twenty two with my clothes.” + +Billy burst into hearty laughter, in which Bert joined. + +“I don't care,” Mary protested, “You're terrible, both of you--an' you, +too, Saxon. I'd never a-thought it of you.” + +“Listen to me, kid,” Bert began soothingly, as his arm slipped around +her waist. + +But in the false excitement she had worked herself into, Mary rudely +repulsed the arm, and then, fearing that she had wounded her lover's +feelings, she took advantage of the teasing and banter to recover +her good humor. His arm was permitted to return, and with heads bent +together, they talked in whispers. + +Billy discreetly began to make conversation with Saxon. + +“Say, you know, your name is a funny one. I never heard it tagged on +anybody before. But it's all right. I like it.” + +“My mother gave it to me. She was educated, and knew all kinds of words. +She was always reading books, almost until she died. And she wrote lots +and lots. I've got some of her poetry published in a San Jose newspaper +long ago. The Saxons were a race of people--she told me all about them +when I was a little girl. They were wild, like Indians, only they were +white. And they had blue eyes, and yellow hair, and they were awful +fighters.” + +As she talked, Billy followed her solemnly, his eyes steadily turned on +hers. + +“Never heard of them,” he confessed. “Did they live anywhere around +here?” + +She laughed. + +“No. They lived in England. They were the first English, and you know +the Americans came from the English. We're Saxons, you an' me, an' Mary, +an' Bert, and all the Americans that are real Americans, you know, and +not Dagoes and Japs and such.” + +“My folks lived in America a long time,” Billy said slowly, digesting +the information she had given and relating himself to it. “Anyway, my +mother's folks did. They crossed to Maine hundreds of years ago.” + +“My father was 'State of Maine,” she broke in, with a little gurgle of +joy. “And my mother was born in Ohio, or where Ohio is now. She used to +call it the Great Western Reserve. What was your father?” + +“Don't know.” Billy shrugged his shoulders. “He didn't know himself. +Nobody ever knew, though he was American, all right, all right.” + +“His name's regular old American,” Saxon suggested. “There's a big +English general right now whose name is Roberts. I've read it in the +papers.” + +“But Roberts wasn't my father's name. He never knew what his name was. +Roberts was the name of a gold-miner who adopted him. You see, it was +this way. When they was Indian-fightin' up there with the Modoc Indians, +a lot of the miners an' settlers took a hand. Roberts was captain of one +outfit, and once, after a fight, they took a lot of prisoners--squaws, +an' kids an' babies. An' one of the kids was my father. They figured he +was about five years old. He didn't know nothin' but Indian.” + +Saxon clapped her hands, and her eyes sparkled: “He'd been captured on +an Indian raid!” + +“That's the way they figured it,” Billy nodded. “They recollected a +wagon-train of Oregon settlers that'd been killed by the Modocs four +years before. Roberts adopted him, and that's why I don't know his real +name. But you can bank on it, he crossed the plains just the same.” + +“So did my father,” Saxon said proudly. + +“An' my mother, too,” Billy added, pride touching his own voice. +“Anyway, she came pretty close to crossin' the plains, because she was +born in a wagon on the River Platte on the way out.” + +“My mother, too,” said Saxon. “She was eight years old, an' she walked +most of the way after the oxen began to give out.” + +Billy thrust out his hand. + +“Put her there, kid,” he said. “We're just like old friends, what with +the same kind of folks behind us.” + +With shining eyes, Saxon extended her hand to his, and gravely they +shook. + +“Isn't it wonderful?” she murmured. “We're both old American stock. And +if you aren't a Saxon there never was one--your hair, your eyes, your +skin, everything. And you're a fighter, too.” + +“I guess all our old folks was fighters when it comes to that. It come +natural to 'em, an' dog-gone it, they just had to fight or they'd never +come through.” + +“What are you two talkin' about?” Mary broke in upon them. + +“They're thicker'n mush in no time,” Bert girded. “You'd think they'd +known each other a week already.” + +“Oh, we knew each other longer than that,” Saxon returned. “Before ever +we were born our folks were walkin' across the plains together.” + +“When your folks was waitin' for the railroad to be built an' all the +Indians killed off before they dasted to start for California,” was +Billy's way of proclaiming the new alliance. “We're the real goods, +Saxon an' me, if anybody should ride up on a buzz-wagon an' ask you.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” Mary boasted with quiet petulance. “My father stayed +behind to fight in the Civil War. He was a drummer-boy. That's why he +didn't come to California until afterward.” + +“And my father went back to fight in the Civil War,” Saxon said. + +“And mine, too,” said Billy. + +They looked at each other gleefully. Again they had found a new contact. + +“Well, they're all dead, ain't they?” was Bert's saturnine comment. +“There ain't no difference dyin' in battle or in the poorhouse. The +thing is they're deado. I wouldn't care a rap if my father'd been +hanged. It's all the same in a thousand years. This braggin' about folks +makes me tired. Besides, my father couldn't a-fought. He wasn't born +till two years after the war. Just the same, two of my uncles were +killed at Gettysburg. Guess we done our share.” + +“Just like that,” Mary applauded. + +Bert's arm went around her waist again. + +“We're here, ain't we?” he said. “An' that's what counts. The dead are +dead, an' you can bet your sweet life they just keep on stayin' dead.” + +Mary put her hand over his mouth and began to chide him for his +awfulness, whereupon he kissed the palm of her hand and put his head +closer to hers. + +The merry clatter of dishes was increasing as the dining-room filled up. +Here and there voices were raised in snatches of song. There were +shrill squeals and screams and bursts of heavier male laughter as the +everlasting skirmishing between the young men and girls played on. Among +some of the men the signs of drink were already manifest. At a near +table girls were calling out to Billy. And Saxon, the sense of temporary +possession already strong on her, noted with jealous eyes that he was a +favorite and desired object to them. + +“Ain't they awful?” Mary voiced her disapproval. “They got a nerve. I +know who they are. No respectable girl 'd have a thing to do with them. +Listen to that!” + +“Oh, you Bill, you,” one of them, a buxom young brunette, was calling. +“Hope you ain't forgotten me, Bill.” + +“Oh, you chicken,” he called back gallantly. + +Saxon flattered herself that he showed vexation, and she conceived an +immense dislike for the brunette. + +“Goin' to dance?” the latter called. + +“Mebbe,” he answered, and turned abruptly to Saxon. “Say, we old +Americans oughta stick together, don't you think? They ain't many of us +left. The country's fillin' up with all kinds of foreigners.” + +He talked on steadily, in a low, confidential voice, head close to hers, +as advertisement to the other girl that he was occupied. + +From the next table on the opposite side, a young man had singled out +Saxon. His dress was tough. His companions, male and female, were tough. +His face was inflamed, his eyes touched with wildness. + +“Hey, you!” he called. “You with the velvet slippers. Me for you.” + +The girl beside him put her arm around his neck and tried to hush him, +and through the mufflement of her embrace they could hear him gurgling: + +“I tell you she's some goods. Watch me go across an' win her from them +cheap skates.” + +“Butchertown hoodlums,” Mary sniffed. + +Saxon's eyes encountered the eyes of the girl, who glared hatred across +at her. And in Billy's eyes she saw moody anger smouldering. The eyes +were more sullen, more handsome than ever, and clouds and veils and +lights and shadows shifted and deepened in the blue of them until they +gave her a sense of unfathomable depth. He had stopped talking, and he +made no effort to talk. + +“Don't start a rough house, Bill,” Bert cautioned. “They're from across +the bay an' they don't know you, that's all.” + +Bert stood up suddenly, stepped over to the other table, whispered +briefly, and came back. Every face at the table was turned on Billy. The +offender arose brokenly, shook off the detaining hand of his girl, and +came over. He was a large man, with a hard, malignant face and bitter +eyes. Also, he was a subdued man. + +“You're Big Bill Roberts,” he said thickly, clinging to the table as he +reeled. “I take my hat off to you. I apologize. I admire your taste in +skirts, an' take it from me that's a compliment; but I didn't know who +you was. If I'd knowed you was Bill Roberts there wouldn't been a peep +from my fly-trap. D'ye get me? I apologize. Will you shake hands?” + +Gruffly, Billy said, “It's all right--forget it, sport;” and sullenly +he shook hands and with a slow, massive movement thrust the other back +toward his own table. + +Saxon was glowing. Here was a man, a protector, something to lean +against, of whom even the Butchertown toughs were afraid as soon as his +name was mentioned. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +After dinner there were two dances in the pavilion, and then the band +led the way to the race track for the games. The dancers followed, and +all through the grounds the picnic parties left their tables to join in. +Five thousand packed the grassy slopes of the amphitheater and swarmed +inside the race track. Here, first of the events, the men were lining +up for a tug of war. The contest was between the Oakland Bricklayers and +the San Francisco Bricklayers, and the picked braves, huge and heavy, +were taking their positions along the rope. They kicked heel-holds in +the soft earth, rubbed their hands with the soil from underfoot, and +laughed and joked with the crowd that surged about them. + +The judges and watchers struggled vainly to keep back this crowd of +relatives and friends. The Celtic blood was up, and the Celtic faction +spirit ran high. The air was filled with cries of cheer, advice, +warning, and threat. Many elected to leave the side of their own team +and go to the side of the other team with the intention of circumventing +foul play. There were as many women as men among the jostling +supporters. The dust from the trampling, scuffling feet rose in the air, +and Mary gasped and coughed and begged Bert to take her away. But he, +the imp in him elated with the prospect of trouble, insisted on urging +in closer. Saxon clung to Billy, who slowly and methodically elbowed and +shouldered a way for her. + +“No place for a girl,” he grumbled, looking down at her with a masked +expression of absent-mindedness, while his elbow powerfully crushed on +the ribs of a big Irishman who gave room. “Things'll break loose when +they start pullin'. They's been too much drink, an' you know what the +Micks are for a rough house.” + +Saxon was very much out of place among these large-bodied men and women. +She seemed very small and childlike, delicate and fragile, a creature +from another race. Only Billy's skilled bulk and muscle saved her. +He was continually glancing from face to face of the women and always +returning to study her face, nor was she unaware of the contrast he was +making. + +Some excitement occurred a score of feet away from them, and to the +sound of exclamations and blows a surge ran through the crowd. A large +man, wedged sidewise in the jam, was shoved against Saxon, crushing her +closely against Billy, who reached across to the man's shoulder with a +massive thrust that was not so slow as usual. An involuntary grunt came +from the victim, who turned his head, showing sun-reddened blond skin +and unmistakable angry Irish eyes. + +“What's eatin' yeh?” he snarled. + +“Get off your foot; you're standin' on it,” was Billy's contemptuous +reply, emphasized by an increase of thrust. + +The Irishman grunted again and made a frantic struggle to twist his body +around, but the wedging bodies on either side held him in a vise. + +“I'll break yer ugly face for yeh in a minute,” he announced in +wrath-thick tones. + +Then his own face underwent transformation. The snarl left the lips, and +the angry eyes grew genial. + +“An' sure an' it's yerself,” he said. “I didn't know it was yeh +a-shovin'. I seen yeh lick the Terrible Swede, if yeh WAS robbed on the +decision.” + +“No, you didn't, Bo,” Billy answered pleasantly. “You saw me take a good +beatin' that night. The decision was all right.” + +The Irishman was now beaming. He had endeavored to pay a compliment with +a lie, and the prompt repudiation of the lie served only to increase his +hero-worship. + +“Sure, an' a bad beatin' it was,” he acknowledged, “but yeh showed the +grit of a bunch of wildcats. Soon as I can get me arm free I'm goin' to +shake yeh by the hand an' help yeh aise yer young lady.” + +Frustrated in the struggle to get the crowd back, the referee fired his +revolver in the air, and the tug-of-war was on. Pandemonium broke loose. +Saxon, protected by the two big men, was near enough to the front to +see much that ensued. The men on the rope pulled and strained till their +faces were red with effort and their joints crackled. The rope was +new, and, as their hands slipped, their wives and daughters sprang in, +scooping up the earth in double handfuls and pouring it on the rope and +the hands of their men to give them better grip. + +A stout, middle-aged woman, carried beyond herself by the passion of the +contest, seized the rope and pulled beside her husband, encouraged him +with loud cries. A watcher from the opposing team dragged her screaming +away and was dropped like a steer by an ear-blow from a partisan from +the woman's team. He, in turn, went down, and brawny women joined with +their men in the battle. Vainly the judges and watchers begged, +pleaded, yelled, and swung with their fists. Men, as well as women, +were springing in to the rope and pulling. No longer was it team against +team, but all Oakland against all San Francisco, festooned with a +free-for-all fight. Hands overlaid hands two and three deep in the +struggle to grasp the rope. And hands that found no holds, doubled into +bunches of knuckles that impacted on the jaws of the watchers who strove +to tear hand-holds from the rope. + +Bert yelped with joy, while Mary clung to him, mad with fear. Close to +the rope the fighters were going down and being trampled. The dust arose +in clouds, while from beyond, all around, unable to get into the battle, +could be heard the shrill and impotent rage-screams and rage-yells of +women and men. + +“Dirty work, dirty work,” Billy muttered over and over; and, though he +saw much that occurred, assisted by the friendly Irishman he was coolly +and safely working Saxon back out of the melee. + +At last the break came. The losing team, accompanied by its host of +volunteers, was dragged in a rush over the ground and disappeared under +the avalanche of battling forms of the onlookers. + +Leaving Saxon under the protection of the Irishman in an outer eddy +of calm, Billy plunged back into the mix-up. Several minutes later he +emerged with the missing couple--Bert bleeding from a blow on the ear, +but hilarious, and Mary rumpled and hysterical. + +“This ain't sport,” she kept repeating. “It's a shame, a dirty shame.” + +“We got to get outa this,” Billy said. “The fun's only commenced.” + +“Aw, wait,” Bert begged. “It's worth eight dollars. It's cheap at any +price. I ain't seen so many black eyes and bloody noses in a month of +Sundays.” + +“Well, go on back an' enjoy yourself,” Billy commended. “I'll take the +girls up there on the side hill where we can look on. But I won't give +much for your good looks if some of them Micks lands on you.” + +The trouble was over in an amazingly short time, for from the judges' +stand beside the track the announcer was bellowing the start of the +boys' foot-race; and Bert, disappointed, joined Billy and the two girls +on the hillside looking down upon the track. + +There were boys' races and girls' races, races of young women and old +women, of fat men and fat women, sack races and three-legged races, +and the contestants strove around the small track through a Bedlam of +cheering supporters. The tug-of-war was already forgotten, and good +nature reigned again. + +Five young men toed the mark, crouching with fingertips to the +ground and waiting the starter's revolver-shot. Three were in their +stocking-feet, and the remaining two wore spiked running-shoes. + +“Young men's race,” Bert read from the program. “An' only one +prize--twenty-five dollars. See the red-head with the spikes--the one +next to the outside. San Francisco's set on him winning. He's their +crack, an' there's a lot of bets up.” + +“Who's goin' to win?” Mary deferred to Billy's superior athletic +knowledge. + +“How can I tell!” he answered. “I never saw any of 'em before. But they +all look good to me. May the best one win, that's all.” + +The revolver was fired, and the five runners were off and away. Three +were outdistanced at the start. Redhead led, with a black-haired young +man at his shoulder, and it was plain that the race lay between these +two. Halfway around, the black-haired one took the lead in a spurt +that was intended to last to the finish. Ten feet he gained, nor could +Red-head cut it down an inch. + +“The boy's a streak,” Billy commented. “He ain't tryin' his hardest, an' +Red-head's just bustin' himself.” + +Still ten feet in the lead, the black-haired one breasted the tape in a +hubbub of cheers. Yet yells of disapproval could be distinguished. Bert +hugged himself with joy. + +“Mm-mm,” he gloated. “Ain't Frisco sore? Watch out for fireworks now. +See! He's bein' challenged. The judges ain't payin' him the money. An' +he's got a gang behind him. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ain't had so much fun since my +old woman broke her leg!” + +“Why don't they pay him, Billy?” Saxon asked. “He won.” + +“The Frisco bunch is challengin' him for a professional,” Billy +elucidated. “That's what they're all beefin' about. But it ain't right. +They all ran for that money, so they're all professional.” + +The crowd surged and argued and roared in front of the judges' stand. +The stand was a rickety, two-story affair, the second story open at the +front, and here the judges could be seen debating as heatedly as the +crowd beneath them. + +“There she starts!” Bert cried. “Oh, you rough-house!” + +The black-haired racer, backed by a dozen supporters, was climbing the +outside stairs to the judges. + +“The purse-holder's his friend,” Billy said. “See, he's paid him, an' +some of the judges is willin' an' some are beefin'. An' now that +other gang's going up--they're Redhead's.” He turned to Saxon with a +reassuring smile. “We're well out of it this time. There's goin' to be +rough stuff down there in a minute.” + +“The judges are tryin' to make him give the money back,” Bert explained. +“An' if he don't the other gang'll take it away from him. See! They're +reachin' for it now.” + +High above his head, the winner held the roll of paper containing the +twenty-five silver dollars. His gang, around him, was shouldering back +those who tried to seize the money. No blows had been struck yet, but +the struggle increased until the frail structure shook and swayed. From +the crowd beneath the winner was variously addressed: “Give it back, you +dog!” “Hang on to it, Tim!” “You won fair, Timmy!” “Give it back, you +dirty robber!” Abuse unprintable as well as friendly advice was hurled +at him. + +The struggle grew more violent. Tim's supporters strove to hold him off +the floor so that his hand would still be above the grasping hands that +shot up. Once, for an instant, his arm was jerked down. Again it went +up. But evidently the paper had broken, and with a last desperate +effort, before he went down, Tim flung the coin out in a silvery shower +upon the heads of the crowd beneath. Then ensued a weary period of +arguing and quarreling. + +“I wish they'd finish, so as we could get back to the dancin',” Mary +complained. “This ain't no fun.” + +Slowly and painfully the judges' stand was cleared, and an announcer, +stepping to the front of the stand, spread his arms appealing for +silence. The angry clamor died down. + + “The judges have decided,” he shouted, “that this day of good +fellowship an' brotherhood--” + +“Hear! Hear!” Many of the cooler heads applauded. “That's the stuff!” + “No fightin'!” “No hard feelin's!” + +“An' therefore,” the announcer became audible again, “the judges have +decided to put up another purse of twenty-five dollars an' run the race +over again!” + +“An' Tim?” bellowed scores of throats. “What about Tim?” “He's been +robbed!” “The judges is rotten!” + +Again the announcer stilled the tumult with his arm appeal. + +“The judges have decided, for the sake of good feelin', that Timothy +McManus will also run. If he wins, the money's his.” + +“Now wouldn't that jar you?” Billy grumbled disgustedly. “If Tim's +eligible now, he was eligible the first time. An' if he was eligible the +first time, then the money was his.” + +“Red-head'll bust himself wide open this time,” Bert jubilated. + +“An' so will Tim,” Billy rejoined. “You can bet he's mad clean through, +and he'll let out the links he was holdin' in last time.” + +Another quarter of an hour was spent in clearing the track of the +excited crowd, and this time only Tim and Red-head toed the mark. The +other three young men had abandoned the contest. + +The leap of Tim, at the report of the revolver, put him a clean yard in +the lead. + +“I guess he's professional, all right, all right,” Billy remarked. “An' +just look at him go!” + +Half-way around, Tim led by fifty feet, and, running swiftly, +maintaining the same lead, he came down the homestretch an easy winner. +When directly beneath the group on the hillside, the incredible and +unthinkable happened. Standing close to the inside edge of the track was +a dapper young man with a light switch cane. He was distinctly out of +place in such a gathering, for upon him was no ear-mark of the working +class. Afterward, Bert was of the opinion that he looked like a swell +dancing master, while Billy called him “the dude.” + +So far as Timothy McManus was concerned, the dapper young man was +destiny; for as Tim passed him, the young man, with utmost deliberation, +thrust his cane between Tim's flying legs. Tim sailed through the air in +a headlong pitch, struck spread-eagled on his face, and plowed along in +a cloud of dust. + +There was an instant of vast and gasping silence. The young man, too, +seemed petrified by the ghastliness of his deed. It took an appreciable +interval of time for him, as well as for the onlookers, to realize what +he had done. They recovered first, and from a thousand throats the wild +Irish yell went up. Red-head won the race without a cheer. The storm +center had shifted to the young man with the cane. After the yell, he +had one moment of indecision; then he turned and darted up the track. + +“Go it, sport!” Bert cheered, waving his hat in the air. “You're the +goods for me! Who'd a-thought it? Who'd a-thought it? Say!--wouldn't it, +now? Just wouldn't it?” + +“Phew! He's a streak himself,” Billy admired. “But what did he do it +for? He's no bricklayer.” + +Like a frightened rabbit, the mad roar at his heels, the young man tore +up the track to an open space on the hillside, up which he clawed +and disappeared among the trees. Behind him toiled a hundred vengeful +runners. + +“It's too bad he's missing the rest of it,” Billy said. “Look at 'em +goin' to it.” + +Bert was beside himself. He leaped up and down and cried continuously. + +“Look at 'em! Look at 'em! Look at 'em!” + +The Oakland faction was outraged. Twice had its favorite runner been +jobbed out of the race. This last was only another vile trick of the +Frisco faction. So Oakland doubled its brawny fists and swung into San +Francisco for blood. And San Francisco, consciously innocent, was no +less willing to join issues. To be charged with such a crime was no less +monstrous than the crime itself. Besides, for too many tedious hours +had the Irish heroically suppressed themselves. Five thousands of them +exploded into joyous battle. The women joined with them. The whole +amphitheater was filled with the conflict. There were rallies, retreats, +charges, and counter-charges. Weaker groups were forced fighting up +the hillsides. Other groups, bested, fled among the trees to carry +on guerrilla warfare, emerging in sudden dashes to overwhelm isolated +enemies. Half a dozen special policemen, hired by the Weasel Park +management, received an impartial trouncing from both sides. + +“Nobody's the friend of a policeman,” Bert chortled, dabbing his +handkerchief to his injured ear, which still bled. + +The bushes crackled behind him, and he sprang aside to let the locked +forms of two men go by, rolling over and over down the hill, each +striking when uppermost, and followed by a screaming woman who rained +blows on the one who was patently not of her clan. + +The judges, in the second story of the stand, valiantly withstood +a fierce assault until the frail structure toppled to the ground in +splinters. + +“What's that woman doing?” Saxon asked, calling attention to an elderly +woman beneath them on the track, who had sat down and was pulling from +her foot an elastic-sided shoe of generous dimensions. + +“Goin' swimming,” Bert chuckled, as the stocking followed. + +They watched, fascinated. The shoe was pulled on again over the bare +foot. Then the woman slipped a rock the size of her fist into the +stocking, and, brandishing this ancient and horrible weapon, lumbered +into the nearest fray. + +“Oh!--Oh!--Oh!” Bert screamed, with every blow she struck. “Hey, old +flannel-mouth! Watch out! You'll get yours in a second. Oh! Oh! A peach! +Did you see it? Hurray for the old lady! Look at her tearin' into 'em! +Watch out, old girl!... Ah-h-h.” + +His voice died away regretfully, as the one with the stocking, whose +hair had been clutched from behind by another Amazon, was whirled about +in a dizzy semicircle. + +Vainly Mary clung to his arm, shaking him back and forth and +remonstrating. + +“Can't you be sensible?” she cried. “It's awful! I tell you it's awful!” + +But Bert was irrepressible. + +“Go it, old girl!” he encouraged. “You win! Me for you every time! Now's +your chance! Swat! Oh! My! A peach! A peach!” + +“It's the biggest rough-house I ever saw,” Billy confided to Saxon. “It +sure takes the Micks to mix it. But what did that dude wanta do it for? +That's what gets me. He wasn't a bricklayer--not even a workingman--just +a regular sissy dude that didn't know a livin' soul in the grounds. But +if he wanted to raise a rough-house he certainly done it. Look at 'em. +They're fightin' everywhere.” + +He broke into sudden laughter, so hearty that the tears came into his +eyes. + +“What is it?” Saxon asked, anxious not to miss anything. + +“It's that dude,” Billy explained between gusts. “What did he wanta do +it for? That's what gets my goat. What'd he wanta do it for?” + +There was more crashing in the brush, and two women erupted upon the +scene, one in flight, the other pursuing. Almost ere they could realize +it, the little group found itself merged in the astounding conflict that +covered, if not the face of creation, at least all the visible landscape +of Weasel Park. + +The fleeing woman stumbled in rounding the end of a picnic bench, and +would have been caught had she not seized Mary's arm to recover balance, +and then flung Mary full into the arms of the woman who pursued. This +woman, largely built, middle-aged, and too irate to comprehend, clutched +Mary's hair by one hand and lifted the other to smack her. Before the +blow could fall, Billy had seized both the woman's wrists. + +“Come on, old girl, cut it out,” he said appeasingly. “You're in wrong. +She ain't done nothin'.” + +Then the woman did a strange thing. Making no resistance, but +maintaining her hold on the girl's hair, she stood still and calmly +began to scream. The scream was hideously compounded of fright and fear. +Yet in her face was neither fright nor fear. She regarded Billy coolly +and appraisingly, as if to see how he took it--her scream merely the cry +to the clan for help. + +“Aw, shut up, you battleax!” Bert vociferated, trying to drag her off by +the shoulders. + +The result was that the four rocked back and forth, while the woman +calmly went on screaming. The scream became touched with triumph as more +crashing was heard in the brush. + +Saxon saw Billy's slow eyes glint suddenly to the hardness of steel, and +at the same time she saw him put pressure on his wrist-holds. The woman +released her grip on Mary and was shoved back and free. Then the first +man of the rescue was upon them. He did not pause to inquire into the +merits of the affair. It was sufficient that he saw the woman reeling +away from Billy and screaming with pain that was largely feigned. + +“It's all a mistake,” Billy cried hurriedly. “We apologize, sport--” + +The Irishman swung ponderously. Billy ducked, cutting his apology short, +and as the sledge-like fist passed over his head, he drove his left to +the other's jaw. The big Irishman toppled over sidewise and sprawled +on the edge of the slope. Half-scrambled back to his feet and out of +balance, he was caught by Bert's fist, and this time went clawing down +the slope that was slippery with short, dry grass. Bert was redoubtable. +“That for you, old girl--my compliments,” was his cry, as he shoved the +woman over the edge on to the treacherous slope. Three more men were +emerging from the brush. + +In the meantime, Billy had put Saxon in behind the protection of the +picnic table. Mary, who was hysterical, had evinced a desire to cling to +him, and he had sent her sliding across the top of the table to Saxon. + +“Come on, you flannel-mouths!” Bert yelled at the newcomers, himself +swept away by passion, his black eyes flashing wildly, his dark face +inflamed by the too-ready blood. “Come on, you cheap skates! Talk about +Gettysburg. We'll show you all the Americans ain't dead yet!” + +“Shut your trap--we don't want a scrap with the girls here,” Billy +growled harshly, holding his position in front of the table. He turned +to the three rescuers, who were bewildered by the lack of anything +visible to rescue. “Go on, sports. We don't want a row. You're in wrong. +They ain't nothin' doin' in the fight line. We don't wanta fight--d'ye +get me?” + +They still hesitated, and Billy might have succeeded in avoiding trouble +had not the man who had gone down the bank chosen that unfortunate +moment to reappear, crawling groggily on hands and knees and showing a +bleeding face. Again Bert reached him and sent him downslope, and the +other three, with wild yells, sprang in on Billy, who punched, shifted +position, ducked and punched, and shifted again ere he struck the third +time. His blows were clean and hard, scientifically delivered, with the +weight of his body behind. + +Saxon, looking on, saw his eyes and learned more about him. She was +frightened, but clear-seeing, and she was startled by the disappearance +of all depth of light and shadow in his eyes. They showed surface +only--a hard, bright surface, almost glazed, devoid of all expression +save deadly seriousness. Bert's eyes showed madness. The eyes of the +Irishmen were angry and serious, and yet not all serious. There was a +wayward gleam in them, as if they enjoyed the fracas. But in Billy's +eyes was no enjoyment. It was as if he had certain work to do and had +doggedly settled down to do it. + +Scarcely more expression did she note in the face, though there was +nothing in common between it and the one she had seen all day. The +boyishness had vanished. This face was mature in a terrifying, ageless +way. There was no anger in it, nor was it even pitiless. It seemed to +have glazed as hard and passionlessly as his eyes. Something came to her +of her wonderful mother's tales of the ancient Saxons, and he seemed to +her one of those Saxons, and she caught a glimpse, on the well of her +consciousness, of a long, dark boat, with a prow like the beak of a bird +of prey, and of huge, half-naked men, wing-helmeted, and one of their +faces, it seemed to her, was his face. She did not reason this. She felt +it, and visioned it as by an unthinkable clairvoyance, and gasped, for +the flurry of war was over. It had lasted only seconds, Bert was dancing +on the edge of the slippery slope and mocking the vanquished who had +slid impotently to the bottom. But Billy took charge. + +“Come on, you girls,” he commanded. “Get onto yourself, Bert. We got to +get outa this. We can't fight an army.” + +He led the retreat, holding Saxon's arm, and Bert, giggling and +jubilant, brought up the rear with an indignant Mary who protested +vainly in his unheeding ears. + +For a hundred yards they ran and twisted through the trees, and then, +no signs of pursuit appearing, they slowed down to a dignified saunter. +Bert, the trouble-seeker, pricked his ears to the muffled sound of blows +and sobs, and stepped aside to investigate. + +“Oh! look what I've found!” he called. + +They joined him on the edge of a dry ditch and looked down. In the +bottom were two men, strays from the fight, grappled together and still +fighting. They were weeping out of sheer fatigue and helplessness, +and the blows they only occasionally struck were open-handed and +ineffectual. + +“Hey, you, sport--throw sand in his eyes,” Bert counseled. “That's it, +blind him an' he's your'n.” + +“Stop that!” Billy shouted at the man, who was following instructions, +“Or I'll come down there an' beat you up myself. It's all over--d'ye get +me? It's all over an' everybody's friends. Shake an' make up. The drinks +are on both of you. That's right--here, gimme your hand an' I'll pull +you out.” + +They left them shaking hands and brushing each other's clothes. + +“It soon will be over,” Billy grinned to Saxon. “I know 'em. Fight's fun +with them. An' this big scrap's made the day a howlin' success. What did +I tell you!--look over at that table there.” + +A group of disheveled men and women, still breathing heavily, were +shaking hands all around. + +“Come on, let's dance,” Mary pleaded, urging them in the direction of +the pavilion. + +All over the park the warring bricklayers were shaking hands and making +up, while the open-air bars were crowded with the drinkers. + +Saxon walked very close to Billy. She was proud of him. He could fight, +and he could avoid trouble. In all that had occurred he had striven +to avoid trouble. And, also, consideration for her and Mary had been +uppermost in his mind. + +“You are brave,” she said to him. + +“It's like takin' candy from a baby,” he disclaimed. “They only +rough-house. They don't know boxin'. They're wide open, an' all you +gotta do is hit 'em. It ain't real fightin', you know.” With a troubled, +boyish look in his eyes, he stared at his bruised knuckles. “An' I'll +have to drive team to-morrow with 'em,” he lamented. “Which ain't fun, +I'm tellin' you, when they stiffen up.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +At eight o'clock the Al Vista band played “Home, Sweet Home,” and, +following the hurried rush through the twilight to the picnic train, the +four managed to get double seats facing each other. When the aisles and +platforms were packed by the hilarious crowd, the train pulled out for +the short run from the suburbs into Oakland. All the car was singing +a score of songs at once, and Bert, his head pillowed on Mary's breast +with her arms around him, started “On the Banks of the Wabash.” And he +sang the song through, undeterred by the bedlam of two general fights, +one on the adjacent platform, the other at the opposite end of the car, +both of which were finally subdued by special policemen to the screams +of women and the crash of glass. + +Billy sang a lugubrious song of many stanzas about a cowboy, the refrain +of which was, “Bury me out on the lone pr-rairie.” + +“That's one you never heard before; my father used to sing it,” he told +Saxon, who was glad that it was ended. + +She had discovered the first flaw in him. He was tonedeaf. Not once had +he been on the key. + +“I don't sing often,” he added. + +“You bet your sweet life he don't,” Bert exclaimed. “His friends'd kill +him if he did.” + +“They all make fun of my singin',” he complained to Saxon. “Honest, now, +do you find it as rotten as all that?” + +“It's... it's maybe flat a bit,” she admitted reluctantly. + +“It don't sound flat to me,” he protested. “It's a regular josh on me. +I'll bet Bert put you up to it. You sing something now, Saxon. I bet you +sing good. I can tell it from lookin' at you.” + +She began “When the Harvest Days Are Over.” Bert and Mary joined in; but +when Billy attempted to add his voice he was dissuaded by a shin-kick +from Bert. Saxon sang in a clear, true soprano, thin but sweet, and she +was aware that she was singing to Billy. + +“Now THAT is singing what is,” he proclaimed, when she had finished. +“Sing it again. Aw, go on. You do it just right. It's great.” + +His hand slipped to hers and gathered it in, and as she sang again she +felt the tide of his strength flood warmingly through her. + +“Look at 'em holdin' hands,” Bert jeered. “Just a-holdin' hands +like they was afraid. Look at Mary an' me. Come on an' kick in, you +cold-feets. Get together. If you don't, it'll look suspicious. I got my +suspicions already. You're framin' somethin' up.” + +There was no mistaking his innuendo, and Saxon felt her cheeks flaming. + +“Get onto yourself, Bert,” Billy reproved. + +“Shut up!” Mary added the weight of her indignation. “You're +awfully raw, Bert Wanhope, an' I won't have anything more to do with +you--there!” + +She withdrew her arms and shoved him away, only to receive him +forgivingly half a dozen seconds afterward. + + “Come on, the four of us,” Bert went on irrepressibly. “The +night's young. Let's make a time of it--Pabst's Cafe first, and then +some. What you say, Bill? What you say, Saxon? Mary's game.” + +Saxon waited and wondered, half sick with apprehension of this man +beside her whom she had known so short a time. + +“Nope,” he said slowly. “I gotta get up to a hard day's work to-morrow, +and I guess the girls has got to, too.” + +Saxon forgave him his tone-deafness. Here was the kind of man she always +had known existed. It was for some such man that she had waited. She was +twenty-two, and her first marriage offer had come when she was sixteen. +The last had occurred only the month before, from the foreman of the +washing-room, and he had been good and kind, but not young. But this +one beside her--he was strong and kind and good, and YOUNG. She was too +young herself not to desire youth. There would have been rest from fancy +starch with the foreman, but there would have been no warmth. But this +man beside her.... She caught herself on the verge involuntarily of +pressing his hand that held hers. + +“No, Bert, don't tease; he's right,” Mary was saying. “We've got to get +some sleep. It's fancy starch to-morrow, and all day on our feet.” + +It came to Saxon with a chill pang that she was surely older than Billy. +She stole glances at the smoothness of his face, and the essential +boyishness of him, so much desired, shocked her. Of course he would +marry some girl years younger than himself, than herself. How old was +he? Could it be that he was too young for her? As he seemed to grow +inaccessible, she was drawn toward him more compellingly. He was so +strong, so gentle. She lived over the events of the day. There was no +flaw there. He had considered her and Mary, always. And he had torn +the program up and danced only with her. Surely he had liked her, or he +would not have done it. + +She slightly moved her hand in his and felt the harsh contact of his +teamster callouses. The sensation was exquisite. He, too, moved his +hand, to accommodate the shift of hers, and she waited fearfully. She +did not want him to prove like other men, and she could have hated him +had he dared to take advantage of that slight movement of her fingers +and put his arm around her. He did not, and she flamed toward him. +There was fineness in him. He was neither rattle-brained, like Bert, nor +coarse like other men she had encountered. For she had had experiences, +not nice, and she had been made to suffer by the lack of what was termed +chivalry, though she, in turn, lacked that word to describe what she +divined and desired. + +And he was a prizefighter. The thought of it almost made her gasp. Yet +he answered not at all to her conception of a prizefighter. But, then, +he wasn't a prizefighter. He had said he was not. She resolved to ask +him about it some time if... if he took her out again. Yet there was +little doubt of that, for when a man danced with one girl a whole day +he did not drop her immediately. Almost she hoped that he was a +prizefighter. There was a delicious tickle of wickedness about it. +Prizefighters were such terrible and mysterious men. In so far as they +were out of the ordinary and were not mere common workingmen such as +carpenters and laundrymen, they represented romance. Power also they +represented. They did not work for bosses, but spectacularly and +magnificently, with their own might, grappled with the great world and +wrung splendid living from its reluctant hands. Some of them even +owned automobiles and traveled with a retinue of trainers and servants. +Perhaps it had been only Billy's modesty that made him say he had quit +fighting. And yet, there were the callouses on his hands. That showed he +had quit. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +They said good-bye at the gate. Billy betrayed awkwardness that was +sweet to Saxon. He was not one of the take-it-for-granted young men. +There was a pause, while she feigned desire to go into the house, yet +waited in secret eagerness for the words she wanted him to say. + +“When am I goin' to see you again?” he asked, holding her hand in his. + +She laughed consentingly. + +“I live 'way up in East Oakland,” he explained. “You know there's where +the stable is, an' most of our teaming is done in that section, so I +don't knock around down this way much. But, say--” His hand tightened +on hers. “We just gotta dance together some more. I'll tell you, the +Orindore Club has its dance Wednesday. If you haven't a date--have you?” + +“No,” she said. + +“Then Wednesday. What time'll I come for you?” + +And when they had arranged the details, and he had agreed that she +should dance some of the dances with the other fellows, and said good +night again, his hand closed more tightly on hers and drew her toward +him. She resisted slightly, but honestly. It was the custom, but she +felt she ought not for fear he might misunderstand. And yet she wanted +to kiss him as she had never wanted to kiss a man. When it came, her +face upturned to his, she realized that on his part it was an honest +kiss. There hinted nothing behind it. Rugged and kind as himself, it +was virginal almost, and betrayed no long practice in the art of saying +good-bye. All men were not brutes after all, was her thought. + +“Good night,” she murmured; the gate screeched under her hand; and +she hurried along the narrow walk that led around to the corner of the +house. + +“Wednesday,” he called softly. + +“Wednesday,” she answered. + +But in the shadow of the narrow alley between the two houses she stood +still and pleasured in the ring of his foot falls down the cement +sidewalk. Not until they had quite died away did she go on. She crept +up the back stairs and across the kitchen to her room, registering her +thanksgiving that Sarah was asleep. + +She lighted the gas, and, as she removed the little velvet hat, she felt +her lips still tingling with the kiss. Yet it had meant nothing. It was +the way of the young men. They all did it. But their good-night kisses +had never tingled, while this one tingled in her brain as well as on her +lip. What was it? What did it mean? With a sudden impulse she looked +at herself in the glass. The eyes were happy and bright. The color that +tinted her cheeks so easily was in them and glowing. It was a pretty +reflection, and she smiled, partly in joy, partly in appreciation, and +the smile grew at sight of the even rows of strong white teeth. Why +shouldn't Billy like that face? was her unvoiced query. Other men had +liked it. Other men did like it. Even the other girls admitted she was +a good-looker. Charley Long certainly liked it from the way he made life +miserable for her. + +She glanced aside to the rim of the looking-glass where his photograph +was wedged, shuddered, and made a moue of distaste. There was cruelty +in those eyes, and brutishness. He was a brute. For a year, now, he had +bullied her. Other fellows were afraid to go with her. He warned them +off. She had been forced into almost slavery to his attentions. She +remembered the young bookkeeper at the laundry--not a workingman, but +a soft-handed, soft-voiced gentleman--whom Charley had beaten up at +the corner because he had been bold enough to come to take her to the +theater. And she had been helpless. For his own sake she had never dared +accept another invitation to go out with him. + +And now, Wednesday night, she was going with Billy. Billy! Her heart +leaped. There would be trouble, but Billy would save her from him. She'd +like to see him try and beat Billy up. + +With a quick movement, she jerked the photograph from its niche and +threw it face down upon the chest of drawers. It fell beside a small +square case of dark and tarnished leather. With a feeling as of +profanation she again seized the offending photograph and flung it +across the room into a corner. At the same time she picked up the +leather case. Springing it open, she gazed at the daguerreotype of a +worn little woman with steady gray eyes and a hopeful, pathetic mouth. +Opposite, on the velvet lining, done in gold lettering, was, CARLTON +FROM DAISY. She read it reverently, for it represented the father she +had never known, and the mother she had so little known, though she +could never forget that those wise sad eyes were gray. + +Despite lack of conventional religion, Saxon's nature was deeply +religious. Her thoughts of God were vague and nebulous, and there +she was frankly puzzled. She could not vision God. Here, in the +daguerreotype, was the concrete; much she had grasped from it, and +always there seemed an infinite more to grasp. She did not go to church. +This was her high altar and holy of holies. She came to it in trouble, +in loneliness, for counsel, divination, and comfort. In so far as she +found herself different from the girls of her acquaintance, she quested +here to try to identify her characteristics in the pictured face. Her +mother had been different from other women, too. This, forsooth, meant +to her what God meant to others. To this she strove to be true, and not +to hurt nor vex. And how little she really knew of her mother, and of +how much was conjecture and surmise, she was unaware; for it was through +many years she had erected this mother-myth. + +Yet was it all myth? She resented the doubt with quick jealousy, and, +opening the bottom drawer of the chest, drew forth a battered portfolio. +Out rolled manuscripts, faded and worn, and arose a faint far scent of +sweet-kept age. The writing was delicate and curled, with the quaint +fineness of half a century before. She read a stanza to herself: + +“Sweet as a wind-lute's airy strains Your gentle muse has learned to +sing, And California's boundless plains Prolong the soft notes echoing.” + +She wondered, for the thousandth time, what a windlute was; yet much +of beauty, much of beyondness, she sensed of this dimly remembered +beautiful mother of hers. She communed a while, then unrolled a second +manuscript. “To C. B.,” it read. To Carlton Brown, she knew, to her +father, a love-poem from her mother. Saxon pondered the opening lines: + +“I have stolen away from the crowd in the groves, Where the nude statues +stand, and the leaves point and shiver At ivy-crowned Bacchus, the Queen +of the Loves, Pandora and Psyche, struck voiceless forever.” + +This, too, was beyond her. But she breathed the beauty of it. Bacchus, +and Pandora and Psyche--talismans to conjure with! But alas! the +necromancy was her mother's. Strange, meaningless words that meant so +much! Her marvelous mother had known their meaning. Saxon spelled +the three words aloud, letter by letter, for she did not dare their +pronunciation; and in her consciousness glimmered august connotations, +profound and unthinkable. Her mind stumbled and halted on the +star-bright and dazzling boundaries of a world beyond her world in which +her mother had roamed at will. Again and again, solemnly, she went over +the four lines. They were radiance and light to the world, haunted with +phantoms of pain and unrest, in which she had her being. There, hidden +among those cryptic singing lines, was the clue. If she could only grasp +it, all would be made clear. Of this she was sublimely confident. She +would understand Sarah's sharp tongue, her unhappy brother, the cruelty +of Charley Long, the justness of the bookkeeper's beating, the day-long, +month-long, year-long toil at the ironing-board. + +She skipped a stanza that she knew was hopelessly beyond her, and tried +again: + + “The dusk of the greenhouse is luminous yet + With quivers of opal and tremors of gold; + For the sun is at rest, and the light from the west, + Like delicate wine that is mellow and old, + +“Flushes faintly the brow of a naiad that stands In the spray of a +fountain, whose seed-amethysts Tremble lightly a moment on bosom and +hands, Then dip in their basin from bosom and wrists.” + +“It's beautiful, just beautiful,” she sighed. And then, appalled at the +length of all the poem, at the volume of the mystery, she rolled the +manuscript and put it away. Again she dipped in the drawer, seeking the +clue among the cherished fragments of her mother's hidden soul. + +This time it was a small package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with +ribbon. She opened it carefully, with the deep gravity and circumstance +of a priest before an altar. Appeared a little red-satin Spanish +girdle, whale-boned like a tiny corset, pointed, the pioneer finery of +a frontier woman who had crossed the plains. It was hand-made after the +California-Spanish model of forgotten days. The very whalebone had been +home-shaped of the raw material from the whaleships traded for in hides +and tallow. The black lace trimming her mother had made. The triple +edging of black velvet strips--her mother's hands had sewn the stitches. + +Saxon dreamed over it in a maze of incoherent thought. This was +concrete. This she understood. This she worshiped as man-created gods +have been worshiped on less tangible evidence of their sojourn on earth. + +Twenty-two inches it measured around. She knew it out of many +verifications. She stood up and put it about her waist. This was part of +the ritual. It almost met. In places it did meet. Without her dress it +would meet everywhere as it had met on her mother. Closest of all, this +survival of old California-Ventura days brought Saxon in touch. Hers was +her mother's form. Physically, she was like her mother. Her grit, her +ability to turn off work that was such an amazement to others, were +her mother's. Just so had her mother been an amazement to her +generation--her mother, the toy-like creature, the smallest and the +youngest of the strapping pioneer brood, who nevertheless had mothered +the brood. Always it had been her wisdom that was sought, even by the +brothers and sisters a dozen years her senior. Daisy, it was, who +had put her tiny foot down and commanded the removal from the fever +flatlands of Colusa to the healthy mountains of Ventura; who had backed +the savage old Indian-fighter of a father into a corner and fought the +entire family that Vila might marry the man of her choice; who had flown +in the face of the family and of community morality and demanded the +divorce of Laura from her criminally weak husband; and who on the +other hand, had held the branches of the family together when only +misunderstanding and weak humanness threatened to drive them apart. + +The peacemaker and the warrior! All the old tales trooped before Saxon's +eyes. They were sharp with detail, for she had visioned them many times, +though their content was of things she had never seen. So far as details +were concerned, they were her own creation, for she had never seen an +ox, a wild Indian, nor a prairie schooner. Yet, palpitating and real, +shimmering in the sun-flashed dust of ten thousand hoofs, she saw +pass, from East to West, across a continent, the great hegira of the +land-hungry Anglo-Saxon. It was part and fiber of her. She had been +nursed on its traditions and its facts from the lips of those who had +taken part. Clearly she saw the long wagon-train, the lean, gaunt men +who walked before, the youths goading the lowing oxen that fell and +were goaded to their feet to fall again. And through it all, a flying +shuttle, weaving the golden dazzling thread of personality, moved the +form of her little, indomitable mother, eight years old, and nine ere +the great traverse was ended, a necromancer and a law-giver, willing her +way, and the way and the willing always good and right. + +Saxon saw Punch, the little, rough-coated Skye-terrier with the honest +eyes (who had plodded for weary months), gone lame and abandoned; she +saw Daisy, the chit of a child, hide Punch in the wagon. She saw the +savage old worried father discover the added burden of the several +pounds to the dying oxen. She saw his wrath, as he held Punch by +the scruff of the neck. And she saw Daisy, between the muzzle of the +long-barreled rifle and the little dog. And she saw Daisy thereafter, +through days of alkali and heat, walking, stumbling, in the dust of the +wagons, the little sick dog, like a baby, in her arms. + +But most vivid of all, Saxon saw the fight at Little Meadow--and Daisy, +dressed as for a gala day, in white, a ribbon sash about her waist, +ribbons and a round-comb in her hair, in her hands small water-pails, +step forth into the sunshine on the flower-grown open ground from the +wagon circle, wheels interlocked, where the wounded screamed their +delirium and babbled of flowing fountains, and go on, through the +sunshine and the wonder-inhibition of the bullet-dealing Indians, a +hundred yards to the waterhole and back again. + +Saxon kissed the little, red satin Spanish girdle passionately, and +wrapped it up in haste, with dewy eyes, abandoning the mystery and +godhead of mother and all the strange enigma of living. + +In bed, she projected against her closed eyelids the few rich scenes of +her mother that her child-memory retained. It was her favorite way +of wooing sleep. She had done it all her life--sunk into the +death-blackness of sleep with her mother limned to the last on her +fading consciousness. But this mother was not the Daisy of the plains +nor of the daguerreotype. They had been before Saxon's time. This that +she saw nightly was an older mother, broken with insomnia and brave +with sorrow, who crept, always crept, a pale, frail creature, gentle +and unfaltering, dying from lack of sleep, living by will, and by will +refraining from going mad, who, nevertheless, could not will sleep, and +whom not even the whole tribe of doctors could make sleep. Crept--always +she crept, about the house, from weary bed to weary chair and back again +through long days and weeks of torment, never complaining, though her +unfailing smile was twisted with pain, and the wise gray eyes, still +wise and gray, were grown unutterably larger and profoundly deep. + +But on this night Saxon did not win to sleep quickly; the little +creeping mother came and went; and in the intervals the face of Billy, +with the cloud-drifted, sullen, handsome eyes, burned against her +eyelids. And once again, as sleep welled up to smother her, she put to +herself the question IS THIS THE MAN? + + + +CHAPTER VII + +The work in the ironing-room slipped off, but the three days until +Wednesday night were very long. She hummed over the fancy starch that +flew under the iron at an astounding rate. + +“I can't see how you do it,” Mary admired. “You'll make thirteen or +fourteen this week at that rate.” + +Saxon laughed, and in the steam from the iron she saw dancing golden +letters that spelled WEDNESDAY. + +“What do you think of Billy?” Mary asked. + +“I like him,” was the frank answer. + +“Well, don't let it go farther than that.” + +“I will if I want to,” Saxon retorted gaily. + +“Better not,” came the warning. “You'll only make trouble for yourself. +He ain't marryin'. Many a girl's found that out. They just throw +themselves at his head, too.” + +“I'm not going to throw myself at him, or any other man.” + +“Just thought I'd tell you,” Mary concluded. “A word to the wise.” + +Saxon had become grave. + +“He's not... not...” she began, than looked the significance of the +question she could not complete. + +“Oh, nothin' like that--though there's nothin' to stop him. He's +straight, all right, all right. But he just won't fall for anything +in skirts. He dances, an' runs around, an' has a good time, an' beyond +that--nitsky. A lot of 'em's got fooled on him. I bet you there's a +dozen girls in love with him right now. An' he just goes on turnin' +'em down. There was Lily Sanderson--you know her. You seen her at that +Slavonic picnic last summer at Shellmound--that tall, nice-lookin' +blonde that was with Butch Willows?” + +“Yes, I remember her,” Saxon said. “What about her?” + +“Well, she'd been runnin' with Butch Willows pretty steady, an' just +because she could dance, Billy dances a lot with her. Butch ain't afraid +of nothin'. He wades right in for a showdown, an' nails Billy outside, +before everybody, an' reads the riot act. An' Billy listens in that +slow, sleepy way of his, an' Butch gets hotter an' hotter, an' everybody +expects a scrap. + +“An' then Billy says to Butch, 'Are you done?' 'Yes,' Butch says; 'I've +said my say, an' what are you goin' to do about it?' An' Billy says--an' +what d'ye think he said, with everybody lookin' on an' Butch with blood +in his eye? Well, he said, 'I guess nothin', Butch.' Just like that. +Butch was that surprised you could knocked him over with a feather. 'An' +never dance with her no more?' he says. 'Not if you say I can't, Butch,' +Billy says. Just like that. + +“Well, you know, any other man to take water the way he did from +Butch--why, everybody'd despise him. But not Billy. You see, he can +afford to. He's got a rep as a fighter, an' when he just stood back +'an' let Butch have his way, everybody knew he wasn't scared, or backin' +down, or anything. He didn't care a rap for Lily Sanderson, that was +all, an' anybody could see she was just crazy after him.” + +The telling of this episode caused Saxon no little worry. Hers was the +average woman's pride, but in the matter of man-conquering prowess +she was not unduly conceited. Billy had enjoyed her dancing, and she +wondered if that were all. If Charley Long bullied up to him would he +let her go as he had let Lily Sanderson go? He was not a marrying +man; nor could Saxon blind her eyes to the fact that he was eminently +marriageable. No wonder the girls ran after him. And he was a +man-subduer as well as a woman-subduer. Men liked him. Bert Wanhope +seemed actually to love him. She remembered the Butchertown tough in the +dining-room at Weasel Park who had come over to the table to apologize, +and the Irishman at the tug-of-war who had abandoned all thought of +fighting with him the moment he learned his identity. + +A very much spoiled young man was a thought that flitted frequently +through Saxon's mind; and each time she condemned it as ungenerous. He +was gentle in that tantalizing slow way of his. Despite his strength, +he did not walk rough-shod over others. There was the affair with Lily +Sanderson. Saxon analysed it again and again. He had not cared for the +girl, and he had immediately stepped from between her and Butch. It was +just the thing that Bert, out of sheer wickedness and love of trouble, +would not have done. There would have been a fight, hard feelings, Butch +turned into an enemy, and nothing profited to Lily. But Billy had done +the right thing--done it slowly and imperturbably and with the least +hurt to everybody. All of which made him more desirable to Saxon and +less possible. + +She bought another pair of silk stockings that she had hesitated at +for weeks, and on Tuesday night sewed and drowsed wearily over a new +shirtwaist and earned complaint from Sarah concerning her extravagant +use of gas. + +Wednesday night, at the Orindore dance, was not all undiluted pleasure. +It was shameless the way the girls made up to Billy, and, at times, +Saxon found his easy consideration for them almost irritating. Yet she +was compelled to acknowledge to herself that he hurt none of the other +fellows' feelings in the way the girls hurt hers. They all but asked +him outright to dance with them, and little of their open pursuit of him +escaped her eyes. She resolved that she would not be guilty of throwing +herself at him, and withheld dance after dance, and yet was secretly +and thrillingly aware that she was pursuing the right tactics. She +deliberately demonstrated that she was desirable to other men, as he +involuntarily demonstrated his own desirableness to the women. + +Her happiness came when he coolly overrode her objections and insisted +on two dances more than she had allotted him. And she was pleased, as +well as angered, when she chanced to overhear two of the strapping young +cannery girls. “The way that little sawed-off is monopolizin' him,” said +one. And the other: “You'd think she might have the good taste to run +after somebody of her own age.” “Cradle-snatcher,” was the final sting +that sent the angry blood into Saxon's cheeks as the two girls moved +away, unaware that they had been overheard. + +Billy saw her home, kissed her at the gate, and got her consent to go +with him to the dance at Germania Hall on Friday night. + +“I wasn't thinkin' of goin',” he said. “But if you'll say the word... +Bert's goin' to be there.” + +Next day, at the ironing boards, Mary told her that she and Bert were +dated for Germania Hall. + +“Are you goin'?” Mary asked. + +Saxon nodded. + +“Billy Roberts?” + +The nod was repeated, and Mary, with suspended iron, gave her a long and +curious look. + +“Say, an' what if Charley Long butts in?” + +Saxon shrugged her shoulders. + +They ironed swiftly and silently for a quarter of an hour. + +“Well,” Mary decided, “if he does butt in maybe he'll get his. I'd like +to see him get it--the big stiff! It all depends how Billy feels--about +you, I mean.” + +“I'm no Lily Sanderson,” Saxon answered indignantly. “I'll never give +Billy Roberts a chance to turn me down.” + +“You will, if Charley Long butts in. Take it from me, Saxon, he ain't no +gentleman. Look what he done to Mr. Moody. That was a awful beatin'. +An' Mr. Moody only a quiet little man that wouldn't harm a fly. Well, he +won't find Billy Roberts a sissy by a long shot.” + +That night, outside the laundry entrance, Saxon found Charley Long +waiting. As he stepped forward to greet her and walk alongside, she felt +the sickening palpitation that he had so thoroughly taught her to +know. The blood ebbed from her face with the apprehension and fear his +appearance caused. She was afraid of the rough bulk of the man; of the +heavy brown eyes, dominant and confident; of the big blacksmith-hands +and the thick strong fingers with the hair-pads on the back to every +first joint. He was unlovely to the eye, and he was unlovely to all her +finer sensibilities. It was not his strength itself, but the quality of +it and the misuse of it, that affronted her. The beating he had given +the gentle Mr. Moody had meant half-hours of horror to her afterward. +Always did the memory of it come to her accompanied by a shudder. And +yet, without shock, she had seen Billy fight at Weasel Park in the same +primitive man-animal way. But it had been different. She recognized, but +could not analyze, the difference. She was aware only of the brutishness +of this man's hands and mind. + +“You're lookin' white an' all beat to a frazzle,” he was saying. “Why +don't you cut the work? You got to some time, anyway. You can't lose me, +kid.” + +“I wish I could,” she replied. + +He laughed with harsh joviality. “Nothin' to it, Saxon. You're just cut +out to be Mrs. Long, an' you're sure goin' to be.” + +“I wish I was as certain about all things as you are,” she said with +mild sarcasm that missed. + +“Take it from me,” he went on, “there's just one thing you can be +certain of--an' that is that I am certain.” He was pleased with the +cleverness of his idea and laughed approvingly. “When I go after +anything I get it, an' if anything gets in between it gets hurt. D'ye +get that? It's me for you, an' that's all there is to it, so you might +as well make up your mind and go to workin' in my home instead of the +laundry. Why, it's a snap. There wouldn't be much to do. I make good +money, an' you wouldn't want for anything. You know, I just washed up +from work an' skinned over here to tell it to you once more, so you +wouldn't forget. I ain't ate yet, an' that shows how much I think of +you.” + +“You'd better go and eat then,” she advised, though she knew the +futility of attempting to get rid of him. + +She scarcely heard what he said. It had come upon her suddenly that she +was very tired and very small and very weak alongside this colossus of +a man. Would he dog her always? she asked despairingly, and seemed to +glimpse a vision of all her future life stretched out before her, with +always the form and face of the burly blacksmith pursuing her. + +“Come on, kid, an' kick in,” he continued. “It's the good old summer +time, an' that's the time to get married.” + +“But I'm not going to marry you,” she protested. “I've told you a +thousand times already.” + +“Aw, forget it. You want to get them ideas out of your think-box. Of +course, you're goin' to marry me. It's a pipe. An' I'll tell you another +pipe. You an' me's goin' acrost to Frisco Friday night. There's goin' to +be big doin's with the Horseshoers.” + +“Only I'm not,” she contradicted. + +“Oh, yes you are,” he asserted with absolute assurance. “We'll catch the +last boat back, an' you'll have one fine time. An' I'll put you next +to some of the good dancers. Oh, I ain't a pincher, an' I know you like +dancin'.” + +“But I tell you I can't,” she reiterated. + +He shot a glance of suspicion at her from under the black thatch of +brows that met above his nose and were as one brow. + +“Why can't you?” + +“A date,” she said. + +“Who's the bloke?” + +“None of your business, Charley Long. I've got a date, that's all.” + +“I'll make it my business. Remember that lah-de-dah bookkeeper rummy? +Well, just keep on rememberin' him an' what he got.” + +“I wish you'd leave me alone,” she pleaded resentfully. “Can't you be +kind just for once?” + +The blacksmith laughed unpleasantly. + +“If any rummy thinks he can butt in on you an' me, he'll learn +different, an' I'm the little boy that'll learn 'm.--Friday night, eh? +Where?” + +“I won't tell you.” + +“Where?” he repeated. + +Her lips were drawn in tight silence, and in her cheeks were little +angry spots of blood. + +“Huh!--As if I couldn't guess! Germania Hall. Well, I'll be there, an' +I'll take you home afterward. D'ye get that? An' you'd better tell the +rummy to beat it unless you want to see'm get his face hurt.” + +Saxon, hurt as a prideful woman can be hurt by cavalier treatment, was +tempted to cry out the name and prowess of her new-found protector. And +then came fear. This was a big man, and Billy was only a boy. That was +the way he affected her. She remembered her first impression of his +hands and glanced quickly at the hands of the man beside her. They +seemed twice as large as Billy's, and the mats of hair seemed to +advertise a terrible strength. No, Billy could not fight this big brute. +He must not. And then to Saxon came a wicked little hope that by the +mysterious and unthinkable ability that prizefighters possessed, Billy +might be able to whip this bully and rid her of him. With the next +glance doubt came again, for her eye dwelt on the blacksmith's broad +shoulders, the cloth of the coat muscle-wrinkled and the sleeves bulging +above the biceps. + +“If you lay a hand on anybody I'm going with again---” she began. + +“Why, they'll get hurt, of course,” Long grinned. “And they'll deserve +it, too. Any rummy that comes between a fellow an' his girl ought to get +hurt.” + +“But I'm not your girl, and all your saying so doesn't make it so.” + +“That's right, get mad,” he approved. “I like you for that, too. You've +got spunk an' fight. I like to see it. It's what a man needs in his +wife--and not these fat cows of women. They're the dead ones. Now you're +a live one, all wool, a yard long and a yard wide.” + +She stopped before the house and put her hand on the gate. + +“Good-bye,” she said. “I'm going in.” + +“Come on out afterward for a run to Idora Park,” he suggested. + +“No, I'm not feeling good, and I'm going straight to bed as soon as I +eat supper.” + +“Huh!” he sneered. “Gettin' in shape for the fling to-morrow night, eh?” + +With an impatient movement she opened the gate and stepped inside. + +“I've given it to you straight,” he went on. “If you don't go with me +to-morrow night somebody'll get hurt.” + +“I hope it will be you,” she cried vindictively. + +He laughed as he threw his head back, stretched his big chest, and +half-lifted his heavy arms. The action reminded her disgustingly of a +great ape she had once seen in a circus. + +“Well, good-bye,” he said. “See you to-morrow night at Germania Hall.” + +“I haven't told you it was Germania Hall.” + +“And you haven't told me it wasn't. All the same, I'll be there. And +I'll take you home, too. Be sure an' keep plenty of round dances open +fer me. That's right. Get mad. It makes you look fine.” + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +The music stopped at the end of the waltz, leaving Billy and Saxon at +the big entrance doorway of the ballroom. Her hand rested lightly on +his arm, and they were promenading on to find seats, when Charley Long, +evidently just arrived, thrust his way in front of them. + +“So you're the buttinsky, eh?” he demanded, his face malignant with +passion and menace. + +“Who?--me?” Billy queried gently. “Some mistake, sport. I never butt +in.” + +“You're goin' to get your head beaten off if you don't make yourself +scarce pretty lively.” + +“I wouldn't want that to happen for the world,” Billy drawled. “Come on, +Saxon. This neighborhood's unhealthy for us.” + +He started to go on with her, but Long thrust in front again. + +“You're too fresh to keep, young fellow,” he snarled. “You need saltin' +down. D'ye get me?” + +Billy scratched his head, on his face exaggerated puzzlement. + +“No, I don't get you,” he said. “Now just what was it you said?” + +But the big blacksmith turned contemptuously away from him to Saxon. + +“Come here, you. Let's see your program.” + +“Do you want to dance with him?” Billy asked. + +She shook her head. + +“Sorry, sport, nothin' doin',” Billy said, again making to start on. + +For the third time the blacksmith blocked the way. + +“Get off your foot,” said Billy. “You're standin' on it.” + +Long all but sprang upon him, his hands clenched, one arm just starting +back for the punch while at the same instant shoulders and chest were +coming forward. But he restrained himself at sight of Billy's unstartled +body and cold and cloudy eyes. He had made no move of mind or muscle. +It was as if he were unaware of the threatened attack. All of which +constituted a new thing in Long's experience. + +“Maybe you don't know who I am,” he bullied. + +“Yep, I do,” Billy answered airily. “You're a record-breaker at +rough-housin'.” (Here Long's face showed pleasure.) “You ought to have +the Police Gazette diamond belt for rough-housin' baby buggies'. I guess +there ain't a one you're afraid to tackle.” + +“Leave 'm alone, Charley,” advised one of the young men who had crowded +about them. “He's Bill Roberts, the fighter. You know'm. Big Bill.” + +“I don't care if he's Jim Jeffries. He can't butt in on me this way.” + +Nevertheless it was noticeable, even to Saxon, that the fire had gone +out of his fierceness. Billy's name seemed to have a quieting effect on +obstreperous males. + +“Do you know him?” Billy asked her. + +She signified yes with her eyes, though it seemed she must cry out a +thousand things against this man who so steadfastly persecuted her. +Billy turned to the blacksmith. + +“Look here, sport, you don't want trouble with me. I've got your number. +Besides, what do we want to fight for? Hasn't she got a say so in the +matter?” + +“No, she hasn't. This is my affair an' yourn.” + +Billy shook his head slowly. “No; you're in wrong. I think she has a say +in the matter.” + +“Well, say it then,” Long snarled at Saxon, “who're you goin' to go +with?--me or him? Let's get it settled.” + +For reply, Saxon reached her free hand over to the hand that rested on +Billy's arm. + +“Nuff said,” was Billy's remark. + +Long glared at Saxon, then transferred the glare to her protector. + +“I've a good mind to mix it with you anyway,” Long gritted through his +teeth. + +Saxon was elated as they started to move away. Lily Sanderson's fate had +not been hers, and her wonderful man-boy, without the threat of a blow, +slow of speech and imperturbable, had conquered the big blacksmith. + +“He's forced himself upon me all the time,” she whispered to Billy. +“He's tried to run me, and beaten up every man that came near me. I +never want to see him again.” + +Billy halted immediately. Long, who was reluctantly moving to get out of +the way, also halted. + +“She says she don't want anything more to do with you,” Billy said to +him. “An' what she says goes. If I get a whisper any time that you've +been botherin' her, I'll attend to your case. D'ye get that?” + +Long glowered and remained silent. + +“D'ye get that?” Billy repeated, more imperatively. + +A growl of assent came from the blacksmith + +“All right, then. See you remember it. An' now get outa the way or I'll +walk over you.” + +Long slunk back, muttering inarticulate threats, and Saxon moved on as +in a dream. Charley Long had taken water. He had been afraid of this +smooth-skinned, blue-eyed boy. She was quit of him--something no other +man had dared attempt for her. And Billy had liked her better than Lily +Sanderson. + +Twice Saxon tried to tell Billy the details of her acquaintance with +Long, but each time was put off. + +“I don't care a rap about it,” Billy said the second time. “You're here, +ain't you?” + +But she insisted, and when, worked up and angry by the recital, she had +finished, he patted her hand soothingly. + +“It's all right, Saxon,” he said. “He's just a big stiff. I took his +measure as soon as I looked at him. He won't bother you again. I know +his kind. He's a dog. Roughhouse? He couldn't rough-house a milk wagon.” + +“But how do you do it?” she asked breathlessly. “Why are men so afraid +of you? You're just wonderful.” + +He smiled in an embarrassed way and changed the subject. + +“Say,” he said, “I like your teeth. They're so white an' regular, an' +not big, an' not dinky little baby's teeth either. They're ... they're +just right, an' they fit you. I never seen such fine teeth on a girl +yet. D'ye know, honest, they kind of make me hungry when I look at 'em. +They're good enough to eat.” + +At midnight, leaving the insatiable Bert and Mary still dancing, Billy +and Saxon started for home. It was on his suggestion that they left +early, and he felt called upon to explain. + +“It's one thing the fightin' game's taught me,” he said. “To take care +of myself. A fellow can't work all day and dance all night and keep in +condition. It's the same way with drinkin'--an' not that I'm a little +tin angel. I know what it is. I've been soused to the guards an' all the +rest of it. I like my beer--big schooners of it; but I don't drink all +I want of it. I've tried, but it don't pay. Take that big stiff to-night +that butted in on us. He ought to had my number. He's a dog anyway, but +besides he had beer bloat. I sized that up the first rattle, an' that's +the difference about who takes the other fellow's number. Condition, +that's what it is.” + +“But he is so big,” Saxon protested. “Why, his fists are twice as big as +yours.” + +“That don't mean anything. What counts is what's behind the fists. He'd +turn loose like a buckin' bronco. If I couldn't drop him at the start, +all I'd do is to keep away, smother up, an' wait. An' all of a sudden +he'd blow up--go all to pieces, you know, wind, heart, everything, and +then I'd have him where I wanted him. And the point is he knows it, +too.” + +“You're the first prizefighter I ever knew,” Saxon said, after a pause. + +“I'm not any more,” he disclaimed hastily. “That's one thing the +fightin' game taught me--to leave it alone. It don't pay. A fellow +trains as fine as silk--till he's all silk, his skin, everything, and +he's fit to live for a hundred years; an' then he climbs through the +ropes for a hard twenty rounds with some tough customer that's just as +good as he is, and in those twenty rounds he frazzles out all his silk +an' blows in a year of his life. Yes, sometimes he blows in five years +of it, or cuts it in half, or uses up all of it. I've watched 'em. I've +seen fellows strong as bulls fight a hard battle and die inside the year +of consumption, or kidney disease, or anything else. Now what's the good +of it? Money can't buy what they throw away. That's why I quit the game +and went back to drivin' team. I got my silk, an' I'm goin' to keep it, +that's all.” + +“It must make you feel proud to know you are the master of other men,” + she said softly, aware herself of pride in the strength and skill of +him. + +“It does,” he admitted frankly. “I'm glad I went into the game--just as +glad as I am that I pulled out of it.... Yep, it's taught me a lot--to +keep my eyes open an' my head cool. Oh, I've got a temper, a peach of a +temper. I get scared of myself sometimes. I used to be always breakin' +loose. But the fightin' taught me to keep down the steam an' not do +things I'd be sorry for afterward.” + +“Why, you're the sweetest, easiest tempered man I know,” she +interjected. + +“Don't you believe it. Just watch me, and sometime you'll see me break +out that bad that I won't know what I'm doin' myself. Oh, I'm a holy +terror when I get started!” + +This tacit promise of continued acquaintance gave Saxon a little +joy-thrill. + +“Say,” he said, as they neared her neighborhood, “what are you doin' +next Sunday?” + +“Nothing. No plans at all.” + +“Well, suppose you an' me go buggy-riding all day out in the hills?” + +She did not answer immediately, and for the moment she was seeing the +nightmare vision of her last buggy-ride; of her fear and her leap from +the buggy; and of the long miles and the stumbling through the darkness +in thin-soled shoes that bruised her feet on every rock. And then it +came to her with a great swell of joy that this man beside her was not +such a man. + +“I love horses,” she said. “I almost love them better than I do dancing, +only I don't know anything about them. My father rode a great roan +war-horse. He was a captain of cavalry, you know. I never saw him, but +somehow I always can see him on that big horse, with a sash around his +waist and his sword at his side. My brother George has the sword now, +but Tom--he's the brother I live with says it is mine because it wasn't +his father's. You see, they're only my half-brothers. I was the only +child by my mother's second marriage. That was her real marriage--her +love-marriage, I mean.” + +Saxon ceased abruptly, embarrassed by her own garrulity; and yet the +impulse was strong to tell this young man all about herself, and it +seemed to her that these far memories were a large part of her. + +“Go on an' tell me about it,” Billy urged. “I like to hear about the old +people of the old days. My people was along in there, too, an' somehow +I think it was a better world to live in than now. Things was more +sensible and natural. I don't exactly say what I mean. But it's like +this: I don't understand life to-day. There's the labor unions an' +employers' associations, an' strikes', an' hard times, an' huntin' +for jobs, an' all the rest. Things wasn't like that in the old days. +Everybody farmed, an' shot their meat, an' got enough to eat, an' +took care of their old folks. But now it's all a mix-up that I can't +understand. Mebbe I'm a fool, I don't know. But, anyway, go ahead an' +tell us about your mother.” + +“Well, you see, when she was only a young woman she and Captain Brown +fell in love. He was a soldier then, before the war. And he was ordered +East for the war when she was away nursing her sister Laura. And then +came the news that he was killed at Shiloh. And she married a man who +had loved her for years and years. He was a boy in the same wagon-train +coming across the plains. She liked him, but she didn't love him. And +afterward came the news that my father wasn't killed after all. So it +made her very sad, but it did not spoil her life. She was a good mother +and a good wife and all that, but she was always sad, and sweet, and +gentle, and I think her voice was the most beautiful in the world.” + +“She was game, all right,” Billy approved. + +“And my father never married. He loved her all the time. I've got a +lovely poem home that she wrote to him. It's just wonderful, and it +sings like music. Well, long, long afterward her husband died, and then +she and my father made their love marriage. They didn't get married +until 1882, and she was pretty well along.” + +More she told him, as they stood by the gate, and Saxon tried to think +that the good-bye kiss was a trifle longer than just ordinary. + +“How about nine o'clock?” he queried across the gate. “Don't bother +about lunch or anything. I'll fix all that up. You just be ready at +nine.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Sunday morning Saxon was beforehand in getting ready, and on her +return to the kitchen from her second journey to peep through the front +windows, Sarah began her customary attack. + +“It's a shame an' a disgrace the way some people can afford silk +stockings,” she began. “Look at me, a-toilin' and a-stewin' day an' +night, and I never get silk stockings--nor shoes, three pairs of them +all at one time. But there's a just God in heaven, and there'll be some +mighty big surprises for some when the end comes and folks get passed +out what's comin' to them.” + +Tom, smoking his pipe and cuddling his youngest-born on his knees, +dropped an eyelid surreptitiously on his cheek in token that Sarah was +in a tantrum. Saxon devoted herself to tying a ribbon in the hair of one +of the little girls. Sarah lumbered heavily about the kitchen, washing +and putting away the breakfast dishes. She straightened her back from +the sink with a groan and glared at Saxon with fresh hostility. + +“You ain't sayin' anything, eh? An' why don't you? Because I guess you +still got some natural shame in you a-runnin' with a prizefighter. Oh, +I've heard about your goings-on with Bill Roberts. A nice specimen he +is. But just you wait till Charley Long gets his hands on him, that's +all.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” Tom intervened. “Bill Roberts is a pretty good boy +from what I hear.” + +Saxon smiled with superior knowledge, and Sarah, catching her, was +infuriated. + +“Why don't you marry Charley Long? He's crazy for you, and he ain't a +drinkin' man.” + +“I guess he gets outside his share of beer,” Saxon retorted. + +“That's right,” her brother supplemented. “An' I know for a fact that he +keeps a keg in the house all the time as well.” + +“Maybe you've been guzzling from it,” Sarah snapped. + +“Maybe I have,” Tom said, wiping his mouth reminiscently with the back +of his hand. + +“Well, he can afford to keep a keg in the house if he wants to,” she +returned to the attack, which now was directed at her husband as well. +“He pays his bills, and he certainly makes good money--better than most +men, anyway.” + +“An' he hasn't a wife an' children to watch out for,” Tom said. + +“Nor everlastin' dues to unions that don't do him no good.” + +“Oh, yes, he has,” Tom urged genially. “Blamed little he'd work in that +shop, or any other shop in Oakland, if he didn't keep in good standing +with the Blacksmiths. You don't understand labor conditions, Sarah. The +unions have got to stick, if the men aren't to starve to death.” + +“Oh, of course not,” Sarah sniffed. “I don't understand anything. +I ain't got a mind. I'm a fool, an' you tell me so right before the +children.” She turned savagely on her eldest, who startled and shrank +away. “Willie, your mother is a fool. Do you get that? Your father says +she's a fool--says it right before her face and yourn. She's just a +plain fool. Next he'll be sayin' she's crazy an' puttin' her away in +the asylum. An' how will you like that, Willie? How will you like to see +your mother in a straitjacket an' a padded cell, shut out from the light +of the sun an' beaten like a nigger before the war, Willie, beaten an' +clubbed like a regular black nigger? That's the kind of a father you've +got, Willie. Think of it, Willie, in a padded cell, the mother that +bore you, with the lunatics screechin' an' screamin' all around, an' the +quick-lime eatin' into the dead bodies of them that's beaten to death by +the cruel wardens--” + +She continued tirelessly, painting with pessimistic strokes the growing +black future her husband was meditating for her, while the boy, fearful +of some vague, incomprehensible catastrophe, began to weep silently, +with a pendulous, trembling underlip. Saxon, for the moment, lost +control of herself. + +“Oh, for heaven's sake, can't we be together five minutes without +quarreling?” she blazed. + +Sarah broke off from asylum conjurations and turned upon her +sister-in-law. + +“Who's quarreling? Can't I open my head without bein' jumped on by the +two of you?” + +Saxon shrugged her shoulders despairingly, and Sarah swung about on her +husband. + +“Seein' you love your sister so much better than your wife, why did you +want to marry me, that's borne your children for you, an' slaved for +you, an' toiled for you, an' worked her fingernails off for you, with +no thanks, an 'insultin' me before the children, an' sayin' I'm crazy +to their faces. An' what have you ever did for me? That's what I want to +know--me, that's cooked for you, an' washed your stinkin' clothes, +and fixed your socks, an' sat up nights with your brats when they was +ailin'. Look at that!” + +She thrust out a shapeless, swollen foot, encased in a monstrous, +untended shoe, the dry, raw leather of which showed white on the edges +of bulging cracks. + +“Look at that! That's what I say. Look at that!” Her voice was +persistently rising and at the same time growing throaty. “The only +shoes I got. Me. Your wife. Ain't you ashamed? Where are my three pairs? +Look at that stockin'.” + +Speech failed her, and she sat down suddenly on a chair at the table, +glaring unutterable malevolence and misery. She arose with the abrupt +stiffness of an automaton, poured herself a cup of cold coffee, and +in the same jerky way sat down again. As if too hot for her lips, +she filled her saucer with the greasy-looking, nondescript fluid, and +continued her set glare, her breast rising and falling with staccato, +mechanical movement. + +“Now, Sarah, be c'am, be c'am,” Tom pleaded anxiously. + +In response, slowly, with utmost deliberation, as if the destiny of +empires rested on the certitude of her act, she turned the saucer of +coffee upside down on the table. She lifted her right hand, slowly, +hugely, and in the same slow, huge way landed the open palm with a +sounding slap on Tom's astounded cheek. Immediately thereafter she +raised her voice in the shrill, hoarse, monotonous madness of hysteria, +sat down on the floor, and rocked back and forth in the throes of an +abysmal grief. + +Willie's silent weeping turned to noise, and the two little girls, with +the fresh ribbons in their hair, joined him. Tom's face was drawn and +white, though the smitten cheek still blazed, and Saxon wanted to put +her arms comfortingly around him, yet dared not. He bent over his wife. + +“Sarah, you ain't feelin' well. Let me put you to bed, and I'll finish +tidying up.” + +“Don't touch me!--don't touch me!” she screamed, jerking violently away +from him. + +“Take the children out in the yard, Tom, for a walk, anything--get them +away,” Saxon said. She was sick, and white, and trembling. “Go, Tom, +please, please. There's your hat. I'll take care of her. I know just +how.” + +Left to herself, Saxon worked with frantic haste, assuming the calm she +did not possess, but which she must impart to the screaming bedlamite +upon the floor. The light frame house leaked the noise hideously, and +Saxon knew that the houses on either side were hearing, and the street +itself and the houses across the street. Her fear was that Billy should +arrive in the midst of it. Further, she was incensed, violated. Every +fiber rebelled, almost in a nausea; yet she maintained cool control and +stroked Sarah's forehead and hair with slow, soothing movements. Soon, +with one arm around her, she managed to win the first diminution in +the strident, atrocious, unceasing scream. A few minutes later, sobbing +heavily, the elder woman lay in bed, across her forehead and eyes a +wet-pack of towel for easement of the headache she and Saxon tacitly +accepted as substitute for the brain-storm. + +When a clatter of hoofs came down the street and stopped, Saxon was able +to slip to the front door and wave her hand to Billy. In the kitchen she +found Tom waiting in sad anxiousness. + +“It's all right,” she said. “Billy Roberts has come, and I've got to go. +You go in and sit beside her for a while, and maybe she'll go to sleep. +But don't rush her. Let her have her own way. If she'll let you take her +hand, why do it. Try it, anyway. But first of all, as an opener and just +as a matter of course, start wetting the towel over her eyes.” + +He was a kindly, easy-going man; but, after the way of a large +percentage of the Western stock, he was undemonstrative. He nodded, +turned toward the door to obey, and paused irresolutely. The look he +gave back to Saxon was almost dog-like in gratitude and all-brotherly in +love. She felt it, and in spirit leapt toward it. + +“It's all right--everything's all right,” she cried hastily. + +Tom shook his head. + +“No, it ain't. It's a shame, a blamed shame, that's what it is.” He +shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I don't care for myself. But it's for you. +You got your life before you yet, little kid sister. You'll get old, +and all that means, fast enough. But it's a bad start for a day off. +The thing for you to do is to forget all this, and skin out with your +fellow, an' have a good time.” In the open door, his hand on the knob +to close it after him, he halted a second time. A spasm contracted his +brow. “Hell! Think of it! Sarah and I used to go buggy-riding once on +a time. And I guess she had her three pairs of shoes, too. Can you beat +it?” + +In her bedroom Saxon completed her dressing, for an instant stepping +upon a chair so as to glimpse critically in the small wall-mirror +the hang of her ready-made linen skirt. This, and the jacket, she had +altered to fit, and she had double-stitched the seams to achieve the +coveted tailored effect. Still on the chair, all in the moment of quick +clear-seeing, she drew the skirt tightly back and raised it. The sight +was good to her, nor did she under-appraise the lines of the slender +ankle above the low tan tie nor did she under-appraise the delicate +yet mature swell of calf outlined in the fresh brown of a new cotton +stocking. Down from the chair, she pinned on a firm sailor hat of white +straw with a brown ribbon around the crown that matched her ribbon belt. +She rubbed her cheeks quickly and fiercely to bring back the color Sarah +had driven out of them, and delayed a moment longer to put on her tan +lisle-thread gloves. Once, in the fashion-page of a Sunday supplement, +she had read that no lady ever put on her gloves after she left the +door. + +With a resolute self-grip, as she crossed the parlor and passed the +door to Sarah's bedroom, through the thin wood of which came elephantine +moanings and low slubberings, she steeled herself to keep the color in +her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes. And so well did she succeed +that Billy never dreamed that the radiant, live young thing, tripping +lightly down the steps to him, had just come from a bout with +soul-sickening hysteria and madness. + +To her, in the bright sun, Billy's blondness was startling. His cheeks, +smooth as a girl's, were touched with color. The blue eyes seemed more +cloudily blue than usual, and the crisp, sandy hair hinted more than +ever of the pale straw-gold that was not there. Never had she seen him +quite so royally young. As he smiled to greet her, with a slow white +flash of teeth from between red lips, she caught again the promise +of easement and rest. Fresh from the shattering chaos of her +sister-in-law's mind, Billy's tremendous calm was especially satisfying, +and Saxon mentally laughed to scorn the terrible temper he had charged +to himself. + +She had been buggy-riding before, but always behind one horse, jaded, +and livery, in a top-buggy, heavy and dingy, such as livery stables +rent because of sturdy unbreakableness. But here stood two horses, +head-tossing and restless, shouting in every high-light glint of their +satin, golden-sorrel coats that they had never been rented out in +all their glorious young lives. Between them was a pole inconceivably +slender, on them were harnesses preposterously string-like and fragile. +And Billy belonged here, by elemental right, a part of them and of it, +a master-part and a component, along with the spidery-delicate, +narrow-boxed, wide- and yellow-wheeled, rubber-tired rig, efficient and +capable, as different as he was different from the other man who had +taken her out behind stolid, lumbering horses. He held the reins in +one hand, yet, with low, steady voice, confident and assuring, held the +nervous young animals more by the will and the spirit of him. + +It was no time for lingering. With the quick glance and fore-knowledge +of a woman, Saxon saw, not merely the curious children clustering about, +but the peering of adult faces from open doors and windows, and past +window-shades lifted up or held aside. With his free hand, Billy +drew back the linen robe and helped her to a place beside him. The +high-backed, luxuriously upholstered seat of brown leather gave her +a sense of great comfort; yet even greater, it seemed to her, was the +nearness and comfort of the man himself and of his body. + +“How d'ye like 'em?” he asked, changing the reins to both hands and +chirruping the horses, which went out with a jerk in an immediacy of +action that was new to her. “They're the boss's, you know. Couldn't rent +animals like them. He lets me take them out for exercise sometimes. If +they ain't exercised regular they're a handful.--Look at King, there, +prancin'. Some style, eh? Some style! The other one's the real goods, +though. Prince is his name. Got to have some bit on him to hold'm.--Ah! +Would you?--Did you see'm, Saxon? Some horse! Some horse!” + +From behind came the admiring cheer of the neighborhood children, and +Saxon, with a sigh of content, knew that the happy day had at last +begun. + + + +CHAPTER X + +“I don't know horses,” Saxon said. “I've never been on one's back, +and the only ones I've tried to drive were single, and lame, or almost +falling down, or something. But I'm not afraid of horses. I just love +them. I was born loving them, I guess.” + +Billy threw an admiring, appreciative glance at her. + +“That's the stuff. That's what I like in a woman--grit. Some of the +girls I've had out--well, take it from me, they made me sick. Oh, I'm +hep to 'em. Nervous, an' trembly, an' screechy, an' wabbly. I reckon +they come out on my account an' not for the ponies. But me for the brave +kid that likes the ponies. You're the real goods, Saxon, honest to God +you are. Why, I can talk like a streak with you. The rest of 'em make me +sick. I'm like a clam. They don't know nothin', an' they're that scared +all the time--well, I guess you get me.” + +“You have to be born to love horses, maybe,” she answered. “Maybe it's +because I always think of my father on his roan war-horse that makes me +love horses. But, anyway, I do. When I was a little girl I was drawing +horses all the time. My mother always encouraged me. I've a scrapbook +mostly filled with horses I drew when I was little. Do you know, Billy, +sometimes I dream I actually own a horse, all my own. And lots of times +I dream I'm on a horse's back, or driving him.” + +“I'll let you drive 'em, after a while, when they've worked their edge +off. They're pullin' now.--There, put your hands in front of mine--take +hold tight. Feel that? Sure you feel it. An' you ain't feelin' it all by +a long shot. I don't dast slack, you bein' such a lightweight.” + +Her eyes sparkled as she felt the apportioned pull of the mouths of the +beautiful, live things; and he, looking at her, sparkled with her in her +delight. + +“What's the good of a woman if she can't keep up with a man?” he broke +out enthusiastically. + +“People that like the same things always get along best together,” she +answered, with a triteness that concealed the joy that was hers at being +so spontaneously in touch with him. + +“Why, Saxon, I've fought battles, good ones, frazzlin' my silk away +to beat the band before whisky-soaked, smokin' audiences of rotten +fight-fans, that just made me sick clean through. An' them, that +couldn't take just one stiff jolt or hook to jaw or stomach, a-cheerin' +me an' yellin' for blood. Blood, mind you! An' them without the blood of +a shrimp in their bodies. Why, honest, now, I'd sooner fight before an +audience of one--you for instance, or anybody I liked. It'd do me proud. +But them sickenin', sap-headed stiffs, with the grit of rabbits and the +silk of mangy ky-yi's, a-cheerin' me--ME! Can you blame me for quittin' +the dirty game?--Why, I'd sooner fight before broke-down old plugs of +work-horses that's candidates for chicken-meat, than before them rotten +bunches of stiffs with nothin' thicker'n water in their veins, an' +Contra Costa water at that when the rains is heavy on the hills.” + +“I... I didn't know prizefighting was like that,” she faltered, as she +released her hold on the lines and sank back again beside him. + +“It ain't the fightin', it's the fight-crowds,” he defended with instant +jealousy. “Of course, fightin' hurts a young fellow because it frazzles +the silk outa him an' all that. But it's the low-lifers in the audience +that gets me. Why the good things they say to me, the praise an' +that, is insulting. Do you get me? It makes me cheap. Think of +it--booze-guzzlin' stiffs that 'd be afraid to mix it with a sick cat, +not fit to hold the coat of any decent man, think of them a-standin' up +on their hind legs an' yellin' an' cheerin' me--ME!” + +“Ha! ha! What d'ye think of that? Ain't he a rogue?” + +A big bulldog, sliding obliquely and silently across the street, +unconcerned with the team he was avoiding, had passed so close that +Prince, baring his teeth like a stallion, plunged his head down against +reins and check in an effort to seize the dog. + +“Now he's some fighter, that Prince. An' he's natural. He didn't make +that reach just for some low-lifer to yell'm on. He just done it outa +pure cussedness and himself. That's clean. That's right. Because it's +natural. But them fight-fans! Honest to God, Saxon....” + +And Saxon, glimpsing him sidewise, as he watched the horses and their +way on the Sunday morning streets, checking them back suddenly and +swerving to avoid two boys coasting across street on a toy wagon, saw +in him deeps and intensities, all the magic connotations of temperament, +the glimmer and hint of rages profound, bleaknesses as cold and far as +the stars, savagery as keen as a wolf's and clean as a stallion's, wrath +as implacable as a destroying angel's, and youth that was fire and life +beyond time and place. She was awed and fascinated, with the hunger of +woman bridging the vastness to him, daring to love him with arms and +breast that ached to him, murmuring to herself and through all the halls +of her soul, “You dear, you dear.” + +“Honest to God, Saxon,” he took up the broken thread, “they's times +when I've hated them, when I wanted to jump over the ropes and wade into +them, knock-down and drag-out, an' show'm what fightin' was. Take that +night with Billy Murphy. Billy Murphy!--if you only knew him. My friend. +As clean an' game a boy as ever jumped inside the ropes to take the +decision. Him! We went to the Durant School together. We grew up chums. +His fight was my fight. My trouble was his trouble. We both took to the +fightin' game. They matched us. Not the first time. Twice we'd fought +draws. Once the decision was his; once it was mine. The fifth fight of +two lovin' men that just loved each other. He's three years older'n me. +He's a wife and two or three kids, an' I know them, too. And he's my +friend. Get it? + +“I'm ten pounds heavier--but with heavyweights that 's all right. He +can't time an' distance as good as me, an' I can keep set better, too. +But he's cleverer an' quicker. I never was quick like him. We both can +take punishment, an' we're both two-handed, a wallop in all our fists. +I know the kick of his, an' he knows my kick, an' we're both real +respectful. And we're even-matched. Two draws, and a decision to each. +Honest, I ain't any kind of a hunch who's goin' to win, we're that even. + +“Now, the fight.--You ain't squeamish, are you?” + +“No, no,” she cried. “I'd just love to hear--you are so wonderful.” + +He took the praise with a clear, unwavering look, and without hint of +acknowledgment. + +“We go along--six rounds--seven rounds--eight rounds; an' honors even. +I've been timin' his rushes an' straight-leftin' him, an' meetin' his +duck with a wicked little right upper-cut, an' he's shaken me on the +jaw an' walloped my ears till my head's all singin' an' buzzin'. An' +everything lovely with both of us, with a noise like a draw decision in +sight. Twenty rounds is the distance, you know. + +“An' then his bad luck comes. We're just mixin' into a clinch that ain't +arrived yet, when he shoots a short hook to my head--his left, an' a +real hay-maker if it reaches my jaw. I make a forward duck, not quick +enough, an' he lands bingo on the side of my head. Honest to God, Saxon, +it's that heavy I see some stars. But it don't hurt an' ain't serious, +that high up where the bone's thick. An' right there he finishes +himself, for his bad thumb, which I've known since he first got it as a +kid fightin' in the sandlot at Watts Tract--he smashes that thumb right +there, on my hard head, back into the socket with an out-twist, an' all +the old cords that'd never got strong gets theirs again. I didn't mean +it. A dirty trick, fair in the game, though, to make a guy smash his +hand on your head. But not between friends. I couldn't a-done that to +Bill Murphy for a million dollars. It was a accident, just because I was +slow, because I was born slow. + +“The hurt of it! Honest, Saxon, you don't know what hurt is till you've +got a old hurt like that hurt again. What can Billy Murphy do but slow +down? He's got to. He ain't fightin' two-handed any more. He knows it; I +know it; The referee knows it; but nobody else. He goes on a-moving that +left of his like it's all right. But it ain't. It's hurtin' him like a +knife dug into him. He don't dast strike a real blow with that left of +his. But it hurts, anyway. Just to move it or not move it hurts, an' +every little dab-feint that I'm too wise to guard, knowin' there's no +weight behind, why them little dab-touches on that poor thumb goes right +to the heart of him, an' hurts worse than a thousand boils or a thousand +knockouts--just hurts all over again, an' worse, each time an' touch. + +“Now suppose he an' me was boxin' for fun, out in the back yard, an' he +hurts his thumb that way, why we'd have the gloves off in a jiffy an' +I'd be putting cold compresses on that poor thumb of his an' bandagin' +it that tight to keep the inflammation down. But no. This is a fight +for fight-fans that's paid their admission for blood, an' blood they're +goin' to get. They ain't men. They're wolves. + +“He has to go easy, now, an' I ain't a-forcin' him none. I'm all shot to +pieces. I don't know what to do. So I slow down, an' the fans get hep to +it. 'Why don't you fight?' they begin to yell; 'Fake! Fake!' 'Why don't +you kiss'm?' 'Lovin' cup for yours, Bill Roberts!' an' that sort of +bunk. + +“'Fight!' says the referee to me, low an' savage. 'Fight, or I'll +disqualify you--you, Bill, I mean you.' An' this to me, with a touch on +the shoulder so they's no mistakin'. + +“It ain't pretty. It ain't right. D'ye know what we was fightin' for? A +hundred bucks. Think of it! An' the game is we got to do our best to +put our man down for the count because of the fans has bet on us. Sweet, +ain't it? Well, that's my last fight. It finishes me deado. Never again +for yours truly. + +“'Quit,' I says to Billy Murphy in a clinch; 'for the love of God, Bill, +quit.' An' he says back, in a whisper, 'I can't, Bill--you know that.' + +“An' then the referee drags us apart, an' a lot of the fans begins to +hoot an' boo. + +“'Now kick in, damn you, Bill Roberts, an' finish'm' the referee says to +me, an' I tell'm to go to hell as Bill an' me flop into the next clinch, +not hittin', an' Bill touches his thumb again, an' I see the pain shoot +across his face. Game? That good boy's the limit. An' to look into the +eyes of a brave man that's sick with pain, an' love 'm, an' see love +in them eyes of his, an' then have to go on givin' 'm pain--call that +sport? I can't see it. But the crowd's got its money on us. We don't +count. We've sold ourselves for a hundred bucks, an' we gotta deliver +the goods. + +“Let me tell you, Saxon, honest to God, that was one of the times I +wanted to go through the ropes an' drop them fans a-yellin' for blood +an' show 'em what blood is. + +“'For God's sake finish me, Bill,' Bill says to me in that clinch; 'put +her over an' I'll fall for it, but I can't lay down.' + +“D'ye want to know? I cry there, right in the ring, in that clinch. The +weeps for me. 'I can't do it, Bill,' I whisper back, hangin' onto'm like +a brother an' the referee ragin' an' draggin' at us to get us apart, an' +all the wolves in the house snarlin'. + +“'You got 'm!' the audience is yellin'. 'Go in an' finish 'm!' 'The hay +for him, Bill; put her across to the jaw an' see 'm fall!' + +“'You got to, Bill, or you're a dog,' Bill says, lookin' love at me in +his eyes as the referee's grip untangles us clear. + +“An' them wolves of fans yellin': 'Fake! Fake! Fake!' like that, an' +keepin' it up. + +“Well, I done it. They's only that way out. I done it. By God, I done +it. I had to. I feint for 'm, draw his left, duck to the right past it, +takin' it across my shoulder, an come up with my right to his jaw. An' +he knows the trick. He's hep. He's beaten me to it an' blocked it with +his shoulder a thousan' times. But this time he don't. He keeps himself +wide open on purpose. Blim! It lands. He's dead in the air, an' he goes +down sideways, strikin' his face first on the rosin-canvas an' then +layin' dead, his head twisted under 'm till you'd a-thought his neck was +broke. ME--I did that for a hundred bucks an' a bunch of stiffs I'd +be ashamed to wipe my feet on. An' then I pick Bill up in my arms an' +carry'm to his corner, an' help bring'm around. Well, they ain't no kick +comin'. They pay their money an' they get their blood, an' a knockout. +An' a better man than them, that I love, layin' there dead to the world +with a skinned face on the mat.” + +For a moment he was still, gazing straight before him at the horses, his +face hard and angry. He sighed, looked at Saxon, and smiled. + +“An' I quit the game right there. An' Billy Murphy's laughed at me for +it. He still follows it. A side-line, you know, because he works at a +good trade. But once in a while, when the house needs paintin', or the +doctor bills are up, or his oldest kid wants a bicycle, he jumps out an' +makes fifty or a hundred bucks before some of the clubs. I want you to +meet him when it comes handy. He's some boy I'm tellin' you. But it did +make me sick that night.” + +Again the harshness and anger were in his face, and Saxon amazed herself +by doing unconsciously what women higher in the social scale have done +with deliberate sincerity. Her hand went out impulsively to his holding +the lines, resting on top of it for a moment with quick, firm pressure. +Her reward was a smile from lips and eyes, as his face turned toward +her. + +“Gee!” he exclaimed. “I never talk a streak like this to anybody. I just +hold my hush an' keep my thinks to myself. But, somehow, I guess it's +funny, I kind of have a feelin' I want to make good with you. An' that's +why I'm tellin' you my thinks. Anybody can dance.” + +The way led uptown, past the City Hall and the Fourteenth Street +skyscrapers, and out Broadway to Mountain View. Turning to the right +at the cemetery, they climbed the Piedmont Heights to Blair Park and +plunged into the green coolness of Jack Hayes Canyon. Saxon could not +suppress her surprise and joy at the quickness with which they covered +the ground. + +“They are beautiful,” she said. “I never dreamed I'd ever ride behind +horses like them. I'm afraid I'll wake up now and find it's a dream. +You know, I dream horses all the time. I'd give anything to own one some +time.” + +“It's funny, ain't it?” Billy answered. “I like horses that way. The +boss says I'm a wooz at horses. An' I know he's a dub. He don't know the +first thing. An' yet he owns two hundred big heavy draughts besides this +light drivin' pair, an' I don't own one.” + +“Yet God makes the horses,” Saxon said. + +“It's a sure thing the boss don't. Then how does he have so many?--two +hundred of 'em, I'm tellin' you. He thinks he likes horses. Honest to +God, Saxon, he don't like all his horses as much as I like the last +hair on the last tail of the scrubbiest of the bunch. Yet they're his. +Wouldn't it jar you?” + +“Wouldn't it?” Saxon laughed appreciatively. “I just love fancy +shirtwaists, an' I spent my life ironing some of the beautifullest I've +ever seen. It's funny, an' it isn't fair.” + +Billy gritted his teeth in another of his rages. + +“An' the way some of them women gets their shirtwaists. It makes me +sick, thinkin' of you ironin' 'em. You know what I mean, Saxon. They +ain't no use wastin' words over it. You know. I know. Everybody knows. +An' it's a hell of a world if men an' women sometimes can't talk to each +other about such things.” His manner was almost apologetic yet it was +defiantly and assertively right. “I never talk this way to other girls. +They'd think I'm workin up to designs on 'em. They make me sick the way +they're always lookin' for them designs. But you're different. I can talk +to you that way. I know I've got to. It's the square thing. You're like +Billy Murphy, or any other man a man can talk to.” + +She sighed with a great happiness, and looked at him with unconscious, +love-shining eyes. + +“It's the same way with me,” she said. “The fellows I've run with I've +never dared let talk about such things, because I knew they'd take +advantage of it. Why, all the time, with them, I've a feeling that we're +cheating and lying to each other, playing a game like at a masquerade +ball.” She paused for a moment, hesitant and debating, then went on in +a queer low voice. “I haven't been asleep. I've seen... and heard. +I've had my chances, when I was that tired of the laundry I'd have done +almost anything. I could have got those fancy shirtwaists... an' all the +rest... and maybe a horse to ride. There was a bank cashier... married, +too, if you please. He talked to me straight out. I didn't count, +you know. I wasn't a girl, with a girl's feelings, or anything. I was +nobody. It was just like a business talk. I learned about men from him. +He told me what he'd do. He...” + +Her voice died away in sadness, and in the silence she could hear Billy +grit his teeth. + +“You can't tell me,” he cried. “I know. It's a dirty world--an unfair, +lousy world. I can't make it out. They's no squareness in it.--Women, +with the best that's in 'em, bought an' sold like horses. I don't +understand women that way. I don't understand men that way. I can't +see how a man gets anything but cheated when he buys such things. It's +funny, ain't it? Take my boss an' his horses. He owns women, too. He +might a-owned you, just because he's got the price. An', Saxon, you was +made for fancy shirtwaists an' all that, but, honest to God, I can't see +you payin' for them that way. It'd be a crime--” + +He broke off abruptly and reined in the horses. Around a sharp turn, +speeding down the grade upon them, had appeared an automobile. With +slamming of brakes it was brought to a stop, while the faces of the +occupants took new lease of interest of life and stared at the young man +and woman in the light rig that barred the way. Billy held up his hand. + +“Take the outside, sport,” he said to the chauffeur. + +“Nothin' doin', kiddo,” came the answer, as the chauffeur measured with +hard, wise eyes the crumbling edge of the road and the downfall of the +outside bank. + +“Then we camp,” Billy announced cheerfully. “I know the rules of the +road. These animals ain't automobile broke altogether, an' if you think +I'm goin' to have 'em shy off the grade you got another guess comin'.” + +A confusion of injured protestation arose from those that sat in the +car. + +“You needn't be a road-hog because you're a Rube,” said the chauffeur. +“We ain't a-goin' to hurt your horses. Pull out so we can pass. If you +don't...” + +“That'll do you, sport,” was Billy's retort. “You can't talk that way to +yours truly. I got your number an' your tag, my son. You're standin' on +your foot. Back up the grade an' get off of it. Stop on the outside at +the first psssin'-place an' we'll pass you. You've got the juice. Throw +on the reverse.” + +After a nervous consultation, the chauffeur obeyed, and the car backed +up the hill and out of sight around the turn. + +“Them cheap skates,” Billy sneered to Saxon, “with a couple of gallons +of gasoline an' the price of a machine a-thinkin' they own the roads +your folks an' my folks made.” + +“Talkin' all night about it?” came the chauffeur's voice from around the +bend. “Get a move on. You can pass.” + +“Get off your foot,” Billy retorted contemptuously. “I'm a-comin' when +I'm ready to come, an' if you ain't given room enough I'll go clean over +you an' your load of chicken meat.” + +He slightly slacked the reins on the restless, head-tossing animals, and +without need of chirrup they took the weight of the light vehicle and +passed up the hill and apprehensively on the inside of the purring +machine. + +“Where was we?” Billy queried, as the clear road showed in front. “Yep, +take my boss. Why should he own two hundred horses, an' women, an' the +rest, an' you an' me own nothin'?” + +“You own your silk, Billy,” she said softly. + +“An' you yours. Yet we sell it to 'em like it was cloth across the +counter at so much a yard. I guess you're hep to what a few more years +in the laundry'll do to you. Take me. I'm sellin' my silk slow every day +I work. See that little finger?” He shifted the reins to one hand for a +moment and held up the free hand for inspection. “I can't straighten +it like the others, an' it's growin'. I never put it out fightin'. The +teamin's done it. That's silk gone across the counter, that's all. Ever +see a old four-horse teamster's hands? They look like claws they're that +crippled an' twisted.” + +“Things weren't like that in the old days when our folks crossed the +plains,” she answered. “They might a-got their fingers twisted, but they +owned the best goin' in the way of horses and such.” + +“Sure. They worked for themselves. They twisted their fingers for +themselves. But I'm twistin' my fingers for my boss. Why, d'ye know, +Saxon, his hands is soft as a woman's that's never done any work. Yet +he owns the horses an' the stables, an' never does a tap of work, an' +I manage to scratch my meal-ticket an' my clothes. It's got my goat +the way things is run. An' who runs 'em that way? That's what I want to +know. Times has changed. Who changed 'em?” + +“God didn't.” + +“You bet your life he didn't. An' that's another thing that gets me. +Who's God anyway? If he's runnin' things--an' what good is he if he +ain't?--then why does he let my boss, an' men like that cashier you +mentioned, why does he let them own the horses, an' buy the women, the +nice little girls that oughta be lovin' their own husbands, an' havin' +children they're not ashamed of, an' just bein' happy accordin' to their +nature?” + + + +CHAPTER XI + +The horses, resting frequently and lathered by the work, had climbed the +steep grade of the old road to Moraga Valley, and on the divide of the +Contra Costa hills the way descended sharply through the green and sunny +stillness of Redwood Canyon. + +“Say, ain't it swell?” Billy queried, with a wave of his hand indicating +the circled tree-groups, the trickle of unseen water, and the summer hum +of bees. + +“I love it,” Saxon affirmed. “It makes me want to live in the country, +and I never have.” + +“Me, too, Saxon. I've never lived in the country in my life--an' all my +folks was country folks.” + +“No cities then. Everybody lived in the country.” + +“I guess you're right,” he nodded. “They just had to live in the +country.” + +There was no brake on the light carriage, and Billy became absorbed in +managing his team down the steep, winding road. Saxon leaned back, eyes +closed, with a feeling of ineffable rest. Time and again he shot glances +at her closed eyes. + +“What's the matter?” he asked finally, in mild alarm. “You ain't sick?” + +“It's so beautiful I'm afraid to look,” she answered. “It's so brave it +hurts.” + +“BRAVE?--now that's funny.” + +“Isn't it? But it just makes me feel that way. It's brave. Now the +houses and streets and things in the city aren't brave. But this is. I +don't know why. It just is.” + +“By golly, I think you're right,” he exclaimed. “It strikes me that way, +now you speak of it. They ain't no games or tricks here, no cheatin' +an' no lyin'. Them trees just stand up natural an' strong an' clean +like young boys their first time in the ring before they've learned its +rottenness an' how to double-cross an' lay down to the bettin' odds an' +the fight-fans. Yep; it is brave. Say, Saxon, you see things, don't you?” + His pause was almost wistful, and he looked at her and studied her with +a caressing softness that ran through her in resurgent thrills. “D'ye +know, I'd just like you to see me fight some time--a real fight, with +something doin' every moment. I'd be proud to death to do it for you. +An' I'd sure fight some with you lookin' on an' understandin'. That'd be +a fight what is, take it from me. An' that's funny, too. I never wanted +to fight before a woman in my life. They squeal and screech an' don't +understand. But you'd understand. It's dead open an' shut you would.” + +A little later, swinging along the flat of the valley, through the +little clearings of the farmers and the ripe grain-stretches golden in +the sunshine, Billy turned to Saxon again. + +“Say, you've ben in love with fellows, lots of times. Tell me about it. +What's it like?” + +She shook her head slowly. + +“I only thought I was in love--and not many times, either--” + +“Many times!” he cried. + +“Not really ever,” she assured him, secretly exultant at his unconscious +jealousy. “I never was really in love. If I had been I'd be married +now. You see, I couldn't see anything else to it but to marry a man if I +loved him.” + +“But suppose he didn't love you?” + +“Oh, I don't know,” she smiled, half with facetiousness and half with +certainty and pride. “I think I could make him love me.” + +“I guess you sure could,” Billy proclaimed enthusiastically. + +“The trouble is,” she went on, “the men that loved me I never cared for +that way.--Oh, look!” + +A cottontail rabbit had scuttled across the road, and a tiny dust cloud +lingered like smoke, marking the way of his flight. At the next turn a +dozen quail exploded into the air from under the noses of the horses. +Billy and Saxon exclaimed in mutual delight. + +“Gee,” he muttered, “I almost wisht I'd ben born a farmer. Folks wasn't +made to live in cities.” + +“Not our kind, at least,” she agreed. Followed a pause and a long sigh. +“It's all so beautiful. It would be a dream just to live all your life +in it. I'd like to be an Indian squaw sometimes.” + +Several times Billy checked himself on the verge of speech. + +“About those fellows you thought you was in love with,” he said finally. +“You ain't told me, yet.” + +“You want to know?” she asked. “They didn't amount to anything.” + +“Of course I want to know. Go ahead. Fire away.” + +“Well, first there was Al Stanley--” + +“What did he do for a livin'?” Billy demanded, almost as with authority. + +“He was a gambler.” + +Billy's face abruptly stiffened, and she could see his eyes cloudy with +doubt in the quick glance he flung at her. + +“Oh, it was all right,” she laughed. “I was only eight years old. You +see, I'm beginning at the beginning. It was after my mother died and +when I was adopted by Cady. He kept a hotel and saloon. It was down +in Los Angeles. Just a small hotel. Workingmen, just common laborers, +mostly, and some railroad men, stopped at it, and I guess Al Stanley +got his share of their wages. He was so handsome and so quiet and +soft-spoken. And he had the nicest eyes and the softest, cleanest hands. +I can see them now. He played with me sometimes, in the afternoon, and +gave me candy and little presents. He used to sleep most of the day. I +didn't know why, then. I thought he was a fairy prince in disguise. And +then he got killed, right in the bar-room, but first he killed the man +that killed him. So that was the end of that love affair. + +“Next was after the asylum, when I was thirteen and living with my +brother--I've lived with him ever since. He was a boy that drove a +bakery wagon. Almost every morning, on the way to school, I used to +pass him. He would come driving down Wood Street and turn in on Twelfth. +Maybe it was because he drove a horse that attracted me. Anyway, I +must have loved him for a couple of months. Then he lost his job, or +something, for another boy drove the wagon. And we'd never even spoken +to each other. + +“Then there was a bookkeeper when I was sixteen. I seem to run to +bookkeepers. It was a bookkeeper at the laundry that Charley Long beat +up. This other one was when I was working in Hickmeyer's Cannery. He had +soft hands, too. But I quickly got all I wanted of him. He was... well, +anyway, he had ideas like your boss. And I never really did love him, +truly and honest, Billy. I felt from the first that he wasn't just +right. And when I was working in the paper-box factory I thought I loved +a clerk in Kahn's Emporium--you know, on Eleventh and Washington. He was +all right. That was the trouble with him. He was too much all right. He +didn't have any life in him, any go. He wanted to marry me, though. +But somehow I couldn't see it. That shows I didn't love him. He was +narrow-chested and skinny, and his hands were always cold and fishy. But +my! he could dress--just like he came out of a bandbox. He said he was +going to drown himself, and all kinds of things, but I broke with him +just the same. + +“And after that... well, there isn't any after that. I must have got +particular, I guess, but I didn't see anybody I could love. It seemed +more like a game with the men I met, or a fight. And we never fought +fair on either side. Seemed as if we always had cards up our sleeves. We +weren't honest or outspoken, but instead it seemed as if we were trying +to take advantage of each other. Charley Long was honest, though. And +so was that bank cashier. And even they made me have the fight feeling +harder than ever. All of them always made me feel I had to take care of +myself. They wouldn't. That was sure.” + +She stopped and looked with interest at the clean profile of his face as +he watched and guided the horses. He looked at her inquiringly, and her +eyes laughed lazily into his as she stretched her arms. + +“That's all,” she concluded. “I've told you everything, which I've never +done before to any one. And it's your turn now.” + +“Not much of a turn, Saxon. I've never cared for girls--that is, not +enough to want to marry 'em. I always liked men better--fellows like +Billy Murphy. Besides, I guess I was too interested in trainin' an' +fightin' to bother with women much. Why, Saxon, honest, while I ain't +ben altogether good--you understand what I mean--just the same I ain't +never talked love to a girl in my life. They was no call to.” + +“The girls have loved you just the same,” she teased, while in her heart +was a curious elation at his virginal confession. + +He devoted himself to the horses. + +“Lots of them,” she urged. + +Still he did not reply. + +“Now, haven't they?” + +“Well, it wasn't my fault,” he said slowly. “If they wanted to look +sideways at me it was up to them. And it was up to me to sidestep if I +wanted to, wasn't it? You've no idea, Saxon, how a prizefighter is run +after. Why, sometimes it's seemed to me that girls an' women ain't got +an ounce of natural shame in their make-up. Oh, I was never afraid of +them, believe muh, but I didn't hanker after 'em. A man's a fool that'd +let them kind get his goat.” + +“Maybe you haven't got love in you,” she challenged. + +“Maybe I haven't,” was his discouraging reply. “Anyway, I don't +see myself lovin' a girl that runs after me. It's all right for +Charley-boys, but a man that is a man don't like bein' chased by women.” + +“My mother always said that love was the greatest thing in the world,” + Saxon argued. “She wrote poems about it, too. Some of them were +published in the San Jose Mercury.” + +“What do you think about it?” + +“Oh, I don't know,” she baffled, meeting his eyes with another lazy +smile. “All I know is it's pretty good to be alive a day like this.” + +“On a trip like this--you bet it is,” he added promptly. + +At one o'clock Billy turned off the road and drove into an open space +among the trees. + +“Here's where we eat,” he announced. “I thought it'd be better to have +a lunch by ourselves than stop at one of these roadside dinner counters. +An' now, just to make everything safe an' comfortable, I'm goin' to +unharness the horses. We got lots of time. You can get the lunch basket +out an' spread it on the lap-robe.” + +As Saxon unpacked the basket she was appalled at his extravagance. +She spread an amazing array of ham and chicken sandwiches, crab salad, +hard-boiled eggs, pickled pigs' feet, ripe olives and dill pickles, +Swiss cheese, salted almonds, oranges and bananas, and several pint +bottles of beer. It was the quantity as well as the variety that +bothered her. It had the appearance of a reckless attempt to buy out a +whole delicatessen shop. + +“You oughtn't to blow yourself that way,” she reproved him as he sat +down beside her. “Why it's enough for half a dozen bricklayers.” + +“It's all right, isn't it?” + +“Yes,” she acknowledged. “But that's the trouble. It's too much so.” + +“Then it's all right,” he concluded. “I always believe in havin' plenty. +Have some beer to wash the dust away before we begin? Watch out for the +glasses. I gotta return them.” + +Later, the meal finished, he lay on his back, smoking a cigarette, and +questioned her about her earlier history. She had been telling him of +her life in her brother's house, where she paid four dollars and a half +a week board. At fifteen she had graduated from grammar school and gone +to work in the jute mills for four dollars a week, three of which she +had paid to Sarah. + +“How about that saloonkeeper?” Billy asked. “How come it he adopted +you?” + +She shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know, except that all my relatives +were hard up. It seemed they just couldn't get on. They managed to +scratch a lean living for themselves, and that was all. Cady--he was the +saloonkeeper--had been a soldier in my father's company, and he always +swore by Captain Kit, which was their nickname for him. My father had +kept the surgeons from amputating his leg in the war, and he never +forgot it. He was making money in the hotel and saloon, and I found out +afterward he helped out a lot to pay the doctors and to bury my mother +alongside of father. I was to go to Uncle Will--that was my mother's +wish; but there had been fighting up in the Ventura Mountains where his +ranch was, and men had been killed. It was about fences and cattlemen +or something, and anyway he was in jail a long time, and when he got +his freedom the lawyers had got his ranch. He was an old man, then, and +broken, and his wife took sick, and he got a job as night watchman +for forty dollars a month. So he couldn't do anything for me, and Cady +adopted me. + +“Cady was a good man, if he did run a saloon. His wife was a big, +handsome-looking woman. I don't think she was all right... and I've +heard so since. But she was good to me. I don't care what they say about +her, or what she was. She was awful good to me. After he died, she went +altogether bad, and so I went into the orphan asylum. It wasn't any too +good there, and I had three years of it. And then Tom had married +and settled down to steady work, and he took me out to live with him. +And--well, I've been working pretty steady ever since.” + +She gazed sadly away across the fields until her eyes came to rest on +a fence bright-splashed with poppies at its base. Billy, who from his +supine position had been looking up at her, studying and pleasuring in +the pointed oval of her woman's face, reached his hand out slowly as he +murmured: + +“You poor little kid.” + +His hand closed sympathetically on her bare forearm, and as she looked +down to greet his eyes she saw in them surprise and delight. + +“Say, ain't your skin cool though,” he said. “Now me, I'm always warm. +Feel my hand.” + +It was warmly moist, and she noted microscopic beads of sweat on his +forehead and clean-shaven upper lip. + +“My, but you are sweaty.” + +She bent to him and with her handkerchief dabbed his lip and forehead +dry, then dried his palms. + +“I breathe through my skin, I guess,” he explained. “The wise guys in +the trainin' camps and gyms say it's a good sign for health. But somehow +I'm sweatin' more than usual now. Funny, ain't it?” + +She had been forced to unclasp his hand from her arm in order to dry it, +and when she finished, it returned to its old position. + +“But, say, ain't your skin cool,” he repeated with renewed wonder. “Soft +as velvet, too, an' smooth as silk. It feels great.” + +Gently explorative, he slid his hand from wrist to elbow and came to +rest half way back. Tired and languid from the morning in the sun, she +found herself thrilling to his touch and half-dreamily deciding that +here was a man she could love, hands and all. + +“Now I've taken the cool all out of that spot.” He did not look up to +her, and she could see the roguish smile that curled on his lips. “So I +guess I'll try another.” + +He shifted his hand along her arm with soft sensuousness, and she, +looking down at his lips, remembered the long tingling they had given +hers the first time they had met. + +“Go on and talk,” he urged, after a delicious five minutes of silence. +“I like to watch your lips talking. It's funny, but every move they make +looks like a tickly kiss.” + +Greatly she wanted to stay where she was. Instead, she said: + +“If I talk, you won't like what I say.” + +“Go on,” he insisted. “You can't say anything I won't like.” + +“Well, there's some poppies over there by the fence I want to pick. And +then it's time for us to be going.” + +“I lose,” he laughed. “But you made twenty-five tickle kisses just the +same. I counted 'em. I'll tell you what: you sing 'When the Harvest Days +Are Over,' and let me have your other cool arm while you're doin' it, +and then we'll go.” + +She sang looking down into his eyes, which were centered, not on hers, +but on her lips. When she finished, she slipped his hands from her arms +and got up. He was about to start for the horses, when she held her +jacket out to him. Despite the independence natural to a girl who +earned her own living, she had an innate love of the little services and +finenesses; and, also, she remembered from her childhood the talk by the +pioneer women of the courtesy and attendance of the caballeros of the +Spanish-California days. + +Sunset greeted them when, after a wide circle to the east and south, +they cleared the divide of the Contra Costa hills and began dropping +down the long grade that led past Redwood Peak to Fruitvale. Beneath +them stretched the flatlands to the bay, checkerboarded into fields and +broken by the towns of Elmhurst, San Leandro, and Haywards. The smoke of +Oakland filled the western sky with haze and murk, while beyond, across +the bay, they could see the first winking lights of San Francisco. + +Darkness was on them, and Billy had become curiously silent. For half +an hour he had given no recognition of her existence save once, when +the chill evening wind caused him to tuck the robe tightly about her +and himself. Half a dozen times Saxon found herself on the verge of the +remark, “What's on your mind?” but each time let it remain unuttered. +She sat very close to him. The warmth of their bodies intermingled, and +she was aware of a great restfulness and content. + +“Say, Saxon,” he began abruptly. “It's no use my holdin' it in any +longer. It's ben in my mouth all day, ever since lunch. What's the +matter with you an' me gettin' married?” + +She knew, very quietly and very gladly, that he meant it. Instinctively +she was impelled to hold off, to make him woo her, to make herself more +desirably valuable ere she yielded. Further, her woman's sensitiveness +and pride were offended. She had never dreamed of so forthright and bald +a proposal from the man to whom she would give herself. The simplicity +and directness of Billy's proposal constituted almost a hurt. On the +other hand she wanted him so much--how much she had not realized until +now, when he had so unexpectedly made himself accessible. + +“Well you gotta say something, Saxon. Hand it to me, good or bad; but +anyway hand it to me. An' just take into consideration that I love you. +Why, I love you like the very devil, Saxon. I must, because I'm askin' +you to marry me, an' I never asked any girl that before.” + +Another silence fell, and Saxon found herself dwelling on the warmth, +tingling now, under the lap-robe. When she realized whither her thoughts +led, she blushed guiltily in the darkness. + +“How old are you, Billy?” she questioned, with a suddenness and +irrelevance as disconcerting as his first words had been. + +“Twenty-two,” he answered. + +“I am twenty-four.” + +“As if I didn't know. When you left the orphan asylum and how old you +were, how long you worked in the jute mills, the cannery, the paper-box +factory, the laundry--maybe you think I can't do addition. I knew how +old you was, even to your birthday.” + +“That doesn't change the fact that I'm two years older.” + +“What of it? If it counted for anything, I wouldn't be lovin' you, would +I? Your mother was dead right. Love's the big stuff. It's what counts. +Don't you see? I just love you, an' I gotta have you. It's natural, I +guess; and I've always found with horses, dogs, and other folks, that +what's natural is right. There's no gettin' away from it, Saxon; I gotta +have you, an' I'm just hopin' hard you gotta have me. Maybe my hands +ain't soft like bookkeepers' an' clerks, but they can work for you, an' +fight like Sam Hill for you, and, Saxon, they can love you.” + +The old sex antagonism which she had always experienced with men seemed +to have vanished. She had no sense of being on the defensive. This was +no game. It was what she had been looking for and dreaming about. Before +Billy she was defenseless, and there was an all-satisfaction in the +knowledge. She could deny him nothing. Not even if he proved to be +like the others. And out of the greatness of the thought rose a greater +thought--he would not so prove himself. + +She did not speak. Instead, in a glow of spirit and flesh, she reached +out to his left hand and gently tried to remove it from the rein. He did +not understand; but when she persisted he shifted the rein to his right +and let her have her will with the other hand. Her head bent over it, +and she kissed the teamster callouses. + +For the moment he was stunned. + +“You mean it?” he stammered. + +For reply, she kissed the hand again and murmured: + +“I love your hands, Billy. To me they are the most beautiful hands in +the world, and it would take hours of talking to tell you all they mean +to me.” + +“Whoa!” he called to the horses. + +He pulled them in to a standstill, soothed them with his voice, and made +the reins fast around the whip. Then he turned to her with arms around +her and lips to lips. + +“Oh, Billy, I'll make you a good wife,” she sobbed, when the kiss was +broken. + +He kissed her wet eyes and found her lips again. + +“Now you know what I was thinkin' and why I was sweatin' when we was +eatin' lunch. Just seemed I couldn't hold in much longer from tellin' +you. Why, you know, you looked good to me from the first moment I +spotted you.” + +“And I think I loved you from that first day, too, Billy. And I was so +proud of you all that day, you were so kind and gentle, and so strong, +and the way the men all respected you and the girls all wanted you, and +the way you fought those three Irishmen when I was behind the picnic +table. I couldn't love or marry a man I wasn't proud of, and I'm so +proud of you, so proud.” + +“Not half as much as I am right now of myself,” he answered, “for having +won you. It's too good to be true. Maybe the alarm clock'll go off and +wake me up in a couple of minutes. Well, anyway, if it does, I'm goin' +to make the best of them two minutes first. Watch out I don't eat you, +I'm that hungry for you.” + +He smothered her in an embrace, holding her so tightly to him that it +almost hurt. After what was to her an age-long period of bliss, his arms +relaxed and he seemed to make an effort to draw himself together. + + “An' the clock ain't gone off yet,” he whispered against her +cheek. “And it's a dark night, an' there's Fruitvale right ahead, an' if +there ain't King and Prince standin' still in the middle of the road. I +never thought the time'd come when I wouldn't want to take the ribbons +on a fine pair of horses. But this is that time. I just can't let go +of you, and I've gotta some time to-night. It hurts worse'n poison, but +here goes.” + +He restored her to herself, tucked the disarranged robe about her, and +chirruped to the impatient team. + +Half an hour later he called “Whoa!” + +“I know I'm awake now, but I don't know but maybe I dreamed all the +rest, and I just want to make sure.” + +And again he made the reins fast and took her in his arms. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +The days flew by for Saxon. She worked on steadily at the laundry, +even doing more overtime than usual, and all her free waking hours were +devoted to preparations for the great change and to Billy. He had proved +himself God's own impetuous lover by insisting on getting married +the next day after the proposal, and then by resolutely refusing to +compromise on more than a week's delay. + +“Why wait?” he demanded. “We're not gettin' any younger so far as I can +notice, an' think of all we lose every day we wait.” + +In the end, he gave in to a month, which was well, for in two weeks he +was transferred, with half a dozen other drivers, to work from the big +stables of Corberly and Morrison in West Oakland. House-hunting in the +other end of town ceased, and on Pine Street, between Fifth and Fourth, +and in immediate proximity to the great Southern Pacific railroad +yards, Billy and Saxon rented a neat cottage of four small rooms for ten +dollars a month. + +“Dog-cheap is what I call it, when I think of the small rooms I've ben +soaked for,” was Billy's judgment. “Look at the one I got now, not as +big as the smallest here, an' me payin' six dollars a month for it.” + +“But it's furnished,” Saxon reminded him. “You see, that makes a +difference.” + +But Billy didn't see. + +“I ain't much of a scholar, Saxon, but I know simple arithmetic; I've +soaked my watch when I was hard up, and I can calculate interest. How +much do you figure it will cost to furnish the house, carpets on the +floor, linoleum on the kitchen, and all?” + +“We can do it nicely for three hundred dollars,” she answered. “I've +been thinking it over and I'm sure we can do it for that.” + +“Three hundred,” he muttered, wrinkling his brows with concentration. +“Three hundred, say at six per cent.--that'd be six cents on the dollar, +sixty cents on ten dollars, six dollars on the hundred, on three hundred +eighteen dollars. Say--I'm a bear at multiplyin' by ten. Now divide +eighteen by twelve, that'd be a dollar an' a half a month interest.” + He stopped, satisfied that he had proved his contention. Then his face +quickened with a fresh thought. “Hold on! That ain't all. That'd be +the interest on the furniture for four rooms. Divide by four. What's a +dollar an' a half divided by four?” + +“Four into fifteen, three times and three to carry,” Saxon recited +glibly. “Four into thirty is seven, twenty-eight, two to carry; and +two-fourths is one-half. There you are.” + +“Gee! You're the real bear at figures.” He hesitated. “I didn't follow +you. How much did you say it was?” + +“Thirty-seven and a half cents.” + +“Ah, ha! Now we'll see how much I've ben gouged for my one room. +Ten dollars a month for four rooms is two an' a half for one. Add +thirty-seven an' a half cents interest on furniture, an' that makes +two dollars an' eighty-seven an' a half cents. Subtract from six +dollars....” + +“Three dollars and twelve and a half cents,” she supplied quickly. + +“There we are! Three dollars an' twelve an' a half cents I'm jiggered +out of on the room I'm rentin'. Say! Bein' married is like savin' money, +ain't it?” + +“But furniture wears out, Billy.” + +“By golly, I never thought of that. It ought to be figured, too. Anyway, +we've got a snap here, and next Saturday afternoon you've gotta get off +from the laundry so as we can go an' buy our furniture. I saw Salinger's +last night. I give'm fifty down, and the rest installment plan, ten +dollars a month. In twenty-five months the furniture's ourn. An' +remember, Saxon, you wanta buy everything you want, no matter how much +it costs. No scrimpin' on what's for you an' me. Get me?” + +She nodded, with no betrayal on her face of the myriad secret economies +that filled her mind. A hint of moisture glistened in her eyes. + +“You're so good to me, Billy,” she murmured, as she came to him and was +met inside his arms. + +“So you've gone an' done it,” Mary commented, one morning in the +laundry. They had not been at work ten minutes ere her eye had glimpsed +the topaz ring on the third finger of Saxon's left hand. “Who's the +lucky one? Charley Long or Billy Roberts?” + +“Billy,” was the answer. + +“Huh! Takin' a young boy to raise, eh?” + +Saxon showed that the stab had gone home, and Mary was all contrition. + +“Can't you take a josh? I'm glad to death at the news. Billy's a awful +good man, and I'm glad to see you get him. There ain't many like him +knockin' 'round, an' they ain't to be had for the askin'. An' you're +both lucky. You was just made for each other, an' you'll make him a +better wife than any girl I know. When is it to be?” + +Going home from the laundry a few days later, Saxon encountered Charley +Long. He blocked the sidewalk, and compelled speech with her. + +“So you're runnin' with a prizefighter,” he sneered. “A blind man can +see your finish.” + +For the first time she was unafraid of this big-bodied, black-browed man +with the hairy-matted hands and fingers. She held up her left hand. + +“See that? It's something, with all your strength, that you could never +put on my finger. Billy Roberts put it on inside a week. He got your +number, Charley Long, and at the same time he got me.” + +“Skiddoo for you,” Long retorted. “Twenty-three's your number.” + +“He's not like you,” Saxon went on. “He's a man, every bit of him, a +fine, clean man.” + +Long laughed hoarsely. + +“He's got your goat all right.” + +“And yours,” she flashed back. + +“I could tell you things about him. Saxon, straight, he ain't no good. +If I was to tell you--” + +“You'd better get out of my way,” she interrupted, “or I'll tell him, +and you know what you'll get, you great big bully.” + +Long shuffled uneasily, then reluctantly stepped aside. + +“You're a caution,” he said, half admiringly. + +“So's Billy Roberts,” she laughed, and continued on her way. After half +a dozen steps she stopped. “Say,” she called. + +The big blacksmith turned toward her with eagerness. + +“About a block back,” she said, “I saw a man with hip disease. You might +go and beat him up.” + +Of one extravagance Saxon was guilty in the course of the brief +engagement period. A full day's wages she spent in the purchase of half +a dozen cabinet photographs of herself. Billy had insisted that life was +unendurable could he not look upon her semblance the last thing when he +went to bed at night and the first thing when he got up in the morning. +In return, his photographs, one conventional and one in the stripped +fighting costume of the ring, ornamented her looking glass. It was while +gazing at the latter that she was reminded of her wonderful mother's +tales of the ancient Saxons and sea-foragers of the English coasts. From +the chest of drawers that had crossed the plains she drew forth another +of her several precious heirlooms--a scrap-book of her mother's in which +was pasted much of the fugitive newspaper verse of pioneer California +days. Also, there were copies of paintings and old wood engravings from +the magazines of a generation and more before. + +Saxon ran the pages with familiar fingers and stopped at the picture she +was seeking. Between bold headlands of rock and under a gray cloud-blown +sky, a dozen boats, long and lean and dark, beaked like monstrous birds, +were landing on a foam-whitened beach of sand. The men in the boats, +half naked, huge-muscled and fair-haired, wore winged helmets. In their +hands were swords and spears, and they were leaping, waist-deep, into +the sea-wash and wading ashore. Opposed to them, contesting the landing, +were skin-clad savages, unlike Indians, however, who clustered on the +beach or waded into the water to their knees. The first blows were being +struck, and here and there the bodies of the dead and wounded rolled in +the surf. One fair-haired invader lay across the gunwale of a boat, the +manner of his death told by the arrow that transfixed his breast. In the +air, leaping past him into the water, sword in hand, was Billy. There +was no mistaking it. The striking blondness, the face, the eyes, the +mouth were the same. The very expression on the face was what had been +on Billy's the day of the picnic when he faced the three wild Irishmen. + +Somewhere out of the ruck of those warring races had emerged Billy's +ancestors, and hers, was her afterthought, as she closed the book and +put it back in the drawer. And some of those ancestors had made this +ancient and battered chest of drawers which had crossed the salt ocean +and the plains and been pierced by a bullet in the fight with the +Indians at Little Meadow. Almost, it seemed, she could visualize the +women who had kept their pretties and their family homespun in its +drawers--the women of those wandering generations who were grandmothers +and greater great grandmothers of her own mother. Well, she sighed, it +was a good stock to be born of, a hard-working, hard-fighting stock. She +fell to wondering what her life would have been like had she been born +a Chinese woman, or an Italian woman like those she saw, head-shawled +or bareheaded, squat, ungainly and swarthy, who carried great loads +of driftwood on their heads up from the beach. Then she laughed at +her foolishness, remembered Billy and the four-roomed cottage on Pine +Street, and went to bed with her mind filled for the hundredth time with +the details of the furniture. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +“Our cattle were all played out,” Saxon was saying, “and winter was so +near that we couldn't dare try to cross the Great American Desert, so +our train stopped in Salt Lake City that winter. The Mormons hadn't got +bad yet, and they were good to us.” + +“You talk as though you were there,” Bert commented. + +“My mother was,” Saxon answered proudly. “She was nine years old that +winter.” + +They were seated around the table in the kitchen of the little Pine +Street cottage, making a cold lunch of sandwiches, tamales, and bottled +beer. It being Sunday, the four were free from work, and they had come +early, to work harder than on any week day, washing walls and windows, +scrubbing floors, laying carpets and linoleum, hanging curtains, setting +up the stove, putting the kitchen utensils and dishes away, and placing +the furniture. + +“Go on with the story, Saxon,” Mary begged. “I'm just dyin' to hear. And +Bert, you just shut up and listen.” + +“Well, that winter was when Del Hancock showed up. He was Kentucky born, +but he'd been in the West for years. He was a scout, like Kit Carson, +and he knew him well. Many's a time Kit Carson and he slept under the +same blankets. They were together to California and Oregon with General +Fremont. Well, Del Hancock was passing on his way through Salt Lake, +going I don't know where to raise a company of Rocky Mountain trappers +to go after beaver some new place he knew about. He was a handsome man. +He wore his hair long like in pictures, and had a silk sash around +his waist he'd learned to wear in California from the Spanish, and two +revolvers in his belt. Any woman 'd fall in love with him first sight. +Well, he saw Sadie, who was my mother's oldest sister, and I guess she +looked good to him, for he stopped right there in Salt Lake and didn't +go a step. He was a great Indian fighter, too, and I heard my Aunt Villa +say, when I was a little girl, that he had the blackest, brightest eyes, +and that the way he looked was like an eagle. He'd fought duels, too, +the way they did in those days, and he wasn't afraid of anything. + +“Sadie was a beauty, and she flirted with him and drove him crazy. Maybe +she wasn't sure of her own mind, I don't know. But I do know that she +didn't give in as easy as I did to Billy. Finally, he couldn't stand it +any more. He rode up that night on horseback, wild as could be. 'Sadie,' +he said, 'if you don't promise to marry me to-morrow, I'll shoot myself +to-night right back of the corral.' And he'd have done it, too, and +Sadie knew it, and said she would. Didn't they make love fast in those +days?” + +“Oh, I don't know,” Mary sniffed. “A week after you first laid eyes on +Billy you was engaged. Did Billy say he was going to shoot himself back +of the laundry if you turned him down?” + +“I didn't give him a chance,” Saxon confessed. “Anyway Del Hancock and +Aunt Sadie got married next day. And they were very happy afterward, +only she died. And after that he was killed, with General Custer and all +the rest, by the Indians. He was an old man by then, but I guess he +got his share of Indians before they got him. Men like him always died +fighting, and they took their dead with them. I used to know Al Stanley +when I was a little girl. He was a gambler, but he was game. A railroad +man shot him in the back when he was sitting at a table. That shot +killed him, too. He died in about two seconds. But before he died he'd +pulled his gun and put three bullets into the man that killed him.” + +“I don't like fightin',” Mary protested. “It makes me nervous. Bert +gives me the willies the way he's always lookin' for trouble. There +ain't no sense in it.” + +“And I wouldn't give a snap of my fingers for a man without fighting +spirit,” Saxon answered. “Why, we wouldn't be here to-day if it wasn't +for the fighting spirit of our people before us.” + +“You've got the real goods of a fighter in Billy,” Bert assured her; “a +yard long and a yard wide and genuine A Number One, long-fleeced wool. +Billy's a Mohegan with a scalp-lock, that's what he is. And when he gets +his mad up it's a case of get out from under or something will fall on +you--hard.” + +“Just like that,” Mary added. + +Billy, who had taken no part in the conversation, got up, glanced into +the bedroom off the kitchen, went into the parlor and the bedroom off +the parlor, then returned and stood gazing with puzzled brows into the +kitchen bedroom. + +“What's eatin' you, old man,” Bert queried. “You look as though you'd +lost something or was markin' a three-way ticket. What you got on your +chest? Cough it up.” + +“Why, I'm just thinkin' where in Sam Hill's the bed an' stuff for the +back bedroom.” + +“There isn't any,” Saxon explained. “We didn't order any.” + +“Then I'll see about it to-morrow.” + +“What d'ye want another bed for?” asked Bert. “Ain't one bed enough for +the two of you?” + +“You shut up, Bert!” Mary cried. “Don't get raw.” + +“Whoa, Mary!” Bert grinned. “Back up. You're in the wrong stall as +usual.” + +“We don't need that room,” Saxon was saying to Billy. “And so I didn't +plan any furniture. That money went to buy better carpets and a better +stove.” + +Billy came over to her, lifted her from the chair, and seated himself +with her on his knees. + +“That's right, little girl. I'm glad you did. The best for us every +time. And to-morrow night I want you to run up with me to Salinger's +an' pick out a good bedroom set an' carpet for that room. And it must be +good. Nothin' snide.” + +“It will cost fifty dollars,” she objected. + +“That's right,” he nodded. “Make it cost fifty dollars and not a cent +less. We're goin' to have the best. And what's the good of an empty +room? It'd make the house look cheap. Why, I go around now, seein' this +little nest just as it grows an' softens, day by day, from the day we +paid the cash money down an' nailed the keys. Why, almost every moment +I'm drivin' the horses, all day long, I just keep on seein' this nest. +And when we're married, I'll go on seein' it. And I want to see it +complete. If that room'd be bare-floored an' empty, I'd see nothin' but +it and its bare floor all day long. I'd be cheated. The house'd be +a lie. Look at them curtains you put up in it, Saxon. That's to make +believe to the neighbors that it's furnished. Saxon, them curtains are +lyin' about that room, makin' a noise for every one to hear that that +room's furnished. Nitsky for us. I'm goin' to see that them curtains +tell the truth.” + +“You might rent it,” Bert suggested. “You're close to the railroad +yards, and it's only two blocks to a restaurant.” + +“Not on your life. I ain't marryin' Saxon to take in lodgers. If I can't +take care of her, d'ye know what I'll do? Go down to Long Wharf, say +'Here goes nothin',' an' jump into the bay with a stone tied to my neck. +Ain't I right, Saxon?” + +It was contrary to her prudent judgment, but it fanned her pride. She +threw her arms around her lover's neck, and said, ere she kissed him: + +“You're the boss, Billy. What you say goes, and always will go.” + +“Listen to that!” Bert gibed to Mary. “That's the stuff. Saxon's onto +her job.” + +“I guess we'll talk things over together first before ever I do +anything,” Billy was saying to Saxon. + +“Listen to that,” Mary triumphed. “You bet the man that marries me'll +have to talk things over first.” + +“Billy's only givin' her hot air,” Bert plagued. “They all do it before +they're married.” + +Mary sniffed contemptuously. + +“I'll bet Saxon leads him around by the nose. And I'm goin' to say, loud +an' strong, that I'll lead the man around by the nose that marries me.” + +“Not if you love him,” Saxon interposed. + +“All the more reason,” Mary pursued. + +Bert assumed an expression and attitude of mournful dejection. + +“Now you see why me an' Mary don't get married,” he said. “I'm some big +Indian myself, an' I'll be everlastingly jiggerooed if I put up for a +wigwam I can't be boss of.” + +“And I'm no squaw,” Mary retaliated, “an' I wouldn't marry a big buck +Indian if all the rest of the men in the world was dead.” + +“Well this big buck Indian ain't asked you yet.” + +“He knows what he'd get if he did.” + +“And after that maybe he'll think twice before he does ask you.” + +Saxon, intent on diverting the conversation into pleasanter channels, +clapped her hands as if with sudden recollection. + +“Oh! I forgot! I want to show you something.” From her purse she drew +a slender ring of plain gold and passed it around. “My mother's wedding +ring. I've worn it around my neck always, like a locket. I cried for it +so in the orphan asylum that the matron gave it back for me to wear. And +now, just to think, after next Tuesday I'll be wearing it on my finger. +Look, Billy, see the engraving on the inside.” + +“C to D, 1879,” he read. + +“Carlton to Daisy--Carlton was my father's first name. And now, Billy, +you've got to get it engraved for you and me.” + +Mary was all eagerness and delight. + +“Oh, it's fine,” she cried. “W to S, 1907.” + +Billy considered a moment. + +“No, that wouldn't be right, because I'm not giving it to Saxon.” + +“I'll tell you what,” Saxon said. “W and S.” + +“Nope.” Billy shook his head. “S and W, because you come first with me.” + +“If I come first with you, you come first with us. Billy, dear, I insist +on W and S.” + +“You see,” Mary said to Bert. “Having her own way and leading him by the +nose already.” + +Saxon acknowledged the sting. + +“Anyway you want, Billy,” she surrendered. His arms tightened about her. + +“We'll talk it over first, I guess.” + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +Sarah was conservative. Worse, she had crystallized at the end of her +love-time with the coming of her first child. After that she was as +set in her ways as plaster in a mold. Her mold was the prejudices and +notions of her girlhood and the house she lived in. So habitual was +she that any change in the customary round assumed the proportions of +a revolution. Tom had gone through many of these revolutions, three of +them when he moved house. Then his stamina broke, and he never moved +house again. + +So it was that Saxon had held back the announcement of her approaching +marriage until it was unavoidable. She expected a scene, and she got it. + +“A prizefighter, a hoodlum, a plug-ugly,” Sarah sneered, after she had +exhausted herself of all calamitous forecasts of her own future and the +future of her children in the absence of Saxon's weekly four dollars and +a half. “I don't know what your mother'd thought if she lived to see +the day when you took up with a tough like Bill Roberts. Bill! Why, your +mother was too refined to associate with a man that was called Bill. And +all I can say is you can say good-bye to silk stockings and your three +pair of shoes. It won't be long before you'll think yourself lucky to go +sloppin' around in Congress gaiters and cotton stockin's two pair for a +quarter.” + +“Oh, I'm not afraid of Billy not being able to keep me in all kinds of +shoes,” Saxon retorted with a proud toss of her head. + +“You don't know what you're talkin' about.” Sarah paused to laugh in +mirthless discordance. “Watch for the babies to come. They come faster +than wages raise these days.” + +“But we're not going to have any babies... that is, at first. Not until +after the furniture is all paid for anyway.” + +“Wise in your generation, eh? In my days girls were more modest than to +know anything about disgraceful subjects.” + +“As babies?” Saxon queried, with a touch of gentle malice. + +“Yes, as babies.” + +“The first I knew that babies were disgraceful. Why, Sarah, you, with +your five, how disgraceful you have been. Billy and I have decided not +to be half as disgraceful. We're only going to have two--a boy and a +girl.” + +Tom chuckled, but held the peace by hiding his face in his coffee cup. +Sarah, though checked by this flank attack, was herself an old hand +in the art. So temporary was the setback that she scarcely paused ere +hurling her assault from a new angle. + +“An' marryin' so quick, all of a sudden, eh? If that ain't suspicious, +nothin' is. I don't know what young women's comin' to. They ain't +decent, I tell you. They ain't decent. That's what comes of Sunday +dancin' an' all the rest. Young women nowadays are like a lot of +animals. Such fast an' looseness I never saw....” + +Saxon was white with anger, but while Sarah wandered on in her diatribe, +Tom managed to wink privily and prodigiously at his sister and to +implore her to help in keeping the peace. + +“It's all right, kid sister,” he comforted Saxon when they were alone. +“There's no use talkin' to Sarah. Bill Roberts is a good boy. I know a +lot about him. It does you proud to get him for a husband. You're bound +to be happy with him...” His voice sank, and his face seemed suddenly to +be very old and tired as he went on anxiously. “Take warning from Sarah. +Don't nag. Whatever you do, don't nag. Don't give him a perpetual-motion +line of chin. Kind of let him talk once in a while. Men have some horse +sense, though Sarah don't know it. Why, Sarah actually loves me, though +she don't make a noise like it. The thing for you is to love your +husband, and, by thunder, to make a noise of lovin' him, too. And then +you can kid him into doing 'most anything you want. Let him have his way +once in a while, and he'll let you have yourn. But you just go on lovin' +him, and leanin' on his judgement--he's no fool--and you'll be all +hunky-dory. I'm scared from goin' wrong, what of Sarah. But I'd sooner +be loved into not going wrong.” + +“Oh, I'll do it, Tom,” Saxon nodded, smiling through the tears his +sympathy had brought into her eyes. “And on top of it I'm going to do +something else, I'm going to make Billy love me and just keep on loving +me. And then I won't have to kid him into doing some of the things I +want. He'll do them because he loves me, you see.” + +“You got the right idea, Saxon. Stick with it, an' you'll win out.” + +Later, when she had put on her hat to start for the laundry, she found +Tom waiting for her at the corner. + +“An', Saxon,” he said, hastily and haltingly, “you won't take anything +I've said... you know... --about Sarah... as bein' in any way disloyal +to her? She's a good woman, an' faithful. An' her life ain't so easy by +a long shot. I'd bite out my tongue before I'd say anything against her. +I guess all folks have their troubles. It's hell to be poor, ain't it?” + +“You've been awful good to me, Tom. I can never forget it. And I know +Sarah means right. She does do her best.” + +“I won't be able to give you a wedding present,” her brother ventured +apologetically. “Sarah won't hear of it. Says we didn't get none from my +folks when we got married. But I got something for you just the same. A +surprise. You'd never guess it.” + +Saxon waited. + +“When you told me you was goin' to get married, I just happened to think +of it, an' I wrote to brother George, askin' him for it for you. An' by +thunder he sent it by express. I didn't tell you because I didn't know +but maybe he'd sold it. He did sell the silver spurs. He needed the +money, I guess. But the other, I had it sent to the shop so as not +to bother Sarah, an' I sneaked it in last night an' hid it in the +woodshed.” + +“Oh, it is something of my father's! What is it? Oh, what is it?” + +“His army sword.” + +“The one he wore on his roan war horse! Oh, Tom, you couldn't give me a +better present. Let's go back now. I want to see it. We can slip in the +back way. Sarah's washing in the kitchen, and she won't begin hanging +out for an hour.” + +“I spoke to Sarah about lettin' you take the old chest of drawers that +was your mother's,” Tom whispered, as they stole along the narrow alley +between the houses. “Only she got on her high horse. Said that Daisy was +as much my mother as yourn, even if we did have different fathers, and +that the chest had always belonged in Daisy's family and not Captain +Kit's, an' that it was mine, an' what was mine she had some say-so +about.” + +“It's all right,” Saxon reassured him. “She sold it to me last night. +She was waiting up for me when I got home with fire in her eye.” + +“Yep, she was on the warpath all day after I mentioned it. How much did +you give her for it?” + +“Six dollars.” + +“Robbery--it ain't worth it,” Tom groaned. “It's all cracked at one end +and as old as the hills.” + +“I'd have given ten dollars for it. I'd have given 'most anything for +it, Tom. It was mother's, you know. I remember it in her room when she +was still alive.” + +In the woodshed Tom resurrected the hidden treasure and took off the +wrapping paper. Appeared a rusty, steel-scabbarded saber of the heavy +type carried by cavalry officers in Civil War days. It was attached to +a moth-eaten sash of thick-woven crimson silk from which hung heavy silk +tassels. Saxon almost seized it from her brother in her eagerness. She +drew forth the blade and pressed her lips to the steel. + +It was her last day at the laundry. She was to quit work that evening +for good. And the next afternoon, at five, she and Billy were to go +before a justice of the peace and be married. Bert and Mary were to be +the witnesses, and after that the four were to go to a private room in +Barnum's Restaurant for the wedding supper. That over, Bert and Mary +would proceed to a dance at Myrtle Hall, while Billy and Saxon +would take the Eighth Street car to Seventh and Pine. Honeymoons are +infrequent in the working class. The next morning Billy must be at the +stable at his regular hour to drive his team out. + +All the women in the fancy starch room knew it was Saxon's last day. +Many exulted for her, and not a few were envious of her, in that she had +won a husband and to freedom from the suffocating slavery of the ironing +board. Much of bantering she endured; such was the fate of every girl +who married out of the fancy starch room. But Saxon was too happy to be +hurt by the teasing, a great deal of which was gross, but all of which +was good-natured. + +In the steam that arose from under her iron, and on the surfaces of the +dainty lawns and muslins that flew under her hands, she kept visioning +herself in the Pine Street cottage; and steadily she hummed under her +breath her paraphrase of the latest popular song: + +“And when I work, and when I work, I'll always work for Billy.” + +By three in the afternoon the strain of the piece-workers in the humid, +heated room grew tense. Elderly women gasped and sighed; the color went +out of the cheeks of the young women, their faces became drawn and dark +circles formed under their eyes; but all held on with weary, unabated +speed. The tireless, vigilant forewoman kept a sharp lookout for +incipient hysteria, and once led a narrow-chested, stoop-shouldered +young thing out of the place in time to prevent a collapse. + +Saxon was startled by the wildest scream of terror she had ever heard. +The tense thread of human resolution snapped; wills and nerves broke +down, and a hundred women suspended their irons or dropped them. It was +Mary who had screamed so terribly, and Saxon saw a strange black animal +flapping great claw-like wings and nestling on Mary's shoulder. With the +scream, Mary crouched down, and the strange creature, darting into the +air, fluttered full into the startled face of a woman at the next board. +This woman promptly screamed and fainted. Into the air again, the flying +thing darted hither and thither, while the shrieking, shrinking women +threw up their arms, tried to run away along the aisles, or cowered +under their ironing boards. + +“It's only a bat!” the forewoman shouted. She was furious. “Ain't you +ever seen a bat? It won't eat you!” + +But they were ghetto people, and were not to be quieted. Some woman +who could not see the cause of the uproar, out of her overwrought +apprehension raised the cry of fire and precipitated the panic rush for +the doors. All of them were screaming the stupid, soul-sickening high +note of terror, drowning the forewoman's voice. Saxon had been merely +startled at first, but the screaming panic broke her grip on herself and +swept her away. Though she did not scream, she fled with the rest. When +this horde of crazed women debouched on the next department, those who +worked there joined in the stampede to escape from they knew not what +danger. In ten minutes the laundry was deserted, save for a few men +wandering about with hand grenades in futile search for the cause of the +disturbance. + +The forewoman was stout, but indomitable. Swept along half the length +of an aisle by the terror-stricken women, she had broken her way back +through the rout and quickly caught the light-blinded visitant in a +clothes basket. + +“Maybe I don't know what God looks like, but take it from me I've seen +a tintype of the devil,” Mary gurgled, emotionally fluttering back and +forth between laughter and tears. + +But Saxon was angry with herself, for she had been as frightened as the +rest in that wild flight for out-of-doors. + +“We're a lot of fools,” she said. “It was only a bat. I've heard about +them. They live in the country. They wouldn't hurt a fly. They can't see +in the daytime. That was what was the matter with this one. It was only +a bat.” + +“Huh, you can't string me,” Mary replied. “It was the devil.” She +sobbed a moment, and then laughed hysterically again. “Did you see Mrs. +Bergstrom faint? And it only touched her in the face. Why, it was on +my shoulder and touching my bare neck like the hand of a corpse. And I +didn't faint.” She laughed again. “I guess, maybe, I was too scared to +faint.” + +“Come on back,” Saxon urged. “We've lost half an hour.” + +“Not me. I'm goin' home after that, if they fire me. I couldn't iron for +sour apples now, I'm that shaky.” + +One woman had broken a leg, another an arm, and a number nursed milder +bruises and bruises. No bullying nor entreating of the forewoman could +persuade the women to return to work. They were too upset and nervous, +and only here and there could one be found brave enough to re-enter the +building for the hats and lunch baskets of the others. Saxon was one of +the handful that returned and worked till six o'clock. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +“Why, Bert!--you're squiffed!” Mary cried reproachfully. + +The four were at the table in the private room at Barnum's. The wedding +supper, simple enough, but seemingly too expensive to Saxon, had been +eaten. Bert, in his hand a glass of California red wine, which +the management supplied for fifty cents a bottle, was on his feet +endeavoring a speech. His face was flushed; his black eyes were +feverishly bright. + +“You've ben drinkin' before you met me,” Mary continued. “I can see it +stickin' out all over you.” + +“Consult an oculist, my dear,” he replied. “Bertram is himself to-night. +An' he is here, arisin' to his feet to give the glad hand to his old +pal. Bill, old man, here's to you. It's how-de-do an' good-bye, I guess. +You're a married man now, Bill, an' you got to keep regular hours. No +more runnin' around with the boys. You gotta take care of yourself, +an' get your life insured, an' take out an accident policy, an' join a +buildin' an' loan society, an' a buryin' association--” + +“Now you shut up, Bert,” Mary broke in. “You don't talk about buryin's +at weddings. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.” + +“Whoa, Mary! Back up! I said what I said because I meant it. I ain't +thinkin' what Mary thinks. What I was thinkin'.... Let me tell you what +I was thinkin'. I said buryin' association, didn't I? Well, it was not +with the idea of castin' gloom over this merry gatherin'. Far be it....” + +He was so evidently seeking a way out of his predicament, that Mary +tossed her head triumphantly. This acted as a spur to his reeling wits. + +“Let me tell you why,” he went on. “Because, Bill, you got such an +all-fired pretty wife, that's why. All the fellows is crazy over her, +an' when they get to runnin' after her, what'll you be doin'? You'll be +gettin' busy. And then won't you need a buryin' association to bury 'em? +I just guess yes. That was the compliment to your good taste in skirts I +was tryin' to come across with when Mary butted in.” + +His glittering eyes rested for a moment in bantering triumph on Mary. + +“Who says I'm squiffed? Me? Not on your life. I'm seein' all things in a +clear white light. An' I see Bill there, my old friend Bill. An' I don't +see two Bills. I see only one. Bill was never two-faced in his life. +Bill, old man, when I look at you there in the married harness, I'm +sorry--” He ceased abruptly and turned on Mary. “Now don't go up in the +air, old girl. I'm onto my job. My grandfather was a state senator, and +he could spiel graceful an' pleasin' till the cows come home. So can +I.--Bill, when I look at you, I'm sorry. I repeat, I'm sorry.” He glared +challengingly at Mary. “For myself when I look at you an' know all the +happiness you got a hammerlock on. Take it from me, you're a wise guy, +bless the women. You've started well. Keep it up. Marry 'em all, bless +'em. Bill, here's to you. You're a Mohegan with a scalplock. An' you +got a squaw that is some squaw, take it from me. Minnehaha, here's to +you--to the two of you--an' to the papooses, too, gosh-dang them!” + +He drained the glass suddenly and collapsed in his chair, blinking his +eyes across at the wedded couple while tears trickled unheeded down +his cheeks. Mary's hand went out soothingly to his, completing his +break-down. + +“By God, I got a right to cry,” he sobbed. “I'm losin' my best friend, +ain't I? It'll never be the same again never. When I think of the fun, +an' scrapes, an' good times Bill an' me has had together, I could darn +near hate you, Saxon, sittin' there with your hand in his.” + +“Cheer up, Bert,” she laughed gently. “Look at whose hand you are +holding.” + +“Aw, it's only one of his cryin' jags,” Mary said, with a harshness +that her free hand belied as it caressed his hair with soothing strokes. +“Buck up, Bert. Everything's all right. And now it's up to Bill to say +something after your dandy spiel.” + +Bert recovered himself quickly with another glass of wine. + +“Kick in, Bill,” he cried. “It's your turn now.” + +“I'm no hotair artist,” Billy grumbled. “What'll I say, Saxon? They +ain't no use tellin' 'em how happy we are. They know that.” + +“Tell them we're always going to be happy,” she said. “And thank them +for all their good wishes, and we both wish them the same. And we're +always going to be together, like old times, the four of us. And tell +them they're invited down to 507 Pine Street next Sunday for Sunday +dinner.--And, Mary, if you want to come Saturday night you can sleep in +the spare bedroom.” + +“You've told'm yourself, better'n I could.” Billy clapped his hands. +“You did yourself proud, an' I guess they ain't much to add to it, but +just the same I'm goin' to pass them a hot one.” + +He stood up, his hand on his glass. His clear blue eyes under the +dark brows and framed by the dark lashes, seemed a deeper blue, and +accentuated the blondness of hair and skin. The smooth cheeks were +rosy--not with wine, for it was only his second glass--but with health +and joy. Saxon, looking up at him, thrilled with pride in him, he was so +well-dressed, so strong, so handsome, so clean-looking--her man-boy. And +she was aware of pride in herself, in her woman's desirableness that had +won for her so wonderful a lover. + +“Well, Bert an' Mary, here you are at Saxon's and my wedding supper. +We're just goin' to take all your good wishes to heart, we wish you the +same back, and when we say it we mean more than you think we mean. Saxon +an' I believe in tit for tat. So we're wishin' for the day when the +table is turned clear around an' we're sittin' as guests at your weddin' +supper. And then, when you come to Sunday dinner, you can both stop +Saturday night in the spare bedroom. I guess I was wised up when I +furnished it, eh?” + +“I never thought it of you, Billy!” Mary exclaimed. “You're every bit as +raw as Bert. But just the same...” + +There was a rush of moisture to her eyes. Her voice faltered and broke. +She smiled through her tears at them, then turned to look at Bert, who +put his arm around her and gathered her on to his knees. + +When they left the restaurant, the four walked to Eighth and Broadway, +where they stopped beside the electric car. Bert and Billy were awkward +and silent, oppressed by a strange aloofness. But Mary embraced Saxon +with fond anxiousness. + +“It's all right, dear,” Mary whispered. “Don't be scared. It's all +right. Think of all the other women in the world.” + +The conductor clanged the gong, and the two couples separated in a +sudden hubbub of farewell. + +“Oh, you Mohegan!” Bert called after, as the car got under way. “Oh, you +Minnehaha!” + +“Remember what I said,” was Mary's parting to Saxon. + + +The car stopped at Seventh and Pine, the terminus of the line. It was +only a little over two blocks to the cottage. On the front steps Billy +took the key from his pocket. + +“Funny, isn't it?” he said, as the key turned in the lock. “You an' me. +Just you an' me.” + +While he lighted the lamp in the parlor, Saxon was taking off her hat. +He went into the bedroom and lighted the lamp there, then turned back +and stood in the doorway. Saxon, still unaccountably fumbling with her +hatpins, stole a glance at him. He held out his arms. + +“Now,” he said. + +She came to him, and in his arms he could feel her trembling. + + + + +BOOK II + + + +CHAPTER I + +The first evening after the marriage night Saxon met Billy at the door +as he came up the front steps. After their embrace, and as they crossed +the parlor hand in hand toward the kitchen, he filled his lungs through +his nostrils with audible satisfaction. + +“My, but this house smells good, Saxon! It ain't the coffee--I can smell +that, too. It's the whole house. It smells... well, it just smells good +to me, that's all.” + +He washed and dried himself at the sink, while she heated the frying pan +on the front hole of the stove with the lid off. As he wiped his hands +he watched her keenly, and cried out with approbation as she dropped the +steak in the frying pan. + +“Where'd you learn to cook steak on a dry, hot pan? It's the only way, +but darn few women seem to know about it.” + +As she took the cover off a second frying pan and stirred the savory +contents with a kitchen knife, he came behind her, passed his arms under +her arm-pits with down-drooping hands upon her breasts, and bent his +head over her shoulder till cheek touched cheek. + +“Um-um-um-m-m! Fried potatoes with onions like mother used to make. Me +for them. Don't they smell good, though! Um-um-m-m-m!” + +The pressure of his hands relaxed, and his cheek slid caressingly past +hers as he started to release her. Then his hands closed down again. +She felt his lips on her hair and heard his advertised inhalation of +delight. + +“Um-um-m-m-m! Don't you smell good--yourself, though! I never understood +what they meant when they said a girl was sweet. I know, now. And you're +the sweetest I ever knew.” + +His joy was boundless. When he returned from combing his hair in the +bedroom and sat down at the small table opposite her, he paused with +knife and fork in hand. + +“Say, bein' married is a whole lot more than it's cracked up to be by +most married folks. Honest to God, Saxon, we can show 'em a few. We can +give 'em cards and spades an' little casino an' win out on big casino +and the aces. I've got but one kick comin'.” + +The instant apprehension in her eyes provoked a chuckle from him. + +“An' that is that we didn't get married quick enough. Just think. I've +lost a whole week of this.” + +Her eyes shone with gratitude and happiness, and in her heart she +solemnly pledged herself that never in all their married life would it +be otherwise. + +Supper finished, she cleared the table and began washing the dishes at +the sink. When he evinced the intention of wiping them, she caught him +by the lapels of the coat and backed him into a chair. + +“You'll sit right there, if you know what's good for you. Now be good +and mind what I say. Also, you will smoke a cigarette.--No; you're not +going to watch me. There's the morning paper beside you. And if you +don't hurry to read it, I'll be through these dishes before you've +started.” + +As he smoked and read, she continually glanced across at him from her +work. One thing more, she thought--slippers; and then the picture of +comfort and content would be complete. + +Several minutes later Billy put the paper aside with a sigh. + +“It's no use,” he complained. “I can't read.” + +“What's the matter?” she teased. “Eyes weak?” + +“Nope. They're sore, and there's only one thing to do 'em any good, an' +that's lookin' at you.” + +“All right, then, baby Billy; I'll be through in a jiffy.” + +When she had washed the dish towel and scalded out the sink, she took +off her kitchen apron, came to him, and kissed first one eye and then +the other. + +“How are they now. Cured?” + +“They feel some better already.” + +She repeated the treatment. + +“And now?” + +“Still better.” + +“And now?” + +“Almost well.” + +After he had adjudged them well, he ouched and informed her that there +was still some hurt in the right eye. + +In the course of treating it, she cried out as in pain. Billy was all +alarm. + +“What is it? What hurt you?” + +“My eyes. They're hurting like sixty.” + +And Billy became physician for a while and she the patient. When the +cure was accomplished, she led him into the parlor, where, by the open +window, they succeeded in occupying the same Morris chair. It was the +most expensive comfort in the house. It had cost seven dollars and +a half, and, though it was grander than anything she had dreamed of +possessing, the extravagance of it had worried her in a half-guilty way +all day. + +The salt chill of the air that is the blessing of all the bay cities +after the sun goes down crept in about them. They heard the switch +engines puffing in the railroad yards, and the rumbling thunder of the +Seventh Street local slowing down in its run from the Mole to stop at +West Oakland station. From the street came the noise of children playing +in the summer night, and from the steps of the house next door the low +voices of gossiping housewives. + +“Can you beat it?” Billy murmured. “When I think of that six-dollar +furnished room of mine, it makes me sick to think what I was missin' +all the time. But there's one satisfaction. If I'd changed it sooner +I wouldn't a-had you. You see, I didn't know you existed only until a +couple of weeks ago.” + +His hand crept along her bare forearm and up and partly under the +elbow-sleeve. + +“Your skin's so cool,” he said. “It ain't cold; it's cool. It feels good +to the hand.” + +“Pretty soon you'll be calling me your cold-storage baby,” she laughed. + +“And your voice is cool,” he went on. “It gives me the feeling just +as your hand does when you rest it on my forehead. It's funny. I can't +explain it. But your voice just goes all through me, cool and fine. +It's like a wind of coolness--just right. It's like the first of the +sea-breeze settin' in in the afternoon after a scorchin' hot morning. +An' sometimes, when you talk low, it sounds round and sweet like the +'cello in the Macdonough Theater orchestra. And it never goes high up, +or sharp, or squeaky, or scratchy, like some women's voices when they're +mad, or fresh, or excited, till they remind me of a bum phonograph +record. Why, your voice, it just goes through me till I'm all +trembling--like with the everlastin' cool of it. It's -- it's straight +delicious. I guess angels in heaven, if they is any, must have voices +like that.” + +After a few minutes, in which, so inexpressible was her happiness that +she could only pass her hand through his hair and cling to him, he broke +out again. + +“I'll tell you what you remind me of. Did you ever see a thoroughbred +mare, all shinin' in the sun, with hair like satin an' skin so thin an' +tender that the least touch of the whip leaves a mark--all fine nerves, +an' delicate an' sensitive, that'll kill the toughest bronco when it +comes to endurance an' that can strain a tendon in a flash or catch +death-of-cold without a blanket for a night? I wanta tell you they ain't +many beautifuler sights in this world. An' they're that fine-strung, an' +sensitive, an' delicate. You gotta handle 'em right-side up, glass, with +care. Well, that's what you remind me of. And I'm goin' to make it +my job to see you get handled an' gentled in the same way. You're +as different from other women as that kind of a mare is from scrub +work-horse mares. You're a thoroughbred. You're clean-cut an' spirited, +an' your lines... + +“Say, d'ye know you've got some figure? Well, you have. Talk about +Annette Kellerman. You can give her cards and spades. She's Australian, +an' you're American, only your figure ain't. You're different. You're +nifty--I don't know how to explain it. Other women ain't built like you. +You belong in some other country. You're Frenchy, that's what. You're +built like a French woman an' more than that--the way you walk, move, +stand up or sit down, or don't do anything.” + +And he, who had never been out of California, or, for that matter, had +never slept a night away from his birthtown of Oakland, was right in +his judgment. She was a flower of Anglo-Saxon stock, a rarity in the +exceptional smallness and fineness of hand and foot and bone and grace +of flesh and carriage--some throw-back across the face of time to the +foraying Norman-French that had intermingled with the sturdy Saxon +breed. + +“And in the way you carry your clothes. They belong to you. They seem +just as much part of you as the cool of your voice and skin. They're +always all right an' couldn't be better. An' you know, a fellow kind of +likes to be seen taggin' around with a woman like you, that wears her +clothes like a dream, an' hear the other fellows say: 'Who's Bill's new +skirt? She's a peach, ain't she? Wouldn't I like to win her, though.' +And all that sort of talk.” + +And Saxon, her cheek pressed to his, knew that she was paid in full for +all her midnight sewings and the torturing hours of drowsy stitching +when her head nodded with the weariness of the day's toil, while she +recreated for herself filched ideas from the dainty garments that had +steamed under her passing iron. + +“Say, Saxon, I got a new name for you. You're my Tonic Kid. That's what +you are, the Tonic Kid.” + +“And you'll never get tired of me?” she queried. + +“Tired? Why we was made for each other.” + +“Isn't it wonderful, our meeting, Billy? We might never have met. It was +just by accident that we did.” + +“We was born lucky,” he proclaimed. “That's a cinch.” + +“Maybe it was more than luck,” she ventured. + +“Sure. It just had to be. It was fate. Nothing could a-kept us apart.” + +They sat on in a silence that was quick with unuttered love, till she +felt him slowly draw her more closely and his lips come near to her ear +as they whispered: “What do you say we go to bed?” + + +Many evenings they spent like this, varied with an occasional dance, +with trips to the Orpheum and to Bell's Theater, or to the moving +picture shows, or to the Friday night band concerts in City Hall Park. +Often, on Sunday, she prepared a lunch, and he drove her out into the +hills behind Prince and King, whom Billy's employer was still glad to +have him exercise. + +Each morning Saxon was called by the alarm clock. The first morning +he had insisted upon getting up with her and building the fire in the +kitchen stove. She gave in the first morning, but after that she laid +the fire in the evening, so that all that was required was the touching +of a match to it. And in bed she compelled him to remain for a last +little doze ere she called him for breakfast. For the first several +weeks she prepared his lunch for him. Then, for a week, he came down +to dinner. After that he was compelled to take his lunch with him. It +depended on how far distant the teaming was done. + +“You're not starting right with a man,” Mary cautioned. “You wait on him +hand and foot. You'll spoil him if you don't watch out. It's him that +ought to be waitin' on you.” + +“He's the bread-winner,” Saxon replied. “He works harder than I, and +I've got more time than I know what to do with--time to burn. Besides, +I want to wait on him because I love to, and because... well, anyway, I +want to.” + + + +CHAPTER II + +Despite the fastidiousness of her housekeeping, Saxon, once she had +systematized it, found time and to spare on her hands. Especially during +the periods in which her husband carried his lunch and there was no +midday meal to prepare, she had a number of hours each day to herself. +Trained for years to the routine of factory and laundry work, she could +not abide this unaccustomed idleness. She could not bear to sit and do +nothing, while she could not pay calls on her girlhood friends, for they +still worked in factory and laundry. Nor was she acquainted with the +wives of the neighborhood, save for one strange old woman who lived +in the house next door and with whom Saxon had exchanged snatches of +conversation over the backyard division fence. + +One time-consuming diversion of which Saxon took advantage was free and +unlimited baths. In the orphan asylum and in Sarah's house she had been +used to but one bath a week. As she grew to womanhood she had attempted +more frequent baths. But the effort proved disastrous, arousing, first, +Sarah's derision, and next, her wrath. Sarah had crystallized in the era +of the weekly Saturday night bath, and any increase in this cleansing +function was regarded by her as putting on airs and as an insinuation +against her own cleanliness. Also, it was an extravagant misuse of fuel, +and occasioned extra towels in the family wash. But now, in Billy's +house, with her own stove, her own tub and towels and soap, and no one +to say her nay, Saxon was guilty of a daily orgy. True, it was only a +common washtub that she placed on the kitchen floor and filled by hand; +but it was a luxury that had taken her twenty-four years to achieve. It +was from the strange woman next door that Saxon received a hint, dropped +in casual conversation, of what proved the culminating joy of bathing. A +simple thing--a few drops of druggist's ammonia in the water; but Saxon +had never heard of it before. + +She was destined to learn much from the strange woman. The acquaintance +had begun one day when Saxon, in the back yard, was hanging out a couple +of corset covers and several pieces of her finest undergarments. The +woman leaning on the rail of her back porch, had caught her eye, and +nodded, as it seemed to Saxon, half to her and half to the underlinen on +the line. + +“You're newly married, aren't you?” the woman asked. “I'm Mrs. Higgins. +I prefer my first name, which is Mercedes.” + +“And I'm Mrs. Roberts,” Saxon replied, thrilling to the newness of the +designation on her tongue. “My first name is Saxon.” + +“Strange name for a Yankee woman,” the other commented. + +“Oh, but I'm not Yankee,” Saxon exclaimed. “I'm Californian.” + +“La la,” laughed Mercedes Higgins. “I forgot I was in America. In other +lands all Americans are called Yankees. It is true that you are newly +married?” + +Saxon nodded with a happy sigh. Mercedes sighed, too. + +“Oh, you happy, soft, beautiful young thing. I could envy you to +hatred--you with all the man-world ripe to be twisted about your pretty +little fingers. And you don't realize your fortune. No one does until +it's too late.” + +Saxon was puzzled and disturbed, though she answered readily: + +“Oh, but I do know how lucky I am. I have the finest man in the world.” + +Mercedes Higgins sighed again and changed the subject. She nodded her +head at the garments. + +“I see you like pretty things. It is good judgment for a young woman. +They're the bait for men--half the weapons in the battle. They win men, +and they hold men--” She broke off to demand almost fiercely: “And you, +you would keep your husband?--always, always--if you can?” + +“I intend to. I will make him love me always and always.” + +Saxon ceased, troubled and surprised that she should be so intimate with +a stranger. + +“'Tis a queer thing, this love of men,” Mercedes said. “And a failing of +all women is it to believe they know men like books. And with breaking +hearts, die they do, most women, out of their ignorance of men and still +foolishly believing they know all about them. Oh, la la, the little +fools. And so you say, little new-married woman, that you will make your +man love you always and always? And so they all say it, knowing men and +the queerness of men's love the way they think they do. Easier it is +to win the capital prize in the Little Louisiana, but the little +new-married women never know it until too late. But you--you have begun +well. Stay by your pretties and your looks. 'Twas so you won your man, +'tis so you'll hold him. But that is not all. Some time I will talk with +you and tell what few women trouble to know, what few women ever come to +know.--Saxon!--'tis a strong, handsome name for a woman. But you don't +look it. Oh, I've watched you. French you are, with a Frenchiness beyond +dispute. Tell Mr. Roberts I congratulate him on his good taste.” + +She paused, her hand on the knob of her kitchen door. + +“And come and see me some time. You will never be sorry. I can teach you +much. Come in the afternoon. My man is night watchman in the yards and +sleeps of mornings. He's sleeping now.” + +Saxon went into the house puzzling and pondering. Anything but ordinary +was this lean, dark-skinned woman, with the face withered as if scorched +in great heats, and the eyes, large and black, that flashed and flamed +with advertisement of an unquenched inner conflagration. Old she +was--Saxon caught herself debating anywhere between fifty and seventy; +and her hair, which had once been blackest black, was streaked +plentifully with gray. Especially noteworthy to Saxon was her speech. +Good English it was, better than that to which Saxon was accustomed. Yet +the woman was not American. On the other hand, she had no perceptible +accent. Rather were her words touched by a foreignness so elusive that +Saxon could not analyze nor place it. + +“Uh, huh,” Billy said, when she had told him that evening of the day's +event. “So SHE'S Mrs. Higgins? He's a watchman. He's got only one arm. +Old Higgins an' her--a funny bunch, the two of them. The people's scared +of her--some of 'em. The Dagoes an' some of the old Irish dames thinks +she's a witch. Won't have a thing to do with her. Bert was tellin' me +about it. Why, Saxon, d'ye know, some of 'em believe if she was to get +mad at 'em, or didn't like their mugs, or anything, that all she's got +to do is look at 'em an' they'll curl up their toes an' croak. One of +the fellows that works at the stable--you've seen 'm--Henderson--he +lives around the corner on Fifth--he says she's bughouse.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” Saxon defended her new acquaintance. “She may be +crazy, but she says the same thing you're always saying. She says my +form is not American but French.” + +“Then I take my hat off to her,” Billy responded. “No wheels in her head +if she says that. Take it from me, she's a wise gazabo.” + +“And she speaks good English, Billy, like a school teacher, like what I +guess my mother used to speak. She's educated.” + +“She ain't no fool, or she wouldn't a-sized you up the way she did.” + +“She told me to congratulate you on your good taste in marrying me,” + Saxon laughed. + +“She did, eh? Then give her my love. Me for her, because she knows a +good thing when she sees it, an' she ought to be congratulating you on +your good taste in me.” + +It was on another day that Mercedes Higgins nodded, half to Saxon, and +half to the dainty women's things Saxon was hanging on the line. + +“I've been worrying over your washing, little new-wife,” was her +greeting. + +“Oh, but I've worked in the laundry for years,” Saxon said quickly. + +Mercedes sneered scornfully. + +“Steam laundry. That's business, and it's stupid. Only common things +should go to a steam laundry. That is their punishment for being common. +But the pretties! the dainties! the flimsies!--la la, my dear, their +washing is an art. It requires wisdom, genius, and discretion fine as +the clothes are fine. I will give you a recipe for homemade soap. It +will not harden the texture. It will give whiteness, and softness, and +life. You can wear them long, and fine white clothes are to be loved a +long time. Oh, fine washing is a refinement, an art. It is to be done as +an artist paints a picture, or writes a poem, with love, holily, a true +sacrament of beauty. + +“I shall teach you better ways, my dear, better ways than you Yankees +know. I shall teach you new pretties.” She nodded her head to Saxon's +underlinen on the line. “I see you make little laces. I know all +laces--the Belgian, the Maltese, the Mechlin--oh, the many, many loves +of laces! I shall teach you some of the simpler ones so that you can +make them for yourself, for your brave man you are to make love you +always and always.” + +On her first visit to Mercedes Higgins, Saxon received the recipe for +home-made soap and her head was filled with a minutiae of instruction in +the art of fine washing. Further, she was fascinated and excited by all +the newness and strangeness of the withered old woman who blew upon her +the breath of wider lands and seas beyond the horizon. + +“You are Spanish?” Saxon ventured. + +“No, and yes, and neither, and more. My father was Irish, my mother +Peruvian-Spanish. 'Tis after her I took, in color and looks. In other +ways after my father, the blue-eyed Celt with the fairy song on +his tongue and the restless feet that stole the rest of him away to +far-wandering. And the feet of him that he lent me have led me away on +as wide far roads as ever his led him.” + +Saxon remembered her school geography, and with her mind's eye she saw +a certain outline map of a continent with jiggly wavering parallel lines +that denoted coast. + +“Oh,” she cried, “then you are South American.” + +Mercedes shrugged her shoulders. + +“I had to be born somewhere. It was a great ranch, my mother's. You +could put all Oakland in one of its smallest pastures.” + +Mercedes Higgins sighed cheerfully and for the time was lost in +retrospection. Saxon was curious to hear more about this woman who must +have lived much as the Spanish-Californians had lived in the old days. + +“You received a good education,” she said tentatively. “Your English is +perfect.” + +“Ah, the English came afterward, and not in school. But, as it goes, +yes, a good education in all things but the most important--men. That, +too, came afterward. And little my mother dreamed--she was a grand lady, +what you call a cattle-queen--little she dreamed my fine education was +to fit me in the end for a night watchman's wife.” She laughed genuinely +at the grotesqueness of the idea. “Night watchman, laborers, why, we had +hundreds, yes, thousands that toiled for us. The peons--they are like +what you call slaves, almost, and the cowboys, who could ride two +hundred miles between side and side of the ranch. And in the big house +servants beyond remembering or counting. La la, in my mother's house +were many servants.” + +Mercedes Higgins was voluble as a Greek, and wandered on in +reminiscence. + +“But our servants were lazy and dirty. The Chinese are the servants par +excellence. So are the Japanese, when you find a good one, but not so +good as the Chinese. The Japanese maidservants are pretty and merry, but +you never know the moment they'll leave you. The Hindoos are not strong, +but very obedient. They look upon sahibs and memsahibs as gods! I was a +memsahib--which means woman. I once had a Russian cook who always spat +in the soup for luck. It was very funny. But we put up with it. It was +the custom.” + +“How you must have traveled to have such strange servants!” Saxon +encouraged. + +The old woman laughed corroboration. + +“And the strangest of all, down in the South Seas, black slaves, little +kinky-haired cannibals with bones through their noses. When they did not +mind, or when they stole, they were tied up to a cocoanut palm behind +the compound and lashed with whips of rhinoceros hide. They were from an +island of cannibals and head-hunters, and they never cried out. It was +their pride. There was little Vibi, only twelve years old--he waited on +me--and when his back was cut in shreds and I wept over him, he would +only laugh and say, 'Short time little bit I take 'm head belong big +fella white marster.' That was Bruce Anstey, the Englishman who whipped +him. But little Vibi never got the head. He ran away and the bushmen cut +off his own head and ate every bit of him.” + +Saxon chilled, and her face was grave; but Mercedes Higgins rattled on. + +“Ah, those were wild, gay, savage days. Would you believe it, my dear, +in three years those Englishmen of the plantation drank up oceans of +champagne and Scotch whisky and dropped thirty thousand pounds on +the adventure. Not dollars--pounds, which means one hundred and fifty +thousand dollars. They were princes while it lasted. It was splendid, +glorious. It was mad, mad. I sold half my beautiful jewels in New +Zealand before I got started again. Bruce Anstey blew out his brains at +the end. Roger went mate on a trader with a black crew, for eight pounds +a month. And Jack Gilbraith--he was the rarest of them all. His people +were wealthy and titled, and he went home to England and sold cat's +meat, sat around their big house till they gave him more money to +start a rubber plantation in the East Indies somewhere, on Sumatra, I +think--or was it New Guinea?” + +And Saxon, back in her own kitchen and preparing supper for Billy, +wondered what lusts and rapacities had led the old, burnt-faced woman +from the big Peruvian ranch, through all the world, to West Oakland and +Barry Higgins. Old Barry was not the sort who would fling away his share +of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, much less ever attain to such +opulence. Besides, she had mentioned the names of other men, but not +his. + +Much more Mercedes had talked, in snatches and fragments. There seemed +no great country nor city of the old world or the new in which she +had not been. She had even been in Klondike, ten years before, in a +half-dozen flashing sentences picturing the fur-clad, be-moccasined +miners sowing the barroom floors with thousands of dollars' worth of +gold dust. Always, so it seemed to Saxon, Mrs. Higgins had been with men +to whom money was as water. + + + +CHAPTER III + +Saxon, brooding over her problem of retaining Billy's love, of never +staling the freshness of their feeling for each other and of never +descending from the heights which at present they were treading, felt +herself impelled toward Mrs. Higgins. SHE knew; surely she must know. +Had she not hinted knowledge beyond ordinary women's knowledge? + +Several weeks went by, during which Saxon was often with her. But Mrs. +Higgins talked of all other matters, taught Saxon the making of +certain simple laces, and instructed her in the arts of washing and +of marketing. And then, one afternoon, Saxon found Mrs. Higgins more +voluble than usual, with words, clean-uttered, that rippled and tripped +in their haste to escape. Her eyes were flaming. So flamed her face. Her +words were flames. There was a smell of liquor in the air and Saxon knew +that the old woman had been drinking. Nervous and frightened, at the +same time fascinated, Saxon hemstitched a linen handkerchief intended +for Billy and listened to Mercedes' wild flow of speech. + +“Listen, my dear. I shall tell you about the world of men. Do not be +stupid like all your people, who think me foolish and a witch with the +evil eye. Ha! ha! When I think of silly Maggie Donahue pulling the shawl +across her baby's face when we pass each other on the sidewalk! A witch +I have been, 'tis true, but my witchery was with men. Oh, I am wise, +very wise, my dear. I shall tell you of women's ways with men, and of +men's ways with women, the best of them and the worst of them. Of the +brute that is in all men, of the queerness of them that breaks the +hearts of stupid women who do not understand. And all women are stupid. +I am not stupid. La la, listen. + +“I am an old woman. And like a woman, I'll not tell you how old I am. +Yet can I hold men. Yet would I hold men, toothless and a hundred, my +nose touching my chin. Not the young men. They were mine in my young +days. But the old men, as befits my years. And well for me the power is +mine. In all this world I am without kin or cash. Only have I wisdom and +memories--memories that are ashes, but royal ashes, jeweled ashes. Old +women, such as I, starve and shiver, or accept the pauper's dole and +the pauper's shroud. Not I. I hold my man. True, 'tis only Barry +Higgins--old Barry, heavy, an ox, but a male man, my dear, and queer +as all men are queer. 'Tis true, he has one arm.” She shrugged her +shoulders. “A compensation. He cannot beat me, and old bones are tender +when the round flesh thins to strings. + +“But when I think of my wild young lovers, princes, mad with the madness +of youth! I have lived. It is enough. I regret nothing. And with old +Barry I have my surety of a bite to eat and a place by the fire. And +why? Because I know men, and shall never lose my cunning to hold them. +'Tis bitter sweet, the knowledge of them, more sweet than bitter--men +and men and men! Not stupid dolts, nor fat bourgeois swine of business +men, but men of temperament, of flame and fire; madmen, maybe, but a +lawless, royal race of madmen. + +“Little wife-woman, you must learn. Variety! There lies the magic. 'Tis +the golden key. 'Tis the toy that amuses. Without it in the wife, the +man is a Turk; with it, he is her slave, and faithful. A wife must be +many wives. If you would have your husband's love you must be all women +to him. You must be ever new, with the dew of newness ever sparkling, a +flower that never blooms to the fulness that fades. You must be a garden +of flowers, ever new, ever fresh, ever different. And in your garden the +man must never pluck the last of your posies. + +“Listen, little wife-woman. In the garden of love is a snake. It is the +commonplace. Stamp on its head, or it will destroy the garden. Remember +the name. Commonplace. Never be too intimate. Men only seem gross. Women +are more gross than men.--No, do not argue, little new-wife. You are an +infant woman. Women are less delicate than men. Do I not know? Of their +own husbands they will relate the most intimate love-secrets to other +women. Men never do this of their wives. Explain it. There is only one +way. In all things of love women are less delicate. It is their mistake. +It is the father and the mother of the commonplace, and it is the +commonplace, like a loathsome slug, that beslimes and destroys love. + +“Be delicate, little wife-woman. Never be without your veil, without +many veils. Veil yourself in a thousand veils, all shimmering and +glittering with costly textures and precious jewels. Never let the last +veil be drawn. Against the morrow array yourself with more veils, ever +more veils, veils without end. Yet the many veils must not seem many. +Each veil must seem the only one between you and your hungry lover who +will have nothing less than all of you. Each time he must seem to get +all, to tear aside the last veil that hides you. He must think so. It +must not be so. Then there will be no satiety, for on the morrow he will +find another last veil that has escaped him. + +“Remember, each veil must seem the last and only one. Always you must +seem to abandon all to his arms; always you must reserve more that on +the morrow and on all the morrows you may abandon. Of such is variety, +surprise, so that your man's pursuit will be everlasting, so that his +eyes will look to you for newness, and not to other women. It was the +freshness and the newness of your beauty and you, the mystery of you, +that won your man. When a man has plucked and smelled all the sweetness +of a flower, he looks for other flowers. It is his queerness. You must +ever remain a flower almost plucked yet never plucked, stored with vats +of sweet unbroached though ever broached. + +“Stupid women, and all are stupid, think the first winning of the man +the final victory. Then they settle down and grow fat, and stale, +and dead, and heartbroken. Alas, they are so stupid. But you, little +infant-woman with your first victory, you must make your love-life an +unending chain of victories. Each day you must win your man again. And +when you have won the last victory, when you can find no more to win, +then ends love. Finis is written, and your man wanders in strange +gardens. Remember, love must be kept insatiable. It must have an +appetite knife-edged and never satisfied. You must feed your lover well, +ah, very well, most well; give, give, yet send him away hungry to come +back to you for more.” + +Mrs. Higgins stood up suddenly and crossed out of the room. Saxon had +not failed to note the litheness and grace in that lean and withered +body. She watched for Mrs. Higgins' return, and knew that the litheness +and grace had not been imagined. + +“Scarcely have I told you the first letter in love's alphabet,” said +Mercedes Higgins, as she reseated herself. + +In her hands was a tiny instrument, beautifully grained and richly +brown, which resembled a guitar save that it bore four strings. She +swept them back and forth with rhythmic forefinger and lifted a voice, +thin and mellow, in a fashion of melody that was strange, and in a +foreign tongue, warm-voweled, all-voweled, and love-exciting. Softly +throbbing, voice and strings arose on sensuous crests of song, died away +to whisperings and caresses, drifted through love-dusks and twilights, +or swelled again to love-cries barbarically imperious in which were +woven plaintive calls and madnesses of invitation and promise. It went +through Saxon until she was as this instrument, swept with passional +strains. It seemed to her a dream, and almost was she dizzy, when +Mercedes Higgins ceased. + +“If your man had clasped the last of you, and if all of you were known +to him as an old story, yet, did you sing that one song, as I have sung +it, yet would his arms again go out to you and his eyes grow warm with +the old mad lights. Do you see? Do you understand, little wife-woman?” + +Saxon could only nod, her lips too dry for speech. + +“The golden koa, the king of woods,” Mercedes was crooning over the +instrument. “The ukulele--that is what the Hawaiians call it, which +means, my dear, the jumping flea. They are golden-fleshed, the +Hawaiians, a race of lovers, all in the warm cool of the tropic night +where the trade winds blow.” + +Again she struck the strings. She sang in another language, which +Saxon deemed must be French. It was a gayly-devilish lilt, tripping +and tickling. Her large eyes at times grew larger and wilder, and again +narrowed in enticement and wickedness. When she ended, she looked to +Saxon for a verdict. + +“I don't like that one so well,” Saxon said. + +Mercedes shrugged her shoulders. + +“They all have their worth, little infant-woman with so much to learn. +There are times when men may be won with wine. There are times when +men may be won with the wine of song, so queer they are. La la, so many +ways, so many ways. There are your pretties, my dear, your dainties. +They are magic nets. No fisherman upon the sea ever tangled fish more +successfully than we women with our flimsies. You are on the right path. +I have seen men enmeshed by a corset cover no prettier, no daintier, +than these of yours I have seen on the line. + +“I have called the washing of fine linen an art. But it is not for +itself alone. The greatest of the arts is the conquering of men. Love +is the sum of all the arts, as it is the reason for their existence. +Listen. In all times and ages have been women, great wise women. They +did not need to be beautiful. Greater than all woman's beauty was their +wisdom. Princes and potentates bowed down before them. Nations battled +over them. Empires crashed because of them. Religions were founded +on them. Aphrodite, Astarte, the worships of the night--listen, +infant-woman, of the great women who conquered worlds of men.” + +And thereafter Saxon listened, in a maze, to what almost seemed a wild +farrago, save that the strange meaningless phrases were fraught with +dim, mysterious significance. She caught glimmerings of profounds +inexpressible and unthinkable that hinted connotations lawless and +terrible. The woman's speech was a lava rush, scorching and searing; +and Saxon's cheeks, and forehead, and neck burned with a blush that +continuously increased. She trembled with fear, suffered qualms of +nausea, thought sometimes that she would faint, so madly reeled her +brain; yet she could not tear herself away, and sat on and on, her +sewing forgotten on her lap, staring with inward sight upon a nightmare +vision beyond all imagining. At last, when it seemed she could endure +no more, and while she was wetting her dry lips to cry out in protest, +Mercedes ceased. + +“And here endeth the first lesson,” she said quite calmly, then laughed +with a laughter that was tantalizing and tormenting. “What is the +matter? You are not shocked?” + +“I am frightened,” Saxon quavered huskily, with a half-sob of +nervousness. “You frighten me. I am very foolish, and I know so little, +that I had never dreamed... THAT.” + +Mercedes nodded her head comprehendingly. + +“It is indeed to be frightened at,” she said. “It is solemn; it is +terrible; it is magnificent!” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Saxon had been clear-eyed all her days, though her field of vision +had been restricted. Clear-eyed, from her childhood days with the +saloonkeeper Cady and Cady's good-natured but unmoral spouse, she +had observed, and, later, generalized much upon sex. She knew the +post-nuptial problem of retaining a husband's love, as few wives of any +class knew it, just as she knew the pre-nuptial problem of selecting a +husband, as few girls of the working class knew it. + +She had of herself developed an eminently rational philosophy of love. +Instinctively, and consciously, too, she had made toward delicacy, and +shunned the perils of the habitual and commonplace. Thoroughly aware she +was that as she cheapened herself so did she cheapen love. Never, in +the weeks of their married life, had Billy found her dowdy, or harshly +irritable, or lethargic. And she had deliberately permeated her +house with her personal atmosphere of coolness, and freshness, and +equableness. Nor had she been ignorant of such assets as surprise and +charm. Her imagination had not been asleep, and she had been born with +wisdom. In Billy she had won a prize, and she knew it. She appreciated +his lover's ardor and was proud. His open-handed liberality, his desire +for everything of the best, his own personal cleanliness and care of +himself she recognized as far beyond the average. He was never coarse. +He met delicacy with delicacy, though it was obvious to her that the +initiative in all such matters lay with her and must lie with her +always. He was largely unconscious of what he did and why. But she knew +in all full clarity of judgment. And he was such a prize among men. + +Despite her clear sight of her problem of keeping Billy a lover, and +despite the considerable knowledge and experience arrayed before her +mental vision, Mercedes Higgins had spread before her a vastly wider +panorama. The old woman had verified her own conclusions, given her +new ideas, clinched old ones, and even savagely emphasized the tragic +importance of the whole problem. Much Saxon remembered of that mad +preachment, much she guessed and felt, and much had been beyond her +experience and understanding. But the metaphors of the veils and the +flowers, and the rules of giving to abandonment with always more to +abandon, she grasped thoroughly, and she was enabled to formulate a +bigger and stronger love-philosophy. In the light of the revelation she +re-examined the married lives of all she had ever known, and, with sharp +definiteness as never before, she saw where and why so many of them had +failed. + +With renewed ardor Saxon devoted herself to her household, to her +pretties, and to her charms. She marketed with a keener desire for the +best, though never ignoring the need for economy. From the women's pages +of the Sunday supplements, and from the women's magazines in the +free reading room two blocks away, she gleaned many ideas for the +preservation of her looks. In a systematic way she exercised the various +parts of her body, and a certain period of time each day she employed in +facial exercises and massage for the purpose of retaining the roundness +and freshness, and firmness and color. Billy did not know. These +intimacies of the toilette were not for him. The results, only, were +his. She drew books from the Carnegie Library and studied physiology and +hygiene, and learned a myriad of things about herself and the ways of +woman's health that she had never been taught by Sarah, the women of the +orphan asylum, nor by Mrs. Cady. + +After long debate she subscribed to a woman's magazine, the patterns +and lessons of which she decided were the best suited to her taste and +purse. The other woman's magazines she had access to in the free reading +room, and more than one pattern of lace and embroidery she copied by +means of tracing paper. Before the lingerie windows of the uptown shops +she often stood and studied; nor was she above taking advantage, +when small purchases were made, of looking over the goods at the +hand-embroidered underwear counters. Once, she even considered taking +up with hand-painted china, but gave over the idea when she learned its +expensiveness. + +She slowly replaced all her simple maiden underlinen with garments +which, while still simple, were wrought with beautiful French +embroidery, tucks, and drawnwork. She crocheted fine edgings on the +inexpensive knitted underwear she wore in winter. She made little corset +covers and chemises of fine but fairly inexpensive lawns, and, with +simple flowered designs and perfect laundering, her nightgowns were +always sweetly fresh and dainty. In some publication she ran across a +brief printed note to the effect that French women were just beginning +to wear fascinating beruffled caps at the breakfast table. It meant +nothing to her that in her case she must first prepare the breakfast. +Promptly appeared in the house a yard of dotted Swiss muslin, and Saxon +was deep in experimenting on patterns for herself, and in sorting her +bits of laces for suitable trimmings. The resultant dainty creation won +Mercedes Higgins' enthusiastic approval. + +Saxon made for herself simple house slips of pretty gingham, with neat +low collars turned back from her fresh round throat. She crocheted yards +of laces for her underwear, and made Battenberg in abundance for her +table and for the bureau. A great achievement, that aroused Billy's +applause, was an Afghan for the bed. She even ventured a rag carpet, +which, the women's magazines informed her, had newly returned into +fashion. As a matter of course she hemstitched the best table linen and +bed linen they could afford. + +As the happy months went by she was never idle. Nor was Billy forgotten. +When the cold weather came on she knitted him wristlets, which he always +religiously wore from the house and pocketed immediately thereafter. The +two sweaters she made for him, however, received a better fate, as did +the slippers which she insisted on his slipping into, on the evenings +they remained at home. + +The hard practical wisdom of Mercedes Higgins proved of immense help, +for Saxon strove with a fervor almost religious to have everything of +the best and at the same time to be saving. Here she faced the financial +and economic problem of keeping house in a society where the cost of +living rose faster than the wages of industry. And here the old woman +taught her the science of marketing so thoroughly that she made a dollar +of Billy's go half as far again as the wives of the neighborhood made +the dollars of their men go. + +Invariably, on Saturday night, Billy poured his total wages into her +lap. He never asked for an accounting of what she did with it, though +he continually reiterated that he had never fed so well in his life. And +always, the wages still untouched in her lap, she had him take out what +he estimated he would need for spending money for the week to come. +Not only did she bid him take plenty but she insisted on his taking any +amount extra that he might desire at any time through the week. And, +further, she insisted he should not tell her what it was for. + +“You've always had money in your pocket,” she reminded him, “and there's +no reason marriage should change that. If it did, I'd wish I'd never +married you. Oh, I know about men when they get together. First one +treats and then another, and it takes money. Now if you can't treat just +as freely as the rest of them, why I know you so well that I know you'd +stay away from them. And that wouldn't be right... to you, I mean. I +want you to be together with men. It's good for a man.” + +And Billy buried her in his arms and swore she was the greatest little +bit of woman that ever came down the pike. + +“Why,” he jubilated; “not only do I feed better, and live more +comfortable, and hold up my end with the fellows; but I'm actually +saving money--or you are for me. Here I am, with furniture being paid +for regular every month, and a little woman I'm mad over, and on top of +it money in the bank. How much is it now?” + +“Sixty-two dollars,” she told him. “Not so bad for a rainy day. You +might get sick, or hurt, or something happen.” + +It was in mid-winter, when Billy, with quite a deal of obvious +reluctance, broached a money matter to Saxon. His old friend, Billy +Murphy, was laid up with la grippe, and one of his children, playing in +the street, had been seriously injured by a passing wagon. Billy Murphy, +still feeble after two weeks in bed, had asked Billy for the loan of +fifty dollars. + +“It's perfectly safe,” Billy concluded to Saxon. “I've known him since +we was kids at the Durant School together. He's straight as a die.” + +“That's got nothing to do with it,” Saxon chided. “If you were single +you'd have lent it to him immediately, wouldn't you?” + +Billy nodded. + +“Then it's no different because you're married. It's your money, Billy.” + +“Not by a damn sight,” he cried. “It ain't mine. It's ourn. And I +wouldn't think of lettin' anybody have it without seein' you first.” + +“I hope you didn't tell him that,” she said with quick concern. + +“Nope,” Billy laughed. “I knew, if I did, you'd be madder'n a hatter. +I just told him I'd try an' figure it out. After all, I was sure you'd +stand for it if you had it.” + +“Oh, Billy,” she murmured, her voice rich and low with love; “maybe you +don't know it, but that's one of the sweetest things you've said since +we got married.” + +The more Saxon saw of Mercedes Higgins the less did she understand her. +That the old woman was a close-fisted miser, Saxon soon learned. And +this trait she found hard to reconcile with her tales of squandering. +On the other hand, Saxon was bewildered by Mercedes' extravagance in +personal matters. Her underlinen, hand-made of course, was very costly. +The table she set for Barry was good, but the table for herself was +vastly better. Yet both tables were set on the same table. While Barry +contented himself with solid round steak, Mercedes ate tenderloin. A +huge, tough muttonchop on Barry's plate would be balanced by tiny +French chops on Mercedes' plate. Tea was brewed in separate pots. So was +coffee. While Barry gulped twenty-five cent tea from a large and heavy +mug, Mercedes sipped three-dollar tea from a tiny cup of Belleek, +rose-tinted, fragile as all egg-shell. In the same manner, his +twenty-five cent coffee was diluted with milk, her eighty cent Turkish +with cream. + +“'Tis good enough for the old man,” she told Saxon. “He knows no better, +and it would be a wicked sin to waste it on him.” + +Little traffickings began between the two women. After Mercedes had +freely taught Saxon the loose-wristed facility of playing accompaniments +on the ukulele, she proposed an exchange. Her time was past, she said, +for such frivolities, and she offered the instrument for the breakfast +cap of which Saxon had made so good a success. + +“It's worth a few dollars,” Mercedes said. “It cost me twenty, though +that was years ago. Yet it is well worth the value of the cap.” + +“But wouldn't the cap be frivolous, too?” Saxon queried, though herself +well pleased with the bargain. + +“'Tis not for my graying hair,” Mercedes frankly disclaimed. “I shall +sell it for the money. Much that I do, when the rheumatism is not +maddening my fingers, I sell. La la, my dear, 'tis not old Barry's fifty +a month that'll satisfy all my expensive tastes. 'Tis I that make up the +difference. And old age needs money as never youth needs it. Some day +you will learn for yourself.” + +“I am well satisfied with the trade,” Saxon said. “And I shall make me +another cap when I can lay aside enough for the material.” + +“Make several,” Mercedes advised. “I'll sell them for you, keeping, of +course, a small commission for my services. I can give you six dollars +apiece for them. We will consult about them. The profit will more than +provide material for your own.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +Four eventful things happened in the course of the winter. Bert and Mary +got married and rented a cottage in the neighborhood three blocks away. +Billy's wages were cut, along with the wages of all the teamsters in +Oakland. Billy took up shaving with a safety razor. And, finally, Saxon +was proven a false prophet and Sarah a true one. + +Saxon made up her mind, beyond any doubt, ere she confided the news +to Billy. At first, while still suspecting, she had felt a frightened +sinking of the heart and fear of the unknown and unexperienced. Then had +come economic fear, as she contemplated the increased expense entailed. +But by the time she had made surety doubly sure, all was swept away +before a wave of passionate gladness. HERS AND BILLY'S! The phrase was +continually in her mind, and each recurrent thought of it brought an +actual physical pleasure-pang to her heart. + +The night she told the news to Billy, he withheld his own news of the +wage-cut, and joined with her in welcoming the little one. + +“What'll we do? Go to the theater to celebrate?” he asked, relaxing the +pressure of his embrace so that she might speak. “Or suppose we stay in, +just you and me, and... and the three of us?” + +“Stay in,” was her verdict. “I just want you to hold me, and hold me, +and hold me.” + +“That's what I wanted, too, only I wasn't sure, after bein' in the house +all day, maybe you'd want to go out.” + +There was frost in the air, and Billy brought the Morris chair in by the +kitchen stove. She lay cuddled in his arms, her head on his shoulder, +his cheek against her hair. + +“We didn't make no mistake in our lightning marriage with only a week's +courtin',” he reflected aloud. “Why, Saxon, we've been courtin' ever +since just the same. And now... my God, Saxon, it's too wonderful to be +true. Think of it! Ourn! The three of us! The little rascal! I bet he's +goin' to be a boy. An' won't I learn 'm to put up his fists an' take +care of himself! An' swimmin' too. If he don't know how to swim by the +time he's six...” + +“And if HE'S a girl?” + +“SHE'S goin' to be a boy,” Billy retorted, joining in the playful misuse +of pronouns. + +And both laughed and kissed, and sighed with content. “I'm goin' to turn +pincher, now,” he announced, after quite an interval of meditation. “No +more drinks with the boys. It's me for the water wagon. And I'm goin' to +ease down on smokes. Huh! Don't see why I can't roll my own cigarettes. +They're ten times cheaper'n tailor-mades. An' I can grow a beard. The +amount of money the barbers get out of a fellow in a year would keep a +baby.” + +“Just you let your beard grow, Mister Roberts, and I'll get a divorce,” + Saxon threatened. “You're just too handsome and strong with a smooth +face. I love your face too much to have it covered up.--Oh, you dear! +you dear! Billy, I never knew what happiness was until I came to live +with you.” + +“Nor me neither.” + +“And it's always going to be so?” + +“You can just bet,” he assured her. + +“I thought I was going to be happy married,” she went on; “but I never +dreamed it would be like this.” She turned her head on his shoulder and +kissed his cheek. “Billy, it isn't happiness. It's heaven.” + +And Billy resolutely kept undivulged the cut in wages. Not until two +weeks later, when it went into effect, and he poured the diminished +sum into her lap, did he break it to her. The next day, Bert and Mary, +already a month married, had Sunday dinner with them, and the matter +came up for discussion. Bert was particularly pessimistic, and muttered +dark hints of an impending strike in the railroad shops. + +“If you'd all shut your traps, it'd be all right,” Mary criticized. +“These union agitators get the railroad sore. They give me the cramp, +the way they butt in an' stir up trouble. If I was boss I'd cut the +wages of any man that listened to them.” + +“Yet you belonged to the laundry workers' union,” Saxon rebuked gently. + +“Because I had to or I wouldn't a-got work. An' much good it ever done +me.” + +“But look at Billy,” Bert argued. “The teamsters ain't ben sayin' a word, +not a peep, an' everything lovely, and then, bang, right in the neck, +a ten per cent cut. Oh, hell, what chance have we got? We lose. There's +nothin' left for us in this country we've made and our fathers an' +mothers before us. We're all shot to pieces. We can see our finish--we, +the old stock, the children of the white people that broke away from +England an' licked the tar outa her, that freed the slaves, an' fought +the Indians, 'an made the West! Any gink with half an eye can see it +comin'.” + +“But what are we going to do about it?” Saxon questioned anxiously. + +“Fight. That's all. The country's in the hands of a gang of robbers. +Look at the Southern Pacific. It runs California.” + +“Aw, rats, Bert,” Billy interrupted. “You're talkin' through your lid. No +railroad can ran the government of California.” + +“You're a bonehead,” Bert sneered. “And some day, when it's too late, +you an' all the other boneheads'll realize the fact. Rotten? I tell you +it stinks. Why, there ain't a man who wants to go to state legislature +but has to make a trip to San Francisco, an' go into the S. P. offices, +an' take his hat off, an' humbly ask permission. Why, the governors of +California has been railroad governors since before you and I was born. +Huh! You can't tell me. We're finished. We're licked to a frazzle. But +it'd do my heart good to help string up some of the dirty thieves before +I passed out. D'ye know what we are?--we old white stock that fought in +the wars, an' broke the land, an' made all this? I'll tell you. We're +the last of the Mohegans.” + +“He scares me to death, he's so violent,” Mary said with unconcealed +hostility. “If he don't quit shootin' off his mouth he'll get fired from +the shops. And then what'll we do? He don't consider me. But I can tell +you one thing all right, all right. I'll not go back to the laundry.” + She held her right hand up and spoke with the solemnity of an oath. “Not +so's you can see it. Never again for yours truly.” + +“Oh, I know what you're drivin' at,” Bert said with asperity. “An' all I +can tell you is, livin' or dead, in a job or out, no matter what happens +to me, if you will lead that way, you will, an' there's nothin' else to +it.” + +“I guess I kept straight before I met you,” she came back with a toss of +the head. “And I kept straight after I met you, which is going some if +anybody should ask you.” + +Hot words were on Bert's tongue, but Saxon intervened and brought about +peace. She was concerned over the outcome of their marriage. Both were +highstrung, both were quick and irritable, and their continual clashes +did not augur well for their future. + +The safety razor was a great achievement for Saxon. Privily she +conferred with a clerk she knew in Pierce's hardware store and made the +purchase. On Sunday morning, after breakfast, when Billy was starting +to go to the barber shop, she led him into the bedroom, whisked a towel +aside, and revealed the razor box, shaving mug, soap, brush, and lather +all ready. Billy recoiled, then came back to make curious investigation. +He gazed pityingly at the safety razor. + +“Huh! Call that a man's tool!” + +“It'll do the work,” she said. “It does it for thousands of men every +day.” + +But Billy shook his head and backed away. + +“You shave three times a week,” she urged. “That's forty-five cents. +Call it half a dollar, and there are fifty-two weeks in the year. +Twenty-six dollars a year just for shaving. Come on, dear, and try it. +Lots of men swear by it.” + +He shook his head mutinously, and the cloudy deeps of his eyes grew more +cloudy. She loved that sullen handsomeness that made him look so boyish, +and, laughing and kissing him, she forced him into a chair, got off his +coat, and unbuttoned shirt and undershirt and turned them in. + +Threatening him with, “If you open your mouth to kick I'll shove it in,” + she coated his face with lather. + +“Wait a minute,” she checked him, as he reached desperately for the +razor. “I've been watching the barbers from the sidewalk. This is what +they do after the lather is on.” + +And thereupon she proceeded to rub the lather in with her fingers. + +“There,” she said, when she had coated his face a second time. “You're +ready to begin. Only remember, I'm not always going to do this for you. +I'm just breaking you in, you see.” + +With great outward show of rebellion, half genuine, half facetious, he +made several tentative scrapes with the razor. He winced violently, and +violently exclaimed: + +“Holy jumping Jehosaphat!” + +He examined his face in the glass, and a streak of blood showed in the +midst of the lather. + +“Cut!--by a safety razor, by God! Sure, men swear by it. Can't blame +'em. Cut! By a safety!” + +“But wait a second,” Saxon pleaded. “They have to be regulated. The +clerk told me. See those little screws. There.... That's it... turn them +around.” + +Again Billy applied the blade to his face. After a couple of scrapes, he +looked at himself closely in the mirror, grinned, and went on shaving. +With swiftness and dexterity he scraped his face clean of lather. Saxon +clapped her hands. + +“Fine,” Billy approved. “Great! Here. Give me your hand. See what a good +job it made.” + +He started to rub her hand against his cheek. Saxon jerked away with a +little cry of disappointment, then examined him closely. + +“It hasn't shaved at all,” she said. + +“It's a fake, that's what it is. It cuts the hide, but not the hair. Me +for the barber.” + +But Saxon was persistent. + +“You haven't given it a fair trial yet. It was regulated too much. Let +me try my hand at it. There, that's it, betwixt and between. Now, lather +again and try it.” + +This time the unmistakable sand-papery sound of hair-severing could be +heard. + +“How is it?” she fluttered anxiously. + +“It gets the--ouch!--hair,” Billy grunted, frowning and making faces. +“But it--gee!--say!--ouch!--pulls like Sam Hill.” + +“Stay with it,” she encouraged. “Don't give up the ship, big Injun with +a scalplock. Remember what Bert says and be the last of the Mohegans.” + +At the end of fifteen minutes he rinsed his face and dried it, sighing +with relief. + +“It's a shave, in a fashion, Saxon, but I can't say I'm stuck on it. It +takes out the nerve. I'm as weak as a cat.” + +He groaned with sudden discovery of fresh misfortune. + +“What's the matter now?” she asked. + +“The back of my neck--how can I shave the back of my neck? I'll have to +pay a barber to do it.” + +Saxon's consternation was tragic, but it only lasted a moment. She took +the brush in her hand. + +“Sit down, Billy.” + +“What?--you?” he demanded indignantly. + +“Yes; me. If any barber is good enough to shave your neck, and then I +am, too.” + +Billy moaned and groaned in the abjectness of humility and surrender, +and let her have her way. + +“There, and a good job,” she informed him when she had finished. “As +easy as falling off a log. And besides, it means twenty-six dollars a +year. And you'll buy the crib, the baby buggy, the pinning blankets, and +lots and lots of things with it. Now sit still a minute longer.” + +She rinsed and dried the back of his neck and dusted it with talcum +powder. + +“You're as sweet as a clean little baby, Billy Boy.” + +The unexpected and lingering impact of her lips on the back of his neck +made him writhe with mingled feelings not all unpleasant. + +Two days later, though vowing in the intervening time to have nothing +further to do with the instrument of the devil, he permitted Saxon to +assist him to a second shave. This time it went easier. + +“It ain't so bad,” he admitted. “I'm gettin' the hang of it. It's all +in the regulating. You can shave as close as you want an' no more close +than you want. Barbers can't do that. Every once an' awhile they get my +face sore.” + +The third shave was an unqualified success, and the culminating bliss +was reached when Saxon presented him with a bottle of witch hazel. After +that he began active proselyting. He could not wait a visit from Bert, +but carried the paraphernalia to the latter's house to demonstrate. + +“We've ben boobs all these years, Bert, runnin' the chances of barber's +itch an' everything. Look at this, eh? See her take hold. Smooth as +silk. Just as easy.... There! Six minutes by the clock. Can you beat it? +When I get my hand in, I can do it in three. It works in the dark. It +works under water. You couldn't cut yourself if you tried. And it saves +twenty-six dollars a year. Saxon figured it out, and she's a wonder, I +tell you.” + + + +CHAPTER VI + +The trafficking between Saxon and Mercedes increased. The latter +commanded a ready market for all the fine work Saxon could supply, while +Saxon was eager and happy in the work. The expected babe and the cut in +Billy's wages had caused her to regard the economic phase of existence +more seriously than ever. Too little money was being laid away in the +bank, and her conscience pricked her as she considered how much she +was laying out on the pretty necessaries for the household and herself. +Also, for the first time in her life she was spending another's +earnings. Since a young girl she had been used to spending her own, and +now, thanks to Mercedes she was doing it again, and, out of her profits, +assaying more expensive and delightful adventures in lingerie. + +Mercedes suggested, and Saxon carried out and even bettered, the dainty +things of thread and texture. She made ruffled chemises of sheer linen, +with her own fine edgings and French embroidery on breast and shoulders; +linen hand-made combination undersuits; and nightgowns, fairy and +cobwebby, embroidered, trimmed with Irish lace. On Mercedes' instigation +she executed an ambitious and wonderful breakfast cap for which the old +woman returned her twelve dollars after deducting commission. + +She was happy and busy every waking moment, nor was preparation for the +little one neglected. The only ready made garments she bought were three +fine little knit shirts. As for the rest, every bit was made by her own +hands--featherstitched pinning blankets, a crocheted jacket and cap, +knitted mittens, embroidered bonnets; slim little princess slips +of sensible length; underskirts on absurd Lilliputian yokes; +silk-embroidered white flannel petticoats; stockings and crocheted +boots, seeming to burgeon before her eyes with wriggly pink toes and +plump little calves; and last, but not least, many deliciously soft +squares of bird's-eye linen. A little later, as a crowning masterpiece, +she was guilty of a dress coat of white silk, embroidered. And into all +the tiny garments, with every stitch, she sewed love. Yet this love, +so unceasingly sewn, she knew when she came to consider and marvel, was +more of Billy than of the nebulous, ungraspable new bit of life that +eluded her fondest attempts at visioning. + +“Huh,” was Billy's comment, as he went over the mite's wardrobe and came +back to center on the little knit shirts, “they look more like a real +kid than the whole kit an' caboodle. Why, I can see him in them regular +manshirts.” + +Saxon, with a sudden rush of happy, unshed tears, held one of the +little shirts up to his lips. He kissed it solemnly, his eyes resting on +Saxon's. + +“That's some for the boy,” he said, “but a whole lot for you.” + +But Saxon's money-earning was doomed to cease ignominiously and +tragically. One day, to take advantage of a department store bargain +sale, she crossed the bay to San Francisco. Passing along Sutter Street, +her eye was attracted by a display in the small window of a small shop. +At first she could not believe it; yet there, in the honored place of +the window, was the wonderful breakfast cap for which she had received +twelve dollars from Mercedes. It was marked twenty-eight dollars. Saxon +went in and interviewed the shopkeeper, an emaciated, shrewd-eyed and +middle-aged woman of foreign extraction. + +“Oh, I don't want to buy anything,” Saxon said. “I make nice things +like you have here, and I wanted to know what you pay for them--for that +breakfast cap in the window, for instance.” + +The woman darted a keen glance to Saxon's left hand, noted the +innumerable tiny punctures in the ends of the first and second fingers, +then appraised her clothing and her face. + +“Can you do work like that?” + +Saxon nodded. + +“I paid twenty dollars to the woman that made that.” Saxon repressed +an almost spasmodic gasp, and thought coolly for a space. Mercedes had +given her twelve. Then Mercedes had pocketed eight, while she, Saxon, +had furnished the material and labor. + +“Would you please show me other hand-made things -- nightgowns, chemises, +and such things, and tell me the prices you pay?” + +“Can you do such work?” + +“Yes.” + +“And will you sell to me?” + +“Certainly,” Saxon answered. “That is why I am here.” + +“We add only a small amount when we sell,” the woman went on; “you see, +light and rent and such things, as well as a profit or else we could not +be here.” + +“It's only fair,” Saxon agreed. + +Amongst the beautiful stuff Saxon went over, she found a nightgown and +a combination undersuit of her own manufacture. For the former she had +received eight dollars from Mercedes, it was marked eighteen, and the +woman had paid fourteen; for the latter Saxon received six, it was +marked fifteen, and the woman had paid eleven. + +“Thank you,” Saxon said, as she drew on her gloves. “I should like to +bring you some of my work at those prices.” + +“And I shall be glad to buy it... if it is up to the mark.” The woman +looked at her severely. “Mind you, it must be as good as this. And if it +is, I often get special orders, and I'll give you a chance at them.” + +Mercedes was unblushingly candid when Saxon reproached her. + +“You told me you took only a commission,” was Saxon's accusation. + +“So I did; and so I have.” + +“But I did all the work and bought all the materials, yet you actually +cleared more out of it than I did. You got the lion's share.” + +“And why shouldn't I, my dear? I was the middleman. It's the way of the +world. 'Tis the middlemen that get the lion's share.” + +“It seems to me most unfair,” Saxon reflected, more in sadness than +anger. + +“That is your quarrel with the world, not with me,” Mercedes rejoined +sharply, then immediately softened with one of her quick changes. “We +mustn't quarrel, my dear. I like you so much. La la, it is nothing to +you, who are young and strong with a man young and strong. Listen, I +am an old woman. And old Barry can do little for me. He is on his last +legs. His kidneys are 'most gone. Remember, 'tis I must bury him. And +I do him honor, for beside me he'll have his last long sleep. A stupid, +dull old man, heavy, an ox, 'tis true; but a good old fool with no trace +of evil in him. The plot is bought and paid for--the final installment +was made up, in part, out of my commissions from you. Then there are the +funeral expenses. It must be done nicely. I have still much to save. And +Barry may turn up his toes any day.” + +Saxon sniffed the air carefully, and knew the old woman had been +drinking again. + +“Come, my dear, let me show you.” Leading Saxon to a large sea chest +in the bedroom, Mercedes lifted the lid. A faint perfume, as of +rose-petals, floated up. “Behold, my burial trousseau. Thus I shall wed +the dust.” + +Saxon's amazement increased, as, article by article, the old woman +displayed the airiest, the daintiest, the most delicious and most +complete of bridal outfits. Mercedes held up an ivory fan. + +“In Venice 'twas given me, my dear.--See, this comb, turtle shell; +Bruce Anstey made it for me the week before he drank his last bottle and +scattered his brave mad brains with a Colt's 44.--This scarf. La la, a +Liberty scarf--” + +“And all that will be buried with you,” Saxon mused, “Oh, the +extravagance of it!” + +Mercedes laughed. + +“Why not? I shall die as I have lived. It is my pleasure. I go to the +dust as a bride. No cold and narrow bed for me. I would it were a coach, +covered with the soft things of the East, and pillows, pillows, without +end.” + +“It would buy you twenty funerals and twenty plots,” Saxon protested, +shocked by this blasphemy of conventional death. “It is downright +wicked.” + +“'Twill be as I have lived,” Mercedes said complacently. “And it's a +fine bride old Barry'll have to come and lie beside him.” She closed the +lid and sighed. “Though I wish it were Bruce Anstey, or any of the pick +of my young men to lie with me in the great dark and to crumble with me +to the dust that is the real death.” + +She gazed at Saxon with eyes heated by alcohol and at the same time cool +with the coolness of content. + +“In the old days the great of earth were buried with their live slaves +with them. I but take my flimsies, my dear.” + +“Then you aren't afraid of death?... in the least?” + +Mercedes shook her head emphatically. + +“Death is brave, and good, and kind. I do not fear death. 'Tis of men I +am afraid when I am dead. So I prepare. They shall not have me when I am +dead.” + +Saxon was puzzled. + +“They would not want you then,” she said. + +“Many are wanted,” was the answer. “Do you know what becomes of the aged +poor who have no money for burial? They are not buried. Let me tell you. +We stood before great doors. He was a queer man, a professor who ought +to have been a pirate, a man who lectured in class rooms when he ought +to have been storming walled cities or robbing banks. He was slender, +like Don Juan. His hands were strong as steel. So was his spirit. And he +was mad, a bit mad, as all my young men have been. 'Come, Mercedes,' he +said; 'we will inspect our brethren and become humble, and glad that we +are not as they--as yet not yet. And afterward, to-night, we will dine +with a more devilish taste, and we will drink to them in golden wine +that will be the more golden for having seen them. Come, Mercedes.' + +“He thrust the great doors open, and by the hand led me in. It was a sad +company. Twenty-four, that lay on marble slabs, or sat, half erect and +propped, while many young men, bright of eye, bright little knives in +their hands, glanced curiously at me from their work.” + +“They were dead?” Saxon interrupted to gasp. + +“They were the pauper dead, my dear. 'Come, Mercedes,' said he. 'There +is more to show you that will make us glad we are alive.' And he took me +down, down to the vats. The salt vats, my dear. I was not afraid. But +it was in my mind, then, as I looked, how it would be with me when I was +dead. And there they were, so many lumps of pork. And the order came, 'A +woman; an old woman.' And the man who worked there fished in the vats. +The first was a man he drew to see. Again he fished and stirred. Again +a man. He was impatient, and grumbled at his luck. And then, up through +the brine, he drew a woman, and by the face of her she was old, and he +was satisfied.” + +“It is not true!” Saxon cried out. + +“I have seen, my dear, I know. And I tell you fear not the wrath of God +when you are dead. Fear only the salt vats. And as I stood and looked, +and as he who led me there looked at me and smiled and questioned and +bedeviled me with those mad, black, tired-scholar's eyes of his, I knew +that that was no way for my dear clay. Dear it is, my clay to me; dear +it has been to others. La la, the salt vat is no place for my kissed +lips and love-lavished body.” Mercedes lifted the lid of the chest and +gazed fondly at her burial pretties. “So I have made my bed. So I shall +lie in it. Some old philosopher said we know we must die; we do not +believe it. But the old do believe. I believe. + +“My dear, remember the salt vats, and do not be angry with me because my +commissions have been heavy. To escape the vats I would stop at nothing + -- steal the widow's mite, the orphan's crust, and pennies from a dead +man's eyes.” + +“Do you believe in God?” Saxon asked abruptly, holding herself together +despite cold horror. + +Mercedes dropped the lid and shrugged her shoulders. + +“Who knows? I shall rest well.” + +“And punishment?” Saxon probed, remembering the unthinkable tale of the +other's life. + +“Impossible, my dear. As some old poet said, 'God's a good fellow.' Some +time I shall talk to you about God. Never be afraid of him. Be afraid +only of the salt vats and the things men may do with your pretty flesh +after you are dead.” + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Billy quarreled with good fortune. He suspected he was too prosperous on +the wages he received. What with the accumulating savings account, the +paying of the monthly furniture installment and the house rent, the +spending money in pocket, and the good fare he was eating, he was +puzzled as to how Saxon managed to pay for the goods used in her fancy +work. Several times he had suggested his inability to see how she did +it, and been baffled each time by Saxon's mysterious laugh. + +“I can't see how you do it on the money,” he was contending one evening. + +He opened his mouth to speak further, then closed it and for five +minutes thought with knitted brows. + +“Say,” he said, “what's become of that frilly breakfast cap you was +workin' on so hard, I ain't never seen you wear it, and it was sure too +big for the kid.” + +Saxon hesitated, with pursed lips and teasing eyes. With her, +untruthfulness had always been a difficult matter. To Billy it was +impossible. She could see the cloud-drift in his eyes deepening and his +face hardening in the way she knew so well when he was vexed. + +“Say, Saxon, you ain't... you ain't... sellin' your work?” + +And thereat she related everything, not omitting Mercedes Higgins' part +in the transaction, nor Mercedes Higgins' remarkable burial trousseau. +But Billy was not to be led aside by the latter. In terms anything but +uncertain he told Saxon that she was not to work for money. + +“But I have so much spare time, Billy, dear,” she pleaded. + +He shook his head. + +“Nothing doing. I won't listen to it. I married you, and I'll take care +of you. Nobody can say Bill Roberts' wife has to work. And I don't want +to think it myself. Besides, it ain't necessary.” + +“But Billy--” she began again. + +“Nope. That's one thing I won't stand for, Saxon. Not that I don't like +fancy work. I do. I like it like hell, every bit you make, but I like it +on YOU. Go ahead and make all you want of it, for yourself, an' I'll +put up for the goods. Why, I'm just whistlin' an' happy all day long, +thinkin' of the boy an' seein' you at home here workin' away on all them +nice things. Because I know how happy you are a-doin' it. But honest to +God, Saxon, it'd all be spoiled if I knew you was doin' it to sell. You +see, Bill Roberts' wife don't have to work. That's my brag--to myself, +mind you. An' besides, it ain't right.” + +“You're a dear,” she whispered, happy despite her disappointment. + +“I want you to have all you want,” he continued. “An' you're goin' to +get it as long as I got two hands stickin' on the ends of my arms. I +guess I know how good the things are you wear--good to me, I mean, too. +I'm dry behind the ears, an' maybe I've learned a few things I oughtn't +to before I knew you. But I know what I'm talkin' about, and I want +to say that outside the clothes down underneath, an' the clothes down +underneath the outside ones, I never saw a woman like you. Oh--” + +He threw up his hands as if despairing of ability to express what he +thought and felt, then essayed a further attempt. + +“It's not a matter of bein' only clean, though that's a whole lot. Lots +of women are clean. It ain't that. It's something more, an' different. +It's... well, it's the look of it, so white, an' pretty, an' tasty. It +gets on the imagination. It's something I can't get out of my thoughts +of you. I want to tell you lots of men can't strip to advantage, an' +lots of women, too. But you--well, you're a wonder, that's all, and you +can't get too many of them nice things to suit me, and you can't get +them too nice. + +“For that matter, Saxon, you can just blow yourself. There's lots of +easy money layin' around. I'm in great condition. Billy Murphy pulled +down seventy-five round iron dollars only last week for puttin' away the +Pride of North Beach. That's what ha paid us the fifty back out of.” + +But this time it was Saxon who rebelled. + +“There's Carl Hansen,” Billy argued. “The second Sharkey, the alfalfa +sportin' writers are callin' him. An' he calls himself Champion of the +United States Navy. Well, I got his number. He's just a big stiff. I've +seen 'm fight, an' I can pass him the sleep medicine just as easy. The +Secretary of the Sportin' Life Club offered to match me. An' a hundred +iron dollars in it for the winner. And it'll all be yours to blow in any +way you want. What d'ye say?” + +“If I can't work for money, you can't fight,” was Saxon's ultimatum, +immediately withdrawn. “But you and I don't drive bargains. Even if +you'd let me work for money, I wouldn't let you fight. I've never +forgotten what you told me about how prizefighters lose their silk. +Well, you're not going to lose yours. It's half my silk, you know. +And if you won't fight, I won't work--there. And more, I'll never do +anything you don't want me to, Billy.” + +“Same here,” Billy agreed. “Though just the same I'd like most to death +to have just one go at that squarehead Hansen.” He smiled with pleasure +at the thought. “Say, let's forget it all now, an' you sing me 'Harvest +Days' on that dinky what-you-may-call-it.” + +When she had complied, accompanying herself on the ukulele, she +suggested his weird “Cowboy's Lament.” In some inexplicable way of love, +she had come to like her husband's one song. Because he sang it, she +liked its inanity and monotonousness; and most of all, it seemed to her, +she loved his hopeless and adorable flatting of every note. She could +even sing with him, flatting as accurately and deliciously as he. Nor +did she undeceive him in his sublime faith. + +“I guess Bert an' the rest have joshed me all the time,” he said. + +“You and I get along together with it fine,” she equivocated; for in +such matters she did not deem the untruth a wrong. + +Spring was on when the strike came in the railroad shops. The Sunday +before it was called, Saxon and Billy had dinner at Bert's house. +Saxon's brother came, though he had found it impossible to bring +Sarah, who refused to budge from her household rut. Bert was blackly +pessimistic, and they found him singing with sardonic glee: + +“Nobody loves a mil-yun-aire. Nobody likes his looks. Nobody'll share +his slightest care, He classes with thugs and crooks. Thriftiness has +become a crime, So spend everything you earn; We're living now in a +funny time, When money is made to burn.” + +Mary went about the dinner preparation, flaunting unmistakable signals +of rebellion; and Saxon, rolling up her sleeves and tying on an apron, +washed the breakfast dishes. Bert fetched a pitcher of steaming beer +from the corner saloon, and the three men smoked and talked about the +coming strike. + +“It oughta come years ago,” was Bert's dictum. “It can't come any too +quick now to suit me, but it's too late. We're beaten thumbs down. +Here's where the last of the Mohegans gets theirs, in the neck, +ker-whop!” + +“Oh, I don't know,” Tom, who had been smoking his pipe gravely, began +to counsel. “Organized labor's gettin' stronger every day. Why, I +can remember when there wasn't any unions in California. Look at us +now--wages, an' hours, an' everything.” + +“You talk like an organizer,” Bert sneered, “shovin' the bull con on the +boneheads. But we know different. Organized wages won't buy as much +now as unorganized wages used to buy. They've got us whipsawed. Look at +Frisco, the labor leaders doin' dirtier politics than the old parties, +pawin' an' squabblin' over graft, an' goin' to San Quentin, while--what +are the Frisco carpenters doin'? Let me tell you one thing, Tom Brown, +if you listen to all you hear you'll hear that every Frisco carpenter is +union an' gettin' full union wages. Do you believe it? It's a damn lie. +There ain't a carpenter that don't rebate his wages Saturday night to +the contractor. An' that's your buildin' trades in San Francisco, +while the leaders are makin' trips to Europe on the earnings of the +tenderloin--when they ain't coughing it up to the lawyers to get out of +wearin' stripes.” + +“That's all right,” Tom concurred. “Nobody's denyin' it. The trouble is +labor ain't quite got its eyes open. It ought to play politics, but the +politics ought to be the right kind.” + +“Socialism, eh?” Bert caught him up with scorn. “Wouldn't they sell us +out just as the Ruefs and Schmidts have?” + +“Get men that are honest,” Billy said. “That's the whole trouble. Not +that I stand for socialism. I don't. All our folks was a long time in +America, an' I for one won't stand for a lot of fat Germans an' greasy +Russian Jews tellin' me how to run my country when they can't speak +English yet.” + +“Your country!” Bert cried. “Why, you bonehead, you ain't got a country. +That's a fairy story the grafters shove at you every time they want to +rob you some more.” + +“But don't vote for the grafters,” Billy contended. “If we selected +honest men we'd get honest treatment.” + +“I wish you'd come to some of our meetings, Billy,” Tom said wistfully. +“If you would, you'd get your eyes open an' vote the socialist ticket +next election.” + +“Not on your life,” Billy declined. “When you catch me in a socialist +meeting'll be when they can talk like white men.” + +Bert was humming: + +“We're living now in a funny time, When money is made to burn.” + +Mary was too angry with her husband, because of the impending strike +and his incendiary utterances, to hold conversation with Saxon, and the +latter, bepuzzled, listened to the conflicting opinions of the men. + +“Where are we at?” she asked them, with a merriness that concealed her +anxiety at heart. + +“We ain't at,” Bert snarled. “We're gone.” + +“But meat and oil have gone up again,” she chafed. “And Billy's wages +have been cut, and the shop men's were cut last year. Something must be +done.” + +“The only thing to do is fight like hell,” Bert answered. “Fight, an' go +down fightin'. That's all. We're licked anyhow, but we can have a last +run for our money.” + +“That's no way to talk,” Tom rebuked. + +“The time for talkin' 's past, old cock. The time for fightin' 's come.” + +“A hell of a chance you'd have against regular troops and machine guns,” + Billy retorted. + +“Oh, not that way. There's such things as greasy sticks that go up with +a loud noise and leave holes. There's such things as emery powder--” + +“Oh, ho!” Mary burst out upon him, arms akimbo. “So that's what it +means. That's what the emery in your vest pocket meant.” + +Her husband ignored her. Tom smoked with a troubled air. Billy was hurt. +It showed plainly in his face. + +“You ain't ben doin' that, Bert?” he asked, his manner showing his +expectancy of his friend's denial. + +“Sure thing, if you want to know. I'd see'm all in hell if I could, +before I go.” + +“He's a bloody-minded anarchist,” Mary complained. “Men like him killed +McKinley, and Garfield, an'--an' an' all the rest. He'll be hung. You'll +see. Mark my words. I'm glad there's no children in sight, that's all.” + +“It's hot air,” Billy comforted her. + +“He's just teasing you,” Saxon soothed. “He always was a josher.” + +But Mary shook her head. + +“I know. I hear him talkin' in his sleep. He swears and curses something +awful, an' grits his teeth. Listen to him now.” + +Bert, his handsome face bitter and devil-may-care, had tilted his chair +back against the wall and was singing + +“Nobody loves a mil-yun-aire, Nobody likes his looks, Nobody'll share +his slightest care, He classes with thugs and crooks.” + +Tom was saying something about reasonableness and justice, and Bert +ceased from singing to catch him up. + +“Justice, eh? Another pipe-dream. I'll show you where the working class +gets justice. You remember Forbes--J. Alliston Forbes--wrecked the Alta +California Trust Company an' salted down two cold millions. I saw him +yesterday, in a big hell-bent automobile. What'd he get? Eight years' +sentence. How long did he serve? Less'n two years. Pardoned out on +account of ill health. Ill hell! We'll be dead an' rotten before he +kicks the bucket. Here. Look out this window. You see the back of that +house with the broken porch rail. Mrs. Danaker lives there. She takes +in washin'. Her old man was killed on the railroad. Nitsky on +damages--contributory negligence, or fellow-servant-something-or-other +flimflam. That's what the courts handed her. Her boy, Archie, was +sixteen. He was on the road, a regular road-kid. He blew into Fresno +an' rolled a drunk. Do you want to know how much he got? Two dollars +and eighty cents. Get that?--Two-eighty. And what did the alfalfa judge +hand'm? Fifty years. He's served eight of it already in San Quentin. And +he'll go on serving it till he croaks. Mrs. Danaker says he's bad with +consumption--caught it inside, but she ain't got the pull to get'm +pardoned. Archie the Kid steals two dollars an' eighty cents from a +drunk and gets fifty years. J. Alliston Forbes sticks up the Alta +Trust for two millions en' gets less'n two years. Who's country is +this anyway? Yourn an' Archie the Kid's? Guess again. It's J. Alliston +Forbes'--Oh: + +“Nobody likes a mil-yun-aire, Nobody likes his looks, Nobody'll share +his slightest care, He classes with thugs and crooks.” + +Mary, at the sink, where Saxon was just finishing the last dish, untied +Saxon's apron and kissed her with the sympathy that women alone feel for +each other under the shadow of maternity. + +“Now you sit down, dear. You mustn't tire yourself, and it's a long way +to go yet. I'll get your sewing for you, and you can listen to the men +talk. But don't listen to Bert. He's crazy.” + +Saxon sewed and listened, and Bert's face grew bleak and bitter as he +contemplated the baby clothes in her lap. + +“There you go,” he blurted out, “bringin' kids into the world when you +ain't got any guarantee you can feed em.” + +“You must a-had a souse last night,” Tom grinned. + +Bert shook his head. + +“Aw, what's the use of gettin' grouched?” Billy cheered. “It's a pretty +good country.” + +“It WAS a pretty good country,” Bert replied, “when we was all Mohegans. +But not now. We're jiggerooed. We're hornswoggled. We're backed to a +standstill. We're double-crossed to a fare-you-well. My folks fought for +this country. So did yourn, all of you. We freed the niggers, killed the +Indians, an starved, an' froze, an' sweat, an' fought. This land looked +good to us. We cleared it, an' broke it, an' made the roads, an' built +the cities. And there was plenty for everybody. And we went on fightin' +for it. I had two uncles killed at Gettysburg. All of us was mixed up in +that war. Listen to Saxon talk any time what her folks went through to +get out here an' get ranches, an' horses, an' cattle, an' everything. +And they got 'em. All our folks' got 'em, Mary's, too--” + +“And if they'd ben smart they'd a-held on to them,” she interpolated. + +“Sure thing,” Bert continued. “That's the very point. We're the losers. +We've ben robbed. We couldn't mark cards, deal from the bottom, an' ring +in cold decks like the others. We're the white folks that failed. You +see, times changed, and there was two kinds of us, the lions and the +plugs. The plugs only worked, the lions only gobbled. They gobbled the +farms, the mines, the factories, an' now they've gobbled the government. +We're the white folks an' the children of white folks, that was too busy +being good to be smart. We're the white folks that lost out. We're the +ones that's ben skinned. D'ye get me?” + +“You'd make a good soap-boxer,” Tom commended, “if only you'd get the +kinks straightened out in your reasoning.” + +“It sounds all right, Bert,” Billy said, “only it ain't. Any man can get +rich to-day--” + +“Or be president of the United States,” Bert snapped. “Sure thing--if +he's got it in him. Just the same I ain't heard you makin' a noise like +a millionaire or a president. Why? You ain't got it in you. You're a +bonehead. A plug. That's why. Skiddoo for you. Skiddoo for all of us.” + +At the table, while they ate, Tom talked of the joys of farm-life he had +known as a boy and as a young man, and confided that it was his dream to +go and take up government land somewhere as his people had done before +him. Unfortunately, as he explained, Sarah was set, so that the dream +must remain a dream. + +“It's all in the game,” Billy sighed. “It's played to rules. Some one +has to get knocked out, I suppose.” + +A little later, while Bert was off on a fresh diatribe, Billy became +aware that he was making comparisons. This house was not like his house. +Here was no satisfying atmosphere. Things seemed to run with a jar. He +recollected that when they arrived the breakfast dishes had not yet been +washed. With a man's general obliviousness of household affairs, he had +not noted details; yet it had been borne in on him, all morning, in a +myriad ways, that Mary was not the housekeeper Saxon was. He glanced +proudly across at her, and felt the spur of an impulse to leave his +seat, go around, and embrace her. She was a wife. He remembered her +dainty undergarmenting, and on the instant, into his brain, leaped the +image of her so appareled, only to be shattered by Bert. + +“Hey, Bill, you seem to think I've got a grouch. Sure thing. I have. +You ain't had my experiences. You've always done teamin' an' pulled +down easy money prizefightin'. You ain't known hard times. You ain't ben +through strikes. You ain't had to take care of an old mother an' swallow +dirt on her account. It wasn't until after she died that I could rip +loose an' take or leave as I felt like it. + +“Take that time I tackled the Niles Electric an' see what a work-plug +gets handed out to him. The Head Cheese sizes me up, pumps me a lot of +questions, an' gives me an application blank. I make it out, payin' a +dollar to a doctor they sent me to for a health certificate. Then I got +to go to a picture garage an' get my mug taken for the Niles Electric +rogues' gallery. And I cough up another dollar for the mug. The Head +Squirt takes the blank, the health certificate, and the mug, an' fires +more questions. DID I BELONG TO A LABOR UNION?--ME? Of course I told'm +the truth I guess nit. I needed the job. The grocery wouldn't give me +any more tick, and there was my mother. + +“Huh, thinks I, here's where I'm a real carman. Back platform for me, +where I can pick up the fancy skirts. Nitsky. Two dollars, please. +Me--my two dollars. All for a pewter badge. Then there was the +uniform--nineteen fifty, and get it anywhere else for fifteen. Only that +was to be paid out of my first month. And then five dollars in change in +my pocket, my own money. That was the rule.--I borrowed that five from +Tom Donovan, the policeman. Then what? They worked me for two weeks +without pay, breakin' me in.” + +“Did you pick up any fancy skirts?” Saxon queried teasingly. + +Bert shook his head glumly. + +“I only worked a month. Then we organized, and they busted our union +higher'n a kite.” + +“And you boobs in the shops will be busted the same way if you go out on +strike,” Mary informed him. + +“That's what I've ben tellin' you all along,” Bert replied. “We ain't +got a chance to win.” + +“Then why go out?” was Saxon's question. + +He looked at her with lackluster eyes for a moment, then answered + +“Why did my two uncles get killed at Gettysburg?” + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Saxon went about her housework greatly troubled. She no longer devoted +herself to the making of pretties. The materials cost money, and she +did not dare. Bert's thrust had sunk home. It remained in her quivering +consciousness like a shaft of steel that ever turned and rankled. She +and Billy were responsible for this coming young life. Could they be +sure, after all, that they could adequately feed and clothe it and +prepare it for its way in the world? Where was the guaranty? She +remembered, dimly, the blight of hard times in the past, and the +plaints of fathers and mothers in those days returned to her with a new +significance. Almost could she understand Sarah's chronic complaining. + +Hard times were already in the neighborhood, where lived the families +of the shopmen who had gone out on strike. Among the small storekeepers, +Saxon, in the course of the daily marketing, could sense the air of +despondency. Light and geniality seemed to have vanished. Gloom pervaded +everywhere. The mothers of the children that played in the streets +showed the gloom plainly in their faces. When they gossiped in the +evenings, over front gates and on door stoops, their voices were subdued +and less of laughter rang out. + +Mary Donahue, who had taken three pints from the milkman, now took +one pint. There were no more family trips to the moving picture shows. +Scrap-meat was harder to get from the butcher. Nora Delaney, in the +third house, no longer bought fresh fish for Friday. Salted codfish, not +of the best quality, was now on her table. The sturdy children that ran +out upon the street between meals with huge slices of bread and butter +and sugar now came out with no sugar and with thinner slices spread more +thinly with butter. The very custom was dying out, and some children +already had desisted from piecing between meals. + +Everywhere was manifest a pinching and scraping, a tightning and +shortening down of expenditure. And everywhere was more irritation. +Women became angered with one another, and with the children, more +quickly than of yore; and Saxon knew that Bert and Mary bickered +incessantly. + +“If she'd only realize I've got troubles of my own,” Bert complained to +Saxon. + +She looked at him closely, and felt fear for him in a vague, numb way. +His black eyes seemed to burn with a continuous madness. The brown face +was leaner, the skin drawn tightly across the cheekbones. A slight twist +had come to the mouth, which seemed frozen into bitterness. The +very carriage of his body and the way he wore his hat advertised a +recklessness more intense than had been his in the past. + +Sometimes, in the long afternoons, sitting by the window with +idle hands, she caught herself reconstructing in her vision that +folk-migration of her people across the plains and mountains and deserts +to the sunset land by the Western sea. And often she found herself +dreaming of the arcadian days of her people, when they had not lived in +cities nor been vexed with labor unions and employers' associations. She +would remember the old people's tales of self-sufficingness, when they +shot or raised their own meat, grew their own vegetables, were their +own blacksmiths and carpenters, made their own shoes--yes, and spun +the cloth of the clothes they wore. And something of the wistfulness +in Tom's face she could see as she recollected it when he talked of his +dream of taking up government land. + +A farmer's life must be fine, she thought. Why was it that people had to +live in cities? Why had times changed? If there had been enough in the +old days, why was there not enough now? Why was it necessary for men +to quarrel and jangle, and strike and fight, all about the matter of +getting work? Why wasn't there work for all?--Only that morning, and she +shuddered with the recollection, she had seen two scabs, on their way to +work, beaten up by the strikers, by men she knew by sight, and some by +name, who lived in the neighhorhood. It had happened directly across the +street. It had been cruel, terrible--a dozen men on two. The children +had begun it by throwing rocks at the scabs and cursing them in ways +children should not know. Policemen had run upon the scene with drawn +revolvers, and the strikers had retreated into the houses and through +the narrow alleys between the houses. One of the scabs, unconscious, +had been carried away in an ambulance; the other, assisted by special +railroad police, had been taken away to the shops. At him, Mary Donahue, +standing on her front stoop, her child in her arms, had hurled such vile +abuse that it had brought the blush of shame to Saxon's cheeks. On the +stoop of the house on the other side, Saxon had noted Mercedes, in the +height of the beating up, looking on with a queer smile. She had seemed +very eager to witness, her nostrils dilated and swelling like the beat +of pulses as she watched. It had struck Saxon at the time that the old +woman was quite unalarmed and only curious to see. + +To Mercedes, who was so wise in love, Saxon went for explanation of what +was the matter with the world. But the old woman's wisdom in affairs +industrial and economic was cryptic and unpalatable. + +“La la, my dear, it is so simple. Most men are born stupid. They are the +slaves. A few are born clever. They are the masters. God made men so, I +suppose.” + +“Then how about God and that terrible beating across the street this +morning?” + +“I'm afraid he was not interested,” Mercedes smiled. “I doubt he even +knows that it happened.” + +“I was frightened to death,” Saxon declared. “I was made sick by it. And +yet you--I saw you--you looked on as cool as you please, as if it was a +show.” + +“It was a show, my dear.” + +“Oh, how could you?” + +“La la, I have seen men killed. It is nothing strange. All men die. The +stupid ones die like oxen, they know not why. It is quite funny to see. +They strike each other with fists and clubs, and break each other's +heads. It is gross. They are like a lot of animals. They are like dogs +wrangling over bones. Jobs are bones, you know. Now, if they fought +for women, or ideas, or bars of gold, or fabulous diamonds, it would be +splendid. But no; they are only hungry, and fight over scraps for their +stomach.” + +“Oh, if I could only understand!” Saxon murmured, her hands tightly +clasped in anguish of incomprehension and vital need to know. + +“There is nothing to understand. It is clear as print. There have always +been the stupid and the clever, the slave and the master, the peasant +and the prince. There always will be.” + +“But why?” + +“Why is a peasant a peasant, my dear? Because he is a peasant. Why is a +flea a flea?” + +Saxon tossed her head fretfully. + +“Oh, but my dear, I have answered. The philosophies of the world can +give no better answer. Why do you like your man for a husband rather +than any other man? Because you like him that way, that is all. Why do +you like? Because you like. Why does fire burn and frost bite? Why +are there clever men and stupid men? masters and slaves? employers and +workingmen? Why is black black? Answer that and you answer everything.” + +“But it is not right that men should go hungry and without work when +they want to work if only they can get a square deal,” Saxon protested. + +“Oh, but it is right, just as it is right that stone won't burn like +wood, that sea sand isn't sugar, that thorns prick, that water is wet, +that smoke rises, that things fall down and not up.” + +But such doctrine of reality made no impression on Saxon. Frankly, she +could not comprehend. It seemed like so much nonsense. + +“Then we have no liberty and independence,” she cried passionately. “One +man is not as good as another. My child has not the right to live that a +rich mother's child has.” + +“Certainly not,” Mercedes answered. + +“Yet all my people fought for these things,” Saxon urged, remembering +her school history and the sword of her father. + +“Democracy--the dream of the stupid peoples. Oh, la la, my dear, +democracy is a lie, an enchantment to keep the work brutes content, just +as religion used to keep them content. When they groaned in their misery +and toil, they were persuaded to keep on in their misery and toil by +pretty tales of a land beyond the skies where they would live famously +and fat while the clever ones roasted in everlasting fire. Ah, how +the clever ones must have chuckled! And when that lie wore out, and +democracy was dreamed, the clever ones saw to it that it should be in +truth a dream, nothing but a dream. The world belongs to the great and +clever.” + +“But you are of the working people,” Saxon charged. + +The old woman drew herself up, and almost was angry. + +“I? Of the working people? My dear, because I had misfortune with moneys +invested, because I am old and can no longer win the brave young men, +because I have outlived the men of my youth and there is no one to go +to, because I live here in the ghetto with Barry Higgins and prepare +to die--why, my dear, I was born with the masters, and have trod all +my days on the necks of the stupid. I have drunk rare wines and sat at +feasts that would have supported this neighborhood for a lifetime. Dick +Golden and I--it was Dickie's money, but I could have had it -- Dick Golden +and I dropped four hundred thousand francs in a week's play at Monte +Carlo. He was a Jew, but he was a spender. In India I have worn jewels +that could have saved the lives of ten thousand families dying before my +eyes.” + +“You saw them die?... and did nothing?” Saxon asked aghast. + +“I kept my jewels--la la, and was robbed of them by a brute of a Russian +officer within the year.” + +“And you let them die,” Saxon reiterated. + +“They were cheap spawn. They fester and multiply like maggots. They +meant nothing--nothing, my dear, nothing. No more than your work people +mean here, whose crowning stupidity is their continuing to beget more +stupid spawn for the slavery of the masters.” + +So it was that while Saxon could get little glimmering of common sense +from others, from the terrible old woman she got none at all. Nor could +Saxon bring herself to believe much of what she considered Mercedes' +romancing. As the weeks passed, the strike in the railroad shops grew +bitter and deadly. Billy shook his head and confessed his inability +to make head or tail of the troubles that were looming on the labor +horizon. + +“I don't get the hang of it,” he told Saxon. “It's a mix-up. It's like +a roughhouse with the lights out. Look at us teamsters. Here we are, +the talk just starting of going out on sympathetic strike for the +mill-workers. They've ben out a week, most of their places is filled, +an' if us teamsters keep on haulin' the mill-work the strike's lost.” + +“Yet you didn't consider striking for yourselves when your wages were +cut,” Saxon said with a frown. + +“Oh, we wasn't in position then. But now the Frisco teamsters and the +whole Frisco Water Front Confederation is liable to back us up. Anyway, +we're just talkin' about it, that's all. But if we do go out, we'll try +to get back that ten per cent cut.” + +“It's rotten politics,” he said another time. “Everybody's rotten. If +we'd only wise up and agree to pick out honest men--” + +“But if you, and Bert, and Tom can't agree, how do you expect all the +rest to agree?” Saxon asked. + +“It gets me,” he admitted. “It's enough to give a guy the willies +thinkin' about it. And yet it's plain as the nose on your face. Get +honest men for politics, an' the whole thing's straightened out. Honest +men'd make honest laws, an' then honest men'd get their dues. But Bert +wants to smash things, an' Tom smokes his pipe and dreams pipe dreams +about by an' by when everybody votes the way he thinks. But this by an' +by ain't the point. We want things now. Tom says we can't get them now, +an' Bert says we ain't never goin' to get them. What can a fellow do +when everybody's of different minds? Look at the socialists themselves. +They're always disagreeing, splittin' up, an' firin' each other out of +the party. The whole thing's bughouse, that's what, an' I almost get +dippy myself thinkin' about it. The point I can't get out of my mind is +that we want things now.” + +He broke off abruptly and stared at Saxon. + +“What is it?” he asked, his voice husky with anxiety. “You ain't sick... +or... or anything?” + +One hand she had pressed to her heart; but the startle and fright in her +eyes was changing into a pleased intentness, while on her mouth was +a little mysterious smile. She seemed oblivious to her husband, as if +listening to some message from afar and not for his ears. Then wonder +and joy transfused her face, and she looked at Billy, and her hand went +out to his. + +“It's life,” she whispered. “I felt life. I am so glad, so glad.” + +The next evening when Billy came home from work, Saxon caused him to +know and undertake more of the responsibilities of fatherhood. + +“I've been thinking it over, Billy,” she began, “and I'm such a healthy, +strong woman that it won't have to be very expensive. There's Martha +Skelton--she's a good midwife.” + +But Billy shook his head. + +“Nothin' doin' in that line, Saxon. You're goin' to have Doc Hentley. +He's Bill Murphy's doc, an' Bill swears by him. He's an old cuss, but +he's a wooz.” + +“She confined Maggie Donahue,” Saxon argued; “and look at her and her +baby.” + +“Well, she won't confine you--not so as you can notice it.” + +“But the doctor will charge twenty dollars,” Saxon pursued, “and make +me get a nurse because I haven't any womenfolk to come in. But Martha +Skelton would do everything, and it would be so much cheaper.” + +But Billy gathered her tenderly in his arms and laid down the law. + +“Listen to me, little wife. The Roberts family ain't on the cheap. Never +forget that. You've gotta have the baby. That's your business, an' it's +enough for you. My business is to get the money an' take care of you. +An' the best ain't none too good for you. Why, I wouldn't run the chance +of the teeniest accident happenin' to you for a million dollars. It's +you that counts. An' dollars is dirt. Maybe you think I like that kid +some. I do. Why, I can't get him outa my head. I'm thinkin' about'm all +day long. If I get fired, it'll be his fault. I'm clean dotty over him. +But just the same, Saxon, honest to God, before I'd have anything happen +to you, break your little finger, even, I'd see him dead an' buried +first. That'll give you something of an idea what you mean to me. + +“Why, Saxon, I had the idea that when folks got married they just +settled down, and after a while their business was to get along with +each other. Maybe it's the way it is with other people; but it ain't +that way with you an' me. I love you more 'n more every day. Right now +I love you more'n when I began talkin' to you five minutes ago. An' you +won't have to get a nurse. Doc Hentley'll come every day, an' Mary'll +come in an' do the housework, an' take care of you an' all that, just as +you'll do for her if she ever needs it.” + +As the days and weeks passed, Saxon was possessed by a conscious feeling +of proud motherhood in her swelling breasts. So essentially a normal +woman was she, that motherhood was a satisfying and passionate +happiness. It was true that she had her moments of apprehension, but +they were so momentary and faint that they tended, if anything, to give +zest to her happiness. + +Only one thing troubled her, and that was the puzzling and perilous +situation of labor which no one seemed to understand, her self least of +all. + +“They're always talking about how much more is made by machinery than by +the old ways,” she told her brother Tom. “Then, with all the machinery +we've got now, why don't we get more?” + +“Now you're talkin',” he answered. “It wouldn't take you long to +understand socialism.” + +But Saxon had a mind to the immediate need of things. + +“Tom, how long have you been a socialist?” + +“Eight years.” + +“And you haven't got anything by it?” + +“But we will... in time.” + +“At that rate you'll be dead first,” she challenged. + +Tom sighed. + +“I'm afraid so. Things move so slow.” + +Again he sighed. She noted the weary, patient look in his face, the bent +shoulders, the labor-gnarled hands, and it all seemed to symbolize the +futility of his social creed. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +It began quietly, as the fateful unexpected so often begins. Children, +of all ages and sizes, were playing in the street, and Saxon, by the +open front window, was watching them and dreaming day dreams of her +child soon to be. The sunshine mellowed peacefully down, and a light +wind from the bay cooled the air and gave to it a tang of salt. One of +the children pointed up Pine Street toward Seventh. All the children +ceased playing, and stared and pointed. They formed into groups, the +larger boys, of from ten to twelve, by themselves, the older girls +anxiously clutching the small children by the hands or gathering them +into their arms. + +Saxon could not see the cause of all this, but she could guess when she +saw the larger boys rush to the gutter, pick up stones, and sneak into +the alleys between the houses. Smaller boys tried to imitate them. The +girls, dragging the tots by the arms, banged gates and clattered up the +front steps of the small houses. The doors slammed behind them, and the +street was deserted, though here and there front shades were drawn aside +so that anxious-faced women might peer forth. Saxon heard the uptown +train puffing and snorting as it pulled out from Center Street. Then, +from the direction of Seventh, came a hoarse, throaty manroar. Still, +she could see nothing, and she remembered Mercedes Higgins' words “THEY +ARE LIKE DOGS WRANGLING OVER BONES. JOBS ARE BONES, YOU KNOW.” + +The roar came closer, and Saxon, leaning out, saw a dozen scabs, +conveyed by as many special police and Pinkertons, coming down the +sidewalk on her side of the street. They came compactly, as if with +discipline, while behind, disorderly, yelling confusedly, stooping to +pick up rocks, were seventy-five or a hundred of the striking shopmen. +Saxon discovered herself trembling with apprehension, knew that she must +not, and controlled herself. She was helped in this by the conduct of +Mercedes Higgins. The old woman came out of her front door, dragging a +chair, on which she coolly seated herself on the tiny stoop at the top +of the steps. + +In the hands of the special police were clubs. The Pinkertons carried +no visible weapons. The strikers, urging on from behind, seemed content +with yelling their rage and threats, and it remained for the children to +precipitate the conflict. From across the street, between the Olsen and +the Isham houses, came a shower of stones. Most of these fell short, +though one struck a scab on the head. The man was no more than twenty +feet away from Saxon. He reeled toward her front picket fence, drawing a +revolver. With one hand he brushed the blood from his eyes and with +the other he discharged the revolver into the Isham house. A Pinkerton +seized his arm to prevent a second shot, and dragged him along. At the +same instant a wilder roar went up from the strikers, while a volley of +stones came from between Saxon's house and Maggie Donahue's. The scabs +and their protectors made a stand, drawing revolvers. From their hard, +determined faces--fighting men by profession--Saxon could augur nothing +but bloodshed and death. An elderly man, evidently the leader, lifted a +soft felt hat and mopped the perspiration from the bald top of his head. +He was a large man, very rotund of belly and helpless looking. His gray +beard was stained with streaks of tobacco juice, and he was smoking +a cigar. He was stoop-shouldered, and Saxon noted the dandruff on the +collar of his coat. + +One of the men pointed into the street, and several of his companions +laughed. The cause of it was the little Olsen boy, barely four years +old, escaped somehow from his mother and toddling toward his economic +enemies. In his right he bore a rock so heavy that he could scarcely +lift it. With this he feebly threatened them. His rosy little face was +convulsed with rage, and he was screaming over and over “Dam scabs! +Dam scabs! Dam scabs!” The laughter with which they greeted him only +increased his fury. He toddled closer, and with a mighty exertion threw +the rock. It fell a scant six feet beyond his hand. + +This much Saxon saw, and also Mrs. Olsen rushing into the street for +her child. A rattling of revolver-shots from the strikers drew Saxon's +attention to the men beneath her. One of them cursed sharply and +examined the biceps of his left arm, which hung limply by his side. Down +the hand she saw the blood beginning to drip. She knew she ought not +remain and watch, but the memory of her fighting forefathers was with +her, while she possessed no more than normal human fear--if anything, +less. She forgot her child in the eruption of battle that had broken +upon her quiet street. And she forgot the strikers, and everything else, +in amazement at what had happened to the round-bellied, cigar-smoking +leader. In some strange way, she knew not how, his head had become +wedged at the neck between the tops of the pickets of her fence. His +body hung down outside, the knees not quite touching the ground. His hat +had fallen off, and the sun was making an astounding high light on his +bald spot. The cigar, too, was gone. She saw he was looking at her. One +hand, between the pickets, seemed waving at her, and almost he seemed to +wink at her jocosely, though she knew it to be the contortion of deadly +pain. + +Possibly a second, or, at most, two seconds, she gazed at this, when she +was aroused by Bert's voice. He was running along the sidewalk, in front +of her house, and behind him charged several more strikers, while he +shouted: “Come on, you Mohegans! We got 'em nailed to the cross!” + +In his left hand he carried a pick-handle, in his right a revolver, +already empty, for he clicked the cylinder vainly around as he ran. With +an abrupt stop, dropping the pick-handle, he whirled half about, facing +Saxon's gate. He was sinking down, when he straightened himself to throw +the revolver into the face of a scab who was jumping toward him. Then he +began swaying, at the same time sagging at the knees and waist. Slowly, +with infinite effort, he caught a gate picket in his right hand, and, +still slowly, as if lowering himself, sank down, while past him leaped +the crowd of strikers he had led. + +It was battle without quarter--a massacre. The scabs and their +protectors, surrounded, backed against Saxon's fence, fought like +cornered rats, but could not withstand the rush of a hundred men. +Clubs and pick-handles were swinging, revolvers were exploding, and +cobblestones were flung with crushing effect at arm's distance. Saxon +saw young Frank Davis, a friend of Bert's and a father of several +months' standing, press the muzzle of his revolver against a scab's +stomach and fire. There were curses and snarls of rage, wild cries of +terror and pain. Mercedes was right. These things were not men. They +were beasts, fighting over bones, destroying one another for bones. + +JOBS ARE BONES; JOBS ARE BONES. The phrase was an incessant iteration in +Saxon's brain. Much as she might have wished it, she was powerless now +to withdraw from the window. It was as if she were paralyzed. Her brain +no longer worked. She sat numb, staring, incapable of anything save +seeing the rapid horror before her eyes that flashed along like a moving +picture film gone mad. She saw Pinkertons, special police, and strikers +go down. One scab, terribly wounded, on his knees and begging for +mercy, was kicked in the face. As he sprawled backward another striker, +standing over him, fired a revolver into his chest, quickly and +deliberately, again and again, until the weapon was empty. Another scab, +backed over the pickets by a hand clutching his throat, had his face +pulped by a revolver butt. Again and again, continually, the revolver +rose and fell, and Saxon knew the man who wielded it--Chester Johnson. +She had met him at dances and danced with him in the days before she was +married. He had always been kind and good natured. She remembered the +Friday night, after a City Hall band concert, when he had taken her and +two other girls to Tony's Tamale Grotto on Thirteenth street. And after +that they had all gone to Pabst's Cafe and drunk a glass of beer before +they went home. It was impossible that this could be the same Chester +Johnson. And as she looked, she saw the round-bellied leader, still +wedged by the neck between the pickets, draw a revolver with his +free hand, and, squinting horribly sidewise, press the muzzle against +Chester's side. She tried to scream a warning. She did scream, and +Chester looked up and saw her. At that moment the revolver went off, and +he collapsed prone upon the body of the scab. And the bodies of three +men hung on her picket fence. + +Anything could happen now. Quite without surprise, she saw the strikers +leaping the fence, trampling her few little geraniums and pansies into +the earth as they fled between Mercedes' house and hers. Up Pine street, +from the railroad yards, was coming a rush of railroad police and +Pinkertons, firing as they ran. While down Pine street, gongs clanging, +horses at a gallop, came three patrol wagons packed with police. The +strikers were in a trap. The only way out was between the houses and +over the back yard fences. The jam in the narrow alley prevented them +all from escaping. A dozen were cornered in the angle between the front +of her house and the steps. And as they had done, so were they done by. +No effort was made to arrest. They were clubbed down and shot down to +the last man by the guardians of the peace who were infuriated by what +had been wreaked on their brethren. + +It was all over, and Saxon, moving as in a dream, clutching the banister +tightly, came down the front steps. The round-bellied leader still +leered at her and fluttered one hand, though two big policemen were +just bending to extricate him. The gate was off its hinges, which seemed +strange, for she had been watching all the time and had not seen it +happen. + +Bert's eyes were closed. His lips were blood-flecked, and there was a +gurgling in his throat as if he were trying to say something. As she +stooped above him, with her handkerchief brushing the blood from his +cheek where some one had stepped on him, his eyes opened. The old +defiant light was in them. He did not know her. The lips moved, and +faintly, almost reminiscently, he murmured, “The last of the Mohegans, +the last of the Mohegans.” Then he groaned, and the eyelids drooped down +again. He was not dead. She knew that, the chest still rose and fell, +and the gurgling still continued in his throat. + +She looked up. Mercedes stood beside her. The old woman's eyes were very +bright, her withered cheeks flushed. + +“Will you help me carry him into the house?” Saxon asked. + +Mercedes nodded, turned to a sergeant of police, and made the request to +him. The sergeant gave a swift glance at Bert, and his eyes were bitter +and ferocious as he refused. + +“To hell with'm. We'll care for our own.” + +“Maybe you and I can do it,” Saxon said. + +“Don't be a fool.” Mercedes was beckoning to Mrs. Olsen across the +street. “You go into the house, little mother that is to be. This is bad +for you. We'll carry him in. Mrs. Olsen is coming, and we'll get Maggie +Donahue.” + +Saxon led the way into the back bedroom which Billy had insisted on +furnishing. As she opened the door, the carpet seemed to fly up into her +face as with the force of a blow, for she remembered Bert had laid that +carpet. And as the women placed him on the bed she recalled that it was +Bert and she, between them, who had set the bed up one Sunday morning. + +And then she felt very queer, and was surprised to see Mercedes +regarding her with questioning, searching eyes. After that her queerness +came on very fast, and she descended into the hell of pain that is given +to women alone to know. She was supported, half-carried, to the front +bedroom. Many faces were about her--Mercedes, Mrs. Olsen, Maggie +Donahue. It seemed she must ask Mrs. Olsen if she had saved little Emil +from the street, but Mercedes cleared Mrs. Olsen out to look after Bert, +and Maggie Donahue went to answer a knock at the front door. From the +street came a loud hum of voices, punctuated by shouts and commands, and +from time to time there was a clanging of the gongs of ambulances +and patrol wagons. Then appeared the fat, comfortable face of Martha +Shelton, and, later, Dr. Hentley came. Once, in a clear interval, +through the thin wall Saxon heard the high opening notes of Mary's +hysteria. And, another time, she heard Mary repeating over and over. +“I'll never go back to the laundry. Never. Never.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +Billy could never get over the shock, during that period, of Saxon's +appearance. Morning after morning, and evening after evening when he +came home from work, he would enter the room where she lay and fight a +royal battle to hide his feelings and make a show of cheerfulness and +geniality. She looked so small lying there so small and shrunken and +weary, and yet so child-like in her smallness. Tenderly, as he sat +beside her, he would take up her pale hand and stroke the slim, +transparent arm, marveling at the smallness and delicacy of the bones. + +One of her first questions, puzzling alike to Billy and Mary, was: + +“Did they save little Emil Olsen?” + +And when she told them how he had attacked, singlehanded, the whole +twenty-four fighting men, Billy's face glowed with appreciation. + +“The little cuss!” he said. “That's the kind of a kid to be proud of.” + +He halted awkwardly, and his very evident fear that he had hurt her +touched Saxon. She put her hand out to his. + +“Billy,” she began; then waited till Mary left the room. + +“I never asked before--not that it matters... now. But I waited for you +to tell me. Was it...?” + +He shook his head. + +“No; it was a girl. A perfect little girl. Only... it was too soon.” + +She pressed his hand, and almost it was she that sympathized with him in +his affliction. + +“I never told you, Billy--you were so set on a boy; but I planned, just +the same, if it was a girl, to call her Daisy. You remember, that was my +mother's name.” + +He nodded his approbation. + +“Say, Saxon, you know I did want a boy like the very dickens... well, +I don't care now. I think I'm set just as hard on a girl, an', well, +here's hopin' the next will be called... you wouldn't mind, would you?” + +“What?” + +“If we called it the same name, Daisy?” + +“Oh, Billy! I was thinking the very same thing.” + +Then his face grew stern as he went on. + +“Only there ain't goin' to be a next. I didn't know what havin' children +was like before. You can't run any more risks like that.” + +“Hear the big, strong, afraid-man talk!” she jeered, with a wan smile. +“You don't know anything about it. How can a man? I am a healthy, +natural woman. Everything would have been all right this time if... if +all that fighting hadn't happened. Where did they bury Bert?” + +“You knew?” + +“All the time. And where is Mercedes? She hasn't been in for two days.” + +“Old Barry's sick. She's with him.” + +He did not tell her that the old night watchman was dying, two thin +walls and half a dozen feet away. + +Saxon's lips were trembling, and she began to cry weakly, clinging to +Billy's hand with both of hers. + +“I--I can't help it,” she sobbed. “I'll be all right in a minute.... Our +little girl, Billy. Think of it! And I never saw her!” + + +She was still lying on her bed, when, one evening, Mary saw fit to break +out in bitter thanksgiving that she had escaped, and was destined to +escape, what Saxon had gone through. + +“Aw, what are you talkin' about?” Billy demanded. “You'll get married +some time again as sure as beans is beans.” + +“Not to the best man living,” she proclaimed. “And there ain't no call +for it. There's too many people in the world now, else why are there +two or three men for every job? And, besides, havin' children is too +terrible.” + +Saxon, with a look of patient wisdom in her face that became glorified +as she spoke, made answer: + +“I ought to know what it means. I've been through it, and I'm still in +the thick of it, and I want to say to you right now, out of all the pain +and the ache and the sorrow, that it is the most beautiful, wonderful +thing in the world.” + + +As Saxon's strength came back to her (and when Doctor Hentley had +privily assured Billy that she was sound as a dollar), she herself took +up the matter of the industrial tragedy that had taken place before her +door. The militia had been called out immediately, Billy informed her, +and was encamped then at the foot of Pine street on the waste ground +next to the railroad yards. As for the strikers, fifteen of them were in +jail. A house to house search had been made in the neighborhood by the +police, and in this way nearly the whole fifteen, all wounded, had been +captured. It would go hard with them, Billy foreboded gloomily. The +newspapers were demanding blood for blood, and all the ministers in +Oakland had preached fierce sermons against the strikers. The railroad +had filled every place, and it was well known that the striking shopmen +not only would never get their old jobs back but were blacklisted in +every railroad in the United States. Already they were beginning to +scatter. A number had gone to Panama, and four were talking of going to +Ecuador to work in the shops of the railroad that ran over the Andes to +Quito. + +With anxiety keenly concealed, she tried to feel out Billy's opinion on +what had happened. + +“That shows what Bert's violent methods come to,” she said. + +He shook his head slowly and gravely. + +“They'll hang Chester Johnson, anyway,” he answered indirectly. +“You know him. You told me you used to dance with him. He was caught +red-handed, lyin' on the body of a scab he beat to death. Old Jelly +Belly's got three bullet holes in him, but he ain't goin' to die, and +he's got Chester's number. They'll hang'm on Jelly Belly's evidence. It +was all in the papers. Jelly Belly shot him, too, a-hangin' by the neck +on our pickets.” + +Saxon shuddered. Jelly Belly must be the man with the bald spot and the +tobacco-stained whiskers. + +“Yes,” she said. “I saw it all. It seemed he must have hung there for +hours.” + +“It was all over, from first to last, in five minutes.” + +“It seemed ages and ages.” + +“I guess that's the way it seemed to Jelly Belly, stuck on the pickets,” + Billy smiled grimly. “But he's a hard one to kill. He's been shot an' +cut up a dozen different times. But they say now he'll be crippled for +life--have to go around on crutches, or in a wheel-chair. That'll stop +him from doin' any more dirty work for the railroad. He was one of their +top gun-fighters--always up to his ears in the thick of any fightin' +that was goin' on. He never was leery of anything on two feet, I'll say +that much for'm.” + +“Where does he live?” Saxon inquired. + +“Up on Adeline, near Tenth--fine neighborhood an' fine two-storied +house. He must pay thirty dollars a month rent. I guess the railroad +paid him pretty well.” + +“Then he must be married?” + +“Yep. I never seen his wife, but he's got one son, Jack, a passenger +engineer. I used to know him. He was a nifty boxer, though he never +went into the ring. An' he's got another son that's teacher in the +high school. His name's Paul. We're about the same age. He was great +at baseball. I knew him when we was kids. He pitched me out three times +hand-runnin' once, when the Durant played the Cole School.” + +Saxon sat back in the Morris chair, resting and thinking. The problem +was growing more complicated than ever. This elderly, round-bellied, and +bald-headed gunfighter, too, had a wife and family. And there was Frank +Davis, married barely a year and with a baby boy. Perhaps the scab +he shot in the stomach had a wife and children. All seemed to be +acquainted, members of a very large family, and yet, because of their +particular families, they battered and killed each other. She had seen +Chester Johnson kill a scab, and now they were going to hang Chester +Johnson, who had married Kittie Brady out of the cannery, and she and +Kittie Brady had worked together years before in the paper box factory. + +Vainly Saxon waited for Billy to say something that would show he did not +countenance the killing of the scabs. + +“It was wrong,” she ventured finally. + +“They killed Bert,” he countered. “An' a lot of others. An' Frank Davis. +Did you know he was dead? Had his whole lower jaw shot away--died in the +ambulance before they could get him to the receiving hospital. There was +never so much killin' at one time in Oakland before.” + +“But it was their fault,” she contended. “They began it. It was murder.” + +Billy did not reply, but she heard him mutter hoarsely. She knew he said +“God damn them”; but when she asked, “What?” he made no answer. His eyes +were deep with troubled clouds, while the mouth had hardened, and all +his face was bleak. + +To her it was a heart-stab. Was he, too, like the rest? Would he kill +other men who had families, like Bert, and Frank Davis, and Chester +Johnson had killed? Was he, too, a wild beast, a dog that would snarl +over a bone? + +She sighed. Life was a strange puzzle. Perhaps Mercedes Higgins was +right in her cruel statement of the terms of existence. + +“What of it,” Billy laughed harshly, as if in answer to her unuttered +questions. “It's dog eat dog, I guess, and it's always ben that way. +Take that scrap outside there. They killed each other just like the +North an' South did in the Civil War.” + +“But workingmen can't win that way, Billy. You say yourself that it +spoiled their chance of winning.” + +“I suppose not,” he admitted reluctantly. “But what other chance they've +got to win I don't see. Look at 'us. We'll be up against it next.” + +“Not the teamsters?” she cried. + +He nodded gloomily. + +“The bosses are cuttin' loose all along the line for a high old time. +Say they're goin' to beat us to our knees till we come crawlin' back +a-beggin' for our jobs. They've bucked up real high an' mighty what of +all that killin' the other day. Havin' the troops out is half the fight, +along with havin' the preachers an' the papers an' the public behind +'em. They're shootin' off their mouths already about what they're goin' +to do. They're sure gunning for trouble. First, they're goin' to hang +Chester Johnson an' as many more of the fifteen as they can. They say +that flat. The Tribune, an' the Enquirer an' the Times keep sayin' it +over an over every day. They're all union-bustin' to beat the band. No +more closed shop. To hell with organized labor. Why, the dirty little +Intelligencer come out this morning an' said that every union official +in Oakland ought to be run outa town or stretched up. Fine, eh? You bet +it's fine. + +“Look at us. It ain't a case any more of sympathetic strike for the +mill-workers. We got our own troubles. They've fired our four best +men--the ones that was always on the conference committees. Did it +without cause. They're lookin' for trouble, as I told you, an' they'll +get it, too, if they don't watch out. We got our tip from the Frisco +Water Front Confederation. With them backin' us we'll go some.” + +“You mean you'll... strike?” Saxon asked. + +He bent his head. + +“But isn't that what they want you to do?--from the way they're acting?” + +“What's the difference?” Billy shrugged his shoulders, then continued. +“It's better to strike than to get fired. We beat 'em to it, that's all, +an' we catch 'em before they're ready. Don't we know what they're doin'? +They're collectin' gradin'-camp drivers an' mule-skinners all up +an' down the state. They got forty of 'em, feedin' 'em in a hotel in +Stockton right now, an' ready to rush 'em in on us an' hundreds more +like 'em. So this Saturday's the last wages I'll likely bring home for +some time.” + +Saxon closed her eyes and thought quietly for five minutes. It was not +her way to take things excitedly. The coolness of poise that Billy so +admired never deserted her in time of emergency. She realized that +she herself was no more than a mote caught up in this tangled, +nonunderstandable conflict of many motes. + +“We'll have to draw from our savings to pay for this month's rent,” she +said brightly. + +Billy's face fell. + +“We ain't got as much in the bank as you think,” he confessed. “Bert had +to be buried, you know, an I coughed up what the others couldn't raise.” + +“How much was it?” + +“Forty dollars. I was goin' to stand off the butcher an' the rest for a +while. They knew I was good pay. But they put it to me straight. They'd +been carryin' the shopmen right along an was up against it themselves. +An' now with that strike smashed they're pretty much smashed themselves. +So I took it all out of the bank. I knew you wouldn't mind. You don't, +do you?” + +She smiled bravely, and bravely overcame the sinking feeling at her +heart. + +“It was the only right thing to do, Billy. I would have done it if you +were lying sick, and Bert would have done it for you an' me if it had +been the other way around.” + +His face was glowing. + +“Gee, Saxon, a fellow can always count on you. You're like my right +hand. That's why I say no more babies. If I lose you I'm crippled for +life.” + +“We've got to economize,” she mused, nodding her appreciation. “How much +is in bank?” + +“Just about thirty dollars. You see, I had to pay Martha Skelton an' for +the... a few other little things. An' the union took time by the neck +and levied a four dollar emergency assessment on every member just to be +ready if the strike was pulled off. But Doc Hentley can wait. He said as +much. He's the goods, if anybody should ask you. How'd you like'm?” + +“I liked him. But I don't know about doctors. He's the first I ever +had--except when I was vaccinated once, and then the city did that.” + +“Looks like the street car men are goin' out, too. Dan Fallon's come to +town. Came all the way from New York. Tried to sneak in on the quiet, +but the fellows knew when he left New York, an' kept track of him all +the way acrost. They have to. He's Johnny-on-the-Spot whenever street +car men are licked into shape. He's won lots of street car strikes for +the bosses. Keeps an army of strike breakers an' ships them all over the +country on special trains wherever they're needed. Oakland's never seen +labor troubles like she's got and is goin' to get. All hell's goin' to +break loose from the looks of it.” + +“Watch out for yourself, then, Billy. I don't want to lose you either.” + +“Aw, that's all right. I can take care of myself. An' besides, it ain't +as though we was licked. We got a good chance.” + +“But you'll lose if there is any killing.” + +“Yep; we gotta keep an eye out against that.” + +“No violence.” + +“No gun-fighting or dynamite,” he assented. “But a heap of scabs'll get +their heads broke. That has to be.” + +“But you won't do any of that, Billy.” + +“Not so as any slob can testify before a court to havin' seen me.” Then, +with a quick shift, he changed the subject. “Old Barry Higgins is dead. +I didn't want to tell you till you was outa bed. Buried'm a week ago. +An' the old woman's movin' to Frisco. She told me she'd be in to say +good-bye. She stuck by you pretty well them first couple of days, +an' she showed Martha Shelton a few that made her hair curl. She got +Martha's goat from the jump.” + + + +CHAPTER XI + +With Billy on strike and away doing picket duty, and with the departure +of Mercedes and the death of Bert, Saxon was left much to herself in a +loneliness that even in one as healthy-minded as she could not fail to +produce morbidness. Mary, too, had left, having spoken vaguely of taking +a job at housework in Piedmont. + +Billy could help Saxon little in her trouble. He dimly sensed her +suffering, without comprehending the scope and intensity of it. He was +too man-practical, and, by his very sex, too remote from the intimate +tragedy that was hers. He was an outsider at the best, a friendly +onlooker who saw little. To her the baby had been quick and real. It was +still quick and real. That was her trouble. By no deliberate effort of +will could she fill the aching void of its absence. Its reality became, +at times, an hallucination. Somewhere it still was, and she must find +it. She would catch herself, on occasion, listening with strained ears +for the cry she had never heard, yet which, in fancy, she had heard a +thousand times in the happy months before the end. Twice she left her +bed in her sleep and went searching--each time coming to herself beside +her mother's chest of drawers in which were the tiny garments. To +herself, at such moments, she would say, “I had a baby once.” And she +would say it, aloud, as she watched the children playing in the street. + +One day, on the Eighth street cars, a young mother sat beside her, a +crowing infant in her arms. And Saxon said to her: + +“I had a baby once. It died.” + +The mother looked at her, startled, half-drew the baby tighter in her +arms, jealously, or as if in fear; then she softened as she said: + +“You poor thing.” + +“Yes,” Saxon nodded. “It died.” + +Tears welled into her eyes, and the telling of her grief seemed to have +brought relief. But all the day she suffered from an almost overwhelming +desire to recite her sorrow to the world--to the paying teller at the +bank, to the elderly floor-walker in Salinger's, to the blind woman, +guided by a little boy, who played on the concertina--to every one save +the policeman. The police were new and terrible creatures to her now. +She had seen them kill the strikers as mercilessly as the strikers had +killed the scabs. And, unlike the strikers, the police were professional +killers. They were not fighting for jobs. They did it as a business. +They could have taken prisoners that day, in the angle of her front +steps and the house. But they had not. Unconsciously, whenever +approaching one, she edged across the sidewalk so as to get as far +as possible away from him. She did not reason it out, but deeper than +consciousness was the feeling that they were typical of something +inimical to her and hers. + +At Eighth and Broadway, waiting for her car to return home, the +policeman on the corner recognized her and greeted her. She turned +white to the lips, and her heart fluttered painfully. It was only Ned +Hermanmann, fatter, broader-faced, jollier looking than ever. He had sat +across the aisle from her for three terms at school. He and she had been +monitors together of the composition books for one term. The day the +powder works blew up at Pinole, breaking every window in the school, +he and she had not joined in the panic rush for out-of-doors. Both had +remained in the room, and the irate principal had exhibited them, from +room to room, to the cowardly classes, and then rewarded them with a +month's holiday from school. And after that Ned Hermanmann had become a +policeman, and married Lena Highland, and Saxon had heard they had five +children. + +But, in spite of all that, he was now a policeman, and Billy was now a +striker. Might not Ned Hermanmann some day club and shoot Billy just as +those other policemen clubbed and shot the strikers by her front steps? + +“What's the matter, Saxon?” he asked. “Sick?” + +She nodded and choked, unable to speak, and started to move toward her +car which was coming to a stop. + +“I'll help you,” he offered. + +She shrank away from his hand. + +“No; I'm all right,” she gasped hurriedly. “I'm not going to take it. +I've forgotten something.” + +She turned away dizzily, up Broadway to Ninth. Two blocks along Ninth, +she turned down Clay and back to Eighth street, where she waited for +another car. + + +As the summer months dragged along, the industrial situation in Oakland +grew steadily worse. Capital everywhere seemed to have selected this +city for the battle with organized labor. So many men in Oakland were +out on strike, or were locked out, or were unable to work because of the +dependence of their trades on the other tied-up trades, that odd jobs +at common labor were hard to obtain. Billy occasionally got a day's work +to do, but did not earn enough to make both ends meet, despite the small +strike wages received at first, and despite the rigid economy he and +Saxon practiced. + +The table she set had scarcely anything in common with that of their +first married year. Not alone was every item of cheaper quality, but +many items had disappeared. Meat, and the poorest, was very seldom on +the table. Cow's milk had given place to condensed milk, and even the +sparing use of the latter had ceased. A roll of butter, when they had +it, lasted half a dozen times as long as formerly. Where Billy had been +used to drinking three cups of coffee for breakfast, he now drank one. +Saxon boiled this coffee an atrocious length of time, and she paid +twenty cents a pound for it. + +The blight of hard times was on all the neighborhood. The families +not involved in one strike were touched by some other strike or by the +cessation of work in some dependent trade. Many single young men who +were lodgers had drifted away, thus increasing the house rent of the +families which had sheltered them. + +“Gott!” said the butcher to Saxon. “We working class all suffer +together. My wife she cannot get her teeth fixed now. Pretty soon I go +smash broke maybe.” + +Once, when Billy was preparing to pawn his watch, Saxon suggested his +borrowing the money from Billy Murphy. + +“I was plannin' that,” Billy answered, “only I can't now. I didn't tell +you what happened Tuesday night at the Sporting Life Club. You remember +that squarehead Champion of the United States Navy? Bill was matched +with him, an' it was sure easy money. Bill had 'm goin' south by the +end of the sixth round, an' at the seventh went in to finish 'm. And +then--just his luck, for his trade's idle now--he snaps his right +forearm. Of course the squarehead comes back at 'm on the jump, an' it's +good night for Bill. Gee! Us Mohegans are gettin' our bad luck handed to +us in chunks these days.” + +“Don't!” Saxon cried, shuddering involuntarily. + +“What?” Billy asked with open mouth of surprise. + +“Don't say that word again. Bert was always saying it.” + +“Oh, Mohegans. All right, I won't. You ain't superstitious, are you?” + +“No; but just the same there's too much truth in the word for me to +like it. Sometimes it seems as though he was right. Times have changed. +They've changed even since I was a little girl. We crossed the plains +and opened up this country, and now we're losing even the chance to work +for a living in it. And it's not my fault, it's not your fault. We've +got to live well or bad just by luck, it seems. There's no other way to +explain it.” + +“It beats me,” Billy concurred. “Look at the way I worked last year. +Never missed a day. I'd want to never miss a day this year, an' here +I haven't done a tap for weeks an' weeks an' weeks. Say! Who runs this +country anyway?” + +Saxon had stopped the morning paper, but frequently Maggie Donahue's +boy, who served a Tribune route, tossed an “extra” on her steps. From +its editorials Saxon gleaned that organized labor was trying to run the +country and that it was making a mess of it. It was all the fault of +domineering labor--so ran the editorials, column by column, day by day; +and Saxon was convinced, yet remained unconvinced. The social puzzle of +living was too intricate. + +The teamsters' strike, backed financially by the teamsters of San +Francisco and by the allied unions of the San Francisco Water Front +Confederation, promised to be long-drawn, whether or not it was +successful. The Oakland harness-washers and stablemen, with few +exceptions, had gone out with the teamsters. The teaming firms were not +half-filling their contracts, but the employers' association was helping +them. In fact, half the employers' associations of the Pacific Coast +were helping the Oakland Employers' Association. + +Saxon was behind a month's rent, which, when it is considered that rent +was paid in advance, was equivalent to two months. Likewise, she was +two months behind in the installments on the furniture. Yet she was not +pressed very hard by Salinger's, the furniture dealers. + +“We're givin' you all the rope we can,” said their collector. “My orders +is to make you dig up every cent I can and at the same time not to be +too hard. Salinger's are trying to do the right thing, but they're up +against it, too. You've no idea how many accounts like yours they're +carrying along. Sooner or later they'll have to call a halt or get it in +the neck themselves. And in the meantime just see if you can't scrape up +five dollars by next week--just to cheer them along, you know.” + +One of the stablemen who had not gone out, Henderson by name, worked at +Billy's stables. Despite the urging of the bosses to eat and sleep in +the stable like the other men, Henderson had persisted in coming home +each morning to his little house around the corner from Saxon's on Fifth +street. Several times she had seen him swinging along defiantly, his +dinner pail in his hand, while the neighborhood boys dogged his heels +at a safe distance and informed him in yapping chorus that he was a scab +and no good. But one evening, on his way to work, in a spirit of bravado +he went into the Pile-Drivers' Home, the saloon at Seventh and Pine. +There it was his mortal mischance to encounter Otto Frank, a striker +who drove from the same stable. Not many minutes later an ambulance was +hurrying Henderson to the receiving hospital with a fractured skull, +while a patrol wagon was no less swiftly carrying Otto Frank to the city +prison. + +Maggie Donahue it was, eyes shining with gladness, who told Saxon of the +happening. + +“Served him right, too, the dirty scab,” Maggie concluded. + +“But his poor wife!” was Saxon's cry. “She's not strong. And then the +children. She'll never be able to take care of them if her husband +dies.” + +“An' serve her right, the damned slut!” + +Saxon was both shocked and hurt by the Irishwoman's brutality. But +Maggie was implacable. + +“'Tis all she or any woman deserves that'll put up an' live with a scab. +What about her children? Let'm starve, an' her man a-takin' the food out +of other children's mouths.” + +Mrs. Olsen's attitude was different. Beyond passive sentimental pity +for Henderson's wife and children, she gave them no thought, her chief +concern being for Otto Frank and Otto Frank's wife and children--herself +and Mrs. Frank being full sisters. + +“If he dies, they will hang Otto,” she said. “And then what will poor +Hilda do? She has varicose veins in both legs, and she never can stand +on her feet all day an' work for wages. And me, I cannot help. Ain't +Carl out of work, too?” + +Billy had still another point of view. + +“It will give the strike a black eye, especially if Henderson croaks,” + he worried, when he came home. “They'll hang Frank on record time. +Besides, we'll have to put up a defense, an' lawyers charge like Sam +Hill. They'll eat a hole in our treasury you could drive every team in +Oakland through. An' if Frank hadn't ben screwed up with whisky he'd +never a-done it. He's the mildest, good-naturedest man sober you ever +seen.” + +Twice that evening Billy left the house to find out if Henderson was +dead yet. In the morning the papers gave little hope, and the evening +papers published his death. Otto Frank lay in jail without bail. The +Tribune demanded a quick trial and summary execution, calling on the +prospective jury manfully to do its duty and dwelling at length on the +moral effect that would be so produced upon the lawless working class. +It went further, emphasizing the salutary effect machine guns would have +on the mob that had taken the fair city of Oakland by the throat. + +And all such occurrences struck at Saxon personally. Practically alone +in the world, save for Billy, it was her life, and his, and their mutual +love-life, that was menaced. From the moment he left the house to the +moment of his return she knew no peace of mind. Rough work was afoot, of +which he told her nothing, and she knew he was playing his part in it. +On more than one occasion she noticed fresh-broken skin on his knuckles. +At such times he was remarkably taciturn, and would sit in brooding +silence or go almost immediately to bed. She was afraid to have this +habit of reticence grow on him, and bravely she bid for his confidence. +She climbed into his lap and inside his arms, one of her arms around +his neck, and with the free hand she caressed his hair back from the +forehead and smoothed out the moody brows. + +“Now listen to me, Billy Boy,” she began lightly. “You haven't been +playing fair, and I won't have it. No!” She pressed his lips shut with +her fingers. “I'm doing the talking now, and because you haven't been +doing your share of the talking for some time. You remember we agreed +at the start to always talk things over. I was the first to break this, +when I sold my fancy work to Mrs. Higgins without speaking to you about +it. And I was very sorry. I am still sorry. And I've never done it +since. Now it's your turn. You're not talking things over with me. You +are doing things you don't tell me about. + +“Billy, you're dearer to me than anything else in the world. You +know that. We're sharing each other's lives, only, just now, there's +something you're not sharing. Every time your knuckles are sore, there's +something you don't share. If you can't trust me, you can't trust +anybody. And, besides, I love you so that no matter what you do I'll go +on loving you just the same.” + +Billy gazed at her with fond incredulity. + +“Don't be a pincher,” she teased. “Remember, I stand for whatever you +do.” + +“And you won't buck against me?” he queried. + +“How can I? I'm not your boss, Billy. I wouldn't boss you for anything +in the world. And if you'd let me boss you, I wouldn't love you half as +much.” + +He digested this slowly, and finally nodded. + +“An' you won't be mad?” + +“With you? You've never seen me mad yet. Now come on and be generous and +tell me how you hurt your knuckles. It's fresh to-day. Anybody can see +that.” + +“All right. I'll tell you how it happened.” He stopped and giggled with +genuine boyish glee at some recollection. “It's like this. You won't be +mad, now? We gotta do these sort of things to hold our own. Well, here's +the show, a regular movin' picture except for file talkin'. Here's a big +rube comin' along, hayseed stickin' out all over, hands like hams an' +feet like Mississippi gunboats. He'd make half as much again as me in +size an' he's young, too. Only he ain't lookin' for trouble, an' he's as +innocent as... well, he's the innocentest scab that ever come down the +pike an' bumped into a couple of pickets. Not a regular strike-breaker, +you see, just a big rube that's read the bosses' ads an' come a-humpin' +to town for the big wages. + +“An' here's Bud Strothers an' me comin' along. We always go in pairs +that way, an' sometimes bigger bunches. I flag the rube. 'Hello,' says +I, 'lookin' for a job?' 'You bet,' says he. 'Can you drive?' 'Yep.' +'Four horses!' 'Show me to 'em,' says he. 'No josh, now,' says I; +'you're sure wantin' to drive?' 'That's what I come to town for,' he +says. 'You're the man we're lookin' for,' says I. 'Come along, an' we'll +have you busy in no time.' + +“You see, Saxon, we can't pull it off there, because there's Tom +Scanlon--you know, the red-headed cop only a couple of blocks away an' +pipin' us off though not recognizin' us. So away we go, the three of us, +Bud an' me leadin' that boob to take our jobs away from us I guess nit. +We turn into the alley back of Campwell's grocery. Nobody in sight. Bud +stops short, and the rube an' me stop. + +“'I don't think he wants to drive,' Bud says, considerin'. An' the rube +says quick, 'You betcher life I do.' 'You're dead sure you want that +job?' I says. Yes, he's dead sure. Nothin's goin' to keep him away from +that job. Why, that job's what he come to town for, an' we can't lead +him to it too quick. + +“'Well, my friend,' says I, 'it's my sad duty to inform you that +you've made a mistake.' 'How's that?' he says. 'Go on,' I says; 'you're +standin' on your foot.' And, honest to God, Saxon, that gink looks down +at his feet to see. 'I don't understand,' says he. 'We're goin' to show +you,' says I. + +“An' then--Biff! Bang! Bingo! Swat! Zooie! Ker-slambango-blam! +Fireworks, Fourth of July, Kingdom Come, blue lights, sky-rockets, an' +hell fire--just like that. It don't take long when you're scientific an' +trained to tandem work. Of course it's hard on the knuckles. But say, +Saxon, if you'd seen that rube before an' after you'd thought he was a +lightnin' change artist. Laugh? You'd a-busted.” + +Billy halted to give vent to his own mirth. Saxon forced herself to +join with him, but down in her heart was horror. Mercedes was right. The +stupid workers wrangled and snarled over jobs. The clever masters rode +in automobiles and did not wrangle and snarl. They hired other stupid +ones to do the wrangling and snarling for them. It was men like Bert and +Frank Davis, like Chester Johnson and Otto Frank, like Jelly Belly and +the Pinkertons, like Henderson and all the rest of the scabs, who were +beaten up, shot, clubbed, or hanged. Ah, the clever ones were very +clever. Nothing happened to them. They only rode in their automobiles. + +“'You big stiffs,' the rube snivels as he crawls to his feet at the +end,” Billy was continuing. “'You think you still want that job?' I ask. +He shakes his head. Then I read'm the riot act 'They's only one thing +for you to do, old hoss, an' that's beat it. D'ye get me? Beat it. Back +to the farm for YOU. An' if you come monkeyin' around town again, we'll +be real mad at you. We was only foolin' this time. But next time we +catch you your own mother won't know you when we get done with you.' + +“An'--say!--you oughta seen'm beat it. I bet he's goin' yet. Ah' when he +gets back to Milpitas, or Sleepy Hollow, or wherever he hangs out, an' +tells how the boys does things in Oakland, it's dollars to doughnuts +they won't be a rube in his district that'd come to town to drive if +they offered ten dollars an hour.” + +“It was awful,” Saxon said, then laughed well-simulated appreciation. + +“But that was nothin',” Billy went on. “A bunch of the boys caught +another one this morning. They didn't do a thing to him. My goodness +gracious, no. In less'n two minutes he was the worst wreck they ever +hauled to the receivin' hospital. The evenin' papers gave the score: +nose broken, three bad scalp wounds, front teeth out, a broken +collarbone, an' two broken ribs. Gee! He certainly got all that was +comin' to him. But that's nothin'. D'ye want to know what the Frisco +teamsters did in the big strike before the Earthquake? They took every +scab they caught an' broke both his arms with a crowbar. That was so he +couldn't drive, you see. Say, the hospitals was filled with 'em. An' the +teamsters won that strike, too.” + +“But is it necessary, Billy, to be so terrible? I know they're scabs, +and that they're taking the bread out of the strikers' children's mouths +to put in their own children's mouths, and that it isn't fair and all +that; but just the same is it necessary to be so... terrible?” + +“Sure thing,” Billy answered confidently. “We just gotta throw the fear +of God into them--when we can do it without bein' caught.” + +“And if you're caught?” + +“Then the union hires the lawyers to defend us, though that ain't +much good now, for the judges are pretty hostyle, an' the papers keep +hammerin' away at them to give stiffer an' stiffer sentences. Just +the same, before this strike's over there'll be a whole lot of guys +a-wishin' they'd never gone scabbin'.” + +Very cautiously, in the next half hour, Saxon tried to feel out her +husband's attitude, to find if he doubted the rightness of the violence +he and his brother teamsters committed. But Billy's ethical sanction +was rock-bedded and profound. It never entered his head that he was +not absolutely right. It was the game. Caught in its tangled meshes, he +could see no other way to play it than the way all men played it. He did +not stand for dynamite and murder, however. But then the unions did not +stand for such. Quite naive was his explanation that dynamite and murder +did not pay; that such actions always brought down the condemnation of +the public and broke the strikes. But the healthy beating up of a scab, +he contended--the “throwing of the fear of God into a scab,” as he +expressed it--was the only right and proper thing to do. + +“Our folks never had to do such things,” Saxon said finally. “They never +had strikes nor scabs in those times.” + +“You bet they didn't,” Billy agreed. “Them was the good old days. I'd +liked to a-lived then.” He drew a long breath and sighed. “But them +times will never come again.” + +“Would you have liked living in the country?” Saxon asked. + +“Sure thing.” + +“There's lots of men living in the country now,” she suggested. + +“Just the same I notice them a-hikin' to town to get our jobs,” was his +reply. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +A gleam of light came, when Billy got a job driving a grading team for +the contractors of the big bridge then building at Niles. Before he went +he made certain that it was a union job. And a union job it was for two +days, when the concrete workers threw down their tools. The contractors, +evidently prepared for such happening, immediately filled the places +of the concrete men with nonunion Italians. Whereupon the carpenters, +structural ironworkers and teamsters walked out; and Billy, lacking +train fare, spent the rest of the day in walking home. + +“I couldn't work as a scab,” he concluded his tale. + +“No,” Saxon said; “you couldn't work as a scab.” + +But she wondered why it was that when men wanted to work, and there was +work to do, yet they were unable to work because their unions said +no. Why were there unions? And, if unions had to be, why were not all +workingmen in them? Then there would be no scabs, and Billy could work +every day. Also, she wondered where she was to get a sack of flour, for +she had long since ceased the extravagance of baker's bread. And so many +other of the neighborhood women had done this, that the little Welsh +baker had closed up shop and gone away, taking his wife and two little +daughters with him. Look where she would, everybody was being hurt by +the industrial strife. + +One afternoon came a caller at her door, and that evening came Billy +with dubious news. He had been approached that day. All he had to do, +he told Saxon, was to say the word, and he could go into the stable as +foreman at one hundred dollars a month. + +The nearness of such a sum, the possibility of it, was almost stunning +to Saxon, sitting at a supper which consisted of boiled potatoes, +warmed-over beans, and a small dry onion which they were eating raw. +There was neither bread, coffee, nor butter. The onion Billy had pulled +from his pocket, having picked it up in the street. One hundred dollars +a month! She moistened her lips and fought for control. + +“What made them offer it to you?” she questioned. + +“That's easy,” was his answer. “They got a dozen reasons. The guy the +boss has had exercisin' Prince and King is a dub. King has gone lame in +the shoulders. Then they're guessin' pretty strong that I'm the party +that's put a lot of their scabs outa commission. Macklin's ben their +foreman for years an' years--why I was in knee pants when he was +foreman. Well, he's sick an' all in. They gotta have somebody to take +his place. Then, too, I've been with 'em a long time. An' on top of +that, I'm the man for the job. They know I know horses from the ground +up. Hell, it's all I'm good for, except sluggin'.” + +“Think of it, Billy!” she breathed. “A hundred dollars a month! A +hundred dollars a month!” + +“An' throw the fellows down,” he said. + +It was not a question. Nor was it a statement. It was anything Saxon +chose to make of it. They looked at each other. She waited for him to +speak; but he continued merely to look. It came to her that she was +facing one of the decisive moments of her life, and she gripped herself +to face it in all coolness. Nor would Billy proffer her the slightest +help. Whatever his own judgment might be, he masked it with an +expressionless face. His eyes betrayed nothing. He looked and waited. + +“You... you can't do that, Billy,” she said finally. “You can't throw +the fellows down.” + +His hand shot out to hers, and his face was a sudden, radiant dawn. + +“Put her there!” he cried, their hands meeting and clasping. “You're the +truest true blue wife a man ever had. If all the other fellows' wives +was like you, we could win any strike we tackled.” + +“What would you have done if you weren't married, Billy?” + +“Seen 'em in hell first.” + +“Than it doesn't make any difference being married. I've got to stand by +you in everything you stand for. I'd be a nice wife if I didn't.” + +She remembered her caller of the afternoon, and knew the moment was too +propitious to let pass. + +“There was a man here this afternoon, Billy. He wanted a room. I told +him I'd speak to you. He said he would pay six dollars a month for the +back bedroom. That would pay half a month's installment on the furniture +and buy a sack of flour, and we're all out of flour.” + +Billy's old hostility to the idea was instantly uppermost, and Saxon +watched him anxiously. + +“Some scab in the shops, I suppose?” + +“No; he's firing on the freight run to San Jose. Harmon, he said his +name was, James Harmon. They've just transferred him from the Truckee +division. He'll sleep days mostly, he said; and that's why he wanted a +quiet house without children in it.” + +In the end, with much misgiving, and only after Saxon had insistently +pointed out how little work it entailed on her, Billy consented, though +he continued to protest, as an afterthought: + +“But I don't want you makin' beds for any man. It ain't right, Saxon. I +oughta take care of you.” + +“And you would,” she flashed back at him, “if you'd take the +foremanship. Only you can't. It wouldn't be right. And if I'm to stand +by you it's only fair to let me do what I can.” + +James Harmon proved even less a bother than Saxon had anticipated. For +a fireman he was scrupulously clean, always washing up in the roundhouse +before he came home. He used the key to the kitchen door, coming and +going by the back steps. To Saxon he barely said how-do-you-do or good +day; and, sleeping in the day time and working at night, he was in the +house a week before Billy laid eyes on him. + +Billy had taken to coming home later and later, and to going out after +supper by himself. He did not offer to tell Saxon where he went. Nor did +she ask. For that matter it required little shrewdness on her part to +guess. The fumes of whisky were on his lips at such times. His slow, +deliberate ways were even slower, even more deliberate. Liquor did +not affect his legs. He walked as soberly as any man. There was no +hesitancy, no faltering, in his muscular movements. The whisky went to +his brain, making his eyes heavy-lidded and the cloudiness of them +more cloudy. Not that he was flighty, nor quick, nor irritable. On the +contrary, the liquor imparted to his mental processes a deep gravity and +brooding solemnity. He talked little, but that little was ominous +and oracular. At such times there was no appeal from his judgment, no +discussion. He knew, as God knew. And when he chose to speak a harsh +thought, it was ten-fold harsher than ordinarily, because it seemed +to proceed out of such profundity of cogitation, because it was as +prodigiously deliberate in its incubation as it was in its enunciation. + +It was not a nice side he was showing to Saxon. It was, almost, as if a +stranger had come to live with her. Despite herself, she found herself +beginning to shrink from him. And little could she comfort herself +with the thought that it was not his real self, for she remembered his +gentleness and considerateness, all his finenesses of the past. Then +he had made a continual effort to avoid trouble and fighting. Now he +enjoyed it, exulted in it, went looking for it. All this showed in +his face. No longer was he the smiling, pleasant-faced boy. He smiled +infrequently now. His face was a man's face. The lips, the eyes, the +lines were harsh as his thoughts were harsh. + +He was rarely unkind to Saxon; but, on the other hand he was +rarely kind. His attitude toward her was growing negative. He was +disinterested. Despite the fight for the union she was enduring with +him, putting up with him shoulder to shoulder, she occupied but little +space in his mind. When he acted toward her gently, she could see that +it was merely mechanical, just as she was well aware that the endearing +terms he used, the endearing caresses he gave, were only habitual. The +spontaneity and warmth had gone out. Often, when he was not in liquor, +flashes of the old Billy came back, but even such flashes dwindled in +frequency. He was growing preoccupied, moody. Hard times and the bitter +stresses of industrial conflict strained him. Especially was this +apparent in his sleep, when he suffered paroxysms of lawless dreams, +groaning and muttering, clenching his fists, grinding his teeth, +twisting with muscular tensions, his face writhing with passions and +violences, his throat guttering with terrible curses that rasped and +aborted on his lips. And Saxon, lying beside him, afraid of this visitor +to her bed whom she did not know, remembered what Mary had told her of +Bert. He, too, had cursed and clenched his fists, in his nights fought +out the battles of his days. + +One thing, however, Saxon saw clearly. By no deliberate act of Billy's +was he becoming this other and unlovely Billy. Were there no strike, no +snarling and wrangling over jobs, there would be only the old Billy she +had loved in all absoluteness. This sleeping terror in him would have +lain asleep. It was something that was being awakened in him, an image +incarnate of outward conditions, as cruel, as ugly, as maleficent as +were those outward conditions. But if the strike continued, then, +she feared, with reason, would this other and grisly self of Billy +strengthen to fuller and more forbidding stature. And this, she knew, +would mean the wreck of their love-life. Such a Billy she could not +love; in its nature such a Billy was not lovable nor capable of love. +And then, at the thought of offspring, she shuddered. It was too +terrible. And at such moments of contemplation, from her soul the +inevitable plaint of the human went up: WHY? WHY? WHY? + +Billy, too, had his unanswerable queries. + +“Why won't the building trades come out?” he demanded wrathfuly of the +obscurity that veiled the ways of living and the world. “But no; O'Brien +won't stand for a strike, and he has the Building Trades Council under +his thumb. But why don't they chuck him and come out anyway? We'd win +hands down all along the line. But no, O'Brien's got their goat, an' him +up to his dirty neck in politics an' graft! An' damn the Federation of +Labor! If all the railroad boys had come out, wouldn't the shop men have +won instead of bein' licked to a frazzle? Lord, I ain't had a smoke of +decent tobacco or a cup of decent coffee in a coon's age. I've forgotten +what a square meal tastes like. I weighed myself yesterday. Fifteen +pounds lighter than when the strike begun. If it keeps on much more I +can fight middleweight. An' this is what I get after payin' dues into +the union for years and years. I can't get a square meal, an' my wife +has to make other men's beds. It makes my tired ache. Some day I'll get +real huffy an' chuck that lodger out.” + +“But it's not his fault, Billy,” Saxon protested. + +“Who said it was?” Billy snapped roughly. “Can't I kick in general if +I want to? Just the same it makes me sick. What's the good of organized +labor if it don't stand together? For two cents I'd chuck the whole +thing up an' go over to the employers. Only I wouldn't, God damn them! +If they think they can beat us down to our knees, let 'em go ahead an' +try it, that's all. But it gets me just the same. The whole world's +clean dippy. They ain't no sense in anything. What's the good of +supportin' a union that can't win a strike? What's the good of knockin' +the blocks off of scabs when they keep a-comin' thick as ever? The whole +thing's bughouse, an' I guess I am, too.” + +Such an outburst on Billy's part was so unusual that it was the only +time Saxon knew it to occur. Always he was sullen, and dogged, and +unwhipped; while whisky only served to set the maggots of certitude +crawling in his brain. + +One night Billy did not get home till after twelve. Saxon's anxiety was +increased by the fact that police fighting and head breaking had been +reported to have occurred. When Billy came, his appearance verified +the report. His coatsleeves were half torn off. The Windsor tie had +disappeared from under his soft turned-down collar, and every button had +been ripped off the front of the shirt. When he took his hat off, Saxon +was frightened by a lump on his head the size of an apple. + +“D'ye know who did that? That Dutch slob Hermanmann, with a riot club. +An' I'll get'm for it some day, good an' plenty. An' there's another +fellow I got staked out that'll be my meat when this strike's over an' +things is settled down. Blanchard's his name, Roy Blanchard.” + +“Not of Blanchard, Perkins and Company?” Saxon asked, busy washing +Billy's hurt and making her usual fight to keep him calm. + +“Yep; except he's the son of the old man. What's he do, that ain't done +a tap of work in all his life except to blow the old man's money? He +goes strike-breakin'. Grandstand play, that's what I call it. Gets his +name in the papers an makes all the skirts he runs with fluster up an' +say: 'My! Some bear, that Roy Blanchard, some bear.' Some bear--the +gazabo! He'll be bear-meat for me some day. I never itched so hard to +lick a man in my life. + +“And--oh, I guess I'll pass that Dutch cop up. He got his already. +Somebody broke his head with a lump of coal the size of a water bucket. +That was when the wagons was turnin' into Franklin, just off Eighth, by +the old Galindo Hotel. They was hard fightin' there, an' some guy in the +hotel lams that coal down from the second story window. + +“They was fightin' every block of the way--bricks, cobblestones, an' +police-clubs to beat the band. They don't dast call out the troops. An' +they was afraid to shoot. Why, we tore holes through the police force, +an' the ambulances and patrol wagons worked over-time. But say, we got +the procession blocked at Fourteenth and Broadway, right under the +nose of the City Hall, rushed the rear end, cut out the horses of five +wagons, an' handed them college guys a few love-pats in passin'. All +that saved 'em from hospital was the police reserves. Just the same we +had 'em jammed an hour there. You oughta seen the street cars blocked, +too--Broadway, Fourteenth, San Pablo, as far as you could see.” + +“But what did Blanchard do?” Saxon called him back. + +“He led the procession, an' he drove my team. All the teams was from my +stable. He rounded up a lot of them college fellows--fraternity guys, +they're called--yaps that live off their fathers' money. They come to +the stable in big tourin' cars an' drove out the wagons with half the +police of Oakland to help them. Say, it was sure some day. The +sky rained cobblestones. An' you oughta heard the clubs on our +heads--rat-tat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat-tat! An' say, the chief of police, +in a police auto, sittin' up like God Almighty--just before we got to +Peralta street they was a block an' the police chargin', an' an old +woman, right from her front gate, lammed the chief of police full in the +face with a dead cat. Phew! You could hear it. 'Arrest that woman!' he +yells, with his handkerchief out. But the boys beat the cops to her an' +got her away. Some day? I guess yes. The receivin' hospital went outa +commission on the jump, an' the overflow was spilled into St. Mary's +Hospital, an' Fabiola, an' I don't know where else. Eight of our men was +pulled, an' a dozen of the Frisco teamsters that's come over to +help. They're holy terrors, them Frisco teamsters. It seemed half the +workingmen of Oakland was helpin' us, an' they must be an army of them +in jail. Our lawyers'll have to take their cases, too. + +“But take it from me, it's the last we'll see of Roy Blanchard an' +yaps of his kidney buttin' into our affairs. I guess we showed 'em some +football. You know that brick buildin' they're puttin' up on Bay +street? That's where we loaded up first, an', say, you couldn't see the +wagon-seats for bricks when they started from the stables. Blanchard +drove the first wagon, an' he was knocked clean off the seat once, but +he stayed with it.” + +“He must have been brave,” Saxon commented. + +“Brave?” Billy flared. “With the police, an' the army an' navy behind +him? I suppose you'll be takin' their part next. Brave? A-takin' the +food outa the mouths of our women an children. Didn't Curley Jones's +little kid die last night? Mother's milk not nourishin', that's what it +was, because she didn't have the right stuff to eat. An' I know, an' +you know, a dozen old aunts, an' sister-in-laws, an' such, that's had to +hike to the poorhouse because their folks couldn't take care of 'em in +these times.” + +In the morning paper Saxon read the exciting account of the futile +attempt to break the teamsters' strike. Roy Blanchard was hailed a hero +and held up as a model of wealthy citizenship. And to save herself +she could not help glowing with appreciation of his courage. There was +something fine in his going out to face the snarling pack. A brigadier +general of the regular army was quoted as lamenting the fact that the +troops had not been called out to take the mob by the throat and +shake law and order into it. “This is the time for a little healthful +bloodletting,” was the conclusion of his remarks, after deploring +the pacific methods of the police. “For not until the mob has been +thoroughly beaten and cowed will tranquil industrial conditions obtain.” + +That evening Saxon and Billy went up town. Returning home and finding +nothing to eat, he had taken her on one arm, his overcoat on the other. +The overcoat he had pawned at Uncle Sam's, and he and Saxon had eaten +drearily at a Japanese restaurant which in some miraculous way managed +to set a semi-satisfying meal for ten cents. After eating, they started +on their way to spend an additional five cents each on a moving picture +show. + +At the Central Bank Building, two striking teamsters accosted Billy +and took him away with them. Saxon waited on the corner, and when +he returned, three quarters of an hour later, she knew he had been +drinking. + +Half a block on, passing the Forum Cafe, he stopped suddenly. A +limousine stood at the curb, and into it a young man was helping several +wonderfully gowned women. A chauffeur sat in the driver's sent. Billy +touched the young man on the arm. He was as broad-shouldered as Billy +and slightly taller. Blue-eyed, strong-featured, in Saxon's opinion he +was undeniably handsome. + +“Just a word, sport,” Billy said, in a low, slow voice. + +The young man glanced quickly at Billy and Saxon, and asked impatiently: + +“Well, what is it?” + +“You're Blanchard,” Billy began. “I seen you yesterday lead out that +bunch of teams.” + +“Didn't I do it all right?” Blanchard asked gaily, with a flash of +glance to Saxon and back again. + +“Sure. But that ain't what I want to talk about.” + +“Who are you?” the other demanded with sudden suspicion. + +“A striker. It just happens you drove my team, that's all. No; don't +move for a gun.” (As Blanchard half reached toward his hip pocket.) “I +ain't startin' anythin' here. But I just want to tell you something.” + +“Be quick, then.” + +Blanchard lifted one foot to step into the machine. + +“Sure,” Billy went on without any diminution of his exasperating +slowness. “What I want to tell you is that I'm after you. Not now, when +the strike's on, but some time later I'm goin' to get you an' give you +the beatin' of your life.” + +Blanchard looked Billy over with new interest and measuring eyes that +sparkled with appreciation. + +“You are a husky yourself,” he said. “But do you think you can do it?” + +“Sure. You're my meat.” + +“All right, then, my friend. Look me up after the strike is settled, and +I'll give you a chance at me.” + +“Remember,” Billy added, “I got you staked out.” + +Blanchard nodded, smiled genially to both of them, raised his hat to +Saxon, and stepped into the machine. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +From now on, to Saxon, life seemed bereft of its last reason and rhyme. +It had become senseless, nightmarish. Anything irrational was possible. +There was nothing stable in the anarchic flux of affairs that swept her +on she knew not to what catastrophic end. Had Billy been dependable, all +would still have been well. With him to cling to she would have faced +everything fearlessly. But he had been whirled away from her in the +prevailing madness. So radical was the change in him that he seemed +almost an intruder in the house. Spiritually he was such an intruder. +Another man looked out of his eyes--a man whose thoughts were of +violence and hatred; a man to whom there was no good in anything, and +who had become an ardent protagonist of the evil that was rampant and +universal. This man no longer condemned Bert, himself muttering vaguely +of dynamite, and sabotage, and revolution. + +Saxon strove to maintain that sweetness and coolness of flesh and spirit +that Billy had praised in the old days. Once, only, she lost control. +He had been in a particularly ugly mood, and a final harshness and +unfairness cut her to the quick. + +“Who are you speaking to?” she flamed out at him. + +He was speechless and abashed, and could only stare at her face, which +was white with anger. + +“Don't you ever speak to me like that again, Billy,” she commanded. + +“Aw, can't you put up with a piece of bad temper?” he muttered, half +apologetically, yet half defiantly. “God knows I got enough to make me +cranky.” + +After he left the house she flung herself on the bed and cried +heart-brokenly. For she, who knew so thoroughly the humility of love, +was a proud woman. Only the proud can be truly humble, as only the +strong may know the fullness of gentleness. But what was the use, she +demanded, of being proud and game, when the only person in the world who +mattered to her lost his own pride and gameness and fairness and gave +her the worse share of their mutual trouble? + +And now, as she had faced alone the deeper, organic hurt of the loss +of her baby, she faced alone another, and, in a way, an even greater +personal trouble. Perhaps she loved Billy none the less, but her love +was changing into something less proud, less confident, less trusting; +it was becoming shot through with pity--with the pity that is parent to +contempt. Her own loyalty was threatening to weaken, and she shuddered +and shrank from the contempt she could see creeping in. + +She struggled to steel herself to face the situation. Forgiveness stole +into her heart, and she knew relief until the thought came that in the +truest, highest love forgiveness should have no place. And again she +cried, and continued her battle. After all, one thing was incontestable: +THIS BILLY WAS NOT THE BILLY SHE HAD LOVED. This Billy was another man, +a sick man, and no more to be held responsible than a fever-patient +in the ravings of delirium. She must be Billy's nurse, without pride, +without contempt, with nothing to forgive. Besides, he was really +bearing the brunt of the fight, was in the thick of it, dizzy with the +striking of blows and the blows he received. If fault there was, it lay +elsewhere, somewhere in the tangled scheme of things that made men snarl +over jobs like dogs over bones. + +So Saxon arose and buckled on her armor again for the hardest fight +of all in the world's arena--the woman's fight. She ejected from her +thought all doubting and distrust. She forgave nothing, for there was +nothing requiring forgiveness. She pledged herself to an absoluteness of +belief that her love and Billy's was unsullied, unperturbed--severe as +it had always been, as it would be when it came back again after the +world settled down once more to rational ways. + +That night, when he came home, she proposed, as an emergency measure, +that she should resume her needlework and help keep the pot boiling +until the strike was over. But Billy would hear nothing of it. + +“It's all right,” he assured her repeatedly. “They ain't no call for you +to work. I'm goin' to get some money before the week is out. An' I'll +turn it over to you. An' Saturday night we'll go to the show--a real +show, no movin' pictures. Harvey's nigger minstrels is comin' to town. +We'll go Saturday night. I'll have the money before that, as sure as +beans is beans.” + +Friday evening he did not come home to supper, which Saxon regretted, +for Maggie Donahue had returned a pan of potatoes and two quarts of +flour (borrowed the week before), and it was a hearty meal that awaited +him. Saxon kept the stove going till nine o'clock, when, despite her +reluctance, she went to bed. Her preference would have been to wait up, +but she did not dare, knowing full well what the effect would be on him +did he come home in liquor. + +The clock had just struck one, when she heard the click of the gate. +Slowly, heavily, ominously, she heard him come up the steps and fumble +with his key at the door. He entered the bedroom, and she heard him +sigh as he sat down. She remained quiet, for she had learned the +hypersensitiveness induced by drink and was fastidiously careful not to +hurt him even with the knowledge that she had lain awake for him. It was +not easy. Her hands were clenched till the nails dented the palms, and +her body was rigid in her passionate effort for control. Never had he +come home as bad as this. + +“Saxon,” he called thickly. “Saxon.” + +She stired and yawned. + +“What is it?” she asked. + +“Won't you strike a light? My fingers is all thumbs.” + +Without looking at him, she complied; but so violent was the nervous +trembling of her hands that the glass chimney tinkled against the globe +and the match went out. + +“I ain't drunk, Saxon,” he said in the darkness, a hint of amusement in +his thick voice. “I've only had two or three jolts ... of that sort.” + +On her second attempt with the lamp she succeeded. When she turned to +look at him she screamed with fright. Though she had heard his voice +and knew him to be Billy, for the instant she did not recognize him. His +face was a face she had never known. Swollen, bruised, discolored, every +feature had been beaten out of all semblance of familiarity. One eye +was entirely closed, the other showed through a narrow slit of +blood-congested flesh. One ear seemed to have lost most of its skin. The +whole face was a swollen pulp. His right jaw, in particular, was twice +the size of the left. No wonder his speech had been thick, was her +thought, as she regarded the fearfully cut and swollen lips that still +bled. She was sickened by the sight, and her heart went out to him in +a great wave of tenderness. She wanted to put her arms around him, and +cuddle and soothe him; but her practical judgment bade otherwise. + +“You poor, poor boy,” she cried. “Tell me what you want me to do first. +I don't know about such things.” + +“If you could help me get my clothes off,” he suggested meekly and +thickly. “I got 'em on before I stiffened up.” + +“And then hot water--that will be good,” she said, as she began gently +drawing his coat sleeve over a puffed and helpless hand. + +“I told you they was all thumbs,” he grimaced, holding up his hand and +squinting at it with the fraction of sight remaining to him. + +“You sit and wait,” she said, “till I start the fire and get the hot +water going. I won't be a minute. Then I'll finish getting your clothes +off.” + +From the kitchen she could hear him mumbling to himself, and when she +returned he was repeating over and over: + +“We needed the money, Saxon. We needed the money.” + +Drunken he was not, she could see that, and from his babbling she knew +he was partly delirious. + +“He was a surprise box,” he wandered on, while she proceeded to undress +him; and bit by bit she was able to piece together what had happened. +“He was an unknown from Chicago. They sprang him on me. The secretary +of the Acme Club warned me I'd have my hands full. An' I'd a-won if +I'd been in condition. But fifteen pounds off without trainin' ain't +condition. Then I'd been drinkin' pretty regular, an' I didn't have my +wind.” + +But Saxon, stripping his undershirt, no longer heard him. As with his +face, she could not recognize his splendidly muscled back. The white +sheath of silken skin was torn and bloody. The lacerations occurred +oftenest in horizontal lines, though there were perpendicular lines as +well. + +“How did you get all that?” she asked. + +“The ropes. I was up against 'em more times than I like to remember. +Gee! He certainly gave me mine. But I fooled 'm. He couldn't put me out. +I lasted the twenty rounds, an' I wanta tell you he's got some marks to +remember me by. If he ain't got a couple of knuckles broke in the left +hand I'm a geezer.--Here, feel my head here. Swollen, eh? Sure thing. He +hit that more times than he's wishin' he had right now. But, oh, what a +lacin'! What a lacin'! I never had anything like it before. The Chicago +Terror, they call 'm. I take my hat off to 'm. He's some bear. But +I could a-made 'm take the count if I'd ben in condition an' had my +wind.--Oh! Ouch! Watch out! It's like a boil!” + +Fumbling at his waistband, Saxon's hand had come in contact with a +brightly inflamed surface larger than a soup plate. + +“That's from the kidney blows,” Billy explained. “He was a regular devil +at it. 'Most every clench, like clock work, down he'd chop one on me. It +got so sore I was wincin'... until I got groggy an' didn't know much of +anything. It ain't a knockout blow, you know, but it's awful wearin' in +a long fight. It takes the starch out of you.” + +When his knees were bared, Saxon could see the skin across the knee-caps +was broken and gone. + +“The skin ain't made to stand a heavy fellow like me on the knees,” he +volunteered. “An' the rosin in the canvas cuts like Sam Hill.” + +The tears were in Saxon's eyes, and she could have cried over the +manhandled body of her beautiful sick boy. + +As she carried his pants across the room to hang them up, a jingle of +money came from them. He called her back, and from the pocket drew forth +a handful of silver. + +“We needed the money, we needed the money,” he kept muttering, as +he vainly tried to count the coins; and Saxon knew that his mind was +wandering again. + +It cut her to the heart, for she could not but remember the harsh +thoughts that had threatened her loyalty during the week past. After +all, Billy, the splendid physical man, was only a boy, her boy. And +he had faced and endured all this terrible punishment for her, for the +house and the furniture that were their house and furniture. He said so, +now, when he scarcely knew what he said. He said “WE needed the money.” + She was not so absent from his thoughts as she had fancied. Here, down +to the naked tie-ribs of his soul, when he was half unconscious, the +thought of her persisted, was uppermost. We needed the money. WE! + +The tears were trickling down her checks as she bent over him, and it +seemed she had never loved him so much as now. + +“Here; you count,” he said, abandoning the effort and handing the money +to her. “... How much do you make it?” + +“Nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents.” + +“That's right... the loser's end... twenty dollars. I had some drinks, +an' treated a couple of the boys, an' then there was carfare. If I'd +a-won, I'd a-got a hundred. That's what I fought for. It'd a-put us +on Easy street for a while. You take it an' keep it. It's better 'n +nothin'.” + +In bed, he could not sleep because of his pain, and hour by hour she +worked over him, renewing the hot compresses over his bruises, soothing +the lacerations with witch hazel and cold cream and the tenderest of +finger tips. And all the while, with broken intervals of groaning, he +babbled on, living over the fight, seeking relief in telling her his +trouble, voicing regret at loss of the money, and crying out the hurt +to his pride. Far worse than the sum of his physical hurts was his hurt +pride. + +“He couldn't put me out, anyway. He had full swing at me in the times +when I was too much in to get my hands up. The crowd was crazy. I +showed 'em some stamina. They was times when he only rocked me, for I'd +evaporated plenty of his steam for him in the openin' rounds. I don't +know how many times he dropped me. Things was gettin' too dreamy.... + +“Sometimes, toward the end, I could see three of him in the ring at +once, an' I wouldn't know which to hit an' which to duck.... + +“But I fooled 'm. When I couldn't see, or feel, an' when my knees +was shakin an my head goin' like a merry-go-round, I'd fall safe into +clenches just the same. I bet the referee's arms is tired from draggin' +us apart.... + +“But what a lacin'! What a lacin'! Say, Saxon... where are you? Oh, +there, eh? I guess I was dreamin'. But, say, let this be a lesson to +you. I broke my word an' went fightin', an' see what I got. Look at me, +an' take warnin' so you won't make the same mistake an' go to makin' an' +sellin' fancy work again.... + +“But I fooled 'em--everybody. At the beginnin' the bettin' was even. By +the sixth round the wise gazabos was offerin' two to one against me. I +was licked from the first drop outa the box--anybody could see that; +but he couldn't put me down for the count. By the tenth round they was +offerin' even that I wouldn't last the round. At the eleventh they was +offerin' I wouldn't last the fifteenth. An' I lasted the whole twenty. +But some punishment, I want to tell you, some punishment. + +“Why, they was four rounds I was in dreamland all the time... only I +kept on my feet an' fought, or took the count to eight an' got up, an' +stalled an' covered an' whanged away. I don't know what I done, except I +must a-done like that, because I wasn't there. I don't know a thing +from the thirteenth, when he sent me to the mat on my head, till the +eighteenth. + +“Where was I? Oh, yes. I opened my eyes, or one eye, because I had only +one that would open. An' there I was, in my corner, with the towels +goin' an' ammonia in my nose an' Bill Murphy with a chunk of ice at the +back of my neck. An' there, across the ring, I could see the Chicago +Terror, an' I had to do some thinkin' to remember I was fightin' him. It +was like I'd been away somewhere an' just got back. 'What round's this +comin'?' I ask Bill. 'The eighteenth,' says he. 'The hell,' I says. +'What's come of all the other rounds? The last I was fightin' in was the +thirteenth.' 'You're a wonder,' says Bill. 'You've ben out four rounds, +only nobody knows it except me. I've ben tryin' to get you to quit all +the time.' Just then the gong sounds, an' I can see the Terror startin' +for me. 'Quit,' says Bill, makin' a move to throw in the towel. 'Not on +your life,' I says. 'Drop it, Bill.' But he went on wantin' me to quit. +By that time the Terror had come across to my corner an' was standin' +with his hands down, lookin' at me. The referee was lookin', too, an' +the house was that quiet, lookin', you could hear a pin drop. An' my +head was gettin' some clearer, but not much. + +“'You can't win,' Bill says. + +“'Watch me,' says I. An' with that I make a rush for the Terror, +catchin' him unexpected. I'm that groggy I can't stand, but I just keep +a-goin', wallopin' the Terror clear across the ring to his corner, where +he slips an' falls, an' I fall on top of 'm. Say, that crowd goes crazy. + +“Where was I?--My head's still goin' round I guess. It's buzzin' like a +swarm of bees.” + +“You'd just fallen on top of him in his corner,” Saxon prompted. + +“Oh, yes. Well, no sooner are we on our feet--an' I can't stand--I rush +'m the same way back across to my corner an' fall on 'm. That was luck. +We got up, an' I'd a-fallen, only I clenched an' held myself up by him. +'I got your goat,' I says to him. 'An' now I'm goin' to eat you up.' + +“I hadn't his goat, but I was playin' to get a piece of it, an' I got +it, rushin' 'm as soon as the referee drags us apart an' fetchin' 'm +a lucky wallop in the stomach that steadied 'm an' made him almighty +careful. Too almighty careful. He was afraid to chance a mix with me. +He thought I had more fight left in me than I had. So you see I got that +much of his goat anyway. + +“An' he couldn't get me. He didn't get me. An' in the twentieth we stood +in the middle of the ring an' exchanged wallops even. Of course, I'd +made a fine showin' for a licked man, but he got the decision, which +was right. But I fooled 'm. He couldn't get me. An' I fooled the gazabos +that was bettin' he would on short order.” + +At last, as dawn came on, Billy slept. He groaned and moaned, his face +twisting with pain, his body vainly moving and tossing in quest of +easement. + +So this was prizefighting, Saxon thought. It was much worse than she +had dreamed. She had had no idea that such damage could be wrought with +padded gloves. He must never fight again. Street rioting was preferable. +She was wondering how much of his silk had been lost, when he mumbled +and opened his eyes. + +“What is it?” she asked, ere it came to her that his eyes were unseeing +and that he was in delirium. + +“Saxon!... Saxon!” he called. + +“Yes, Billy. What is it?” + +His hand fumbled over the bed where ordinarily it would have encountered +her. + +Again he called her, and she cried her presence loudly in his ear. He +sighed with relief and muttered brokenly: + +“I had to do it.... We needed the money.” + +His eyes closed, and he slept more soundly, though his muttering +continued. She had heard of congestion of the brain, and was frightened. +Then she remembered his telling her of the ice Billy Murphy had held +against his head. + +Throwing a shawl over her head, she ran to the Pile Drivers' Home on +Seventh street. The barkeeper had just opened, and was sweeping out. +From the refrigerator he gave her all the ice she wished to carry, +breaking it into convenient pieces for her. Back in the house, she +applied the ice to the base of Billy's brain, placed hot irons to his +feet, and bathed his head with witch hazel made cold by resting on the +ice. + +He slept in the darkened room until late afternoon, when, to Saxon's +dismay, he insisted on getting up. + +“Gotta make a showin',” he explained. “They ain't goin' to have the +laugh on me.” + +In torment he was helped by her to dress, and in torment he went forth +from the house so that his world should have ocular evidence that the +beating he had received did not keep him in bed. + +It was another kind of pride, different from a woman's, and Saxon +wondered if it were the less admirable for that. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +In the days that followed Billy's swellings went down and the bruises +passed away with surprising rapidity. The quick healing of the +lacerations attested the healthiness of his blood. Only remained +the black eyes, unduly conspicuous on a face as blond as his. The +discoloration was stubborn, persisting half a month, in which time +happened divers events of importance. + +Otto Frank's trial had been expeditious. Found guilty by a jury notable +for the business and professional men on it, the death sentence was +passed upon him and he was removed to San Quentin for execution. + +The case of Chester Johnson and the fourteen others had taken longer, +but within the same week, it, too, was finished. Chester Johnson was +sentenced to be hanged. Two got life; three, twenty years. Only two were +acquitted. The remaining seven received terms of from two to ten years. + +The effect on Saxon was to throw her into deep depression. Billy was +made gloomy, but his fighting spirit was not subdued. + +“Always some men killed in battle,” he said. “That's to be expected. But +the way of sentencin' 'em gets me. All found guilty was responsible for +the killin'; or none was responsible. If all was, then they should get +the same sentence. They oughta hang like Chester Johnson, or else he +oughtn't to hang. I'd just like to know how the judge makes up his mind. +It must be like markin' China lottery tickets. He plays hunches. He +looks at a guy an' waits for a spot or a number to come into his head. +How else could he give Johnny Black four years an' Cal Hutchins twenty +years? He played the hunches as they came into his head, an' it might +just as easy ben the other way around an' Cal Hutchins got four years +an' Johnny Black twenty. + +“I know both them boys. They hung out with the Tenth an' Kirkham gang +mostly, though sometimes they ran with my gang. We used to go swimmin' +after school down to Sandy Beach on the marsh, an' in the Transit slip +where they said the water was sixty feet deep, only it wasn't. An' once, +on a Thursday, we dug a lot of clams together, an' played hookey Friday +to peddle them. An' we used to go out on the Rock Wall an' catch pogies +an' rock cod. One day--the day of the eclipse--Cal caught a perch half +as big as a door. I never seen such a fish. An' now he's got to wear the +stripes for twenty years. Lucky he wasn't married. If he don't get the +consumption he'll be an old man when he comes out. Cal's mother wouldn't +let 'm go swimmin', an' whenever she suspected she always licked his +hair with her tongue. If it tasted salty, he got a beltin'. But he was +onto himself. Comin' home, he'd jump somebody's front fence an' hold his +head under a faucet.” + +“I used to dance with Chester Johnson,” Saxon said. “And I knew his +wife, Kittie Brady, long and long ago. She had next place at the table +to me in the paper-box factory. She's gone to San Francisco to her +married sister's. She's going to have a baby, too. She was awfully +pretty, and there was always a string of fellows after her.” + +The effect of the conviction and severe sentences was a bad one on +the union men. Instead of being disheartening, it intensified the +bitterness. Billy's repentance for having fought and the sweetness and +affection which had flashed up in the days of Saxon's nursing of him +were blotted out. At home, he scowled and brooded, while his talk took +on the tone of Bert's in the last days ere that Mohegan died. Also, +Billy stayed away from home longer hours, and was again steadily +drinking. + +Saxon well-nigh abandoned hope. Almost was she steeled to the inevitable +tragedy which her morbid fancy painted in a thousand guises. Oftenest, +it was of Billy being brought home on a stretcher. Sometimes it was a +call to the telephone in the corner grocery and the curt information by +a strange voice that her husband was lying in the receiving hospital or +the morgue. And when the mysterious horse-poisoning cases occurred, and +when the residence of one of the teaming magnates was half destroyed by +dynamite, she saw Billy in prison, or wearing stripes, or mounting to +the scaffold at San Quentin while at the same time she could see the +little cottage on Pine street besieged by newspaper reporters and +photographers. + +Yet her lively imagination failed altogether to anticipate the real +catastrophe. Harmon, the fireman lodger, passing through the kitchen on +his way out to work, had paused to tell Saxon about the previous day's +train-wreck in the Alviso marshes, and of how the engineer, imprisoned +under the overturned engine and unhurt, being drowned by the rising +tide, had begged to be shot. Billy came in at the end of the narrative, +and from the somber light in his heavy-lidded eyes Saxon knew he had +been drinking. He glowered at Harmon, and, without greeting to him or +Saxon, leaned his shoulder against the wall. + +Harmon felt the awkwardness of the situation, and did his best to appear +oblivious. + +“I was just telling your wife--” he began, but was savagely interrupted. + +“I don't care what you was tellin' her. But I got something to tell you, +Mister Man. My wife's made up your bed too many times to suit me.” + +“Billy!” Saxon cried, her face scarlet with resentment, and hurt, and +shame. + +Billy ignored her. Harmon was saying: + +“I don't understand--” + +“Well, I don't like your mug,” Billy informed him. “You're standin' on +your foot. Get off of it. Get out. Beat it. D'ye understand that?” + +“I don't know what's got into him,” Saxon gasped hurriedly to the +fireman. “He's not himself. Oh, I am so ashamed, so ashamed.” + +Billy turned on her. + +“You shut your mouth an' keep outa this.” + +“But, Billy,” she remonstrated. + +“An' get outa here. You go into the other room.” + +“Here, now,” Harmon broke in. “This is a fine way to treat a fellow.” + +“I've given you too much rope as it is,” was Billy's answer. + +“I've paid my rent regularly, haven't I?” + +“An' I oughta knock your block off for you. Don't see any reason I +shouldn't, for that matter.” + +“If you do anything like that, Billy--” Saxon began. + +“You here still? Well, if you won't go into the other room, I'll see +that you do.” + +His hand clutched her arm. For one instant she resisted his strength; +and in that instant, the flesh crushed under his fingers, she realized +the fullness of his strength. + +In the front room she could only lie back in the Morris chair sobbing, +and listen to what occurred in the kitchen. “I'll stay to the end of the +week,” the fireman was saying. “I've paid in advance.” + +“Don't make no mistake,” came Billy's voice, so slow that it was almost +a drawl, yet quivering with rage. “You can't get out too quick if you +wanta stay healthy--you an' your traps with you. I'm likely to start +something any moment.” + +“Oh, I know you're a slugger--” the fireman's voice began. + +Then came the unmistakable impact of a blow; the crash of glass; a +scuffle on the back porch; and, finally, the heavy bumps of a body down +the steps. She heard Billy reenter the kitchen, move about, and knew +he was sweeping up the broken glass of the kitchen door. Then he washed +himself at the sink, whistling while he dried his face and hands, and +walked into the front room. She did not look at him. She was too sick +and sad. He paused irresolutely, seeming to make up his mind. + +“I'm goin' up town,” he stated. “They's a meeting of the union. If I +don't come back it'll be because that geezer's sworn out a warrant.” + +He opened the front door and paused. She knew he was looking at her. +Then the door closed and she heard him go down the steps. + +Saxon was stunned. She did not think. She did not know what to think. +The whole thing was incomprehensible, incredible. She lay back in the +chair, her eyes closed, her mind almost a blank, crushed by a leaden +feeling that the end had come to everything. + +The voices of children playing in the street aroused her. Night had +fallen. She groped her way to a lamp and lighted it. In the kitchen she +stared, lips trembling, at the pitiful, half prepared meal. The fire had +gone out. The water had boiled away from the potatoes. When she lifted +the lid, a burnt smell arose. Methodically she scraped and cleaned the +pot, put things in order, and peeled and sliced the potatoes for next +day's frying. And just as methodically she went to bed. Her lack of +nervousness, her placidity, was abnormal, so abnormal that she closed +her eyes and was almost immediately asleep. Nor did she awaken till the +sunshine was streaming into the room. + +It was the first night she and Billy had slept apart. She was amazed +that she had not lain awake worrying about him. She lay with eyes wide +open, scarcely thinking, until pain in her arm attracted her attention. +It was where Billy had gripped her. On examination she found the bruised +flesh fearfully black and blue. She was astonished, not by the spiritual +fact that such bruise had been administered by the one she loved most in +the world, but by the sheer physical fact that an instant's pressure had +inflicted so much damage. The strength of a man was a terrible thing. +Quite impersonally, she found herself wondering if Charley Long were as +strong as Billy. + +It was not until she dressed and built the fire that she began to +think about more immediate things. Billy had not returned. Then he was +arrested. What was she to do?--leave him in jail, go away, and start +life afresh? Of course it was impossible to go on living with a man +who had behaved as he had. But then, came another thought, WAS it +impossible? After all, he was her husband. FOR BETTER OR WORSE--the +phrase reiterated itself, a monotonous accompaniment to her thoughts, +at the back of her consciousness. To leave him was to surrender. She +carried the matter before the tribunal of her mother's memory. No; Daisy +would never have surrendered. Daisy was a fighter. Then she, Saxon, must +fight. Besides--and she acknowledged it--readily, though in a cold, dead +way--besides, Billy was better than most husbands. Better than any other +husband she had heard of, she concluded, as she remembered many of his +earlier nicenesses and finenesses, and especially his eternal chant: +NOTHING IS TOO GOOD FOR US. THE ROBERTSES AIN'T ON THE CHEAP. + +At eleven o'clock she had a caller. It was Bud Strothers, Billy's mate +on strike duty. Billy, he told her, had refused bail, refused a lawyer, +had asked to be tried by the Court, had pleaded guilty, and had received +a sentence of sixty dollars or thirty days. Also, he had refused to let +the boys pay his fine. + +“He's clean looney,” Strothers summed up. “Won't listen to reason. Says +he'll serve the time out. He's been tankin' up too regular, I guess. +His wheels are buzzin'. Here, he give me this note for you. Any time +you want anything send for me. The boys'll all stand by Bill's wife. You +belong to us, you know. How are you off for money?” + +Proudly she disclaimed any need for money, and not until her visitor +departed did she read Billy's note: + +Dear Saxon--Bud Strothers is going to give you this. Don't worry about +me. I am going to take my medicine. I deserve it--you know that. I guess +I am gone bughouse. Just the same, I am sorry for what I done. Don't +come to see me. I don't want you to. If you need money, the union will +give you some. The business agent is all right. I will be out in a +month. Now, Saxon, you know I love you, and just say to yourself that +you forgive me this time, and you won't never have to do it again. + + Billy. + +Bud Strothers was followed by Maggie Donahue, and Mrs. Olsen, who paid +neighborly calls of cheer and were tactful in their offers of help and +in studiously avoiding more reference than was necessary to Billy's +predicament. + +In the afternoon James Harmon arrived. He limped slightly, and Saxon +divined that he was doing his best to minimize that evidence of hurt. +She tried to apologize to him, but he would not listen. + +“I don't blame you, Mrs. Roberts,” he said. “I know it wasn't your +doing. But your husband wasn't just himself, I guess. He was fightin' +mad on general principles, and it was just my luck to get in the way, +that was all.” + +“But just the same--” + +The fireman shook his head. + +“I know all about it. I used to punish the drink myself, and I done some +funny things in them days. And I'm sorry I swore that warrant out and +testified. But I was hot in the collar. I'm cooled down now, an' I'm +sorry I done it.” + +“You're awfully good and kind,” she said, and then began hesitantly on +what was bothering her. “You... you can't stay now, with him... away, +you know.” + +“Yes; that wouldn't do, would it? I'll tell you: I'll pack up right now, +and skin out, and then, before six o'clock, I'll send a wagon for my +things. Here's the key to the kitchen door.” + +Much as he demurred, she compelled him to receive back the unexpired +portion of his rent. He shook her hand heartily at leaving, and tried to +get her to promise to call upon him for a loan any time she might be in +need. + +“It's all right,” he assured her. “I'm married, and got two boys. One of +them's got his lungs touched, and she's with 'em down in Arizona campin' +out. The railroad helped with passes.” + +And as he went down the steps she wondered that so kind a man should be +in so madly cruel a world. + +The Donahue boy threw in a spare evening paper, and Saxon found half a +column devoted to Billy. It was not nice. The fact that he had stood +up in the police court with his eyes blacked from some other fray +was noted. He was described as a bully, a hoodlum, a rough-neck, a +professional slugger whose presence in the ranks was a disgrace to +organized labor. The assault he had pleaded guilty of was atrocious and +unprovoked, and if he were a fair sample of a striking teamster, the +only wise thing for Oakland to do was to break up the union and drive +every member from the city. And, finally, the paper complained at the +mildness of the sentence. It should have been six months at least. The +judge was quoted as expressing regret that he had been unable to impose +a six months' sentence, this inability being due to the condition of +the jails, already crowded beyond capacity by the many cases of assault +committed in the course of the various strikes. + +That night, in bed, Saxon experienced her first loneliness. Her brain +seemed in a whirl, and her sleep was broken by vain gropings for the +form of Billy she imagined at her side. At last, she lighted the lamp +and lay staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed, conning over and over the +details of the disaster that had overwhelmed her. She could forgive, and +she could not forgive. The blow to her love-life had been too savage, +too brutal. Her pride was too lacerated to permit her wholly to return +in memory to the other Billy whom she loved. Wine in, wit out, she +repeated to herself; but the phrase could not absolve the man who had +slept by her side, and to whom she had consecrated herself. She wept +in the loneliness of the all-too-spacious bed, strove to forget Billy's +incomprehensible cruelty, even pillowed her cheek with numb fondness +against the bruise of her arm; but still resentment burned within her, +a steady flame of protest against Billy and all that Billy had done. Her +throat was parched, a dull ache never ceased in her breast, and she was +oppressed by a feeling of goneness. WHY, WHY?--And from the puzzle of +the world came no solution. + +In the morning she received a visit from Sarah--the second in all the +period of her marriage; and she could easily guess her sister-in-law's +ghoulish errand. No exertion was required for the assertion of all of +Saxon's pride. She refused to be in the slightest on the defensive. +There was nothing to defend, nothing to explain. Everything was all +right, and it was nobody's business anyway. This attitude but served to +vex Sarah. + +“I warned you, and you can't say I didn't,” her diatribe ran. “I always +knew he was no good, a jailbird, a hoodlum, a slugger. My heart sunk +into my boots when I heard you was runnin' with a prizefighter. I +told you so at the time. But no; you wouldn't listen, you with your +highfalutin' notions an' more pairs of shoes than any decent woman +should have. You knew better'n me. An' I said then, to Tom, I said, +'It's all up with Saxon now.' Them was my very words. Them that touches +pitch is defiled. If you'd only a-married Charley Long! Then the family +wouldn't a-ben disgraced. An' this is only the beginnin', mark me, only +the beginnin'. Where it'll end, God knows. He'll kill somebody yet, that +plug-ugly of yourn, an' be hanged for it. You wait an' see, that's all, +an' then you'll remember my words. As you make your bed, so you will lay +in it” + +“Best bed I ever had,” Saxon commented. + +“So you can say, so you can say,” Sarah snorted. + +“I wouldn't trade it for a queen's bed,” Saxon added. + +“A jailbird's bed,” Sarah rejoined witheringly. + +“Oh, it's the style,” Saxon retorted airily. “Everybody's getting +a taste of jail. Wasn't Tom arrested at some street meeting of the +socialists? Everybody goes to jail these days.” + +The barb had struck home. + +“But Tom was acquitted,” Sarah hastened to proclaim. + +“Just the same he lay in jail all night without bail.” + +This was unanswerable, and Sarah executed her favorite tactic of attack +in flank. + +“A nice come-down for you, I must say, that was raised straight an' +right, a-cuttin' up didoes with a lodger.” + +“Who says so?” Saxon blazed with an indignation quickly mastered. + +“Oh, a blind man can read between the lines. A lodger, a young married +woman with no self respect, an' a prizefighter for a husband--what else +would they fight about?” + +“Just like any family quarrel, wasn't it?” Saxon smiled placidly. + +Sarah was shocked into momentary speechlessness. + +“And I want you to understand it,” Saxon continued. “It makes a woman +proud to have men fight over her. I am proud. Do you hear? I am proud. +I want you to tell them so. I want you to tell all your neighbors. Tell +everybody. I am no cow. Men like me. Men fight for me. Men go to jail +for me. What is a woman in the world for, if it isn't to have men like +her? Now, go, Sarah; go at once, and tell everybody what you've read +between the lines. Tell them Billy is a jailbird and that I am a bad +woman whom all men desire. Shout it out, and good luck to you. And get +out of my house. And never put your feet in it again. You are too decent +a woman to come here. You might lose your reputation. And think of your +children. Now get out. Go.” + +Not until Sarah had taken an amazed and horrified departure did Saxon +fling herself on the bed in a convulsion of tears. She had been ashamed, +before, merely of Billy's inhospitality, and surliness, and unfairness. +But she could see, now, the light in which others looked on the affair. +It had not entered Saxon's head. She was confident that it had not +entered Billy's. She knew his attitude from the first. Always he had +opposed taking a lodger because of his proud faith that his wife should +not work. Only hard times had compelled his consent, and, now that she +looked back, almost had she inveigled him into consenting. + +But all this did not alter the viewpoint the neighborhood must hold, +that every one who had ever known her must hold. And for this, too, +Billy was responsible. It was more terrible than all the other things +he had been guilty of put together. She could never look any one in the +face again. Maggie Donahue and Mrs. Olsen had been very kind, but of +what must they have been thinking all the time they talked with her? And +what must they have said to each other? What was everybody saying?--over +front gates and back fences,--the men standing on the corners or talking +in saloons? + +Later, exhausted by her grief, when the tears no longer fell, she grew +more impersonal, and dwelt on the disasters that had befallen so many +women since the strike troubles began--Otto Frank's wife, Henderson's +widow, pretty Kittie Brady, Mary, all the womenfolk of the other workmen +who were now wearing the stripes in San Quentin. Her world was crashing +about her ears. No one was exempt. Not only had she not escaped, but +hers was the worst disgrace of all. Desperately she tried to hug the +delusion that she was asleep, that it was all a nightmare, and that soon +the alarm would go off and she would get up and cook Billy's breakfast +so that he could go to work. + +She did not leave the bed that day. Nor did she sleep. Her brain whirled +on and on, now dwelling at insistent length upon her misfortunes, now +pursuing the most fantastic ramifications of what she considered her +disgrace, and, again, going back to her childhood and wandering through +endless trivial detail. She worked at all the tasks she had ever done, +performing, in fancy, the myriads of mechanical movements peculiar to +each occupation--shaping and pasting in the paper box factory, ironing +in the laundry, weaving in the jute mill, peeling fruit in the cannery +and countless boxes of scalded tomatoes. She attended all her dances and +all her picnics over again; went through her school days, recalling the +face and name and seat of every schoolmate; endured the gray bleakness +of the years in the orphan asylum; revisioned every memory of her +mother, every tale; and relived all her life with Billy. But ever--and +here the torment lay--she was drawn back from these far-wanderings +to her present trouble, with its parch in the throat, its ache in the +breast, and its gnawing, vacant goneness. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +All that night Saxon lay, unsleeping, without taking off her clothes, +and when she arose in the morning and washed her face and dressed her +hair she was aware of a strange numbness, of a feeling of constriction +about her head as if it were bound by a heavy band of iron. It seemed +like a dull pressure upon her brain. It was the beginning of an illness +that she did not know as illness. All she knew was that she felt queer. +It was not fever. It was not cold. Her bodily health was as it should +be, and, when she thought about it, she put her condition down to +nerves--nerves, according to her ideas and the ideas of her class, being +unconnected with disease. + +She had a strange feeling of loss of self, of being a stranger to +herself, and the world in which she moved seemed a vague and shrouded +world. It lacked sharpness of definition. Its customary vividness was +gone. She had lapses of memory, and was continually finding herself +doing unplanned things. Thus, to her astonishment, she came to in the +back yard hanging up the week's wash. She had no recollection of having +done it, yet it had been done precisely as it should have been done. +She had boiled the sheets and pillow-slips and the table linen. Billy's +woolens had been washed in warm water only, with the home-made soap, the +recipe of which Mercedes had given her. On investigation, she found she +had eaten a mutton chop for breakfast. This meant that she had been to +the butcher shop, yet she had no memory of having gone. Curiously, she +went into the bedroom. The bed was made up and everything in order. + +At twilight she came upon herself in the front room, seated by the +window, crying in an ecstasy of joy. At first she did not know what this +joy was; then it came to her that it was because she had lost her baby. +“A blessing, a blessing,” she was chanting aloud, wringing her hands, +but with joy, she knew it was with joy that she wrung her hands. + +The days came and went. She had little notion of time. Sometimes, +centuries agone, it seemed to her it was since Billy had gone to jail. +At other times it was no more than the night before. But through it +all two ideas persisted: she must not go to see Billy in jail; it was a +blessing she had lost her baby. + +Once, Bud Strothers came to see her. She sat in the front room and +talked with him, noting with fascination that there were fringes to +the heels of his trousers. Another day, the business agent of the union +called. She told him, as she had told Bud Strothers, that everything was +all right, that she needed nothing, that she could get along comfortably +until Billy came out. + +A fear began to haunt her. WHEN HE CAME OUT. No; it must not be. There +must not be another baby. It might LIVE. No, no, a thousand times no. It +must not be. She would run away first. She would never see Billy again. +Anything but that. Anything but that. + +This fear persisted. In her nightmare-ridden sleep it became an +accomplished fact, so that she would awake, trembling, in a cold sweat, +crying out. Her sleep had become wretched. Sometimes she was convinced +that she did not sleep at all, and she knew that she had insomnia, and +remembered that it was of insomnia her mother had died. + +She came to herself one day, sitting in Doctor Hentley's office. He was +looking at her in a puzzled way. + +“Got plenty to eat?” he was asking. + +She nodded. + +“Any serious trouble?” + +She shook her head. + +“Everything's all right, doctor... except...” + +“Yes, yes,” he encouraged. + +And then she knew why she had come. Simply, explicitly, she told him. He +shook his head slowly. + +“It can't be done, little woman,” he said + +“Oh, but it can!” she cried. “I know it can.” + +“I don't mean that,” he answered. “I mean I can't tell you. I dare not. +It is against the law. There is a doctor in Leavenworth prison right now +for that.” + +In vain she pleaded with him. He instanced his own wife and children +whose existence forbade his imperiling. + +“Besides, there is no likelihood now,” he told her. + +“But there will be, there is sure to be,” she urged. + +But he could only shake his head sadly. + +“Why do you want to know?” he questioned finally. + +Saxon poured her heart out to him. She told of her first year of +happiness with Billy, of the hard times caused by the labor troubles, of +the change in Billy so that there was no love-life left, of her own deep +horror. Not if it died, she concluded. She could go through that again. +But if it should live. Billy would soon be out of jail, and then the +danger would begin. It was only a few words. She would never tell any +one. Wild horses could not drag it out of her. + +But Doctor Hentley continued to shake his head. “I can't tell you, +little woman. It's a shame, but I can't take the risk. My hands are +tied. Our laws are all wrong. I have to consider those who are dear to +me.” + +It was when she got up to go that he faltered. “Come here,” he said. +“Sit closer.” + +He prepared to whisper in her ear, then, with a sudden excess of +caution, crossed the room swiftly, opened the door, and looked out. +When he sat down again he drew his chair so close to hers that the arms +touched, and when he whispered his beard tickled her ear. + +“No, no,” he shut her off when she tried to voice her gratitude. “I have +told you nothing. You were here to consult me about your general health. +You are run down, out of condition--” + +As he talked he moved her toward the door. When he opened it, a patient +for the dentist in the adjoining office was standing in the hall. Doctor +Hentley lifted his voice. + +“What you need is that tonic I prescribed. Remember that. And don't +pamper your appetite when it comes back. Eat strong, nourishing food, +and beefsteak, plenty of beefsteak. And don't cook it to a cinder. Good +day.” + +At times the silent cottage became unendurable, and Saxon would throw +a shawl about her head and walk out the Oakland Mole, or cross the +railroad yards and the marshes to Sandy Beach where Billy had said he +used to swim. Also, by going out the Transit slip, by climbing down the +piles on a precarious ladder of iron spikes, and by crossing a boom of +logs, she won access to the Rock Wall that extended far out into the bay +and that served as a barrier between the mudflats and the tide-scoured +channel of Oakland Estuary. Here the fresh sea breezes blew and Oakland +sank down to a smudge of smoke behind her, while across the bay she +could see the smudge that represented San Francisco. Ocean steamships +passed up and down the estuary, and lofty-masted ships, towed by +red-stacked tugs. + +She gazed at the sailors on the ships, wondered on what far voyages and +to what far lands they went, wondered what freedoms were theirs. Or +were they girt in by as remorseless and cruel a world as the dwellers +in Oakland were? Were they as unfair, as unjust, as brutal, in their +dealings with their fellows as were the city dwellers? It did not +seem so, and sometimes she wished herself on board, out-bound, going +anywhere, she cared not where, so long as it was away from the world to +which she had given her best and which had trampled her in return. + +She did not know always when she left the house, nor where her feet took +her. Once, she came to herself in a strange part of Oakland. The street +was wide and lined with rows of shade trees. Velvet lawns, broken only +by cement sidewalks, ran down to the gutters. The houses stood apart and +were large. In her vocabulary they were mansions. What had shocked her +to consciousness of herself was a young man in the driver's seat of a +touring car standing at the curb. He was looking at her curiously and +she recognized him as Roy Blanchard, whom, in front of the Forum, Billy +had threatened to whip. Beside the car, bareheaded, stood another young +man. He, too, she remembered. He it was, at the Sunday picnic where she +first met Billy, who had thrust his cane between the legs of the flying +foot-racer and precipitated the free-for-all fight. Like Blanchard, he +was looking at her curiously, and she became aware that she had been +talking to herself. The babble of her lips still beat in her ears. She +blushed, a rising tide of shame heating her face, and quickened her +pace. Blanchard sprang out of the car and came to her with lifted hat. +“Is anything the matter?” he asked. + +She shook her head, and, though she had stopped, she evinced her desire +to go on. + +“I know you,” he said, studying her face. “You were with the striker who +promised me a licking.” + +“He is my husband,” she said. + +“Oh! Good for him.” He regarded her pleasantly and frankly. “But about +yourself? Isn't there anything I can do for you? Something IS the +matter.” + +“No, I'm all right,” she answered. “I have been sick,” she lied; for she +never dreamed of connecting her queerness with sickness. + +“You look tired,” he pressed her. “I can take you in the machine and run +you anywhere you want. It won't be any trouble. I've plenty of time.” + +Saxon shook her head. + +“If... if you would tell me where I can catch the Eighth street cars. I +don't often come to this part of town.” + +He told her where to find an electric car and what transfers to make, +and she was surprised at the distance she had wandered. + +“Thank you,” she said. “And good bye.” + +“Sure I can't do anything now?” + +“Sure.” + +“Well, good bye,” he smiled good humoredly. “And tell that husband of +yours to keep in good condition. I'm likely to make him need it all when +he tangles up with me.” + +“Oh, but you can't fight with him,” she warned. “You mustn't. You +haven't got a show.” + +“Good for you,” he admired. “That's the way for a woman to stand up for +her man. Now the average woman would be so afraid he was going to get +licked--” + +“But I'm not afraid... for him. It's for you. He's a terrible fighter. +You wouldn't have any chance. It would be like... like...” + +“Like taking candy from a baby?” Blanchard finished for her. + +“Yes,” she nodded. “That's just what he would call it. And whenever he +tells you you are standing on your foot watch out for him. Now I must +go. Good bye, and thank you again.” + +She went on down the sidewalk, his cheery good bye ringing in her ears. +He was kind--she admitted it honestly; yet he was one of the clever +ones, one of the masters, who, according to Billy, were responsible +for all the cruelty to labor, for the hardships of the women, for the +punishment of the labor men who were wearing stripes in San Quentin or +were in the death cells awaiting the scaffold. Yet he was kind, sweet +natured, clean, good. She could read his character in his face. But how +could this be, if he were responsible for so much evil? She shook her +head wearily. There was no explanation, no understanding of this world +which destroyed little babes and bruised women's breasts. + +As for her having strayed into that neighborhood of fine residences, +she was unsurprised. It was in line with her queerness. She did so many +things without knowing that she did them. But she must be careful. It +was better to wander on the marshes and the Rock Wall. + +Especially she liked the Rock Wall. There was a freedom about it, a wide +spaciousness that she found herself instinctively trying to breathe, +holding her arms out to embrace and make part of herself. It was a +more natural world, a more rational world. She could understand +it--understand the green crabs with white-bleached claws that scuttled +before her and which she could see pasturing on green-weeded rocks +when the tide was low. Here, hopelessly man-made as the great wall was, +nothing seemed artificial. There were no men here, no laws nor conflicts +of men. The tide flowed and ebbed; the sun rose and set; regularly each +afternoon the brave west wind came romping in through the Golden Gate, +darkening the water, cresting tiny wavelets, making the sailboats fly. +Everything ran with frictionless order. Everything was free. Firewood +lay about for the taking. No man sold it by the sack. Small boys fished +with poles from the rocks, with no one to drive them away for trespass, +catching fish as Billy had caught fish, as Cal Hutchins had caught fish. +Billy had told her of the great perch Cal Hutchins caught on the day of +the eclipse, when he had little dreamed the heart of his manhood would +be spent in convict's garb. + +And here was food, food that was free. She watched the small boys on +a day when she had eaten nothing, and emulated them, gathering mussels +from the rocks at low water, cooking them by placing them among the +coals of a fire she built on top of the wall. They tasted particularly +good. She learned to knock the small oysters from the rocks, and once +she found a string of fresh-caught fish some small boy had forgotten to +take home with him. + +Here drifted evidences of man's sinister handiwork--from a distance, +from the cities. One flood tide she found the water covered with +muskmelons. They bobbed and bumped along up the estuary in countless +thousands. Where they stranded against the rocks she was able to get +them. But each and every melon--and she patiently tried scores of +them--had been spoiled by a sharp gash that let in the salt water. +She could not understand. She asked an old Portuguese woman gathering +driftwood. + +“They do it, the people who have too much,” the old woman explained, +straightening her labor-stiffened back with such an effort that almost +Saxon could hear it creak. The old woman's black eyes flashed angrily, +and her wrinkled lips, drawn tightly across toothless gums, wry with +bitterness. “The people that have too much. It is to keep up the price. +They throw them overboard in San Francisco.” + +“But why don't they give them away to the poor people?” Saxon asked. + +“They must keep up the price.” + +“But the poor people cannot buy them anyway,” Saxon objected. “It would +not hurt the price.” + +The old woman shrugged her shoulders. + +“I do not know. It is their way. They chop each melon so that the poor +people cannot fish them out and eat anyway. They do the same with the +oranges, with the apples. Ah, the fishermen! There is a trust. When +the boats catch too much fish, the trust throws them overboard from +Fisherman Wharf, boat-loads, and boat-loads, and boatloads of the +beautiful fish. And the beautiful good fish sink and are gone. And no +one gets them. Yet they are dead and only good to eat. Fish are very +good to eat.” + +And Saxon could not understand a world that did such things--a world in +which some men possessed so much food that they threw it away, paying +men for their labor of spoiling it before they threw it away; and in +the same world so many people who did not have enough food, whose babies +died because their mothers' milk was not nourishing, whose young men +fought and killed one another for the chance to work, whose old men and +women went to the poorhouse because there was no food for them in the +little shacks they wept at leaving. She wondered if all the world were +that way, and remembered Mercedes' tales. Yes; all the world was that +way. Had not Mercedes seen ten thousand families starve to death in +that far away India, when, as she had said, her own jewels that she wore +would have fed and saved them all? It was the poorhouse and the salt +vats for the stupid, jewels and automobiles for the clever ones. + +She was one of the stupid. She must be. The evidence all pointed that +way. Yet Saxon refused to accept it. She was not stupid. Her mother had +not been stupid, nor had the pioneer stock before her. Still it must be +so. Here she sat, nothing to eat at home, her love-husband changed to a +brute beast and lying in jail, her arms and heart empty of the babe that +would have been there if only the stupid ones had not made a shambles of +her front yard in their wrangling over jobs. + +She sat there, racking her brain, the smudge of Oakland at her back, +staring across the bay at the smudge of San Francisco. Yet the sun was +good; the wind was good, as was the keen salt air in her nostrils; +the blue sky, flecked with clouds, was good. All the natural world +was right, and sensible, and beneficent. It was the man-world that was +wrong, and mad, and horrible. Why were the stupid stupid? Was it a law +of God? No; it could not be. God had made the wind, and air, and sun. +The man-world was made by man, and a rotten job it was. Yet, and she +remembered it well, the teaching in the orphan asylum, God had made +everything. Her mother, too, had believed this, had believed in this +God. Things could not be different. It was ordained. + +For a time Saxon sat crushed, helpless. Then smoldered protest, revolt. +Vainly she asked why God had it in for her. What had she done to +deserve such fate? She briefly reviewed her life in quest of deadly sins +committed, and found them not. She had obeyed her mother; obeyed Cady, +the saloon-keeper, and Cady's wife; obeyed the matron and the other +women in the orphan asylum; obeyed Tom when she came to live in his +house, and never run in the streets because he didn't wish her to. +At school she had always been honorably promoted, and never had her +deportment report varied from one hundred per cent. She had worked from +the day she left school to the day of her marriage. She had been a good +worker, too. The little Jew who ran the paper box factory had almost +wept when she quit. It was the same at the cannery. She was among the +high-line weavers when the jute mills closed down. And she had kept +straight. It was not as if she had been ugly or unattractive. She had +known her temptations and encountered her dangers. The fellows had been +crazy about her. They had run after her, fought over her, in a way to +turn most girls' heads. But she had kept straight. And then had come +Billy, her reward. She had devoted herself to him, to his house, to all +that would nourish his love; and now she and Billy were sinking down +into this senseless vortex of misery and heartbreak of the man-made +world. + +No, God was not responsible. She could have made a better world +herself--a finer, squarer world. This being so, then there was no God. +God could not make a botch. The matron had been wrong, her mother had +been wrong. Then there was no immortality, and Bert, wild and crazy +Bert, falling at her front gate with his foolish death-cry, was right. +One was a long time dead. + +Looking thus at life, shorn of its superrational sanctions, Saxon +floundered into the morass of pessimism. There was no justification for +right conduct in the universe, no square deal for her who had earned +reward, for the millions who worked like animals, died like animals, +and were a long time and forever dead. Like the hosts of more learned +thinkers before her, she concluded that the universe was unmoral and +without concern for men. + +And now she sat crushed in greater helplessness than when she had +included God in the scheme of injustice. As long as God was, there was +always chance for a miracle, for some supernatural intervention, some +rewarding with ineffable bliss. With God missing, the world was a +trap. Life was a trap. She was like a linnet, caught by small boys and +imprisoned in a cage. That was because the linnet was stupid. But she +rebelled. She fluttered and beat her soul against the hard face of +things as did the linnet against the bars of wire. She was not stupid. +She did not belong in the trap. She would fight her way out of the trap. +There must be such a way out. When canal boys and rail-splitters, the +lowliest of the stupid lowly, as she had read in her school history, +could find their way out and become presidents of the nation and rule +over even the clever ones in their automobiles, then could she find her +way out and win to the tiny reward she craved--Billy, a little love, a +little happiness. She would not mind that the universe was unmoral, that +there was no God, no immortality. She was willing to go into the black +grave and remain in its blackness forever, to go into the salt vats and +let the young men cut her dead flesh to sausage-meat, if--if only she +could get her small meed of happiness first. + +How she would work for that happiness! How she would appreciate it, make +the most of each least particle of it! But how was she to do it. Where +was the path? She could not vision it. Her eyes showed her only the +smudge of San Francisco, the smudge of Oakland, where men were breaking +heads and killing one another, where babies were dying, born and unborn, +and where women were weeping with bruised breasts. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Her vague, unreal existence continued. It seemed in some previous +life-time that Billy had gone away, that another life-time would have to +come before he returned. She still suffered from insomnia. Long nights +passed in succession, during which she never closed her eyes. At +other times she slept through long stupors, waking stunned and numbed, +scarcely able to open her heavy eyes, to move her weary limbs. The +pressure of the iron band on her head never relaxed. She was poorly +nourished. Nor had she a cent of money. She often went a whole day +without eating. Once, seventy-two hours elapsed without food passing +her lips. She dug clams in the marsh, knocked the tiny oysters from the +rocks, and gathered mussels. + +And yet, when Bud Strothers came to see how she was getting along, she +convinced him that all was well. One evening after work, Tom came, and +forced two dollars upon her. He was terribly worried. He would like to +help more, but Sarah was expecting another baby. There had been slack +times in his trade because of the strikes in the other trades. He did +not know what the country was coming to. And it was all so simple. All +they had to do was see things in his way and vote the way he voted. Then +everybody would get a square deal. Christ was a Socialist, he told her. + +“Christ died two thousand years ago,” Saxon said. + +“Well?” Tom queried, not catching her implication. + +“Think,” she said, “think of all the men and women who died in those +two thousand years, and socialism has not come yet. And in two thousand +years more it may be as far away as ever. Tom, your socialism never did +you any good. It is a dream.” + +“It wouldn't be if--” he began with a flash of resentment. + +“If they believed as you do. Only they don't. You don't succeed in +making them.” + +“But we are increasing every year,” he argued. + +“Two thousand years is an awfully long time,” she said quietly. + +Her brother's tired face saddened as he noted. Then he sighed: + +“Well, Saxon, if it's a dream, it is a good dream.” + +“I don't want to dream,” was her reply. “I want things real. I want them +now.” + +And before her fancy passed the countless generations of the stupid +lowly, the Billys and Saxons, the Berts and Marys, the Toms and Sarahs. +And to what end? The salt vats and the grave. Mercedes was a hard and +wicked woman, but Mercedes was right. The stupid must always be under +the heels of the clever ones. Only she, Saxon, daughter of Daisy who +had written wonderful poems and of a soldier-father on a roan war-horse, +daughter of the strong generations who had won half a world from wild +nature and the savage Indian--no, she was not stupid. It was as if she +suffered false imprisonment. There was some mistake. She would find the +way out. + +With the two dollars she bought a sack of flour and half a sack of +potatoes. This relieved the monotony of her clams and mussels. Like +the Italian and Portuguese women, she gathered driftwood and carried it +home, though always she did it with shamed pride, timing her arrival so +that it would be after dark. One day, on the mud-flat side of the Rock +Wall, an Italian fishing boat hauled up on the sand dredged from the +channel. From the top of the wall Saxon watched the men grouped about +the charcoal brazier, eating crusty Italian bread and a stew of meat and +vegetables, washed down with long draughts of thin red wine. She envied +them their freedom that advertised itself in the heartiness of their +meal, in the tones of their chatter and laughter, in the very boat +itself that was not tied always to one place and that carried them +wherever they willed. Afterward, they dragged a seine across the +mud-flats and up on the sand, selecting for themselves only the larger +kinds of fish. Many thousands of small fish, like sardines, they left +dying on the sand when they sailed away. Saxon got a sackful of the +fish, and was compelled to make two trips in order to carry them home, +where she salted them down in a wooden washtub. + +Her lapses of consciousness continued. The strangest thing she did while +in such condition was on Sandy Beach. There she discovered herself, one +windy afternoon, lying in a hole she had dug, with sacks for blankets. +She had even roofed the hole in rough fashion by means of drift wood and +marsh grass. On top of the grass she had piled sand. + +Another time she came to herself walking across the marshes, a bundle +of driftwood, tied with bale-rope, on her shoulder. Charley Long +was walking beside her. She could see his face in the starlight. She +wondered dully how long he had been talking, what he had said. Then she +was curious to hear what he was saying. She was not afraid, despite +his strength, his wicked nature, and the loneliness and darkness of the +marsh. + +“It's a shame for a girl like you to have to do this,” he was saying, +apparently in repetition of what he had already urged. “Come on an' say +the word, Saxon. Come on an' say the word.” + +Saxon stopped and quietly faced him. + +“Listen, Charley Long. Billy's only doing thirty days, and his time is +almost up. When he gets out your life won't be worth a pinch of salt +if I tell him you've been bothering me. Now listen. If you go right now +away from here, and stay away, I won't tell him. That's all I've got to +say.” + +The big blacksmith stood in scowling indecision, his face pathetic +in its fierce yearning, his hands making unconscious, clutching +contractions. + +“Why, you little, small thing,” he said desperately, “I could break you +in one hand. I could--why, I could do anything I wanted. I don't want to +hurt you, Saxon. You know that. Just say the word--” + +“I've said the only word I'm going to say.” + +“God!” he muttered in involuntary admiration. “You ain't afraid. You +ain't afraid.” + +They faced each other for long silent minutes. + +“Why ain't you afraid?” he demanded at last, after peering into the +surrounding darkness as if searching for her hidden allies. + +“Because I married a man,” Saxon said briefly. “And now you'd better +go.” + +When he had gone she shifted the load of wood to her other shoulder +and started on, in her breast a quiet thrill of pride in Billy. Though +behind prison bars, still she leaned against his strength. The mere +naming of him was sufficient to drive away a brute like Charley Long. + +On the day that Otto Frank was hanged she remained indoors. The evening +papers published the account. There had been no reprieve. In Sacramento +was a railroad Governor who might reprieve or even pardon bank-wreckers +and grafters, but who dared not lift his finger for a workingman. All +this was the talk of the neighborhood. It had been Billy's talk. It had +been Bert's talk. + +The next day Saxon started out the Rock Wall, and the specter of Otto +Frank walked by her side. And with him was a dimmer, mistier specter +that she recognized as Billy. Was he, too, destined to tread his way to +Otto Frank's dark end? Surely so, if the blood and strike continued. He +was a fighter. He felt he was right in fighting. It was easy to kill +a man. Even if he did not intend it, some time, when he was slugging a +scab, the scab would fracture his skull on a stone curbing or a cement +sidewalk. And then Billy would hang. That was why Otto Frank hanged. +He had not intended to kill Henderson. It was only by accident that +Henderson's skull was fractured. Yet Otto Frank had been hanged for it +just the same. + +She wrung her hands and wept loudly as she stumbled among the windy +rocks. The hours passed, and she was lost to herself and her grief. When +she came to she found herself on the far end of the wall where it jutted +into the bay between the Oakland and Alameda Moles. But she could see +no wall. It was the time of the full moon, and the unusual high tide +covered the rocks. She was knee deep in the water, and about her knees +swam scores of big rock rats, squeaking and fighting, scrambling to +climb upon her out of the flood. She screamed with fright and horror, +and kicked at them. Some dived and swam away under water; others circled +about her warily at a distance; and one big fellow laid his teeth into +her shoe. Him she stepped on and crushed with her free foot. By this +time, though still trembling, she was able coolly to consider the +situation. She waded to a stout stick of driftwood a few feet away, and +with this quickly cleared a space about herself. + +A grinning small boy, in a small, bright-painted and half-decked skiff, +sailed close in to the wall and let go his sheet to spill the wind. +“Want to get aboard?” he called. + +“Yes,” she answered. “There are thousands of big rats here. I'm afraid +of them.” + +He nodded, ran close in, spilled the wind from his sail, the boat's way +carrying it gently to her. + +“Shove out its bow,” he commanded. “That's right. I don't want to break +my centerboard.... An' then jump aboard in the stern--quick!--alongside +of me.” + +She obeyed, stepping in lightly beside him. He held the tiller up with +his elbow, pulled in on the sheet, and as the sail filled the boat +sprang away over the rippling water. + +“You know boats,” the boy said approvingly. + +He was a slender, almost frail lad, of twelve or thirteen years, though +healthy enough, with sunburned freckled face and large gray eyes that +were clear and wistful. + +Despite his possession of the pretty boat, Saxon was quick to sense that +he was one of them, a child of the people. + +“First boat I was ever in, except ferryboats,” Saxon laughed. + +He looked at her keenly. “Well, you take to it like a duck to water is +all I can say about it. Where d'ye want me to land you?” + +“Anywhere.” + +He opened his mouth to speak, gave her another long look, considered for +a space, then asked suddenly: “Got plenty of time?” + +She nodded. + +“All day?” + +Again she nodded. + +“Say--I'll tell you, I'm goin' out on this ebb to Goat Island for +rockcod, an' I'll come in on the flood this evening. I got plenty of +lines an' bait. Want to come along? We can both fish. And what you catch +you can have.” + +Saxon hesitated. The freedom and motion of the small boat appealed to +her. Like the ships she had envied, it was outbound. + +“Maybe you'll drown me,” she parleyed. + +The boy threw back his head with pride. + +“I guess I've been sailin' many a long day by myself, an' I ain't +drowned yet.” + +“All right,” she consented. “Though remember, I don't know anything +about boats.” + +“Aw, that's all right.--Now I'm goin' to go about. When I say 'Hard +a-lee!' like that, you duck your head so the boom don't hit you, an' +shift over to the other side.” + +He executed the maneuver, Saxon obeyed, and found herself sitting beside +him on the opposite side of the boat, while the boat itself, on the +other tack, was heading toward Long Wharf where the coal bunkers were. +She was aglow with admiration, the more so because the mechanics of +boat-sailing was to her a complex and mysterious thing. + +“Where did you learn it all?” she inquired. + +“Taught myself, just naturally taught myself. I liked it, you see, an' +what a fellow likes he's likeliest to do. This is my second boat. My +first didn't have a centerboard. I bought it for two dollars an' learned +a lot, though it never stopped leaking. What d 'ye think I paid for this +one? It's worth twenty-five dollars right now. What d 'ye think I paid +for it?” + +“I give up,” Saxon said. “How much?” + +“Six dollars. Think of it! A boat like this! Of course I done a lot of +work, an' the sail cost two dollars, the oars one forty, an' the paint +one seventy-five. But just the same eleven dollars and fifteen cents is +a real bargain. It took me a long time saving for it, though. I carry +papers morning and evening--there's a boy taking my route for me this +afternoon--I give 'm ten cents, an' all the extras he sells is his; and +I'd a-got the boat sooner only I had to pay for my shorthand lessons. My +mother wants me to become a court reporter. They get sometimes as much +as twenty dollars a day. Gee! But I don't want it. It's a shame to waste +the money on the lessons.” + +“What do you want?” she asked, partly from idleness, and yet with +genuine curiosity; for she felt drawn to this boy in knee pants who was +so confident and at the same time so wistful. + +“What do I want?” he repeated after her. + +Turning his head slowly, he followed the sky-line, pausing especially +when his eyes rested landward on the brown Contra Costa hills, and +seaward, past Alcatraz, on the Golden Gate. The wistfulness in his eyes +was overwhelming and went to her heart. + +“That,” he said, sweeping the circle of the world with a wave of his +arm. + +“That?” she queried. + +He looked at her, perplexed in that he had not made his meaning clear. + +“Don't you ever feel that way?” he asked, bidding for sympathy with his +dream. “Don't you sometimes feel you'd die if you didn't know what's +beyond them hills an' what's beyond the other hills behind them hills? +An' the Golden Gate! There's the Pacific Ocean beyond, and China, an' +Japan, an' India, an'... an' all the coral islands. You can go anywhere +out through the Golden Gate--to Australia, to Africa, to the seal +islands, to the North Pole, to Cape Horn. Why, all them places are just +waitin' for me to come an' see 'em. I've lived in Oakland all my life, +but I'm not going to live in Oakland the rest of my life, not by a long +shot. I'm goin' to get away... away....” + +Again, as words failed to express the vastness of his desire, the wave +of his arm swept the circle of the world. + +Saxon thrilled with him. She too, save for her earlier childhood, had +lived in Oakland all her life. And it had been a good place in which to +live... until now. And now, in all its nightmare horror, it was a place +to get away from, as with her people the East had been a place to get +away from. And why not? The world tugged at her, and she felt in touch +with the lad's desire. Now that she thought of it, her race had never +been given to staying long in one place. Always it had been on the move. +She remembered back to her mother's tales, and to the wood engraving in +her scrapbook where her half-clad forebears, sword in hand, leaped from +their lean beaked boats to do battle on the blood-drenched sands of +England. + +“Did you ever hear about the Anglo-Saxons?” she asked the boy. + +“You bet!” His eyes glistened, and he looked at her with new interest. +“I'm an Anglo-Saxon, every inch of me. Look at the color of my eyes, my +skin. I'm awful white where I ain't sunburned. An' my hair was yellow +when I was a baby. My mother says it'll be dark brown by the time I'm +grown up, worse luck. Just the same, I'm Anglo-Saxon. I am of a fighting +race. We ain't afraid of nothin'. This bay--think I'm afraid of it!” He +looked out over the water with flashing eye of scorn. “Why, I've crossed +it when it was howlin' an' when the scow schooner sailors said I lied +an' that I didn't. Huh! They were only squareheads. Why, we licked their +kind thousands of years ago. We lick everything we go up against. We've +wandered all over the world, licking the world. On the sea, on the land, +it's all the same. Look at Ivory Nelson, look at Davy Crockett, look at +Paul Jones, look at Clive, an' Kitchener, an' Fremont, an' Kit Carson, +an' all of 'em.” + +Saxon nodded, while he continued, her own eyes shining, and it came to +her what a glory it would be to be the mother of a man-child like this. +Her body ached with the fancied quickening of unborn life. A good stock, +a good stock, she thought to herself. Then she thought of herself and +Billy, healthy shoots of that same stock, yet condemned to childlessness +because of the trap of the manmade world and the curse of being herded +with the stupid ones. + +She came back to the boy. + +“My father was a soldier in the Civil War,” he was telling her, “a scout +an' a spy. The rebels were going to hang him twice for a spy. At the +battle of Wilson's Creek he ran half a mile with his captain wounded on +his back. He's got a bullet in his leg right now, just above the knee. +It's been there all these years. He let me feel it once. He was a +buffalo hunter and a trapper before the war. He was sheriff of his +county when he was twenty years old. An' after the war, when he was +marshal of Silver City, he cleaned out the bad men an' gun-fighters. +He's been in almost every state in the Union. He could wrestle any man +at the railings in his day, an' he was bully of the raftsmen of the +Susquehanna when he was only a youngster. His father killed a man in a +standup fight with a blow of his fist when he was sixty years old. An' +when he was seventy-four, his second wife had twins, an' he died when he +was plowing in the field with oxen when he was ninety-nine years old. He +just unyoked the oxen, an' sat down under a tree, an' died there sitting +up. An' my father's just like him. He's pretty old now, but he ain't +afraid of nothing. He's a regular Anglo-Saxon, you see. He's a special +policeman, an' he didn't do a thing to the strikers in some of the +fightin'. He had his face all cut up with a rock, but he broke his club +short off over some hoodlum's head.” + +He paused breathlessly and looked at her. + +“Gee!” he said. “I'd hate to a-ben that hoodlum.” + +“My name is Saxon,” she said. + +“Your name?” + +“My first name.” + +“Gee!” he cried. “You're lucky. Now if mine had been only Erling--you +know, Erling the Bold--or Wolf, or Swen, or Jarl!” + +“What is it?” she asked. + +“Only John,” he admitted sadly. “But I don't let 'em call me John. +Everybody's got to call me Jack. I've scrapped with a dozen fellows +that tried to call me John, or Johnnie--wouldn't that make you +sick?--Johnnie!” + +They were now off the coal bunkers of Long Wharf, and the boy put the +skiff about, heading toward San Francisco. They were well out in the +open bay. The west wind had strengthened and was whitecapping the strong +ebb tide. The boat drove merrily along. When splashes of spray flew +aboard, wetting them, Saxon laughed, and the boy surveyed her with +approval. They passed a ferryboat, and the passengers on the upper deck +crowded to one side to watch them. In the swell of the steamer's wake, +the skiff shipped quarter-full of water. Saxon picked up an empty can +and looked at the boy. + +“That's right,” he said. “Go ahead an' bale out.” And, when she had +finished: “We'll fetch Goat Island next tack. Right there off the +Torpedo Station is where we fish, in fifty feet of water an' the tide +runnin' to beat the band. You're wringing wet, ain't you? Gee! You're +like your name. You're a Saxon, all right. Are you married?” + +Saxon nodded, and the boy frowned. + +“What'd you want to do that for? Now you can't wander over the world +like I'm going to. You're tied down. You're anchored for keeps.” + +“It's pretty good to be married, though,” she smiled. + +“Sure, everybody gets married. But that's no reason to be in a rush +about it. Why couldn't you wait a while, like me. I'm goin' to get +married, too, but not until I'm an old man an' have been everywheres.” + +Under the lee of Goat Island, Saxon obediently sitting still, he took in +the sail, and, when the boat had drifted to a position to suit him, he +dropped a tiny anchor. He got out the fish lines and showed Saxon how +to bait her hooks with salted minnows. Then they dropped the lines to +bottom, where they vibrated in the swift tide, and waited for bites. + +“They'll bite pretty soon,” he encouraged. “I've never failed but twice +to catch a mess here. What d'ye say we eat while we're waiting?” + +Vainly she protested she was not hungry. He shared his lunch with her +with a boy's rigid equity, even to the half of a hard-boiled egg and the +half of a big red apple. + +Still the rockcod did not bite. From under the stern-sheets he drew out +a cloth-bound book. + +“Free Library,” he vouchsafed, as he began to read, with one hand +holding the place while with the other he waited for the tug on the +fishline that would announce rockcod. + +Saxon read the title. It was “Afloat in the Forest.” + +“Listen to this,” he said after a few minutes, and he read several pages +descriptive of a great flooded tropical forest being navigated by boys +on a raft. + +“Think of that!” he concluded. “That's the Amazon river in flood time +in South America. And the world's full of places like that--everywhere, +most likely, except Oakland. Oakland's just a place to start from, I +guess. Now that's adventure, I want to tell you. Just think of the luck +of them boys! All the same, some day I'm going to go over the Andes to +the headwaters of the Amazon, all through the rubber country, an' canoe +down the Amazon thousands of miles to its mouth where it's that wide you +can't see one bank from the other an' where you can scoop up perfectly +fresh water out of the ocean a hundred miles from land.” + +But Saxon was not listening. One pregnant sentence had caught her fancy. +Oakland just a place to start from. She had never viewed the city in +that light. She had accepted it as a place to live in, as an end in +itself. But a place to start from! Why not! Why not like any railroad +station or ferry depot! Certainly, as things were going, Oakland was not +a place to stop in. The boy was right. It was a place to start from. But +to go where? Here she was halted, and she was driven from the train of +thought by a strong pull and a series of jerks on the line. She began to +haul in, hand under hand, rapidly and deftly, the boy encouraging her, +until hooks, sinker, and a big gasping rockcod tumbled into the bottom +of the boat. The fish was free of the hook, and she baited afresh and +dropped the line over. The boy marked his place and closed the book. + +“They'll be biting soon as fast as we can haul 'em in,” he said. + +But the rush of fish did not come immediately. + +“Did you ever read Captain Mayne Reid?” he asked. “Or Captain Marryatt? +Or Ballantyne?” + +She shook her head. + +“And you an Anglo-Saxon!” he cried derisively. “Why, there's stacks of +'em in the Free Library. I have two cards, my mother's an' mine, an' +I draw 'em out all the time, after school, before I have to carry +my papers. I stick the books inside my shirt, in front, under the +suspenders. That holds 'em. One time, deliverin' papers at Second an' +Market--there's an awful tough gang of kids hang out there--I got into a +fight with the leader. He hauled off to knock my wind out, an' he landed +square on a book. You ought to seen his face. An' then I landed on +him. An' then his whole gang was goin' to jump on me, only a couple +of iron-molders stepped in an' saw fair play. I gave 'em the books to +hold.” + +“Who won?” Saxon asked. + +“Nobody,” the boy confessed reluctantly. “I think I was lickin' him, but +the molders called it a draw because the policeman on the beat stopped +us when we'd only ben fightin' half an hour. But you ought to seen the +crowd. I bet there was five hundred--” + +He broke off abruptly and began hauling in his line. Saxon, too, was +hauling in. And in the next couple of hours they caught twenty pounds of +fish between them. + +That night, long after dark, the little, half-decked skiff sailed up the +Oakland Estuary. The wind was fair but light, and the boat moved slowly, +towing a long pile which the boy had picked up adrift and announced +as worth three dollars anywhere for the wood that was in it. The tide +flooded smoothly under the full moon, and Saxon recognized the points +they passed--the Transit slip, Sandy Beach, the shipyards, the nail +works, Market street wharf. The boy took the skiff in to a dilapidated +boat-wharf at the foot of Castro street, where the scow schooners, laden +with sand and gravel, lay hauled to the shore in a long row. He insisted +upon an equal division of the fish, because Saxon had helped catch them, +though he explained at length the ethics of flotsam to show her that the +pile was wholly his. + +At Seventh and Poplar they separated, Saxon walking on alone to Pine +street with her load of fish. Tired though she was from the long day, +she had a strange feeling of well-being, and, after cleaning the fish, +she fell asleep wondering, when good times came again, if she could +persuade Billy to get a boat and go out with her on Sundays as she had +gone out that day. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +She slept all night, without stirring, without dreaming, and awoke +naturally and, for the first time in weeks, refreshed. She felt her old +self, as if some depressing weight had been lifted, or a shadow had been +swept away from between her and the sun. Her head was clear. The seeming +iron band that had pressed it so hard was gone. She was cheerful. She +even caught herself humming aloud as she divided the fish into messes +for Mrs. Olsen, Maggie Donahue, and herself. She enjoyed her gossip with +each of them, and, returning home, plunged joyfully into the task of +putting the neglected house in order. She sang as she worked, and ever +as she sang the magic words of the boy danced and sparkled among the +notes: OAKLAND IS JUST A PLACE TO START FROM. + +Everything was clear as print. Her and Billy's problem was as simple as +an arithmetic problem at school: to carpet a room so many feet long, so +many feet wide, to paper a room so many feet high, so many feet around. +She had been sick in her head, she had had strange lapses, she had +been irresponsible. Very well. All this had been because of her +troubles--troubles in which she had had no hand in the making. Billy's +case was hers precisely. He had behaved strangely because he had been +irresponsible. And all their troubles were the troubles of the trap. +Oakland was the trap. Oakland was a good place to start from. + +She reviewed the events of her married life. The strikes and the hard +times had caused everything. If it had not been for the strike of the +shopmen and the fight in her front yard, she would not have lost her +baby. If Billy had not been made desperate by the idleness and the +hopeless fight of the teamsters, he would not have taken to drinking. If +they had not been hard up, they would not have taken a lodger, and Billy +would not be in jail. + +Her mind was made up. The city was no place for her and Billy, no +place for love nor for babies. The way out was simple. They would leave +Oakland. It was the stupid that remained and bowed their heads to fate. +But she and Billy were not stupid. They would not bow their heads. They +would go forth and face fate.--Where, she did not know. But that would +come. The world was large. Beyond the encircling hills, out through the +Golden Gate, somewhere they would find what they desired. The boy had +been wrong in one thing. She was not tied to Oakland, even if she was +married. The world was free to her and Billy as it had been free to the +wandering generations before them. It was only the stupid who had been +left behind everywhere in the race's wandering. The strong had gone on. +Well, she and Billy were strong. They would go on, over the brown Contra +Costa hills or out through the Golden Gate. + +The day before Billy's release Saxon completed her meager preparations +to receive him. She was without money, and, except for her resolve not +to offend Billy in that way again, she would have borrowed ferry fare +from Maggie Donahue and journeyed to San Francisco to sell some of +her personal pretties. As it was, with bread and potatoes and salted +sardines in the house, she went out at the afternoon low tide and dug +clams for a chowder. Also, she gathered a load of driftwood, and it was +nine in the evening when she emerged from the marsh, on her shoulder a +bundle of wood and a short-handled spade, in her free hand the pail +of clams. She sought the darker side of the street at the corner and +hurried across the zone of electric light to avoid detection by the +neighbors. But a woman came toward her, looked sharply and stopped in +front of her. It was Mary. + +“My God, Saxon!” she exclaimed. “Is it as bad as this?” + +Saxon looked at her old friend curiously, with a swift glance that +sketched all the tragedy. Mary was thinner, though there was more color +in her cheeks--color of which Saxon had her doubts. Mary's bright eyes +were handsomer, larger--too large, too feverish bright, too restless. +She was well dressed--too well dressed; and she was suffering from +nerves. She turned her head apprehensively to glance into the darkness +behind her. + +“My God!” Saxon breathed. “And you...” She shut her lips, then began +anew. “Come along to the house,” she said. + +“If you're ashamed to be seen with me--” Mary blurted, with one of her +old quick angers. + +“No, no,” Saxon disclaimed. “It's the driftwood and the clams. I don't +want the neighbors to know. Come along.” + +“No; I can't, Saxon. I'd like to, but I can't. I've got to catch the +next train to Frisco. I've ben waitin' around. I knocked at your back +door. But the house was dark. Billy's still in, ain't he?” + +“Yes, he gets out to-morrow.” + +“I read about it in the papers,” Mary went on hurriedly, looking behind +her. “I was in Stockton when it happened.” She turned upon Saxon almost +savagely. “You don't blame me, do you? I just couldn't go back to work +after bein' married. I was sick of work. Played out, I guess, an' no +good anyway. But if you only knew how I hated the laundry even before I +got married. It's a dirty world. You don't dream. Saxon, honest to God, +you could never guess a hundredth part of its dirtiness. Oh, I wish I +was dead, I wish I was dead an' out of it all. Listen--no, I can't now. +There's the down train puffin' at Adeline. I'll have to run for it. Can +I come--” + +“Aw, get a move on, can't you?” a man's voice interrupted. + +Behind her the speaker had partly emerged from the darkness. No +workingman, Saxon could see that--lower in the world scale, despite his +good clothes, than any workingman. + +“I'm comin', if you'll only wait a second,” Mary placated. + +And by her answer and its accents Saxon knew that Mary was afraid of +this man who prowled on the rim of light. + +Mary turned to her. + +“I got to beat it; good bye,” she said, fumbling in the palm of her +glove. + +She caught Saxon's free hand, and Saxon felt a small hot coin pressed +into it. She tried to resist, to force it back. + +“No, no,” Mary pleaded. “For old times. You can do as much for me some +day. I'll see you again. Good bye.” + +Suddenly, sobbing, she threw her arms around Saxon's waist, crushing +the feathers of her hat against the load of wood as she pressed her +face against Saxon's breast. Then she tore herself away to arm's length, +passionate, quivering, and stood gazing at Saxon. + +“Aw, get a hustle, get a hustle,” came from the darkness the peremptory +voice of the man. + +“Oh, Saxon!” Mary sobbed; and was gone. + +In the house, the lamp lighted, Saxon looked at the coin. It was a +five-dollar piece--to her, a fortune. Then she thought of Mary, and +of the man of whom she was afraid. Saxon registered another black mark +against Oakland. Mary was one more destroyed. They lived only five +years, on the average, Saxon had heard somewhere. She looked at the coin +and tossed it into the kitchen sink. When she cleaned the clams, she +heard the coin tinkle down the vent pipe. + +It was the thought of Billy, next morning, that led Saxon to go under +the sink, unscrew the cap to the catchtrap, and rescue the five-dollar +piece. Prisoners were not well fed, she had been told; and the thought +of placing clams and dry bread before Billy, after thirty days of prison +fare, was too appalling for her to contemplate. She knew how he liked +to spread his butter on thick, how he liked thick, rare steak fried on a +dry hot pan, and how he liked coffee that was coffee and plenty of it. + +Not until after nine o'clock did Billy arrive, and she was dressed in +her prettiest house gingham to meet him. She peeped on him as he came +slowly up the front steps, and she would have run out to him except +for a group of neighborhood children who were staring from across the +street. The door opened before him as his hand reached for the knob, +and, inside, he closed it by backing against it, for his arms were +filled with Saxon. No, he had not had breakfast, nor did he want any +now that he had her. He had only stopped for a shave. He had stood the +barber off, and he had walked all the way from the City Hall because of +lack of the nickel carfare. But he'd like a bath most mighty well, and a +change of clothes. She mustn't come near him until he was clean. + +When all this was accomplished, he sat in the kitchen and watched her +cook, noting the driftwood she put in the stove and asking about it. +While she moved about, she told how she had gathered the wood, how she +had managed to live and not be beholden to the union, and by the time +they were seated at the table she was telling him about her meeting with +Mary the night before. She did not mention the five dollars. + +Billy stopped chewing the first mouthful of steak. His expression +frightened her. He spat the meat out on his plate. + +“You got the money to buy the meat from her,” he accused slowly. “You +had no money, no more tick with the butcher, yet here's meat. Am I +right?” + +Saxon could only bend her head. + +The terrifying, ageless look had come into his face, the bleak and +passionless glaze into his eyes, which she had first seen on the day at +Weasel Park when he had fought with the three Irishmen. + +“What else did you buy?” he demanded--not roughly, not angrily, but with +the fearful coldness of a rage that words could not express. + +To her surprise, she had grown calm. What did it matter? It was merely +what one must expect, living in Oakland--something to be left behind +when Oakland was a thing behind, a place started from. + +“The coffee,” she answered. “And the butter.” + +He emptied his plate of meat and her plate into the frying pan, likewise +the roll of butter and the slice on the table, and on top he poured the +contents of the coffee canister. All this he carried into the back yard +and dumped in the garbage can. The coffee pot he emptied into the sink. +“How much of the money you got left?” he next wanted to know. + +Saxon had already gone to her purse and taken it out. + +“Three dollars and eighty cents,” she counted, handing it to him. “I +paid forty-five cents for the steak.” + +He ran his eye over the money, counted it, and went to the front door. +She heard the door open and close, and knew that the silver had been +flung into the street. When he came back to the kitchen, Saxon was +already serving him fried potatoes on a clean plate. + +“Nothin's too good for the Robertses,” he said; “but, by God, that sort +of truck is too high for my stomach. It's so high it stinks.” + +He glanced at the fried potatoes, the fresh slice of dry bread, and the +glass of water she was placing by his plate. + +“It's all right,” she smiled, as he hesitated. “There's nothing left +that's tainted.” + +He shot a swift glance at her face, as if for sarcasm, then sighed and +sat down. Almost immediately he was up again and holding out his arms to +her. + +“I'm goin' to eat in a minute, but I want to talk to you first,” he +said, sitting down and holding her closely. “Besides, that water ain't +like coffee. Gettin' cold won't spoil it none. Now, listen. You're the +only one I got in this world. You wasn't afraid of me an' what I just +done, an' I'm glad of that. Now we'll forget all about Mary. I got +charity enough. I'm just as sorry for her as you. I'd do anything for +her. I'd wash her feet for her like Christ did. I'd let her eat at my +table, an' sleep under my roof. But all that ain't no reason I should +touch anything she's earned. Now forget her. It's you an' me, Saxon, +only you an' me an' to hell with the rest of the world. Nothing else +counts. You won't never have to be afraid of me again. Whisky an' I +don't mix very well, so I'm goin' to cut whisky out. I've been clean off +my nut, an' I ain't treated you altogether right. But that's all past. +It won't never happen again. I'm goin' to start out fresh. + +“Now take this thing. I oughtn't to acted so hasty. But I did. I oughta +talked it over. But I didn't. My damned temper got the best of me, an' +you know I got one. If a fellow can keep his temper in boxin', why he +can keep it in bein' married, too. Only this got me too sudden-like. +It's something I can't stomach, that I never could stomach. An' you +wouldn't want me to any more'n I'd want you to stomach something you +just couldn't.” + +She sat up straight on his knees and looked at him, afire with an idea. + +“You mean that, Billy?” + +“Sure I do.” + +“Then I'll tell you something I can't stomach any more. I'll die if I +have to.” + +“Well?” he questioned, after a searching pause. + +“It's up to you,” she said. + +“Then fire away.” + +“You don't know what you're letting yourself in for,” she warned. “Maybe +you'd better back out before it's too late.” + +He shook his head stubbornly. + +“What you don't want to stomach you ain't goin' to stomach. Let her go.” + +“First,” she commenced, “no more slugging of scabs.” + +His mouth opened, but he checked the involuntary protest. + +“And, second, no more Oakland.” + +“I don't get that last.” + +“No more Oakland. No more living in Oakland. I'll die if I have to. It's +pull up stakes and get out.” + +He digested this slowly. + +“Where?” he asked finally. + +“Anywhere. Everywhere. Smoke a cigarette and think it over.” + +He shook his head and studied her. + +“You mean that?” he asked at length. + +“I do. I want to chuck Oakland just as hard as you wanted to chuck the +beefsteak, the coffee, and the butter.” + +She could see him brace himself. She could feel him brace his very body +ere he answered. + +“All right then, if that's what you want. We'll quit Oakland. We'll quit +it cold. God damn it, anyway, it never done nothin' for me, an' I +guess I'm husky enough to scratch for us both anywheres. An' now that's +settled, just tell me what you got it in for Oakland for.” + +And she told him all she had thought out, marshaled all the facts in +her indictment of Oakland, omitting nothing, not even her last visit to +Doctor Hentley's office nor Billy's drinking. He but drew her closer and +proclaimed his resolves anew. The time passed. The fried potatoes grew +cold, and the stove went out. + +When a pause came, Billy stood up, still holding her. He glanced at the +fried potatoes. + +“Stone cold,” he said, then turned to her. “Come on. Put on your +prettiest. We're goin' up town for something to eat an' to celebrate. +I guess we got a celebration comin', seein' as we're going to pull up +stakes an' pull our freight from the old burg. An' we won't have to +walk. I can borrow a dime from the barber, an' I got enough junk to hock +for a blowout.” + +His junk proved to be several gold medals won in his amateur days at +boxing tournaments. Once up town and in the pawnshop, Uncle Sam seemed +thoroughly versed in the value of the medals, and Billy jingled a +handful of silver in his pocket as they walked out. + +He was as hilarious as a boy, and she joined in his good spirits. When +he stopped at a corner cigar store to buy a sack of Bull Durham, he +changed his mind and bought Imperials. + +“Oh, I'm a regular devil,” he laughed. “Nothing's too good to-day--not +even tailor-made smokes. An' no chop houses nor Jap joints for you an' +me. It's Barnum's.” + +They strolled to the restaurant at Seventh and Broadway where they had +had their wedding supper. + +“Let's make believe we're not married,” Saxon suggested. + +“Sure,” he agreed, “--an' take a private room so as the waiter'll have +to knock on the door each time he comes in.” + +Saxon demurred at that. + +“It will be too expensive, Billy. You'll have to tip him for the +knocking. We'll take the regular dining room.” + +“Order anything you want,” Billy said largely, when they were seated. +“Here's family porterhouse, a dollar an' a half. What d'ye say?” + +“And hash-browned,” she abetted, “and coffee extra special, and some +oysters first--I want to compare them with the rock oysters.” + +Billy nodded, and looked up from the bill of fare. + +“Here's mussels bordelay. Try an order of them, too, an' see if they +beat your Rock Wall ones.” + +“Why not?” Saxon cried, her eyes dancing. “The world is ours. We're just +travelers through this town.” + +“Yep, that's the stuff,” Billy muttered absently. He was looking at the +theater column. He lifted his eyes from the paper. “Matinee at Bell's. +We can get reserved seats for a quarter.--Doggone the luck anyway!” + +His exclamation was so aggrieved and violent that it brought alarm into +her eyes. + +“If I'd only thought,” he regretted, “we could a-gone to the Forum for +grub. That's the swell joint where fellows like Roy Blanchard hangs out, +blowin' the money we sweat for them.” + +They bought reserved tickets at Bell's Theater; but it was too early +for the performance, and they went down Broadway and into the Electric +Theater to while away the time on a moving picture show. A cowboy +film was run off, and a French comic; then came a rural drama situated +somewhere in the Middle West. It began with a farm yard scene. The sun +blazed down on a corner of a barn and on a rail fence where the ground +lay in the mottled shade of large trees overhead. There were chickens, +ducks, and turkeys, scratching, waddling, moving about. A big +sow, followed by a roly-poly litter of seven little ones, marched +majestically through the chickens, rooting them out of the way. The +hens, in turn, took it out on the little porkers, pecking them when they +strayed too far from their mother. And over the top rail a horse +looked drowsily on, ever and anon, at mathematically precise intervals, +switching a lazy tail that flashed high lights in the sunshine. + +“It's a warm day and there are flies--can't you just feel it?” Saxon +whispered. + +“Sure. An' that horse's tail! It's the most natural ever. Gee! I bet he +knows the trick of clampin' it down over the reins. I wouldn't wonder if +his name was Iron Tail.” + +A dog ran upon the scene. The mother pig turned tail and with short +ludicrous jumps, followed by her progeny and pursued by the dog, fled +out of the film. A young girl came on, a sunbonnet hanging down her +back, her apron caught up in front and filled with grain which she threw +to the fluttering fowls. Pigeons flew down from the top of the film +and joined in the scrambling feast. The dog returned, wading scarcely +noticed among the feathered creatures, to wag his tail and laugh up at +the girl. And, behind, the horse nodded over the rail and switched on. A +young man entered, his errand immediately known to an audience educated +in moving pictures. But Saxon had no eyes for the love-making, the +pleading forcefulness, the shy reluctance, of man and maid. Ever her +gaze wandered back to the chickens, to the mottled shade under the +trees, to the warm wall of the barn, to the sleepy horse with its ever +recurrent whisk of tail. + +She drew closer to Billy, and her hand, passed around his arm, sought +his hand. + +“Oh, Billy,” she sighed. “I'd just die of happiness in a place like +that.” And, when the film was ended. “We got lots of time for Bell's. +Let's stay and see that one over again.” + +They sat through a repetition of the performance, and when the farm yard +scene appeared, the longer Saxon looked at it the more it affected +her. And this time she took in further details. She saw fields beyond, +rolling hills in the background, and a cloud-flecked sky. She identified +some of the chickens, especially an obstreperous old hen who resented +the thrust of the sow's muzzle, particularly pecked at the little pigs, +and laid about her with a vengeance when the grain fell. Saxon looked +back across the fields to the hills and sky, breathing the spaciousness +of it, the freedom, the content. Tears welled into her eyes and she wept +silently, happily. + +“I know a trick that'd fix that old horse if he ever clamped his tail +down on me,” Billy whispered. + +“Now I know where we're going when we leave Oakland,” she informed him. + +“Where?” + +“There.” + +He looked at her, and followed her gaze to the screen. “Oh,” he said, +and cogitated. “An' why shouldn't we?” he added. + +“Oh, Billy, will you?” + +Her lips trembled in her eagerness, and her whisper broke and was almost +inaudible “Sure,” he said. It was his day of royal largess. + +“What you want is yourn, an' I'll scratch my fingers off for it. An' +I've always had a hankerin' for the country myself. Say! I've known +horses like that to sell for half the price, an' I can sure cure 'em of +the habit.” + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +It was early evening when they got off the car at Seventh and Pine on +their way home from Bell's Theater. Billy and Saxon did their little +marketing together, then separated at the corner, Saxon to go on to the +house and prepare supper, Billy to go and see the boys--the teamsters +who had fought on in the strike during his month of retirement. + +“Take care of yourself, Billy,” she called, as he started off. + +“Sure,” he answered, turning his face to her over his shoulder. + +Her heart leaped at the smile. It was his old, unsullied love-smile +which she wanted always to see on his face--for which, armed with her +own wisdom and the wisdom of Mercedes, she would wage the utmost woman's +war to possess. A thought of this flashed brightly through her brain, +and it was with a proud little smile that she remembered all her pretty +equipment stored at home in the bureau and the chest of drawers. + +Three-quarters of an hour later, supper ready, all but the putting on +of the lamb chops at the sound of his step, Saxon waited. She heard the +gate click, but instead of his step she heard a curious and confused +scraping of many steps. She flew to open the door. Billy stood there, +but a different Billy from the one she had parted from so short a +time before. A small boy, beside him, held his hat. His face had been +fresh-washed, or, rather, drenched, for his shirt and shoulders were +wet. His pale hair lay damp and plastered against his forehead, and was +darkened by oozing blood. Both arms hung limply by his side. But his +face was composed, and he even grinned. + +“It's all right,” he reassured Saxon. “The joke's on me. Somewhat +damaged but still in the ring.” He stepped gingerly across the +threshold. “--Come on in, you fellows. We're all mutts together.” + +He was followed in by the boy with his hat, by Bud Strothers and +another teamster she knew, and by two strangers. The latter were big, +hard-featured, sheepish-faced men, who stared at Saxon as if afraid of +her. + +“It's all right, Saxon,” Billy began, but was interrupted by Bud. + +“First thing is to get him on the bed an' cut his clothes off him. Both +arms is broke, and here are the ginks that done it.” + +He indicated the two strangers, who shuffled their feet with +embarrassment and looked more sheepish than ever. + +Billy sat down on the bed, and while Saxon held the lamp, Bud and the +strangers proceeded to cut coat, shirt, and undershirt from him. + +“He wouldn't go to the receivin' hospital,” Bud said to Saxon. + +“Not on your life,” Billy concurred. “I had 'em send for Doc Hentley. +He'll be here any minute. Them two arms is all I got. They've done +pretty well by me, an' I gotta do the same by them.--No medical students +a-learnin' their trade on me.” + +“But how did it happen?” Saxon demanded, looking from Billy to the two +strangers, puzzled by the amity that so evidently existed among them +all. + +“Oh, they're all right,” Billy dashed in. “They done it through mistake. +They're Frisco teamsters, an' they come over to help us--a lot of 'em.” + +The two teamsters seemed to cheer up at this, and nodded their heads. + +“Yes, missus,” one of them rumbled hoarsely. “It's all a mistake, an'... +well, the joke's on us.” + +“The drinks, anyway,” Billy grinned. + +Not only was Saxon not excited, but she was scarcely perturbed. What had +happened was only to be expected. + +It was in line with all that Oakland had already done to her and hers, +and, besides, Billy was not dangerously hurt. Broken arms and a sore +head would heal. She brought chairs and seated everybody. + +“Now tell me what happened,” she begged. “I'm all at sea, what of you +two burleys breaking my husband's arms, then seeing him home and holding +a love-fest with him.” + +“An' you got a right,” Bud Strothers assured her. “You see, it happened +this way--” + +“You shut up, Bud,” Billy broke it. “You didn't see anything of it.” + +Saxon looked to the San Francisco teamsters. + +“We'd come over to lend a hand, seein' as the Oakland boys was gettin' +some the short end of it,” one spoke up, “an' we've sure learned some +scabs there's better trades than drivin' team. Well, me an' Jackson +here was nosin' around to see what we can see, when your husband comes +moseyin' along. When he--” + +“Hold on,” Jackson interrupted. “Get it straight as you go along. We +reckon we know the boys by sight. But your husband we ain't never seen +around, him bein'...” + +“As you might say, put away for a while,” the first teamster took up the +tale. “So, when we sees what we thinks is a scab dodgin' away from us +an' takin' the shortcut through the alley--” + +“The alley back of Campbell's grocery,” Billy elucidated. + +“Yep, back of the grocery,” the first teamster went on; “why, we're +sure he's one of them squarehead scabs, hired through Murray an' Ready, +makin' a sneak to get into the stables over the back fences.” + +“We caught one there, Billy an' me,” Bud interpolated. + +“So we don't waste any time,” Jackson said, addressing himself to Saxon. +“We've done it before, an' we know how to do 'em up brown an' tie 'em +with baby ribbon. So we catch your husband right in the alley.” + +“I was lookin' for Bud,” said Billy. “The boys told me I'd find him +somewhere around the other end of the alley. An' the first thing I know, +Jackson, here, asks me for a match.” + +“An' right there's where I get in my fine work,” resumed the first +teamster. + +“What?” asked Saxon. + +“That.” The man pointed to the wound in Billy's scalp. “I laid 'm out. +He went down like a steer, an' got up on his knees dippy, a-gabblin' +about somebody standin' on their foot. He didn't know where he was at, +you see, clean groggy. An' then we done it.” + +The man paused, the tale told. + +“Broke both his arms with the crowbar,” Bud supplemented. + +“That's when I come to myself, when the bones broke,” Billy +corroborated. “An' there was the two of 'em givin' me the ha-ha. +'That'll last you some time,' Jackson was sayin'. An' Anson says, 'I'd +like to see you drive horses with them arms.' An' then Jackson says, +'let's give 'm something for luck.' An' with that he fetched me a wallop +on the jaw--” + +“No,” corrected Anson. “That wallop was mine.” + +“Well, it sent me into dreamland over again,” Billy sighed. “An' when +I come to, here was Bud an' Anson an' Jackson dousin' me at a water +trough. An' then we dodged a reporter an' all come home together.” + +Bud Strothers held up his fist and indicated freshly abraded skin. + +“The reporter-guy just insisted on samplin' it,” he said. Then, to +Billy: “That's why I cut around Ninth an' caught up with you down on +Sixth.” + +A few minutes later Doctor Hentley arrived, and drove the men from the +rooms. They waited till he had finished, to assure themselves of Billy's +well being, and then departed. In the kitchen Doctor Hentley washed his +hands and gave Saxon final instructions. As he dried himself he sniffed +the air and looked toward the stove where a pot was simmering. + +“Clams,” he said. “Where did you buy them?” + +“I didn't buy them,” replied Saxon. “I dug them myself.” + +“Not in the marsh?” he asked with quickened interest. + +“Yes.” + +“Throw them away. Throw them out. They're death and corruption. +Typhoid--I've got three cases now, all traced to the clams and the +marsh.” + +When he had gone, Saxon obeyed. Still another mark against Oakland, +she reflected--Oakland, the man-trap, that poisoned those it could not +starve. + +“If it wouldn't drive a man to drink,” Billy groaned, when Saxon +returned to him. “Did you ever dream such luck? Look at all my fights in +the ring, an' never a broken bone, an' here, snap, snap, just like that, +two arms smashed.” + +“Oh, it might be worse,” Saxon smiled cheerfully. + +“I'd like to know how. + +“It might have been your neck.” + +“An' a good job. I tell you, Saxon, you gotta show me anything worse.” + +“I can,” she said confidently. + +“Well?” + +“Well, wouldn't it be worse if you intended staying on in Oakland where +it might happen again?” + +“I can see myself becomin' a farmer an' plowin' with a pair of +pipe-stems like these,” he persisted. + +“Doctor Hentley says they'll be stronger at the break than ever before. +And you know yourself that's true of clean-broken bones. Now you close +your eyes and go to sleep. You're all done up, and you need to keep your +brain quiet and stop thinking.” + +He closed his eyes obediently. She slipped a cool hand under the nape of +his neck and let it rest. + +“That feels good,” he murmured. “You're so cool, Saxon. Your hand, and +you, all of you. Bein' with you is like comin' out into the cool night +after dancin' in a hot room.” + +After several minutes of quiet, he began to giggle. + +“What is it?” she asked. + +“Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin'--thinking of them mutts doin' me +up--me, that's done up more scabs than I can remember.” + +Next morning Billy awoke with his blues dissipated. From the kitchen +Saxon heard him painfully wrestling strange vocal acrobatics. + +“I got a new song you never heard,” he told her when she came in with +a cup of coffee. “I only remember the chorus though. It's the old man +talkin' to some hobo of a hired man that wants to marry his daughter. +Mamie, that Billy Murphy used to run with before he got married, used to +sing it. It's a kind of a sobby song. It used to always give Mamie the +weeps. Here's the way the chorus goes--an' remember, it's the old man +spielin'.” + +And with great solemnity and excruciating flatting, Billy sang: + +“O treat my daughter kind-i-ly; An' say you'll do no harm, An' when I +die I'll will to you My little house an' farm--My horse, my plow, my +sheep, my cow, An' all them little chickens in the ga-a-rden. + +“It's them little chickens in the garden that gets me,” he explained. +“That's how I remembered it--from the chickens in the movin' pictures +yesterday. An' some day we'll have little chickens in the garden, won't +we, old girl?” + +“And a daughter, too,” Saxon amplified. + +“An' I'll be the old geezer sayin' them same words to the hired man,” + Billy carried the fancy along. “It don't take long to raise a daughter +if you ain't in a hurry.” + +Saxon took her long-neglected ukulele from its case and strummed it into +tune. + +“And I've a song you never heard, Billy. Tom's always singing it. He's +crazy about taking up government land and going farming, only Sarah +won't think of it. He sings it something like this: + +“We'll have a little farm, A pig, a horse, a cow, And you will drive the +wagon, And I will drive the plow.” + +“Only in this case I guess it's me that'll do the plowin',” Billy +approved. “Say, Saxon, sing 'Harvest Days.' That's a farmer's song, +too.” + +After that she feared the coffee was growing cold and compelled Billy to +take it. In the helplessness of two broken arms, he had to be fed like a +baby, and as she fed him they talked. + +“I'll tell you one thing,” Billy said, between mouthfuls. “Once we get +settled down in the country you'll have that horse you've been wishin' +for all your life. An' it'll be all your own, to ride, drive, sell, or +do anything you want with.” + +And, again, he ruminated: “One thing that'll come handy in the country +is that I know horses; that's a big start. I can always get a job at +that--if it ain't at union wages. An' the other things about farmin' I +can learn fast enough.--Say, d'ye remember that day you first told me +about wantin' a horse to ride all your life?” + +Saxon remembered, and it was only by a severe struggle that she was able +to keep the tears from welling into her eyes. She seemed bursting with +happiness, and she was remembering many things--all the warm promise of +life with Billy that had been hers in the days before hard times. And +now the promise was renewed again. Since its fulfillment had not come +to them, they were going away to fulfill it for themselves and make the +moving pictures come true. + +Impelled by a half-feigned fear, she stole away into the kitchen bedroom +where Bert had died, to study her face in the bureau mirror. No, +she decided; she was little changed. She was still equipped for the +battlefield of love. Beautiful she was not. She knew that. But had not +Mercedes said that the great women of history who had won men had not +been beautiful? And yet, Saxon insisted, as she gazed at her reflection, +she was anything but unlovely. She studied her wide gray eyes that were +so very gray, that were always alive with light and vivacities, where, +in the surface and depths, always swam thoughts unuttered, thoughts that +sank down and dissolved to give place to other thoughts. The brows were +excellent--she realized that. Slenderly penciled, a little darker than +her light brown hair, they just fitted her irregular nose that +was feminine but not weak, that if anything was piquant and that +picturesquely might be declared impudent. + +She could see that her face was slightly thin, that the red of her lips +was not quite so red, and that she had lost some of her quick coloring. +But all that would come back again. Her mouth was not of the rosebud +type she saw in the magazines. She paid particular attention to it. A +pleasant mouth it was, a mouth to be joyous with, a mouth for laughter +and to make laughter in others. She deliberately experimented with it, +smiled till the corners dented deeper. And she knew that when she smiled +her smile was provocative of smiles. She laughed with her eyes alone--a +trick of hers. She threw back her head and laughed with eyes and mouth +together, between her spread lips showing the even rows of strong white +teeth. + +And she remembered Billy's praise of her teeth, the night at Germanic +Hall after he had told Charley Long he was standing on his foot. “Not +big, and not little dinky baby's teeth either,” Billy had said, “... +just right, and they fit you.” Also, he had said that to look at them +made him hungry, and that they were good enough to eat. + +She recollected all the compliments he had ever paid her. Beyond all +treasures, these were treasures to her--the love phrases, praises, and +admirations. He had said her skin was cool--soft as velvet, too, and +smooth as silk. She rolled up her sleeve to the shoulder, brushed her +cheek with the white skin for a test, with deep scrutiny examined the +fineness of its texture. And he had told her that she was sweet; that he +hadn't known what it meant when they said a girl was sweet, not until he +had known her. And he had told her that her voice was cool, that it gave +him the feeling her hand did when it rested on his forehead. Her +voice went all through him, he had said, cool and fine, like a wind of +coolness. And he had likened it to the first of the sea breeze setting +in the afternoon after a scorching hot morning. And, also, when +she talked low, that it was round and sweet, like the 'cello in the +Macdonough Theater orchestra. + +He had called her his Tonic Kid. He had called her a thoroughbred, +clean-cut and spirited, all fine nerves and delicate and sensitive. +He had liked the way she carried her clothes. She carried them like a +dream, had been his way of putting it. They were part of her, just as +much as the cool of her voice and skin and the scent of her hair. + +And her figure! She got upon a chair and tilted the mirror so that she +could see herself from hips to feet. She drew her skirt back and up. +The slender ankle was just as slender. The calf had lost none of its +delicately mature swell. She studied her hips, her waist, her bosom, +her neck, the poise of her head, and sighed contentedly. Billy must be +right, and he had said that she was built like a French woman, and that +in the matter of lines and form she could give Annette Kellerman cards +and spades. + +He had said so many things, now that she recalled them all at one time. +Her lips! The Sunday he proposed he had said: “I like to watch your lips +talking. It's funny, but every move they make looks like a tickly kiss.” + And afterward, that same day: “You looked good to me from the first +moment I spotted you.” He had praised her housekeeping. He had said he +fed better, lived more comfortably, held up his end with the fellows, +and saved money. And she remembered that day when he had crushed her in +his arms and declared she was the greatest little bit of a woman that +had ever come down the pike. + +She ran her eyes over all herself in the mirror again, gathered herself +together into a whole, compact and good to look upon--delicious, she +knew. Yes, she would do. Magnificent as Billy was in his man way, in her +own way she was a match for him. Yes, she had done well by Billy. She +deserved much--all he could give her, the best he could give her. But +she made no blunder of egotism. Frankly valuing herself, she as frankly +valued him. When he was himself, his real self, not harassed by trouble, +not pinched by the trap, not maddened by drink, her man-boy and lover, +he was well worth all she gave him or could give him. + +Saxon gave herself a farewell look. No. She was not dead, any more than +was Billy's love dead, than was her love dead. All that was needed was +the proper soil, and their love would grow and blossom. And they were +turning their backs upon Oakland to go and seek that proper soil. + +“Oh, Billy!” she called through the partition, still standing on the +chair, one hand tipping the mirror forward and back, so that she was +able to run her eyes from the reflection of her ankles and calves to her +face, warm with color and roguishly alive. + +“Yes?” she heard him answer. + +“I'm loving myself,” she called back. + +“What's the game?” came his puzzled query. “What are you so stuck on +yourself for!” + +“Because you love me,” she answered. “I love every bit of me, Billy, +because... because... well, because you love every bit of me.” + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +Between feeding and caring for Billy, doing the housework, making plans, +and selling her store of pretty needlework, the days flew happily for +Saxon. Billy's consent to sell her pretties had been hard to get, but at +last she succeeded in coaxing it out of him. + +“It's only the ones I haven't used,” she urged; “and I can always make +more when we get settled somewhere.” + +What she did not sell, along with the household linen and hers and +Billy's spare clothing, she arranged to store with Tom. + +“Go ahead,” Billy said. “This is your picnic. What you say goes. You're +Robinson Crusoe an' I'm your man Friday. Make up your mind yet which way +you're goin' to travel?” + +Saxon shook her head. + +“Or how?” + +She held up one foot and then the other, encased in stout walking shoes +which she had begun that morning to break in about the house. “Shank's +mare, eh?” + +“It's the way our people came into the West,” she said proudly. + +“It'll be regular trampin', though,” he argued. “An' I never heard of a +woman tramp.” + +“Then here's one. Why, Billy, there's no shame in tramping. My mother +tramped most of the way across the Plains. And 'most everybody else's +mother tramped across in those days. I don't care what people will +think. I guess our race has been on the tramp since the beginning of +creation, just like we'll be, looking for a piece of land that looked +good to settle down on.” + +After a few days, when his scalp was sufficiently healed and the +bone-knitting was nicely in process, Billy was able to be up and about. +He was still quite helpless, however, with both his arms in splints. + +Doctor Hentley not only agreed, but himself suggested, that his bill +should wait against better times for settlement. Of government land, in +response to Saxon's eager questioning, he knew nothing, except that he +had a hazy idea that the days of government land were over. + +Tom, on the contrary, was confident that there was plenty of government +land. He talked of Honey Lake, of Shasta County, and of Humboldt. + +“But you can't tackle it at this time of year, with winter comin' on,” + he advised Saxon. “The thing for you to do is head south for warmer +weather--say along the coast. It don't snow down there. I tell you what +you do. Go down by San Jose and Salinas an' come out on the coast at +Monterey. South of that you'll find government land mixed up with forest +reserves and Mexican rancheros. It's pretty wild, without any roads to +speak of. All they do is handle cattle. But there's some fine redwood +canyons, with good patches of farming ground that run right down to the +ocean. I was talkin' last year with a fellow that's been all through +there. An' I'd a-gone, like you an' Billy, only Sarah wouldn't hear of +it. There's gold down there, too. Quite a bunch is in there prospectin', +an' two or three good mines have opened. But that's farther along and in +a ways from the coast. You might take a look.” + +Saxon shook her head. “We're not looking for gold but for chickens and +a place to grow vegetables. Our folks had all the chance for gold in the +early days, and what have they got to show for it?” + +“I guess you're right,” Tom conceded. “They always played too big a +game, an' missed the thousand little chances right under their nose. +Look at your pa. I've heard him tell of selling three Market street +lots in San Francisco for fifty dollars each. They're worth five hundred +thousand right now. An' look at Uncle Will. He had ranches till the +cows come home. Satisfied? No. He wanted to be a cattle king, a regular +Miller and Lux. An' when he died he was a night watchman in Los Angeles +at forty dollars a month. There's a spirit of the times, an' the spirit +of the times has changed. It's all big business now, an' we're the +small potatoes. Why, I've heard our folks talk of livin' in the Western +Reserve. That was all around what's Ohio now. Anybody could get a farm +them days. All they had to do was yoke their oxen an' go after it, an' +the Pacific Ocean thousands of miles to the west, an' all them thousands +of miles an' millions of farms just waitin' to be took up. A hundred an' +sixty acres? Shucks. In the early days in Oregon they talked six hundred +an' forty acres. That was the spirit of them times--free land, an' +plenty of it. But when we reached the Pacific Ocean them times was +ended. Big business begun; an' big business means big business men; +an' every big business man means thousands of little men without any +business at all except to work for the big ones. They're the losers, +don't you see? An' if they don't like it they can lump it, but it won't +do them no good. They can't yoke up their oxen an' pull on. There's no +place to pull on. China's over there, an' in between's a mighty lot of +salt water that's no good for farmin' purposes.” + +“That's all clear enough,” Saxon commented. + +“Yes,” her brother went on. “We can all see it after it's happened, when +it's too late.” + +“But the big men were smarter,” Saxon remarked. + +“They were luckier,” Tom contended. “Some won, but most lost, an' just +as good men lost. It was almost like a lot of boys scramblin' on the +sidewalk for a handful of small change. Not that some didn't have +far-seein'. But just take your pa, for example. He come of good Down +East stock that's got business instinct an' can add to what it's got. +Now suppose your pa had developed a weak heart, or got kidney disease, +or caught rheumatism, so he couldn't go gallivantin' an' rainbow +chasin', an' fightin' an' explorin' all over the West. Why, most likely +he'd a settled down in San Francisco--he'd a-had to--an' held onto them +three Market street lots, an' bought more lots, of course, an' gone +into steamboat companies, an' stock gamblin', an' railroad buildin', an' +Comstock-tunnelin'. + +“Why, he'd a-become big business himself. I know 'm. He was the most +energetic man I ever saw, think quick as a wink, as cool as an icicle +an' as wild as a Comanche. Why, he'd a-cut a swath through the free an' +easy big business gamblers an' pirates of them days; just as he cut a +swath through the hearts of the ladies when he went gallopin' past on +that big horse of his, sword clatterin', spurs jinglin', his long hair +flyin', straight as an Indian, clean-built an' graceful as a blue-eyed +prince out of a fairy book an' a Mexican caballero all rolled into +one; just as he cut a swath through the Johnny Rebs in Civil War days, +chargin' with his men all the way through an' back again, an' yellin' +like a wild Indian for more. Cady, that helped raise you, told me about +that. Cady rode with your pa. + +“Why, if your pa'd only got laid up in San Francisco, he would a-ben one +of the big men of the West. An' in that case, right now, you'd be a rich +young woman, travelin' in Europe, with a mansion on Nob Hill along with +the Floods and Crockers, an' holdin' majority stock most likely in the +Fairmount Hotel an' a few little concerns like it. An' why ain't you? +Because your pa wasn't smart? No. His mind was like a steel trap. It's +because he was filled to burstin' an' spillin' over with the spirit of +the times; because he was full of fire an' vinegar an' couldn't set down +in one place. That's all the difference between you an' the young women +right now in the Flood and Crocker families. Your father didn't catch +rheumatism at the right time, that's all.” + +Saxon sighed, then smiled. + +“Just the same, I've got them beaten,” she said. “The Miss Floods and +Miss Crockers can't marry prize-fighters, and I did.” + +Tom looked at her, taken aback for the moment, with admiration, slowly +at first, growing in his face. + +“Well, all I got to say,” he enunciated solemnly, “is that Billy's so +lucky he don't know how lucky he is.” + + +Not until Doctor Hentley gave the word did the splints come off Billy's +arms, and Saxon insisted upon an additional two weeks' delay so that no +risk would be run. These two weeks would complete another month's rent, +and the landlord had agreed to wait payment for the last two months +until Billy was on his feet again. + +Salinger's awaited the day set by Saxon for taking back their furniture. +Also, they had returned to Billy seventy-five dollars. + +“The rest you've paid will be rent,” the collector told Saxon. “And the +furniture's second hand now, too. The deal will be a loss to Salinger's' +and they didn't have to do it, either; you know that. So just remember +they've been pretty square with you, and if you start over again don't +forget them.” + +Out of this sum, and out of what was realized from Saxon's pretties, +they were able to pay all their small bills and yet have a few dollars +remaining in pocket. + +“I hate owin' things worse 'n poison,” Billy said to Saxon. “An' now we +don't owe a soul in this world except the landlord an' Doc Hentley.” + +“And neither of them can afford to wait longer than they have to,” she +said. + +“And they won't,” Billy answered quietly. + +She smiled her approval, for she shared with Billy his horror of debt, +just as both shared it with that early tide of pioneers with a Puritan +ethic, which had settled the West. + +Saxon timed her opportunity when Billy was out of the house to pack the +chest of drawers which had crossed the Atlantic by sailing ship and the +Plains by ox team. She kissed the bullet hole in it, made in the fight +at Little Meadow, as she kissed her father's sword, the while she +visioned him, as she always did, astride his roan warhorse. With the old +religious awe, she pored over her mother's poems in the scrap-book, and +clasped her mother's red satin Spanish girdle about her in a farewell +embrace. She unpacked the scrap-book in order to gaze a last time at the +wood engraving of the Vikings, sword in hand, leaping upon the English +sands. Again she identified Billy as one of the Vikings, and pondered +for a space on the strange wanderings of the seed from which she sprang. +Always had her race been land-hungry, and she took delight in believing +she had bred true; for had not she, despite her life passed in a city, +found this same land-hunger in her? And was she not going forth to +satisfy that hunger, just as her people of old time had done, as her +father and mother before her? She remembered her mother's tale of how +the promised land looked to them as their battered wagons and weary oxen +dropped down through the early winter snows of the Sierras to the vast +and flowering sun-land of California: In fancy, herself a child of nine, +she looked down from the snowy heights as her mother must have looked +down. She recalled and repeated aloud one of her mother's stanzas: + +“'Sweet as a wind-lute's airy strains Your gentle muse has learned to +sing And California's boundless plains Prolong the soft notes echoing.'” + +She sighed happily and dried her eyes. Perhaps the hard times were +past. Perhaps they had constituted HER Plains, and she and Billy had won +safely across and were even then climbing the Sierras ere they dropped +down into the pleasant valley land. + +Salinger's wagon was at the house, taking out the furniture, the morning +they left. The landlord, standing at the gate, received the keys, shook +hands with them, and wished them luck. “You're goin' at it right,” he +congratulated them. “Sure an' wasn't it under me roll of blankets I +tramped into Oakland meself forty year ago! Buy land, like me, when it's +cheap. It'll keep you from the poorhouse in your old age. There's plenty +of new towns springin' up. Get in on the ground floor. The work of your +hands'll keep you in food an' under a roof, an' the land 'll make you +well to do. An' you know me address. When you can spare send me along +that small bit of rent. An' good luck. An' don't mind what people think. +'Tis them that looks that finds.” + +Curious neighbors peeped from behind the blinds as Billy and Saxon +strode up the street, while the children gazed at them in gaping +astonishment. On Billy's back, inside a painted canvas tarpaulin, was +slung the roll of bedding. Inside the roll were changes of underclothing +and odds and ends of necessaries. Outside, from the lashings, depended +a frying pan and cooking pail. In his hand he carried the coffee pot. +Saxon carried a small telescope basket protected by black oilcloth, and +across her back was the tiny ukulele case. + +“We must look like holy frights,” Billy grumbled, shrinking from every +gaze that was bent upon him. + +“It'd be all right, if we were going camping,” Saxon consoled. “Only +we're not.” + +“But they don't know that,” she continued. “It's only you know that, and +what you think they're thinking isn't what they're thinking at all. Most +probably they think we're going camping. And the best of it is we are +going camping. We are! We are!” + +At this Billy cheered up, though he muttered his firm intention to knock +the block off of any guy that got fresh. He stole a glance at Saxon. Her +cheeks were red, her eyes glowing. + +“Say,” he said suddenly. “I seen an opera once, where fellows wandered +over the country with guitars slung on their backs just like you with +that strummy-strum. You made me think of them. They was always singin' +songs.” + +“That's what I brought it along for,” Saxon answered. + +“And when we go down country roads we'll sing as we go along, and we'll +sing by the campfires, too. We're going camping, that's all. Taking a +vacation and seeing the country. So why shouldn't we have a good time? +Why, we don't even know where we're going to sleep to-night, or any +night. Think of the fun!” + +“It's a sporting proposition all right, all right,” Billy considered. +“But, just the same, let's turn off an' go around the block. There's +some fellows I know, standin' up there on the next corner, an' I don't +want to knock THEIR blocks off.” + + + + +BOOK III + + + +CHAPTER I + +The car ran as far as Hayward's, but at Saxon's suggestion they got off +at San Leandro. + +“It doesn't matter where we start walking,” she said, “for start to walk +somewhere we must. And as we're looking for land and finding out about +land, the quicker we begin to investigate the better. Besides, we want +to know all about all kinds of land, close to the big cities as well as +back in the mountains.” + +“Gee!--this must be the Porchugeeze headquarters,” was Billy's +reiterated comment, as they walked through San Leandro. + +“It looks as though they'd crowd our kind out,” Saxon adjudged. + +“Some tall crowdin', I guess,” Billy grumbled. “It looks like the +free-born American ain't got no room left in his own land.” + +“Then it's his own fault,” Saxon said, with vague asperity, resenting +conditions she was just beginning to grasp. + +“Oh, I don't know about that. I reckon the American could do what the +Porchugeeze do if he wanted to. Only he don't want to, thank God. He +ain't much given to livin' like a pig offen leavin's.” + +“Not in the country, maybe,” Saxon controverted. “But I've seen an awful +lot of Americans living like pigs in the cities.” + +Billy grunted unwilling assent. “I guess they quit the farms an' go to +the city for something better, an' get it in the neck.” + +“Look at all the children!” Saxon cried. “School's letting out. And +nearly all are Portuguese, Billy, NOT Porchugeeze. Mercedes taught me +the right way.” + +“They never wore glad rags like them in the old country,” Billy sneered. +“They had to come over here to get decent clothes and decent grub. +They're as fat as butterballs.” + +Saxon nodded affirmation, and a great light seemed suddenly to kindle in +her understanding. + +“That's the very point, Billy. They're doing it--doing it farming, too. +Strikes don't bother THEM.” + +“You don't call that dinky gardening farming,” he objected, pointing to +a piece of land barely the size of an acre, which they were passing. + +“Oh, your ideas are still big,” she laughed. “You're like Uncle Will, +who owned thousands of acres and wanted to own a million, and who wound +up as night watchman. That's what was the trouble with all us Americans. +Everything large scale. Anything less than one hundred and sixty acres +was small scale.” + +“Just the same,” Billy held stubbornly, “large scale's a whole lot +better'n small scale like all these dinky gardens.” + +Saxon sighed. “I don't know which is the dinkier,” she observed finally, +“--owning a few little acres and the team you're driving, or not owning +any acres and driving a team somebody else owns for wages.” + +Billy winced. + +“Go on, Robinson Crusoe,” he growled good naturedly. “Rub it in good +an' plenty. An' the worst of it is it's correct. A hell of a free-born +American I've been, adrivin' other folkses' teams for a livin', +a-strikin' and a-sluggin' scabs, an' not bein' able to keep up with the +installments for a few sticks of furniture. Just the same I was sorry +for one thing. I hated worse 'n Sam Hill to see that Morris chair go +back--you liked it so. We did a lot of honeymoonin' in that chair.” + +They were well out of San Leandro, walking through a region of tiny +holdings--“farmlets,” Billy called them; and Saxon got out her ukulele +to cheer him with a song. + +First, it was “Treat my daughter kind-i-ly,” and then she swung into +old-fashioned darky camp-meeting hymns, beginning with: + +“Oh! de Judgmen' Day am rollin' roun', Rollin', yes, a-rollin', I hear +the trumpets' awful soun', Rollin', yes, a-rollin'.” + +A big touring car, dashing past, threw a dusty pause in her singing, and +Saxon delivered herself of her latest wisdom. + +“Now, Billy, remember we're not going to take up with the first piece of +land we see. We've got to go into this with our eyes open--” + +“An' they ain't open yet,” he agreed. + +“And we've got to get them open. ''Tis them that looks that finds.' +There's lots of time to learn things. We don't care if it takes months +and months. We're footloose. A good start is better than a dozen bad +ones. We've got to talk and find out. We'll talk with everybody we meet. +Ask questions. Ask everybody. It's the only way to find out.” + +“I ain't much of a hand at askin' questions,” Billy demurred. + +“Then I'll ask,” she cried. “We've got to win out at this game, and +the way is to know. Look at all these Portuguese. Where are all the +Americans? They owned the land first, after the Mexicans. What made the +Americans clear out? How do the Portuguese make it go? Don't you see? +We've got to ask millions of questions.” + +She strummed a few chords, and then her clear sweet voice rang out +gaily: + +“I's g'wine back to Dixie, I's g'wine back to Dixie, I's g'wine where de +orange blossoms grow, For I hear de chillun callin', I see de sad tears +fallin'--My heart's turned back to Dixie, An' I mus'go.” + +She broke off to exclaim: “Oh! What a lovely place! See that arbor--just +covered with grapes!” + +Again and again she was attracted by the small places they passed. Now +it was: “Look at the flowers!” or: “My! those vegetables!” or: “See! +They've got a cow!” + +Men--Americans--driving along in buggies or runabouts looked at Saxon +and Billy curiously. This Saxon could brook far easier than could Billy, +who would mutter and grumble deep in his throat. + +Beside the road they came upon a lineman eating his lunch. + +“Stop and talk,” Saxon whispered. + +“Aw, what's the good? He's a lineman. What'd he know about farmin'?” + +“You never can tell. He's our kind. Go ahead, Billy. You just speak to +him. He isn't working now anyway, and he'll be more likely to talk. See +that tree in there, just inside the gate, and the way the branches are +grown together. It's a curiosity. Ask him about it. That's a good way to +get started.” + +Billy stopped, when they were alongside. + +“How do you do,” he said gruffly. + +The lineman, a young fellow, paused in the cracking of a hard-boiled egg +to stare up at the couple. + +“How do you do,” he said. + +Billy swung his pack from his shoulders to the ground, and Saxon rested +her telescope basket. + +“Peddlin'?” the young man asked, too discreet to put his question +directly to Saxon, yet dividing it between her and Billy, and cocking +his eye at the covered basket. + +“No,” she spoke up quickly. “We're looking for land. Do you know of any +around here?” + +Again he desisted from the egg, studying them with sharp eyes as if to +fathom their financial status. + +“Do you know what land sells for around here?” he asked. + +“No,” Saxon answered. “Do you?” + +“I guess I ought to. I was born here. And land like this all around you +runs at from two to three hundred to four an' five hundred dollars an +acre.” + +“Whew!” Billy whistled. “I guess we don't want none of it.” + +“But what makes it that high? Town lots?” Saxon wanted to know. + +“Nope. The Porchugeeze make it that high, I guess.” + +“I thought it was pretty good land that fetched a hundred an acre,” + Billy said. + +“Oh, them times is past. They used to give away land once, an' if you +was good, throw in all the cattle runnin' on it.” + +“How about government land around here?” was Billy'a next query. + +“Ain't none, an' never was. This was old Mexican grants. My grandfather +bought sixteen hundred of the best acres around here for fifteen +hundred dollars--five hundred down an' the balance in five years without +interest. But that was in the early days. He come West in '48, tryin' to +find a country without chills an' fever.” + +“He found it all right,” said Billy. + +“You bet he did. An' if him an' father 'd held onto the land it'd been +better than a gold mine, an' I wouldn't be workin' for a livin'. What's +your business?” + +“Teamster.” + +“Ben in the strike in Oakland?” + +“Sure thing. I've teamed there most of my life.” + +Here the two men wandered off into a discussion of union affairs and the +strike situation; but Saxon refused to be balked, and brought back the +talk to the land. + +“How was it the Portuguese ran up the price of land?” she asked. + +The young fellow broke away from union matters with an effort, and for a +moment regarded her with lack luster eyes, until the question sank into +his consciousness. + +“Because they worked the land overtime. Because they worked mornin', +noon, an' night, all hands, women an' kids. Because they could get more +out of twenty acres than we could out of a hundred an' sixty. Look at +old Silva--Antonio Silva. I've known him ever since I was a shaver. +He didn't have the price of a square meal when he hit this section and +begun leasin' land from my folks. Look at him now--worth two hundred +an' fifty thousan' cold, an' I bet he's got credit for a million, an' +there's no tellin' what the rest of his family owns.” + +“And he made all that out of your folks' land?” Saxon demanded. + +The young man nodded his head with evident reluctance. + +“Then why didn't your folks do it?” she pursued. + +The lineman shrugged his shoulders. + +“Search me,” he said. + +“But the money was in the land,” she persisted. + +“Blamed if it was,” came the retort, tinged slightly with color. “We +never saw it stickin' out so as you could notice it. The money was in +the hands of the Porchugeeze, I guess. They knew a few more 'n we did, +that's all.” + +Saxon showed such dissatisfaction with his explanation that he was stung +to action. He got up wrathfully. “Come on, an' I'll show you,” he +said. “I'll show you why I'm workin' for wages when I might a-ben a +millionaire if my folks hadn't been mutts. That's what we old Americans +are, Mutts, with a capital M.” + +He led them inside the gate, to the fruit tree that had first attracted +Saxon's attention. From the main crotch diverged the four main branches +of the tree. Two feet above the crotch the branches were connected, each +to the ones on both sides, by braces of living wood. + +“You think it growed that way, eh? Well, it did. But it was old Silva +that made it just the same--caught two sprouts, when the tree was young, +an' twisted 'em together. Pretty slick, eh? You bet. That tree'll never +blow down. It's a natural, springy brace, an' beats iron braces stiff. +Look along all the rows. Every tree's that way. See? An' that's just one +trick of the Porchugeeze. They got a million like it. + +“Figure it out for yourself. They don't need props when the crop's +heavy. Why, when we had a heavy crop, we used to use five props to +a tree. Now take ten acres of trees. That'd be some several thousan' +props. Which cost money, an' labor to put in an' take out every year. +These here natural braces don't have to have a thing done. They're +Johnny-on-the-spot all the time. Why, the Porchugeeze has got us skinned +a mile. Come on, I'll show you.” + +Billy, with city notions of trespass, betrayed perturbation at the +freedom they were making of the little farm. + +“Oh, it's all right, as long as you don't step on nothin',” the lineman +reassured him. “Besides, my grandfather used to own this. They know me. +Forty years ago old Silva come from the Azores. Went sheep-herdin' in +the mountains for a couple of years, then blew in to San Leandro. These +five acres was the first land he leased. That was the beginnin'. Then he +began leasin' by the hundreds of acres, an' by the hundred-an'-sixties. +An' his sisters an' his uncles an' his aunts begun pourin' in from the +Azores--they're all related there, you know; an' pretty soon San Leandro +was a regular Porchugeeze settlement. + +“An' old Silva wound up by buyin' these five acres from grandfather. +Pretty soon--an' father by that time was in the hole to the neck--he was +buyin' father's land by the hundred-an'-sixties. An' all the rest of +his relations was doin' the same thing. Father was always gettin' rich +quick, an' he wound up by dyin' in debt. But old Silva never overlooked +a bet, no matter how dinky. An' all the rest are just like him. You +see outside the fence there, clear to the wheel-tracks in the +road--horse-beans. We'd a-scorned to do a picayune thing like that. Not +Silva. Why he's got a town house in San Leandro now. An' he rides around +in a four-thousan'-dollar tourin' car. An' just the same his front door +yard grows onions clear to the sidewalk. He clears three hundred a year +on that patch alone. I know ten acres of land he bought last year,--a +thousan' an acre they asked'm, an' he never batted an eye. He knew it +was worth it, that's all. He knew he could make it pay. Back in the +hills, there, he's got a ranch of five hundred an' eighty acres, bought +it dirt cheap, too; an' I want to tell you I could travel around in a +different tourin' car every day in the week just outa the profits he +makes on that ranch from the horses all the way from heavy draughts to +fancy steppers. + +“But how?--how?--how did he get it all?” Saxon clamored. + +“By bein' wise to farmin'. Why, the whole blame family works. They +ain't ashamed to roll up their sleeves an' dig--sons an' daughters an' +daughter-in-laws, old man, old woman, an' the babies. They have a sayin' +that a kid four years old that can't pasture one cow on the county road +an' keep it fat ain't worth his salt. Why, the Silvas, the whole tribe +of 'em, works a hundred acres in peas, eighty in tomatoes, thirty in +asparagus, ten in pie-plant, forty in cucumbers, an'--oh, stacks of +other things.” + +“But how do they do it?” Saxon continued to demand. “We've never been +ashamed to work. We've worked hard all our lives. I can out-work any +Portuguese woman ever born. And I've done it, too, in the jute mills. +There were lots of Portuguese girls working at the looms all around me, +and I could out-weave them, every day, and I did, too. It isn't a case +of work. What is it?” + +The lineman looked at her in a troubled way. + +“Many's the time I've asked myself that same question. 'We're better'n +these cheap emigrants,' I'd say to myself. 'We was here first, an' owned +the land. I can lick any Dago that ever hatched in the Azores. I got a +better education. Then how in thunder do they put it all over us, get +our land, an' start accounts in the banks?' An' the only answer I know +is that we ain't got the sabe. We don't use our head-pieces right. +Something's wrong with us. Anyway, we wasn't wised up to farming. We +played at it. Show you? That's what I brung you in for--the way old +Silva an' all his tribe farms. Look at this place. Some cousin of his, +just out from the Azores, is makin' a start on it, an' payin' good rent +to Silva. Pretty soon he'll be up to snuff an' buyin' land for himself +from some perishin' American farmer. + +“Look at that--though you ought to see it in summer. Not an inch wasted. +Where we got one thin crop, they get four fat crops. An' look at the way +they crowd it--currants between the tree rows, beans between the currant +rows, a row of beans close on each side of the trees, an' rows of beans +along the ends of the tree rows. Why, Silva wouldn't sell these five +acres for five hundred an acre cash down. He gave grandfather fifty +an acre for it on long time, an' here am I, workin' for the telephone +company an' putting' in a telephone for old Silva's cousin from the +Azores that can't speak American yet. Horse-beans along the road--say, +when Silva swung that trick he made more outa fattenin' hogs with 'em +than grandfather made with all his farmin'. Grandfather stuck up his +nose at horse-beans. He died with it stuck up, an' with more mortgages +on the land he had left than you could shake a stick at. Plantin' +tomatoes wrapped up in wrappin' paper--ever heard of that? Father +snorted when he first seen the Porchugeeze doin' it. An' he went on +snortin'. Just the same they got bumper crops, an' father's house-patch +of tomatoes was eaten by the black beetles. We ain't got the sabe, +or the knack, or something or other. Just look at this piece of +ground--four crops a year, an' every inch of soil workin' over time. +Why, back in town there, there's single acres that earns more than fifty +of ours in the old days. The Porchugeeze is natural-born farmers, that's +all, an' we don't know nothin' about farmin' an' never did.” + +Saxon talked with the lineman, following him about, till one o'clock, +when he looked at his watch, said good bye, and returned to his task of +putting in a telephone for the latest immigrant from the Azores. + +When in town, Saxon carried her oilcloth-wrapped telescope in her hand; +but it was so arranged with loops, that, once on the road, she could +thrust her arms through the loops and carry it on her back. When she did +this, the tiny ukulele case was shifted so that it hung under her left +arm. + +A mile on from the lineman, they stopped where a small creek, fringed +with brush, crossed the county road. Billy was for the cold lunch, which +was the last meal Saxon had prepared in the Pine street cottage; but +she was determined upon building a fire and boiling coffee. Not that she +desired it for herself, but that she was impressed with the idea +that everything at the starting of their strange wandering must be as +comfortable as possible for Billy's sake. Bent on inspiring him with +enthusiasm equal to her own, she declined to dampen what sparks he had +caught by anything so uncheerful as a cold meal. + +“Now one thing we want to get out of our heads right at the start, +Billy, is that we're in a hurry. We're not in a hurry, and we don't care +whether school keeps or not. We're out to have a good time, a regular +adventure like you read about in books.--My! I wish that boy that took +me fishing to Goat Island could see me now. Oakland was just a place +to start from, he said. And, well, we've started, haven't we? And right +here's where we stop and boil coffee. You get the fire going, Billy, and +I'll get the water and the things ready to spread out.” + +“Say,” Billy remarked, while they waited for the water to boil, “d'ye +know what this reminds me of?” + +Saxon was certain she did know, but she shook her head. She wanted to +hear him say it. + +“Why, the second Sunday I knew you, when we drove out to Moraga Valley +behind Prince and King. You spread the lunch that day.” + +“Only it was a more scrumptious lunch,” she added, with a happy smile. + +“But I wonder why we didn't have coffee that day,” he went on. + +“Perhaps it would have been too much like housekeeping,” she laughed; +“kind of what Mary would call indelicate--” + +“Or raw,” Billy interpolated. “She was always springin' that word.” + +“And yet look what became of her.” + +“That's the way with all of them,” Billy growled somberly. “I've always +noticed it's the fastidious, la-de-da ones that turn out the rottenest. +They're like some horses I know, a-shyin' at the things they're the +least afraid of.” + +Saxon was silent, oppressed by a sadness, vague and remote, which the +mention of Bert's widow had served to bring on. + +“I know something else that happened that day which you'd never guess,” + Billy reminisced. “I bet you couldn't. + +“I wonder,” Saxon murmured, and guessed it with her eyes. + +Billy's eyes answered, and quite spontaneously he reached over, caught +her hand, and pressed it caressingly to his cheek. + +“It's little, but oh my,” he said, addressing the imprisoned hand. +Then he gazed at Saxon, and she warmed with his words. “We're beginnin' +courtin' all over again, ain't we?” + +Both ate heartily, and Billy was guilty of three cups of coffee. + +“Say, this country air gives some appetite,” he mumbled, as he sank his +teeth into his fifth bread-and-meat sandwich. “I could eat a horse, an' +drown his head off in coffee afterward.” + +Saxon's mind had reverted to all the young lineman had told her, and +she completed a sort of general resume of the information. “My!” she +exclaimed, “but we've learned a lot!” + +“An' we've sure learned one thing,” Billy said. “An' that is that this +is no place for us, with land a thousan' an acre an' only twenty dollars +in our pockets.” + +“Oh, we're not going to stop here,” she hastened to say. + +“But just the same it's the Portuguese that gave it its price, and they +make things go on it--send their children to school... and have them; +and, as you said yourself, they're as fat as butterballs.” + +“An' I take my hat off to them,” Billy responded. + +“But all the same, I'd sooner have forty acres at a hundred an acre than +four at a thousan' an acre. Somehow, you know, I'd be scared stiff on +four acres--scared of fallin' off, you know.” + +She was in full sympathy with him. In her heart of hearts the forty +acres tugged much the harder. In her way, allowing for the difference +of a generation, her desire for spaciousness was as strong as her Uncle +Will's. + +“Well, we're not going to stop here,” she assured Billy. “We're going +in, not for forty acres, but for a hundred and sixty acres free from the +government.” + +“An' I guess the government owes it to us for what our fathers an' +mothers done. I tell you, Saxon, when a woman walks across the plains +like your mother done, an' a man an' wife gets massacred by the Indians +like my grandfather an' mother done, the government does owe them +something.” + +“Well, it's up to us to collect.” + +“An' we'll collect all right, all right, somewhere down in them redwood +mountains south of Monterey.” + + + +CHAPTER II + +It was a good afternoon's tramp to Niles, passing through the town of +Haywards; yet Saxon and Billy found time to diverge from the main county +road and take the parallel roads through acres of intense cultivation +where the land was farmed to the wheel-tracks. Saxon looked with +amazement at these small, brown-skinned immigrants who came to the soil +with nothing and yet made the soil pay for itself to the tune of two +hundred, of five hundred, and of a thousand dollars an acre. + +On every hand was activity. Women and children were in the fields as +well as men. The land was turned endlessly over and over. They seemed +never to let it rest. And it rewarded them. It must reward them, or +their children would not be able to go to school, nor would so many of +them be able to drive by in rattletrap, second-hand buggies or in stout +light wagons. + +“Look at their faces,” Saxon said. “They are happy and contented. They +haven't faces like the people in our neighborhood after the strikes +began.” + +“Oh, sure, they got a good thing,” Billy agreed. “You can see it +stickin' out all over them. But they needn't get chesty with ME, I can +tell you that much--just because they've jiggerooed us out of our land +an' everything.” + +“But they're not showing any signs of chestiness,” Saxon demurred. + +“No, they're not, come to think of it. All the same, they ain't so wise. +I bet I could tell 'em a few about horses.” + +It was sunset when they entered the little town of Niles. Billy, who had +been silent for the last half mile, hesitantly ventured a suggestion. + +“Say... I could put up for a room in the hotel just as well as not. What +d 'ye think?” + +But Saxon shook her head emphatically. + +“How long do you think our twenty dollars will last at that rate? +Besides, the only way to begin is to begin at the beginning. We didn't +plan sleeping in hotels.” + +“All right,” he gave in. “I'm game. I was just thinkin' about you.” + +“Then you'd better think I'm game, too,” she flashed forgivingly. “And +now we'll have to see about getting things for supper.” + +They bought a round steak, potatoes, onions, and a dozen eating apples, +then went out from the town to the fringe of trees and brush that +advertised a creek. Beside the trees, on a sand bank, they pitched +camp. Plenty of dry wood lay about, and Billy whistled genially while he +gathered and chopped. Saxon, keen to follow his every mood, was cheered +by the atrocious discord on his lips. She smiled to herself as she +spread the blankets, with the tarpaulin underneath, for a table, having +first removed all twigs from the sand. She had much to learn in the +matter of cooking over a camp-fire, and made fair progress, discovering, +first of all, that control of the fire meant far more than the size of +it. When the coffee was boiled, she settled the grounds with a part-cup +of cold water and placed the pot on the edge of the coals where it would +keep hot and yet not boil. She fried potato dollars and onions in the +same pan, but separately, and set them on top of the coffee pot in the +tin plate she was to eat from, covering it with Billy's inverted plate. +On the dry hot pan, in the way that delighted Billy, she fried the +steak. This completed, and while Billy poured the coffee, she served +the steak, putting the dollars and onions back into the frying pan for a +moment to make them piping hot again. + +“What more d'ye want than this?” Billy challenged with deep-toned +satisfaction, in the pause after his final cup of coffee, while he +rolled a cigarette. He lay on his side, full length, resting on his +elbow. The fire was burning brightly, and Saxon's color was heightened +by the flickering flames. “Now our folks, when they was on the move, had +to be afraid for Indians, and wild animals and all sorts of things; an' +here we are, as safe as bugs in a rug. Take this sand. What better bed +could you ask? Soft as feathers. Say--you look good to me, heap little +squaw. I bet you don't look an inch over sixteen right now, Mrs. +Babe-in-the-Woods.” + +“Don't I?” she glowed, with a flirt of the head sideward and a white +flash of teeth. “If you weren't smoking a cigarette I'd ask you if your +mother knew you're out, Mr. Babe-in-the-Sandbank.” + +“Say,” he began, with transparently feigned seriousness. “I want to ask +you something, if you don't mind. Now, of course, I don't want to hurt +your feelin's or nothin', but just the same there's something important +I'd like to know.” + +“Well, what is it?” she inquired, after a fruitless wait. + +“Well, it's just this, Saxon. I like you like anything an' all that, +but here's night come on, an' we're a thousand miles from anywhere, +and--well, what I wanta know is: are we really an' truly married, you +an' me?” + +“Really and truly,” she assured him. “Why?” + +“Oh, nothing; but I'd kind a-forgotten, an' I was gettin' embarrassed, +you know, because if we wasn't, seein' the way I was brought up, this'd +be no place--” + +“That will do you,” she said severely. “And this is just the time and +place for you to get in the firewood for morning while I wash up the +dishes and put the kitchen in order.” + +He started to obey, but paused to throw his arm about her and draw +her close. Neither spoke, but when he went his way Saxon's breast was +fluttering and a song of thanksgiving breathed on her lips. + +The night had come on, dim with the light of faint stars. But these had +disappeared behind clouds that seemed to have arisen from nowhere. It +was the beginning of California Indian summer. The air was warm, with +just the first hint of evening chill, and there was no wind. + +“I've a feeling as if we've just started to live,” Saxon said, when +Billy, his firewood collected, joined her on the blankets before the +fire. “I've learned more to-day than ten years in Oakland.” She drew a +long breath and braced her shoulders. “Farming's a bigger subject than I +thought.” + +Billy said nothing. With steady eyes he was staring into the fire, and +she knew he was turning something over in his mind. + +“What is it,” she asked, when she saw he had reached a conclusion, at +the same time resting her hand on the back of his. + +“Just been framin' up that ranch of ourn,” he answered. “It's all +well enough, these dinky farmlets. They'll do for foreigners. But we +Americans just gotta have room. I want to be able to look at a hilltop +an' know it's my land, and know it's my land down the other side an' up +the next hilltop, an' know that over beyond that, down alongside some +creek, my mares are most likely grazin', an' their little colts grazin' +with 'em or kickin' up their heels. You know, there's money in raisin' +horses--especially the big workhorses that run to eighteen hundred an' +two thousand pounds. They're payin' for 'em, in the cities, every day in +the year, seven an' eight hundred a pair, matched geldings, four years +old. Good pasture an' plenty of it, in this kind of a climate, is all +they need, along with some sort of shelter an' a little hay in long +spells of bad weather. I never thought of it before, but let me tell you +that this ranch proposition is beginnin' to look good to ME.” + +Saxon was all excitement. Here was new information on the cherished +subject, and, best of all, Billy was the authority. Still better, he was +taking an interest himself. + +“There'll be room for that and for everything on a quarter section,” she +encouraged. + +“Sure thing. Around the house we'll have vegetables an' fruit and +chickens an' everything, just like the Porchugeeze, an' plenty of room +beside to walk around an' range the horses.” + +“But won't the colts cost money, Billy?” + +“Not much. The cobblestones eat horses up fast. That's where I'll get my +brood mares, from the ones knocked out by the city. I know THAT end of +it. They sell 'em at auction, an' they're good for years an' years, only +no good on the cobbles any more.” + +There ensued a long pause. In the dying fire both were busy visioning +the farm to be. + +“It's pretty still, ain't it?” Billy said, rousing himself at last. +He gazed about him. “An' black as a stack of black cats.” He shivered, +buttoned his coat, and tossed several sticks on the fire. “Just the +same, it's the best kind of a climate in the world. Many's the time, +when I was a little kid, I've heard my father brag about California's +bein' a blanket climate. He went East, once, an' staid a summer an' a +winter, an' got all he wanted. Never again for him.” + +“My mother said there never was such a land for climate. How wonderful +it must have seemed to them after crossing the deserts and mountains. +They called it the land of milk and honey. The ground was so rich that +all they needed to do was scratch it, Cady used to say.” + +“And wild game everywhere,” Billy contributed. “Mr. Roberts, the one +that adopted my father, he drove cattle from the San Joaquin to the +Columbia river. He had forty men helpin' him, an' all they took along +was powder an' salt. They lived off the game they shot.” + +“The hills were full of deer, and my mother saw whole herds of elk +around Santa Rosa. Some time we'll go there, Billy. I've always wanted +to.” + +“And when my father was a young man, somewhere up north of Sacramento, +in a creek called Cache Slough, the tules was full of grizzlies. He used +to go in an' shoot 'em. An' when they caught 'em in the open, he an' +the Mexicans used to ride up an' rope them--catch them with lariats, you +know. He said a horse that wasn't afraid of grizzlies fetched ten times +as much as any other horse. An' panthers!--all the old folks called 'em +painters an' catamounts an' varmints. Yes, we'll go to Santa Rosa some +time. Maybe we won't like that land down the coast, an' have to keep on +hikin'.” + +By this time the fire had died down, and Saxon had finished brushing and +braiding her hair. Their bed-going preliminaries were simple, and in a +few minutes they were side by side under the blankets. Saxon closed her +eyes, but could not sleep. On the contrary, she had never been more wide +awake. She had never slept out of doors in her life, and by no exertion +of will could she overcome the strangeness of it. In addition, she +was stiffened from the long trudge, and the sand, to her surprise, was +anything but soft. An hour passed. She tried to believe that Billy was +asleep, but felt certain he was not. The sharp crackle of a dying ember +startled her. She was confident that Billy had moved slightly. + +“Billy,” she whispered, “are you awake?” + +“Yep,” came his low answer, “--an' thinkin' this sand is harder'n a +cement floor. It's one on me, all right. But who'd a-thought it?” + +Both shifted their postures slightly, but vain was the attempt to escape +from the dull, aching contact of the sand. + +An abrupt, metallic, whirring noise of some nearby cricket gave Saxon +another startle. She endured the sound for some minutes, until Billy +broke forth. + +“Say, that gets my goat whatever it is.” + +“Do you think it's a rattlesnake?” she asked, maintaining a calmness she +did not feel. + +“Just what I've been thinkin'.” + +“I saw two, in the window of Bowman's Drug Store. An' you know, Billy, +they've got a hollow fang, and when they stick it into you the poison +runs down the hollow.” + +“Br-r-r-r,” Billy shivered, in fear that was not altogether mockery. +“Certain death, everybody says, unless you're a Bosco. Remember him?” + +“He eats 'em alive! He eats 'em alive! Bosco! Bosco!” Saxon responded, +mimicking the cry of a side-show barker. “Just the same, all Bosco's +rattlers had the poison-sacs cut outa them. They must a-had. Gee! It's +funny I can't get asleep. I wish that damned thing'd close its trap. I +wonder if it is a rattlesnake.” + +“No; it can't be,” Saxon decided. “All the rattlesnakes are killed off +long ago.” + +“Then where did Bosco get his?” Billy demanded with unimpeachable logic. +“An' why don't you get to sleep?” + +“Because it's all new, I guess,” was her reply. “You see, I never camped +out in my life.” + +“Neither did I. An' until now I always thought it was a lark.” He +changed his position on the maddening sand and sighed heavily. “But +we'll get used to it in time, I guess. What other folks can do, we can, +an' a mighty lot of 'em has camped out. It's all right. Here we are, +free an' independent, no rent to pay, our own bosses--” + +He stopped abruptly. From somewhere in the brush came an intermittent +rustling. When they tried to locate it, it mysteriously ceased, and +when the first hint of drowsiness stole upon them the rustling as +mysteriously recommenced. + +“It sounds like something creeping up on us,” Saxon suggested, snuggling +closer to Billy. + +“Well, it ain't a wild Indian, at all events,” was the best he could +offer in the way of comfort. He yawned deliberately. “Aw, shucks! What's +there to be scared of? Think of what all the pioneers went through.” + +Several minutes later his shoulders began to shake, and Saxon knew he +was giggling. + +“I was just thinkin' of a yarn my father used to tell about,” he +explained. “It was about old Susan Kleghorn, one of the Oregon pioneer +women. Wall-Eyed Susan, they used to call her; but she could shoot to +beat the band. Once, on the Plains, the wagon train she was in, was +attacked by Indians. They got all the wagons in a circle, an' all hands +an' the oxen inside, an' drove the Indians off, killin' a lot of 'em. +They was too strong that way, so what'd the Indians do, to draw 'em out +into the open, but take two white girls, captured from some other train, +an' begin to torture 'em. They done it just out of gunshot, but so +everybody could see. The idea was that the white men couldn't stand it, +an' would rush out, an' then the Indians'd have 'em where they wanted +'em. + +“The white men couldn't do a thing. If they rushed out to save the +girls, they'd be finished, an' then the Indians'd rush the train. It +meant death to everybody. But what does old Susan do, but get out an +old, long-barreled Kentucky rifle. She rams down about three times the +regular load of powder, takes aim at a big buck that's pretty busy at +the torturin', an' bangs away. It knocked her clean over backward, an' +her shoulder was lame all the rest of the way to Oregon, but she dropped +the big Indian deado. He never knew what struck 'm. + +“But that wasn't the yarn I wanted to tell. It seems old Susan liked +John Barleycorn. She'd souse herself to the ears every chance she got. +An' her sons an' daughters an' the old man had to be mighty careful not +to leave any around where she could get hands on it.” + +“On what?” asked Saxon. + +“On John Barleycorn.--Oh, you ain't on to that. It's the old fashioned +name for whisky. Well, one day all the folks was goin' away--that was +over somewhere at a place called Bodega, where they'd settled after +comin' down from Oregon. An' old Susan claimed her rheumatics was +hurtin' her an' so she couldn't go. But the family was on. There was +a two-gallon demijohn of whisky in the house. They said all right, but +before they left they sent one of the grandsons to climb a big tree in +the barnyard, where he tied the demijohn sixty feet from the ground. +Just the same, when they come home that night they found Susan on the +kitchen floor dead to the world.” + +“And she'd climbed the tree after all,” Saxon hazarded, when Billy had +shown no inclination of going on. + +“Not on your life,” he laughed jubilantly. “All she'd done was to put +a washtub on the ground square under the demijohn. Then she got out her +old rifle an' shot the demijohn to smithereens, an' all she had to do +was lap the whisky outa the tub.” + +Again Saxon was drowsing, when the rustling sound was heard, this time +closer. To her excited apprehension there was something stealthy about +it, and she imagined a beast of prey creeping upon them. “Billy,” she +whispered. + +“Yes, I'm a-listenin' to it,” came his wide awake answer. + +“Mightn't that be a panther, or maybe... a wildcat?” + +“It can't be. All the varmints was killed off long ago. This is +peaceable farmin' country.” + +A vagrant breeze sighed through the trees and made Saxon shiver. The +mysterious cricket-noise ceased with suspicious abruptness. Then, from +the rustling noise, ensued a dull but heavy thump that caused both Saxon +and Billy to sit up in the blankets. There were no further sounds, and +they lay down again, though the very silence now seemed ominous. + +“Huh,” Billy muttered with relief. “As though I don't know what it was. +It was a rabbit. I've heard tame ones bang their hind feet down on the +floor that way.” + +In vain Saxon tried to win sleep. The sand grew harder with the passage +of time. Her flesh and her bones ached from contact with it. And, though +her reason flouted any possibility of wild dangers, her fancy went on +picturing them with unflagging zeal. + +A new sound commenced. It was neither a rustling nor a rattling, and +it tokened some large body passing through the brush. Sometimes twigs +crackled and broke, and, once, they heard bush-branches press aside and +spring back into place. + +“If that other thing was a panther, this is an elephant,” was Billy's +uncheering opinion. “It's got weight. Listen to that. An' it's comin' +nearer.” + +There were frequent stoppages, then the sounds would begin again, always +louder, always closer. Billy sat up in the blankets once more, passing +one arm around Saxon, who had also sat up. + +“I ain't slept a wink,” he complained. “--There it goes again. I wish I +could see.” + +“It makes a noise big enough for a grizzly,” Saxon chattered, partly +from nervousness, partly from the chill of the night. + +“It ain't no grasshopper, that's sure.” + +Billy started to leave the blankets, but Saxon caught his arm. + +“What are you going to do?” + +“Oh, I ain't scairt none,” he answered. “But, honest to God, this is +gettin' on my nerves. If I don't find what that thing is, it'll give me +the willies. I'm just goin' to reconnoiter. I won't go close.” + +So intensely dark was the night, that the moment Billy crawled beyond +the reach of her hand he was lost to sight. She sat and waited. The +sound had ceased, though she could follow Billy's progress by the +cracking of dry twigs and limbs. After a few moments he returned and +crawled under the blankets. + +“I scared it away, I guess. It's got better ears, an' when it heard me +comin' it skinned out most likely. I did my dangdest, too, not to make a +sound.--O Lord, there it goes again.” + +They sat up. Saxon nudged Billy. + +“There,” she warned, in the faintest of whispers. “I can hear it +breathing. It almost made a snort.” + +A dead branch cracked loudly, and so near at hand, that both of them +jumped shamelessly. + +“I ain't goin' to stand any more of its foolin',” Billy declared +wrathfully. “It'll be on top of us if I don't.” + +“What are you going to do?” she queried anxiously. + +“Yell the top of my head off. I'll get a fall outa whatever it is.” + +He drew a deep breath and emitted a wild yell. + +The result far exceeded any expectation he could have entertained, and +Saxon's heart leaped up in sheer panic. On the instant the darkness +erupted into terrible sound and movement. There were trashings +of underbrush and lunges and plunges of heavy bodies in different +directions. Fortunately for their ease of mind, all these sounds receded +and died away. + +“An' what d'ye think of that?” Billy broke the silence. + +“Gee! all the fight fans used to say I was scairt of nothin'. Just the +same I'm glad they ain't seein' me to-night.” + +He groaned. “I've got all I want of that blamed sand. I'm goin' to get +up and start the fire.” + +This was easy. Under the ashes were live embers which quickly ignited +the wood he threw on. A few stars were peeping out in the misty zenith. +He looked up at them, deliberated, and started to move away. + +“Where are you going now?” Saxon called. + +“Oh, I've got an idea,” he replied noncommittally, and walked boldly +away beyond the circle of the firelight. + +Saxon sat with the blankets drawn closely under her chin, and admired +his courage. He had not even taken the hatchet, and he was going in the +direction in which the disturbance had died away. + +Ten minutes later he came back chuckling. + +“The sons-of-guns, they got my goat all right. I'll be scairt of my +own shadow next.--What was they? Huh! You couldn't guess in a thousand +years. A bunch of half-grown calves, an' they was worse scairt than us.” + +He smoked a cigarette by the fire, then rejoined Saxon under the +blankets. + +“A hell of a farmer I'll make,” he chafed, “when a lot of little calves +can scare the stuffin' outa me. I bet your father or mine wouldn't +a-batted an eye. The stock has gone to seed, that's what it has.” + +“No, it hasn't,” Saxon defended. “The stock is all right. We're just +as able as our folks ever were, and we're healthier on top of it. We've +been brought up different, that's all. We've lived in cities all our +lives. We know the city sounds and thugs, but we don't know the country +ones. Our training has been unnatural, that's the whole thing in a +nutshell. Now we're going in for natural training. Give us a little +time, and we'll sleep as sound out of doors as ever your father or mine +did.” + +“But not on sand,” Billy groaned. + +“We won't try. That's one thing, for good and all, we've learned the +very first time. And now hush up and go to sleep.” + +Their fears had vanished, but the sand, receiving now their undivided +attention, multiplied its unyieldingness. Billy dozed off first, and +roosters were crowing somewhere in the distance when Saxon's eyes +closed. But they could not escape the sand, and their sleep was fitful. + +At the first gray of dawn, Billy crawled out and built a roaring fire. +Saxon drew up to it shiveringly. They were hollow-eyed and weary. Saxon +began to laugh. Billy joined sulkily, then brightened up as his eyes +chanced upon the coffee pot, which he immediately put on to boil. + + + +CHAPTER III + +It is forty miles from Oakland to San Jose, and Saxon and Billy +accomplished it in three easy days. No more obliging and angrily +garrulous linemen were encountered, and few were the opportunities for +conversation with chance wayfarers. Numbers of tramps, carrying rolls of +blankets, were met, traveling both north and south on the county road; +and from talks with them Saxon quickly learned that they knew little or +nothing about farming. They were mostly old men, feeble or besotted, and +all they knew was work--where jobs might be good, where jobs had been +good; but the places they mentioned were always a long way off. One +thing she did glean from them, and that was that the district she and +Billy were passing through was “small-farmer” country in which labor was +rarely hired, and that when it was it generally was Portuguese. + +The farmers themselves were unfriendly. They drove by Billy and Saxon, +often with empty wagons, but never invited them to ride. When chance +offered and Saxon did ask questions, they looked her over curiously, or +suspiciously, and gave ambiguous and facetious answers. + +“They ain't Americans, damn them,” Billy fretted. “Why, in the old days +everybody was friendly to everybody.” + +But Saxon remembered her last talk with her brother. + +“It's the spirit of the times, Billy. The spirit has changed. Besides, +these people are too near. Wait till we get farther away from the +cities, then we'll find them more friendly.” + +“A measly lot these ones are,” he sneered. + +“Maybe they've a right to be,” she laughed. “For all you know, more than +one of the scabs you've slugged were sons of theirs.” + +“If I could only hope so,” Billy said fervently. “But I don't care if I +owned ten thousand acres, any man hikin' with his blankets might be just +as good a man as me, an' maybe better, for all I'd know. I'd give 'm the +benefit of the doubt, anyway.” + +Billy asked for work, at first, indiscriminately, later, only at the +larger farms. The unvarying reply was that there was no work. A few said +there would be plowing after the first rains. Here and there, in a small +way, dry plowing was going on. But in the main the farmers were waiting. + +“But do you know how to plow?” Saxon asked Billy. + +“No; but I guess it ain't much of a trick to turn. Besides, next man I +see plowing I'm goin' to get a lesson from.” + +In the mid-afternoon of the second day his opportunity came. He climbed +on top of the fence of a small field and watched an old man plow round +and round it. + +“Aw, shucks, just as easy as easy,” Billy commented scornfully. “If an +old codger like that can handle one plow, I can handle two.” + +“Go on and try it,” Saxon urged. + +“What's the good?” + +“Cold feet,” she jeered, but with a smiling face. “All you have to do +is ask him. All he can do is say no. And what if he does? You faced the +Chicago Terror twenty rounds without flinching.” + +“Aw, but it's different,” he demurred, then dropped to the ground inside +the fence. “Two to one the old geezer turns me down.” + +“No, he won't. Just tell him you want to learn, and ask him if he'll let +you drive around a few times. Tell him it won't cost him anything.” + +“Huh! If he gets chesty I'll take his blamed plow away from him.” + +From the top of the fence, but too far away to hear, Saxon watched the +colloquy. After several minutes, the lines were transferred to Billy's +neck, the handles to his hands. Then the team started, and the old man, +delivering a rapid fire of instructions, walked alongside of Billy. When +a few turns had been made, the farmer crossed the plowed strip to Saxon, +and joined her on the rail. + +“He's plowed before, a little mite, ain't he?” + +Saxon shook her head. + +“Never in his life. But he knows how to drive horses.” + +“He showed he wasn't all greenhorn, an' he learns pretty quick.” Here +the farmer chuckled and cut himself a chew from a plug of tobacco. “I +reckon he won't tire me out a-settin' here.” + +The unplowed area grew smaller and smaller, but Billy evinced no +intention of quitting, and his audience on the fence was deep in +conversation. Saxon's questions flew fast and furious, and she was not +long in concluding that the old man bore a striking resemblance to the +description the lineman had given of his father. + +Billy persisted till the field was finished, and the old man invited him +and Saxon to stop for the night. There was a disused outbuilding where +they would find a small cook stove, he said, and also he would give them +fresh milk. Further, if Saxon wanted to test HER desire for farming, she +could try her hand on the cow. + +The milking lesson did not prove as successful as Billy's plowing; but +when he had mocked sufficiently, Saxon challenged him to try, and +he failed as grievously as she. Saxon had eyes and questions for +everything, and it did not take her long to realize that she was +looking upon the other side of the farming shield. Farm and farmer were +old-fashioned. There was no intensive cultivation. There was too much +land too little farmed. Everything was slipshod. House and barn and +outbuildings were fast falling into ruin. The front yard was weed-grown. +There was no vegetable garden. The small orchard was old, sickly, and +neglected. The trees were twisted, spindling, and overgrown with a gray +moss. The sons and daughters were away in the cities, Saxon found out. +One daughter had married a doctor, the other was a teacher in the state +normal school; one son was a locomotive engineer, the second was an +architect, and the third was a police court reporter in San Francisco. +On occasion, the father said, they helped out the old folks. + +“What do you think?” Saxon asked Billy as he smoked his after-supper +cigarette. + +His shoulders went up in a comprehensive shrug. + +“Huh! That's easy. The old geezer's like his orchard--covered with moss. +It's plain as the nose on your face, after San Leandro, that he don't +know the first thing. An' them horses. It'd be a charity to him, an' a +savin' of money for him, to take 'em out an' shoot 'em both. You bet you +don't see the Porchugeeze with horses like them. An' it ain't a case of +bein' proud, or puttin' on side, to have good horses. It's brass tacks +an' business. It pays. That's the game. Old horses eat more 'n young +ones to keep in condition an' they can't do the same amount of work. But +you bet it costs just as much to shoe them. An' his is scrub on top of +it. Every minute he has them horses he's losin' money. You oughta see +the way they work an' figure horses in the city.” + +They slept soundly, and, after an early breakfast, prepared to start. + +“I'd like to give you a couple of days' work,” the old man regretted, at +parting, “but I can't see it. The ranch just about keeps me and the old +woman, now that the children are gone. An' then it don't always. Seems +times have been bad for a long spell now. Ain't never been the same +since Grover Cleveland.” + +Early in the afternoon, on the outskirts of San Jose, Saxon called a +halt. + +“I'm going right in there and talk,” she declared, “unless they set the +dogs on me. That's the prettiest place yet, isn't it?” + +Billy, who was always visioning hills and spacious ranges for his +horses, mumbled unenthusiastic assent. + +“And the vegetables! Look at them! And the flowers growing along the +borders! That beats tomato plants in wrapping paper.” + +“Don't see the sense of it,” Billy objected. “Where's the money come +in from flowers that take up the ground that good vegetables might be +growin' on?” + +“And that's what I'm going to find out.” She pointed to a woman, stooped +to the ground and working with a trowel; in front of the tiny bungalow. +“I don't know what she's like, but at the worst she can only be mean. +See! She's looking at us now. Drop your load alongside of mine, and come +on in.” + +Billy slung the blankets from his shoulder to the ground, but elected to +wait. As Saxon went up the narrow, flower-bordered walk, she noted two +men at work among the vegetables--one an old Chinese, the other old and +of some dark-eyed foreign breed. Here were neatness, efficiency, and +intensive cultivation with a vengeance--even her untrained eye could see +that. The woman stood up and turned from her flowers, and Saxon saw that +she was middle-aged, slender, and simply but nicely dressed. She wore +glasses, and Saxon's reading of her face was that it was kind but +nervous looking. + +“I don't want anything to-day,” she said, before Saxon could speak, +administering the rebuff with a pleasant smile. + +Saxon groaned inwardly over the black-covered telescope basket. +Evidently the woman had seen her put it down. + +“We're not peddling,” she explained quickly. + +“Oh, I am sorry for the mistake.” + +This time the woman's smile was even pleasanter, and she waited for +Saxon to state her errand. + +Nothing loath, Saxon took it at a plunge. + +“We're looking for land. We want to be farmers, you know, and before we +get the land we want to find out what kind of land we want. And seeing +your pretty place has just filled me up with questions. You see, we +don't know anything about farming. We've lived in the city all our life, +and now we've given it up and are going to live in the country and be +happy.” + +She paused. The woman's face seemed to grow quizzical, though the +pleasantness did not abate. + +“But how do you know you will be happy in the country?” she asked. + +“I don't know. All I do know is that poor people can't be happy in the +city where they have labor troubles all the time. If they can't be happy +in the country, then there's no happiness anywhere, and that doesn't +seem fair, does it?” + +“It is sound reasoning, my dear, as far as it goes. But you must +remember that there are many poor people in the country and many unhappy +people.” + +“You look neither poor nor unhappy,” Saxon challenged. + +“You ARE a dear.” + +Saxon saw the pleased flush in the other's face, which lingered as she +went on. + +“But still, I may be peculiarly qualified to live and succeed in the +country. As you say yourself, you've spent your life in the city. You +don't know the first thing about the country. It might even break your +heart.” + +Saxon's mind went back to the terrible months in the Pine street +cottage. + +“I know already that the city will break my heart. Maybe the country +will, too, but just the same it's my only chance, don't you see. It's +that or nothing. Besides, our folks before us were all of the country. +It seems the more natural way. And better, here I am, which proves +that 'way down inside I must want the country, must, as you call it, be +peculiarly qualified for the country, or else I wouldn't be here.” + +The other nodded approval, and looked at her with growing interest. + +“That young man--” she began. + +“Is my husband. He was a teamster until the big strike came. My name is +Roberts, Saxon Roberts, and my husband is William Roberts.” + +“And I am Mrs. Mortimer,” the other said, with a bow of acknowledgment. +“I am a widow. And now, if you will ask your husband in, I shall try to +answer some of your many questions. Tell him to put the bundles inside +the gate.. .. And now what are all the questions you are filled with?” + +“Oh, all kinds. How does it pay? How did you manage it all? How much did +the land cost? Did you build that beautiful house? How much do you pay +the men? How did you learn all the different kinds of things, and which +grew best and which paid best? What is the best way to sell them? How do +you sell them?” Saxon paused and laughed. “Oh, I haven't begun yet. +Why do you have flowers on the borders everywhere? I looked over the +Portuguese farms around San Leandro, but they never mixed flowers and +vegetables.” + +Mrs. Mortimer held up her hand. “Let me answer the last first. It is the +key to almost everything.” + +But Billy arrived, and the explanation was deferred until after his +introduction. + +“The flowers caught your eyes, didn't they, my dear?” Mrs. Mortimer +resumed. “And brought you in through my gate and right up to me. And +that's the very reason they were planted with the vegetables--to catch +eyes. You can't imagine how many eyes they have caught, nor how many +owners of eyes they have lured inside my gate. This is a good road, and +is a very popular short country drive for townsfolk. Oh, no; I've never +had any luck with automobiles. They can't see anything for dust. But I +began when nearly everybody still used carriages. The townswomen would +drive by. My flowers, and then my place, would catch their eyes. They +would tell their drivers to stop. And--well, somehow, I managed to be in +the front within speaking distance. Usually I succeeded in inviting them +in to see my flowers... and vegetables, of course. Everything was +sweet, clean, pretty. It all appealed. And--” Mrs. Mortimer shrugged her +shoulders. “It is well known that the stomach sees through the eyes. The +thought of vegetables growing among flowers pleased their fancy. They +wanted my vegetables. They must have them. And they did, at double the +market price, which they were only too glad to pay. You see, I became +the fashion, or a fad, in a small way. Nobody lost. The vegetables were +certainly good, as good as any on the market and often fresher. And, +besides, my customers killed two birds with one stone; for they were +pleased with themselves for philanthropic reasons. Not only did they +obtain the finest and freshest possible vegetables, but at the same time +they were happy with the knowledge that they were helping a deserving +widow-woman. Yes, and it gave a certain tone to their establishments to +be able to say they bought Mrs. Mortimer's vegetables. But that's +too big a side to go into. In short, my little place became a show +place--anywhere to go, for a drive or anything, you know, when time has +to be killed. And it became noised about who I was, and who my +husband had been, what I had been. Some of the townsladies I had known +personally in the old days. They actually worked for my success. And +then, too, I used to serve tea. My patrons became my guests for the time +being. I still serve it, when they drive out to show me off to their +friends. So you see, the flowers are one of the ways I succeeded.” + +Saxon was glowing with appreciation, but Mrs. Mortimer, glancing at +Billy, noted not entire approval. His blue eyes were clouded. + +“Well, out with it,” she encouraged. “What are you thinking?” + +To Saxon's surprise, he answered directly, and to her double surprise, +his criticism was of a nature which had never entered her head. + +“It's just a trick,” Billy expounded. “That's what I was gettin' at--” + +“But a paying trick,” Mrs. Mortimer interrupted, her eyes dancing and +vivacious behind the glasses. + +“Yes, and no,” Billy said stubbornly, speaking in his slow, deliberate +fashion. “If every farmer was to mix flowers an' vegetables, then every +farmer would get double the market price, an' then there wouldn't be any +double market price. Everything'd be as it was before.” + +“You are opposing a theory to a fact,” Mrs. Mortimer stated. “The fact +is that all the farmers do not do it. The fact is that I do receive +double the price. You can't get away from that.” + +Billy was unconvinced, though unable to reply. + +“Just the same,” he muttered, with a slow shake of the head, “I +don't get the hang of it. There's something wrong so far as we're +concerned--my wife an' me, I mean. Maybe I'll get hold of it after a +while.” + +“And in the meantime, we'll look around,” Mrs. Mortimer invited. “I want +to show you everything, and tell you how I make it go. Afterward, we'll +sit down, and I'll tell you about the beginning. You see--” she bent her +gaze on Saxon--“I want you thoroughly to understand that you can succeed +in the country if you go about it right. I didn't know a thing about +it when I began, and I didn't have a fine big man like yours. I was all +alone. But I'll tell you about that.” + + +For the next hour, among vegetables, berry-bushes and fruit trees, Saxon +stored her brain with a huge mass of information to be digested at her +leisure. Billy, too, was interested, but he left the talking to Saxon, +himself rarely asking a question. At the rear of the bungalow, where +everything was as clean and orderly as the front, they were shown +through the chicken yard. Here, in different runs, were kept several +hundred small and snow-white hens. + +“White Leghorns,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You have no idea what they netted +me this year. I never keep a hen a moment past the prime of her laying +period--” + +“Just what I was tellin' you, Saxon, about horses,” Billy broke in. + +“And by the simplest method of hatching them at the right time, which +not one farmer in ten thousand ever dreams of doing, I have them laying +in the winter when most hens stop laying and when eggs are highest. +Another thing: I have my special customers. They pay me ten cents a +dozen more than the market price, because my specialty is one-day eggs.” + +Here she chanced to glance at Billy, and guessed that he was still +wrestling with his problem. + +“Same old thing?” she queried. + +He nodded. “Same old thing. If every farmer delivered day-old eggs, +there wouldn't be no ten cents higher 'n the top price. They'd be no +better off than they was before.” + +“But the eggs would be one-day eggs, all the eggs would be one-day eggs, +you mustn't forget that,” Mrs. Mortimer pointed out. + +“But that don't butter no toast for my wife an' me,” he objected. “An' +that's what I've been tryin' to get the hang of, an' now I got it. You +talk about theory an' fact. Ten cents higher than top price is a theory +to Saxon an' me. The fact is, we ain't got no eggs, no chickens, an' no +land for the chickens to run an' lay eggs on.” + +Their hostess nodded sympathetically. + +“An' there's something else about this outfit of yourn that I don't get +the hang of,” he pursued. “I can't just put my finger on it, but it's +there all right.” + +They were shown over the cattery, the piggery, the milkers, and the +kennelry, as Mrs. Mortimer called her live stock departments. None +was large. All were moneymakers, she assured them, and rattled off her +profits glibly. She took their breaths away by the prices given and +received for pedigreed Persians, pedigreed Ohio Improved Chesters, +pedigreed Scotch collies, and pedigreed Jerseys. For the milk of the +last she also had a special private market, receiving five cents more a +quart than was fetched by the best dairy milk. Billy was quick to point +out the difference between the look of her orchard and the look of the +orchard they had inspected the previous afternoon, and Mrs. Mortimer +showed him scores of other differences, many of which he was compelled +to accept on faith. + +Then she told them of another industry, her home-made jams and jellies, +always contracted for in advance, and at prices dizzyingly beyond the +regular market. They sat in comfortable rattan chairs on the veranda, +while she told the story of how she had drummed up the jam and jelly +trade, dealing only with the one best restaurant and one best club +in San Jose. To the proprietor and the steward she had gone with her +samples, in long discussions beaten down their opposition, overcome +their reluctance, and persuaded the proprietor, in particular, to make +a “special” of her wares, to boom them quietly with his patrons, and, +above all, to charge stiffly for dishes and courses in which they +appeared. + +Throughout the recital Billy's eyes were moody with dissatisfaction. +Mrs. Mortimer saw, and waited. + +“And now, begin at the beginning,” Saxon begged. + +But Mrs. Mortimer refused unless they agreed to stop for supper. Saxon +frowned Billy's reluctance away, and accepted for both of them. + +“Well, then,” Mrs. Mortimer took up her tale, “in the beginning I was a +greenhorn, city born and bred. All I knew of the country was that it +was a place to go to for vacations, and I always went to springs and +mountain and seaside resorts. I had lived among books almost all my +life. I was head librarian of the Doncaster Library for years. Then +I married Mr. Mortimer. He was a book man, a professor in San Miguel +University. He had a long sickness, and when he died there was nothing +left. Even his life insurance was eaten into before I could be free +of creditors. As for myself, I was worn out, on the verge of nervous +prostration, fit for nothing. I had five thousand dollars left, however, +and, without going into the details, I decided to go farming. I found +this place, in a delightful climate, close to San Jose--the end of the +electric line is only a quarter of a mile on--and I bought it. I paid +two thousand cash, and gave a mortgage for two thousand. It cost two +hundred an acre, you see.” + +“Twenty acres!” Saxon cried. + +“Wasn't that pretty small?” Billy ventured. + +“Too large, oceans too large. I leased ten acres of it the first thing. +And it's still leased after all this time. Even the ten I'd retained was +much too large for a long, long time. It's only now that I'm beginning +to feel a tiny mite crowded.” + +“And ten acres has supported you an' two hired men?” Billy demanded, +amazed. + +Mrs. Mortimer clapped her hands delightedly. + +“Listen. I had been a librarian. I knew my way among books. First of all +I'd read everything written on the subject, and subscribed to some of +the best farm magazines and papers. And you ask if my ten acres have +supported me and two hired men. Let me tell you. I have four hired men. +The ten acres certainly must support them, as it supports Hannah--she's +a Swedish widow who runs the house and who is a perfect Trojan during +the jam and jelly season--and Hannah's daughter, who goes to school +and lends a hand, and my nephew whom I have taken to raise and educate. +Also, the ten acres have come pretty close to paying for the whole +twenty, as well as for this house, and all the outbuildings, and all the +pedigreed stock.” + +Saxon remembered what the young lineman had said about the Portuguese. + +“The ten acres didn't do a bit of it,” she cried. “It was your head that +did it all, and you know it.” + +“And that's the point, my dear. It shows the right kind of person can +succeed in the country. Remember, the soil is generous. But it must be +treated generously, and that is something the old style American farmer +can't get into his head. So it IS head that counts. Even when his +starving acres have convinced him of the need for fertilizing, he can't +see the difference between cheap fertilizer and good fertilizer.” + +“And that's something I want to know about,” Saxon exclaimed. “And I'll +tell you all I know, but, first, you must be very tired. I noticed you +were limping. Let me take you in--never mind your bundles; I'll send +Chang for them.” + +To Saxon, with her innate love of beauty and charm in all personal +things, the interior of the bungalow was a revelation. Never before +had she been inside a middle class home, and what she saw not only far +exceeded anything she had imagined, but was vastly different from her +imaginings. Mrs. Mortimer noted her sparkling glances which took in +everything, and went out of her way to show Saxon around, doing it +under the guise of gleeful boastings, stating the costs of the different +materials, explaining how she had done things with her own hands, such +as staining the doors, weathering the bookcases, and putting together +the big Mission Morris chair. Billy stepped gingerly behind, and though +it never entered his mind to ape to the manner born, he succeeded in +escaping conspicuous awkwardness, even at the table where he and Saxon +had the unique experience of being waited on in a private house by a +servant. + +“If you'd only come along next year,” Mrs. Mortimer mourned; “then I +should have had the spare room I had planned--” + +“That's all right,” Billy spoke up; “thank you just the same. But we'll +catch the electric cars into San Jose an' get a room.” + +Mrs. Mortimer was still disturbed at her inability to put them up for +the night, and Saxon changed the conversation by pleading to be told +more. + +“You remember, I told you I'd paid only two thousand down on the land,” + Mrs. Mortimer complied. “That left me three thousand to experiment with. +Of course, all my friends and relatives prophesied failure. And, of +course, I made my mistakes, plenty of them, but I was saved from still +more by the thorough study I had made and continued to make.” She +indicated shelves of farm books and files of farm magazines that lined +the walls. “And I continued to study. I was resolved to be up to +date, and I sent for all the experiment station reports. I went almost +entirely on the basis that whatever the old type farmer did was wrong, +and, do you know, in doing that I was not so far wrong myself. It's +almost unthinkable, the stupidity of the old-fashioned farmers. Oh, +I consulted with them, talked things over with them, challenged +their stereotyped ways, demanded demonstration of their dogmatic and +prejudiced beliefs, and quite succeeded in convincing the last of them +that I was a fool and doomed to come to grief.” + +“But you didn't! You didn't!” + +Mrs. Mortimer smiled gratefully. + +“Sometimes, even now, I'm amazed that I didn't. But I came of a +hard-headed stock which had been away from the soil long enough to +gain a new perspective. When a thing satisfied my judgment, I did it +forthwith and downright, no matter how extravagant it seemed. Take the +old orchard. Worthless! Worse than worthless! Old Calkins nearly died +of heart disease when he saw the devastation I had wreaked upon it. And +look at it now. There was an old rattletrap ruin where the bungalow now +stands. I put up with it, but I immediately pulled down the cow barn, +the pigsties, the chicken houses, everything--made a clean sweep. They +shook their heads and groaned when they saw such wanton waste by a widow +struggling to make a living. But worse was to come. They were paralyzed +when I told them the price of the three beautiful O.I.C.'s--pigs, you +know, Chesters--which I bought, sixty dollars for the three, and +only just weaned. Then I hustled the nondescript chickens to market, +replacing them with the White Leghorns. The two scrub cows that came +with the place I sold to the butcher for thirty dollars each, paying +two hundred and fifty for two blue-blooded Jersey heifers... and coined +money on the exchange, while Calkins and the rest went right on with +their scrubs that couldn't give enough milk to pay for their board.” + +Billy nodded approval. + +“Remember what I told you about horses,” he reiterated to Saxon; and, +assisted by his hostess, he gave a very creditable disquisition on +horseflesh and its management from a business point of view. + +When he went out to smoke Mrs. Mortimer led Saxon into talking about +herself and Billy, and betrayed not the slightest shock when she learned +of his prizefighting and scab-slugging proclivities. + +“He's a splendid young man, and good,” she assured Saxon. “His face +shows that. And, best of all, he loves you and is proud of you. You +can't imagine how I have enjoyed watching the way he looks at you, +especially when you are talking. He respects your judgment. Why, he +must, for here he is with you on this pilgrimage which is wholly your +idea.” Mrs. Mortimer sighed. “You are very fortunate, dear child, very +fortunate. And you don't yet know what a man's brain is. Wait till he is +quite fired with enthusiasm for your project. You will be astounded by +the way he takes hold. You will have to exert yourself to keep up with +him. In the meantime, you must lead. Remember, he is city bred. It will +be a struggle to wean him from the only life he's known.” + +“Oh, but he's disgusted with the city, too--” Saxon began. + +“But not as you are. Love is not the whole of man, as it is of woman. +The city hurt you more than it hurt him. It was you who lost the dear +little babe. His interest, his connection, was no more than casual and +incidental compared with the depth and vividness of yours.” + +Mrs. Mortimer turned her head to Billy, who was just entering. + +“Have you got the hang of what was bothering you?” she asked. + +“Pretty close to it,” he answered, taking the indicated big Morris +chair. “It's this--” + +“One moment,” Mrs. Mortimer checked him. “That is a beautiful, big, +strong chair, and so are you, at any rate big and strong, and your +little wife is very weary--no, no; sit down, it's your strength she +needs. Yes, I insist. Open your arms.” + +And to him she led Saxon, and into his arms placed her. “Now, sir--and +you look delicious, the pair of you--register your objections to my way +of earning a living.” + +“It ain't your way,” Billy repudiated quickly. “Your way's all right. +It's great. What I'm trying to get at is that your way don't fit us. +We couldn't make a go of it your way. Why you had pull--well-to-do +acquaintances, people that knew you'd been a librarian an' your husband +a professor. An' you had....” Here he floundered a moment, seeking +definiteness for the idea he still vaguely grasped. “Well, you had a way +we couldn't have. You were educated, an'... an'--I don't know, I guess +you knew society ways an' business ways we couldn't know.” + +“But, my dear boy, you could learn what was necessary,” she contended. + +Billy shook his head. + +“No. You don't quite get me. Let's take it this way. Just suppose it's +me, with jam an' jelly, a-wadin' into that swell restaurant like you did +to talk with the top guy. Why, I'd be outa place the moment I stepped +into his office. Worse'n that, I'd feel outa place. That'd make me have +a chip on my shoulder an' lookin' for trouble, which is a poor way to do +business. Then, too, I'd be thinkin' he was thinkin' I was a whole lot +of a husky to be peddlin' jam. What'd happen, I'd be chesty at the drop +of the hat. I'd be thinkin' he was thinkin' I was standin' on my foot, +an' I'd beat him to it in tellin' him he was standin' on HIS foot. Don't +you see? It's because I was raised that way. It'd be take it or leave it +with me, an' no jam sold.” + +“What you say is true,” Mrs. Mortimer took up brightly. “But there is +your wife. Just look at her. She'd make an impression on any business +man. He'd be only too willing to listen to her.” + +Billy stiffened, a forbidding expression springing into his eyes. + +“What have I done now?” their hostess laughed. + +“I ain't got around yet to tradin' on my wife's looks,” he rumbled +gruffly. + +“Right you are. The only trouble is that you, both of you, are fifty +years behind the times. You're old American. How you ever got here in +the thick of modern conditions is a miracle. You're Rip Van Winkles. Who +ever heard, in these degenerate times, of a young man and woman of the +city putting their blankets on their backs and starting out in search of +land? Why, it's the old Argonaut spirit. You're as like as peas in a +pod to those who yoked their oxen and held west to the lands beyond +the sunset. I'll wager your fathers and mothers, or grandfathers and +grandmothers, were that very stock.” + +Saxon's eyes were glistening, and Billy's were friendly once more. Both +nodded their heads. + +“I'm of the old stock myself,” Mrs. Mortimer went on proudly. +“My grandmother was one of the survivors of the Donner Party. My +grandfather, Jason Whitney, came around the Horn and took part in +the raising of the Bear Flag at Sonoma. He was at Monterey when John +Marshall discovered gold in Sutter's mill-race. One of the streets in +San Francisco is named after him.” + +“I know it,” Billy put in. “Whitney Street. It's near Russian Hill. +Saxon's mother walked across the Plains.” + +“And Billy's grandfather and grandmother were massacred by the Indians,” + Saxon contributed. “His father was a little baby boy, and lived with the +Indians, until captured by the whites. He didn't even know his name and +was adopted by a Mr. Roberts.” + +“Why, you two dear children, we're almost like relatives,” Mrs. Mortimer +beamed. “It's a breath of old times, alas! all forgotten in these +fly-away days. I am especially interested, because I've catalogued and +read everything covering those times. You--” she indicated Billy, “you +are historical, or at least your father is. I remember about him. The +whole thing is in Bancroft's History. It was the Modoc Indians. There +were eighteen wagons. Your father was the only survivor, a mere baby +at the time, with no knowledge of what happened. He was adopted by the +leader of the whites.” + +“That's right,” said Billy. “It was the Modocs. His train must have ben +bound for Oregon. It was all wiped out. I wonder if you know anything +about Saxon's mother. She used to write poetry in the early days.” + +“Was any of it printed?” + +“Yes,” Saxon answered. “In the old San Jose papers.” + +“And do you know any of it?” + +“Yes, there's one beginning: + +“'Sweet as the wind-lute's airy strains Your gentle muse has learned +to sing, And California's boundless plains Prolong the soft notes +echoing.'” + +“It sounds familiar,” Mrs. Mortimer said, pondering. + +“And there was another I remember that began: + +“'I've stolen away from the crowd in the groves, Where the nude statues +stand, and the leaves point and shiver,'-- + +“And it run on like that. I don't understand it all. It was written to +my father--” + +“A love poem!” Mrs. Mortimer broke in. “I remember it. Wait a minute.... +Da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da--STANDS-- + +“'In the spray of a fountain, whose seed-amethysts Tremble lightly +a moment on bosom and hands, Then drip in their basin from bosom and +wrists.' + +“I've never forgotten the drip of the seed-amethysts, though I don't +remember your mother's name.” + +“It was Daisy--” Saxon began. + +“No; Dayelle,” Mrs. Mortimer corrected with quickening recollection. + +“Oh, but nobody called her that.” + +“But she signed it that way. What is the rest?” + +“Daisy Wiley Brown.” + +Mrs. Mortimer went to the bookshelves and quickly returned with a large, +soberly-bound volume. + +“It's 'The Story of the Files,'” she explained. “Among other things, all +the good fugitive verse was gathered here from the old newspaper files.” + Her eyes running down the index suddenly stopped. “I was right. Dayelle +Wiley Brown. There it is. Ten of her poems, too: 'The Viking's Quest'; +'Days of Gold'; 'Constancy'; 'The Caballero'; 'Graves at Little +Meadow'--” + +“We fought off the Indians there,” Saxon interrupted in her excitement. +“And mother, who was only a little girl, went out and got water for the +wounded. And the Indians wouldn't shoot at her. Everybody said it was +a miracle.” She sprang out of Billy's arms, reaching for the book and +crying: “Oh, let me see it! Let me see it! It's all new to me. I don't +know these poems. Can I copy them? I'll learn them by heart. Just to +think, my mother's!” + +Mrs. Mortimer's glasses required repolishing; and for half an hour she +and Billy remained silent while Saxon devoured her mother's lines. At +the end, staring at the book which she had closed on her finger, she +could only repeat in wondering awe: + +“And I never knew, I never knew.” + +But during that half hour Mrs. Mortimer's mind had not been idle. A +little later, she broached her plan. She believed in intensive dairying +as well as intensive farming, and intended, as soon as the lease +expired, to establish a Jersey dairy on the other ten acres. This, like +everything she had done, would be model, and it meant that she would +require more help. Billy and Saxon were just the two. By next summer she +could have them installed in the cottage she intended building. In the +meantime she could arrange, one way and another, to get work for Billy +through the winter. She would guarantee this work, and she knew a +small house they could rent just at the end of the car-line. Under +her supervision Billy could take charge from the very beginning of the +building. In this way they would be earning money, preparing themselves +for independent farming life, and have opportunity to look about them. + +But her persuasions were in vain. In the end Saxon succinctly epitomized +their point of view. + +“We can't stop at the first place, even if it is as beautiful and kind +as yours and as nice as this valley is. We don't even know what we want. +We've got to go farther, and see all kinds of places and all kinds of +ways, in order to find out. We're not in a hurry to make up our minds. +We want to make, oh, so very sure! And besides....” She hesitated. +“Besides, we don't like altogether flat land. Billy wants some hills in +his. And so do I.” + +When they were ready to leave Mrs. Mortimer offered to present Saxon +with “The Story of the Files”; but Saxon shook her head and got some +money from Billy. + +“It says it costs two dollars,” she said. “Will you buy me one, and keep +it till we get settled? Then I'll write, and you can send it to me.” + +“Oh, you Americans,” Mrs. Mortimer chided, accepting the money. “But you +must promise to write from time to time before you're settled.” + +She saw them to the county road. + +“You are brave young things,” she said at parting. “I only wish I were +going with you, my pack upon my back. You're perfectly glorious, the +pair of you. If ever I can do anything for you, just let me know. You're +bound to succeed, and I want a hand in it myself. Let me know how that +government land turns out, though I warn you I haven't much faith in its +feasibility. It's sure to be too far away from markets.” + +She shook hands with Billy. Saxon she caught into her arms and kissed. + +“Be brave,” she said, with low earnestness, in Saxon's ear. “You'll win. +You are starting with the right ideas. And you were right not to accept +my proposition. But remember, it, or better, will always be open to you. +You're young yet, both of you. Don't be in a hurry. Any time you +stop anywhere for a while, let me know, and I'll mail you heaps of +agricultural reports and farm publications. Good-bye. Heaps and heaps +and heaps of luck.” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Billy sat motionless on the edge of the bed in their little room in San +Jose that night, a musing expression in his eyes. + +“Well,” he remarked at last, with a long-drawn breath, “all I've got +to say is there's some pretty nice people in this world after all. Take +Mrs. Mortimer. Now she's the real goods--regular old American.” + +“A fine, educated lady,” Saxon agreed, “and not a bit ashamed to work at +farming herself. And she made it go, too.” + +“On twenty acres--no, ten; and paid for 'em, an' all improvements, an' +supported herself, four hired men, a Swede woman an' daughter, an' her +own nephew. It gets me. Ten acres! Why, my father never talked less'n +one hundred an' sixty acres. Even your brother Tom still talks in +quarter sections.--An' she was only a woman, too. We was lucky in +meetin' her.” + +“Wasn't it an adventure!” Saxon cried. “That's what comes of traveling. +You never know what's going to happen next. It jumped right out at us, +just when we were tired and wondering how much farther to San Jose. +We weren't expecting it at all. And she didn't treat us as if we were +tramping. And that house--so clean and beautiful. You could eat off the +floor. I never dreamed of anything so sweet and lovely as the inside of +that house.” + +“It smelt good,” Billy supplied. + +“That's the very thing. It's what the women's pages call atmosphere. +I didn't know what they meant before. That house has beautiful, sweet +atmosphere--” + +“Like all your nice underthings,” said Billy. + +“And that's the next step after keeping your body sweet and clean and +beautiful. It's to have your house sweet and clean and beautiful.” + +“But it can't be a rented one, Saxon. You've got to own it. Landlords +don't build houses like that. Just the same, one thing stuck out plain: +that house was not expensive. It wasn't the cost. It was the way. The +wood was ordinary wood you can buy in any lumber yard. Why, our house +on Pine street was made out of the same kind of wood. But the way it was +made was different. I can't explain, but you can see what I'm drivin' +at.” + +Saxon, revisioning the little bungalow they had just left, repeated +absently: “That's it--the way.” + +The next morning they were early afoot, seeking through the suburbs of +San Jose the road to San Juan and Monterey. Saxon's limp had increased. +Beginning with a burst blister, her heel was skinning rapidly. Billy +remembered his father's talks about care of the feet, and stopped at a +butcher shop to buy five cents' worth of mutton tallow. + +“That's the stuff,” he told Saxon. “Clean foot-gear and the feet well +greased. We'll put some on as soon as we're clear of town. An' we might +as well go easy for a couple of days. Now, if I could get a little work +so as you could rest up several days it'd be just the thing. I 'll keep +my eye peeled.” + +Almost on the outskirts of town he left Saxon on the county road and +went up a long driveway to what appeared a large farm. He came back +beaming. + +“It's all hunkydory,” he called as he approached. “We'll just go down +to that clump of trees by the creek an' pitch camp. I start work in the +mornin', two dollars a day an' board myself. It'd been a dollar an' a +half if he furnished the board. I told 'm I liked the other way best, +an' that I had my camp with me. The weather's fine, an' we can make out +a few days till your foot's in shape. Come on. We'll pitch a regular, +decent camp.” + +“How did you get the job,” Saxon asked, as they cast about, determining +their camp-site. + +“Wait till we get fixed an' I'll tell you all about it. It was a dream, +a cinch.” + +Not until the bed was spread, the fire built, and a pot of beans boiling +did Billy throw down the last armful of wood and begin. + +“In the first place, Benson's no old-fashioned geezer. You wouldn't +think he was a farmer to look at 'm. He's up to date, sharp as tacks, +talks an' acts like a business man. I could see that, just by lookin' at +his place, before I seen HIM. He took about fifteen seconds to size me +up. + +“'Can you plow?' says he. + +“'Sure thing,' I told 'm. + +“'Know horses?' + +“'I was hatched in a box-stall,' says I. + +“An' just then--you remember that four-horse load of machinery that come +in after me?--just then it drove up. + +“'How about four horses?' he asks, casual-like. + +“'Right to home. I can drive 'm to a plow, a sewin' machine, or a +merry-go-round.' + +“'Jump up an' take them lines, then,' he says, quick an' sharp, not +wastin' seconds. 'See that shed. Go 'round the barn to the right an' +back in for unloadin'.' + +“An' right here I wanta tell you it was some nifty drivin' he was +askin'. I could see by the tracks the wagons'd all ben goin' around the +barn to the left. What he was askin' was too close work for comfort--a +double turn, like an S, between a corner of a paddock an' around the +corner of the barn to the last swing. An', to eat into the little room +there was, there was piles of manure just thrown outa the barn an' not +hauled away yet. But I wasn't lettin' on nothin'. The driver gave me the +lines, an' I could see he was grinnin', sure I'd make a mess of it. I +bet he couldn't a-done it himself. I never let on, an' away we went, +me not even knowin' the horses--but, say, if you'd seen me throw them +leaders clean to the top of the manure till the nigh horse was scrapin' +the side of the barn to make it, an' the off hind hub was cuttin' the +corner post of the paddock to miss by six inches. It was the only way. +An' them horses was sure beauts. The leaders slacked back an' darn near +sat down on their singletrees when I threw the back into the wheelers +an' slammed on the brake an' stopped on the very precise spot. + +“'You'll do,' Benson says. 'That was good work.' + +“'Aw, shucks,' I says, indifferent as hell. 'Gimme something real hard.' + +“He smiles an' understands. + +“'You done that well,' he says. 'An' I'm particular about who handles +my horses. The road ain't no place for you. You must be a good man gone +wrong. Just the same you can plow with my horses, startin' in to-morrow +mornin'.' + +“Which shows how wise he wasn't. I hadn't showed I could plow.” + +When Saxon had served the beans, and Billy the coffee, she stood still +a moment and surveyed the spread meal on the blankets--the canister of +sugar, the condensed milk tin, the sliced corned beef, the lettuce salad +and sliced tomatoes, the slices of fresh French bread, and the steaming +plates of beans and mugs of coffee. + +“What a difference from last night!” Saxon exclaimed, clapping her +hands. “It's like an adventure out of a book. Oh, that boy I went +fishing with! Think of that beautiful table and that beautiful house +last night, and then look at this. Why, we could have lived a thousand +years on end in Oakland and never met a woman like Mrs. Mortimer nor +dreamed a house like hers existed. And, Billy, just to think, we've only +just started.” + +Billy worked for three days, and while insisting that he was doing very +well, he freely admitted that there was more in plowing than he had +thought. Saxon experienced quiet satisfaction when she learned he was +enjoying it. + +“I never thought I'd like plowin'--much,” he observed. “But it's fine. +It's good for the leg-muscles, too. They don't get exercise enough in +teamin'. If ever I trained for another fight, you bet I'd take a whack +at plowin'. An', you know, the ground has a regular good smell to it, +a-turnin' over an' turnin' over. Gosh, it's good enough to eat, that +smell. An' it just goes on, turnin' up an' over, fresh an' thick an' +good, all day long. An' the horses are Joe-dandies. They know their +business as well as a man. That's one thing, Benson ain't got a scrub +horse on the place.” + +The last day Billy worked, the sky clouded over, the air grew damp, a +strong wind began to blow from the southeast, and all the signs were +present of the first winter rain. Billy came back in the evening with a +small roll of old canvas he had borrowed, which he proceeded to arrange +over their bed on a framework so as to shed rain. Several times he +complained about the little finger of his left hand. It had been +bothering him all day he told Saxon, for several days slightly, in fact, +and it was as tender as a boil--most likely a splinter, but he had been +unable to locate it. + +He went ahead with storm preparations, elevating the bed on old boards +which he lugged from a disused barn falling to decay on the opposite +bank of the creek. Upon the boards he heaped dry leaves for a mattress. +He concluded by reinforcing the canvas with additional guys of odd +pieces of rope and bailing-wire. + +When the first splashes of rain arrived Saxon was delighted. Billy +betrayed little interest. His finger was hurting too much, he said. +Neither he nor Saxon could make anything of it, and both scoffed at the +idea of a felon. + +“It might be a run-around,” Saxon hazarded. + +“What's that?” + +“I don't know. I remember Mrs. Cady had one once, but I was too small. +It was the little finger, too. She poulticed it, I think. And I remember +she dressed it with some kind of salve. It got awful bad, and finished +by her losing the nail. After that it got well quick, and a new nail +grew out. Suppose I make a hot bread poultice for yours.” + +Billy declined, being of the opinion that it would be better in the +morning. Saxon was troubled, and as she dozed off she knew that he was +lying restlessly wide awake. A few minutes afterward, roused by a heavy +blast of wind and rain on the canvas, she heard Billy softly groaning. +She raised herself on her elbow and with her free hand, in the way +she knew, manipulating his forehead and the surfaces around his eyes, +soothed him off to sleep. + +Again she slept. And again she was aroused, this time not by the storm, +but by Billy. She could not see, but by feeling she ascertained his +strange position. He was outside the blankets and on his knees, his +forehead resting on the boards, his shoulders writhing with suppressed +anguish. + +“She's pulsin' to beat the band,” he said, when she spoke. “It's worsen +a thousand toothaches. But it ain't nothin'... if only the canvas don't +blow down. Think what our folks had to stand,” he gritted out between +groans. “Why, my father was out in the mountains, an' the man with 'm +got mauled by a grizzly--clean clawed to the bones all over. An' they +was outa grub an' had to travel. Two times outa three, when my father +put 'm on the horse, he'd faint away. Had to be tied on. An' that lasted +five weeks, an' HE pulled through. Then there was Jack Quigley. He +blowed off his whole right hand with the burstin' of his shotgun, an' +the huntin' dog pup he had with 'm ate up three of the fingers. An' he +was all alone in the marsh, an'--” + +But Saxon heard no more of the adventures of Jack Quigley. A terrific +blast of wind parted several of the guys, collapsed the framework, +and for a moment buried them under the canvas. The next moment canvas, +framework, and trailing guys were whisked away into the darkness, and +Saxon and Billy were deluged with rain. + +“Only one thing to do,” he yelled in her ear. “--Gather up the things +an' get into that old barn.” + +They accomplished this in the drenching darkness, making two trips +across the stepping stones of the shallow creek and soaking themselves +to the knees. The old barn leaked like a sieve, but they managed to find +a dry space on which to spread their anything but dry bedding. Billy's +pain was heart-rending to Saxon. An hour was required to subdue him to a +doze, and only by continuously stroking his forehead could she keep him +asleep. Shivering and miserable, she accepted a night of wakefulness +gladly with the knowledge that she kept him from knowing the worst of +his pain. + +At the time when she had decided it must be past midnight, there was an +interruption. From the open doorway came a flash of electric light, like +a tiny searchlight, which quested about the barn and came to rest on her +and Billy. From the source of light a harsh voice said: + +“Ah! ha! I've got you! Come out of that!” + +Billy sat up, his eyes dazzled by the light. The voice behind the light +was approaching and reiterating its demand that they come out of that. + +“What's up?” Billy asked. + +“Me,” was the answer; “an' wide awake, you bet.” + +The voice was now beside them, scarcely a yard away, yet they could +see nothing on account of the light, which was intermittent, frequently +going out for an instant as the operator's thumb tired on the switch. + +“Come on, get a move on,” the voice went on. “Roll up your blankets an' +trot along. I want you.” + +“Who in hell are you?” Billy demanded. + +“I'm the constable. Come on.” + +“Well, what do you want?” + +“You, of course, the pair of you.” + +“What for?” + +“Vagrancy. Now hustle. I ain't goin' to loaf here all night.” + +“Aw, chase yourself,” Billy advised. “I ain't a vag. I'm a workingman.” + +“Maybe you are an' maybe you ain't,” said the constable; “but you can +tell all that to Judge Neusbaumer in the mornin'.” + +“Why you... you stinkin', dirty cur, you think you're goin' to pull me,” + Billy began. “Turn the light on yourself. I want to see what kind of an +ugly mug you got. Pull me, eh? Pull me? For two cents I'd get up there +an' beat you to a jelly, you--” + +“No, no, Billy,” Saxon pleaded. “Don't make trouble. It would mean +jail.” + +“That's right,” the constable approved, “listen to your woman.” + +“She's my wife, an' see you speak of her as such,” Billy warned. “Now +get out, if you know what's good for yourself.” + +“I've seen your kind before,” the constable retorted. “An' I've got my +little persuader with me. Take a squint.” + +The shaft of light shifted, and out of the darkness, illuminated with +ghastly brilliance, they saw thrust a hand holding a revolver. This hand +seemed a thing apart, self-existent, with no corporeal attachment, and +it appeared and disappeared like an apparition as the thumb-pressure +wavered on the switch. One moment they were staring at the hand and +revolver, the next moment at impenetrable darkness, and the next moment +again at the hand and revolver. + +“Now, I guess you'll come,” the constable gloated. + +“You got another guess comin',” Billy began. + +But at that moment the light went out. They heard a quick movement on +the officer's part and the thud of the light-stick on the ground. Both +Billy and the constable fumbled for it, but Billy found it and flashed +it on the other. They saw a gray-bearded man clad in streaming oilskins. +He was an old man, and reminded Saxon of the sort she had been used to +see in Grand Army processions on Decoration Day. + +“Give me that stick,” he bullied. + +Billy sneered a refusal. + +“Then I'll put a hole through you, by criminy.” + +He leveled the revolver directly at Billy, whose thumb on the switch did +not waver, and they could see the gleaming bullet-tips in the chambers +of the cylinder. + +“Why, you whiskery old skunk, you ain't got the grit to shoot sour +apples,” was Billy's answer. “I know your kind--brave as lions when it +comes to pullin' miserable, broken-spirited bindle stiffs, but as +leery as a yellow dog when you face a man. Pull that trigger! Why, you +pusillanimous piece of dirt, you'd run with your tail between your legs +if I said boo!” + +Suiting action to the word, Billy let out an explosive “BOO!” and Saxon +giggled involuntarily at the startle it caused in the constable. + +“I'll give you a last chance,” the latter grated through his teeth. +“Turn over that light-stick an' come along peaceable, or I'll lay you +out.” + +Saxon was frightened for Billy's sake, and yet only half frightened. She +had a faith that the man dared not fire, and she felt the old familiar +thrills of admiration for Billy's courage. She could not see his face, +but she knew in all certitude that it was bleak and passionless in the +terrifying way she had seen it when he fought the three Irishmen. + +“You ain't the first man I killed,” the constable threatened. “I'm an +old soldier, an' I ain't squeamish over blood--” + +“And you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Saxon broke in, “trying to +shame and disgrace peaceable people who've done no wrong.” + +“You've done wrong sleepin' here,” was his vindication. “This ain't your +property. It's agin the law. An' folks that go agin the law go to jail, +as the two of you'll go. I've sent many a tramp up for thirty days for +sleepin' in this very shack. Why, it's a regular trap for 'em. I got a +good glimpse of your faces an' could see you was tough characters.” He +turned on Billy. “I've fooled enough with you. Are you goin' to give in +an' come peaceable?” + +“I'm goin' to tell you a couple of things, old hoss,” Billy answered. +“Number one: you ain't goin' to pull us. Number two: we're goin' to +sleep the night out here.” + +“Gimme that light-stick,” the constable demanded peremptorily. + +“G'wan, Whiskers. You're standin' on your foot. Beat it. Pull your +freight. As for your torch you'll find it outside in the mud.” + +Billy shifted the light until it illuminated the doorway, and then threw +the stick as he would pitch a baseball. They were now in total darkness, +and they could hear the intruder gritting his teeth in rage. + +“Now start your shootin' an' see what'll happen to you,” Billy advised +menacingly. + +Saxon felt for Billy's hand and squeezed it proudly. The constable +grumbled some threat. + +“What's that?” Billy demanded sharply. “Ain't you gone yet? Now listen +to me, Whiskers. I've put up with all your shenanigan I'm goin' to. Now +get out or I'll throw you out. An' if you come monkeyin' around here +again you'll get yours. Now get!” + +So great was the roar of the storm that they could hear nothing. Billy +rolled a cigarette. When he lighted it, they saw the barn was empty. +Billy chuckled. + +“Say, I was so mad I clean forgot my run-around. It's only just +beginnin' to tune up again.” + +Saxon made him lie down and receive her soothing ministrations. + +“There is no use moving till morning,” she said. “Then, just as soon +as it's light, we'll catch a car into San Jose, rent a room, get a hot +breakfast, and go to a drug store for the proper stuff for poulticing or +whatever treatment's needed.” + +“But Benson,” Billy demurred. + +“I'll telephone him from town. It will only cost five cents. I saw he +had a wire. And you couldn't plow on account of the rain, even if your +finger was well. Besides, we'll both be mending together. My heel will +be all right by the time it clears up and we can start traveling.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +Early on Monday morning, three days later, Saxon and Billy took an +electric car to the end of the line, and started a second time for San +Juan. Puddles were standing in the road, but the sun shone from a blue +sky, and everywhere, on the ground, was a faint hint of budding green. +At Benson's Saxon waited while Billy went in to get his six dollars for +the three days' plowing. + +“Kicked like a steer because I was quittin',” he told her when he came +back. “He wouldn't listen at first. Said he'd put me to drivin' in a +few days, an' that there wasn't enough good four-horse men to let one go +easily.” + +“And what did you say?” + +“Oh, I just told 'm I had to be movin' along. An' when he tried to argue +I told 'm my wife was with me, an' she was blamed anxious to get along.” + +“But so are you, Billy.” + +“Sure, Pete; but just the same I wasn't as keen as you. Doggone it, I +was gettin' to like that plowin'. I'll never be scairt to ask for a job +at it again. I've got to where I savvy the burro, an' you bet I can plow +against most of 'm right now.” + +An hour afterward, with a good three miles to their credit, they edged +to the side of the road at the sound of an automobile behind them. But +the machine did not pass. Benson was alone in it, and he came to a stop +alongside. + +“Where are you bound?” he inquired of Billy, with a quick, measuring +glance at Saxon. + +“Monterey--if you're goin' that far,” Billy answered with a chuckle. + +“I can give you a lift as far as Watsonville. It would take you several +days on shank's mare with those loads. Climb in.” He addressed Saxon +directly. “Do you want to ride in front?” + +Saxon glanced to Billy. + +“Go on,” he approved. “It's fine in front.--This is my wife, Mr. +Benson--Mrs. Roberts.” + +“Oh, ho, so you're the one that took your husband away from me,” Benson +accused good humoredly, as he tucked the robe around her. + +Saxon shouldered the responsibility and became absorbed in watching him +start the car. + +“I'd be a mighty poor farmer if I owned no more land than you'd plowed +before you came to me,” Benson, with a twinkling eye, jerked over his +shoulder to Billy. + +“I'd never had my hands on a plow but once before,” Billy confessed. +“But a fellow has to learn some time.” + +“At two dollars a day?” + +“If he can get some alfalfa artist to put up for it,” Billy met him +complacently. + +Benson laughed heartily. + +“You're a quick learner,” he complimented. “I could see that you and +plows weren't on speaking acquaintance. But you took hold right. There +isn't one man in ten I could hire off the county road that could do as +well as you were doing on the third day. But your big asset is that you +know horses. It was half a joke when I told you to take the lines that +morning. You're a trained horseman and a born horseman as well.” + +“He's very gentle with horses,” Saxon said. + +“But there's more than that to it,” Benson took her up. “Your husband's +got the WAY with him. It's hard to explain. But that's what it is--the +WAY. It's an instinct almost. Kindness is necessary. But GRIP is more +so. Your husband grips his horses. Take the test I gave him with the +four-horse load. It was too complicated and severe. Kindness couldn't +have done it. It took grip. I could see it the moment he started. There +wasn't any doubt in his mind. There wasn't any doubt in the horses. They +got the feel of him. They just knew the thing was going to be done and +that it was up to them to do it. They didn't have any fear, but just +the same they knew the boss was in the seat. When he took hold of those +lines, he took hold of the horses. He gripped them, don't you see. He +picked them up and put them where he wanted them, swung them up and down +and right and left, made them pull, and slack, and back--and they knew +everything was going to come out right. Oh, horses may be stupid, but +they're not altogether fools. They know when the proper horseman has +hold of them, though how they know it so quickly is beyond me.” + +Benson paused, half vexed at his volubility, and gazed keenly at +Saxon to see if she had followed him. What he saw in her face and eyes +satisfied him, and he added, with a short laugh: + +“Horseflesh is a hobby of mine. Don't think otherwise because I am +running a stink engine. I'd rather be streaking along here behind a pair +of fast-steppers. But I'd lose time on them, and, worse than that, I'd +be too anxious about them all the time. As for this thing, why, it has +no nerves, no delicate joints nor tendons; it's a case of let her rip.” + +The miles flew past and Saxon was soon deep in talk with her host. Here +again, she discerned immediately, was a type of the new farmer. The +knowledge she had picked up enabled her to talk to advantage, and when +Benson talked she was amazed that she could understand so much. In +response to his direct querying, she told him her and Billy's plans, +sketching the Oakland life vaguely, and dwelling on their future +intentions. + +Almost as in a dream, when they passed the nurseries at Morgan Hill, she +learned they had come twenty miles, and realized that it was a longer +stretch than they had planned to walk that day. And still the machine +hummed on, eating up the distance as ever it flashed into view. + +“I wondered what so good a man as your husband was doing on the road,” + Benson told her. + +“Yes,” she smiled. “He said you said he must be a good man gone wrong.” + +“But you see, I didn't know about YOU. Now I understand. Though I must +say it's extraordinary in these days for a young couple like you to pack +your blankets in search of land. And, before I forget it, I want to tell +you one thing.” He turned to Billy. “I am just telling your wife that +there's an all-the-year job waiting for you on my ranch. And there's +a tight little cottage of three rooms the two of you can housekeep in. +Don't forget.” + +Among other things Saxon discovered that Benson had gone through the +College of Agriculture at the University of California--a branch of +learning she had not known existed. He gave her small hope in her search +for government land. + +“The only government land left,” he informed her, “is what is not good +enough to take up for one reason or another. If it's good land down +there where you're going, then the market is inaccessible. I know no +railroads tap in there.” + +“Wait till we strike Pajaro Valley,” he said, when they had passed +Gilroy and were booming on toward Sargent's. “I'll show you what can be +done with the soil--and not by cow-college graduates but by uneducated +foreigners that the high and mighty American has always sneered at. I'll +show you. It's one of the most wonderful demonstrations in the state.” + +At Sargent's he left them in the machine a few minutes while he +transacted business. + +“Whew! It beats hikin',” Billy said. “The day's young yet and when he +drops us we'll be fresh for a few miles on our own. Just the same, +when we get settled an' well off, I guess I'll stick by horses. They'll +always be good enough for me.” + +“A machine's only good to get somewhere in a hurry,” Saxon agreed. “Of +course, if we got very, very rich--” + +“Say, Saxon,” Billy broke in, suddenly struck with an idea. “I've +learned one thing. I ain't afraid any more of not gettin' work in the +country. I was at first, but I didn't tell you. Just the same I was dead +leery when we pulled out on the San Leandro pike. An' here, already, +is two places open--Mrs. Mortimer's an' Benson's; an' steady jobs, too. +Yep, a man can get work in the country.” + +“Ah,” Saxon amended, with a proud little smile, “you haven't said it +right. Any GOOD man can get work in the country. The big farmers don't +hire men out of charity.” + +“Sure; they ain't in it for their health,” he grinned. + +“And they jump at you. That's because you are a good man. They can see +it with half an eye. Why, Billy, take all the working tramps we've met +on the road already. There wasn't one to compare with you. I looked them +over. They're all weak--weak in their bodies, weak in their heads, weak +both ways.” + +“Yep, they are a pretty measly bunch,” Billy admitted modestly. + +“It's the wrong time of the year to see Pajaro Valley,” Benson said, +when he again sat beside Saxon and Sargent's was a thing of the past. +“Just the same, it's worth seeing any time. Think of it--twelve thousand +acres of apples! Do you know what they call Pajaro Valley now? New +Dalmatia. We're being squeezed out. We Yankees thought we were smart. +Well, the Dalmatians came along and showed they were smarter. They were +miserable immigrants--poorer than Job's turkey. First, they worked +at day's labor in the fruit harvest. Next they began, in a small way, +buying the apples on the trees. The more money they made the bigger +became their deals. Pretty soon they were renting the orchards on long +leases. And now, they are beginning to buy the land. It won't be long +before they own the whole valley, and the last American will be gone. + +“Oh, our smart Yankees! Why, those first ragged Slavs in their first +little deals with us only made something like two and three thousand +per cent. profits. And now they're satisfied to make a hundred per cent. +It's a calamity if their profits sink to twenty-five or fifty per cent.” + +“It's like San Leandro,” Saxon said. “The original owners of the land +are about all gone already. It's intensive cultivation.” She liked that +phrase. “It isn't a case of having a lot of acres, but of how much they +can get out of one acre.” + +“Yes, and more than that,” Benson answered, nodding his head +emphatically. “Lots of them, like Luke Scurich, are in it on a large +scale. Several of them are worth a quarter of a million already. I know +ten of them who will average one hundred and fifty thousand each. They +have a WAY with apples. It's almost a gift. They KNOW trees in much +the same way your husband knows horses. Each tree is just as much an +individual to them as a horse is to me. They know each tree, its whole +history, everything that ever happened to it, its every idiosyncrasy. +They have their fingers on its pulse. They can tell if it's feeling as +well to-day as it felt yesterday. And if it isn't, they know why and +proceed to remedy matters for it. They can look at a tree in bloom and +tell how many boxes of apples it will pack, and not only that--they'll +know what the quality and grades of those apples are going to be. Why, +they know each individual apple, and they pick it tenderly, with love, +never hurting it, and pack it and ship it tenderly and with love, and +when it arrives at market, it isn't bruised nor rotten, and it fetches +top price. + +“Yes, it's more than intensive. These Adriatic Slavs are long-headed in +business. Not only can they grow apples, but they can sell apples. No +market? What does it matter? Make a market. That's their way, while our +kind let the crops rot knee-deep under the trees. Look at Peter Mengol. +Every year he goes to England, and he takes a hundred carloads of yellow +Newton pippins with him. Why, those Dalmatians are showing Pajaro apples +on the South African market right now, and coining money out of it hand +over fist.” + +“What do they do with all the money?” Saxon queried. + +“Buy the Americans of Pajaro Valley out, of course, as they are already +doing.” + +“And then?” she questioned. + +Benson looked at her quickly. + +“Then they'll start buying the Americans out of some other valley. And +the Americans will spend the money and by the second generation start +rotting in the cities, as you and your husband would have rotted if you +hadn't got out.” + +Saxon could not repress a shudder.--As Mary had rotted, she thought; as +Bert and all the rest had rotted; as Tom and all the rest were rotting. + +“Oh, it's a great country,” Benson was continuing. “But we're not a +great people. Kipling is right. We're crowded out and sitting on the +stoop. And the worst of it is there's no reason we shouldn't know +better. We're teaching it in all our agricultural colleges, experiment +stations, and demonstration trains. But the people won't take hold, and +the immigrant, who has learned in a hard school, beats them out. Why, +after I graduated, and before my father died--he was of the old school +and laughed at what he called my theories--I traveled for a couple of +years. I wanted to see how the old countries farmed. Oh, I saw. + +“We'll soon enter the valley. You bet I saw. First thing, in Japan, the +terraced hillsides. Take a hill so steep you couldn't drive a horse up +it. No bother to them. They terraced it--a stone wall, and good masonry, +six feet high, a level terrace six feet wide; up and up, walls and +terraces, the same thing all the way, straight into the air, walls upon +walls, terraces upon terraces, until I've seen ten-foot walls built to +make three-foot terraces, and twenty-foot walls for four or five feet +of soil they could grow things on. And that soil, packed up the +mountainsides in baskets on their backs! + +“Same thing everywhere I went, in Greece, in Ireland, in Dalmatia--I +went there, too. They went around and gathered every bit of soil they +could find, gleaned it and even stole it by the shovelful or handful, +and carried it up the mountains on their backs and built farms--BUILT +them, MADE them, on the naked rock. Why, in France, I've seen hill +peasants mining their stream-beds for soil as our fathers mined the +streams of California for gold. Only our gold's gone, and the peasants' +soil remains, turning over and over, doing something, growing something, +all the time. Now, I guess I'll hush.” + +“My God!” Billy muttered in awe-stricken tones. “Our folks never done +that. No wonder they lost out.” + +“There's the valley now,” Benson said. “Look at those trees! Look at +those hillsides! That's New Dalmatia. Look at it! An apple paradise! +Look at that soil! Look at the way it's worked!” + +It was not a large valley that Saxon saw. But everywhere, across the +flat-lands and up the low rolling hills, the industry of the Dalmatians +was evident. As she looked she listened to Benson. + +“Do you know what the old settlers did with this beautiful soil? Planted +the flats in grain and pastured cattle on the hills. And now twelve +thousand acres of it are in apples. It's a regular show place for the +Eastern guests at Del Monte, who run out here in their machines to see +the trees in bloom or fruit. Take Matteo Lettunich--he's one of the +originals. Entered through Castle Garden and became a dish-washer. +When he laid eyes on this valley he knew it was his Klondike. To-day he +leases seven hundred acres and owns a hundred and thirty of his own--the +finest orchard in the valley, and he packs from forty to fifty thousand +boxes of export apples from it every year. And he won't let a soul but a +Dalmatian pick a single apple of all those apples. One day, in a banter, +I asked him what he'd sell his hundred and thirty acres for. He answered +seriously. He told me what it had netted him, year by year, and struck +an average. He told me to calculate the principal from that at six per +cent. I did. It came to over three thousand dollars an acre.” + +“What are all the Chinks doin' in the Valley?” Billy asked. “Growin' +apples, too?” + +Benson shook his head. + +“But that's another point where we Americans lose out. There isn't +anything wasted in this valley, not a core nor a paring; and it isn't +the Americans who do the saving. There are fifty-seven apple-evaporating +furnaces, to say nothing of the apple canneries and cider and vinegar +factories. And Mr. John Chinaman owns them. They ship fifteen thousand +barrels of cider and vinegar each year.” + +“It was our folks that made this country,” Billy reflected. “Fought for +it, opened it up, did everything--” + +“But develop it,” Benson caught him up. “We did our best to destroy it, +as we destroyed the soil of New England.” He waved his hand, indicating +some place beyond the hills. “Salinas lies over that way. If you went +through there you'd think you were in Japan. And more than one fat +little fruit valley in California has been taken over by the Japanese. +Their method is somewhat different from the Dalmatians'. First they +drift in fruit picking at day's wages. They give better satisfaction +than the American fruit-pickers, too, and the Yankee grower is glad to +get them. Next, as they get stronger, they form in Japanese unions +and proceed to run the American labor out. Still the fruit-growers are +satisfied. The next step is when the Japs won't pick. The American labor +is gone. The fruit-grower is helpless. The crop perishes. Then in step +the Jap labor bosses. They're the masters already. They contract for +the crop. The fruit-growers are at their mercy, you see. Pretty soon +the Japs are running the valley. The fruit-growers have become absentee +landlords and are busy learning higher standards of living in the cities +or making trips to Europe. Remains only one more step. The Japs buy +them out. They've got to sell, for the Japs control the labor market and +could bankrupt them at will.” + +“But if this goes on, what is left for us?” asked Saxon. + +“What is happening. Those of us who haven't anything rot in the cities. +Those of us who have land, sell it and go to the cities. Some become +larger capitalists; some go into the professions; the rest spend the +money and start rotting when it's gone, and if it lasts their life-time +their children do the rotting for them.” + +Their long ride was soon over, and at parting Benson reminded Billy of +the steady job that awaited him any time he gave the word. + +“I guess we'll take a peep at that government land first,” Billy +answered. “Don't know what we'll settle down to, but there's one thing +sure we won't tackle.” + +“What's that?” + +“Start in apple-growin' at three thousan' dollars an acre.” + +Billy and Saxon, their packs upon the backs, trudged along a hundred +yards. He was the first to break silence. + +“An' I tell you another thing, Saxon. We'll never be goin' around +smellin' out an' swipin' bits of soil an' carryin' it up a hill in a +basket. The United States is big yet. I don't care what Benson or any of +'em says, the United States ain't played out. There's millions of acres +untouched an' waitin', an' it's up to us to find 'em.” + +“And I'll tell you one thing,” Saxon said. “We're getting an education. +Tom was raised on a ranch, yet he doesn't know right now as much about +farming conditions as we do. And I'll tell you another thing. The more +I think of it, the more it seems we are going to be disappointed about +that government land.” + +“Ain't no use believin' what everybody tells you,” he protested. + +“Oh, it isn't that. It's what I think. I leave it to you. If this land +around here is worth three thousand an acre, why is it that government +land, if it's any good, is waiting there, only a short way off, to be +taken for the asking.” + +Billy pondered this for a quarter of a mile, but could come to no +conclusion. At last he cleared his throat and remarked: + +“Well, we can wait till we see it first, can't we?” + +“All right,” Saxon agreed. “We'll wait till we see it.” + + + +CHAPTER VI + +They had taken the direct county road across the hills from Monterey, +instead of the Seventeen Mile Drive around by the coast, so that Carmel +Bay came upon them without any fore-glimmerings of its beauty. Dropping +down through the pungent pines, they passed woods-embowered cottages, +quaint and rustic, of artists and writers, and went on across wind-blown +rolling sandhills held to place by sturdy lupine and nodding with pale +California poppies. Saxon screamed in sudden wonder of delight, then +caught her breath and gazed at the amazing peacock-blue of a breaker, +shot through with golden sunlight, overfalling in a mile-long sweep and +thundering into white ruin of foam on a crescent beach of sand scarcely +less white. + +How long they stood and watched the stately procession of breakers, +rising from out the deep and wind-capped sea to froth and thunder at +their feet, Saxon did not know. She was recalled to herself when Billy, +laughing, tried to remove the telescope basket from her shoulders. + +“You kind of look as though you was goin' to stop a while,” he said. “So +we might as well get comfortable.” + +“I never dreamed it, I never dreamed it,” she repeated, with +passionately clasped hands. “I... I thought the surf at the Cliff House +was wonderful, but it gave no idea of this.--Oh! Look! LOOK! Did you +ever see such an unspeakable color? And the sunlight flashing right +through it! Oh! Oh! Oh!” + +At last she was able to take her eyes from the surf and gaze at the +sea-horizon of deepest peacock-blue and piled with cloud-masses, at the +curve of the beach south to the jagged point of rocks, and at the rugged +blue mountains seen across soft low hills, landward, up Carmel Valley. + +“Might as well sit down an' take it easy,” Billy indulged her. “This is +too good to want to run away from all at once.” + +Saxon assented, but began immediately to unlace her shoes. + +“You ain't a-goin' to?” Billy asked in surprised delight, then began +unlacing his own. + +But before they were ready to run barefooted on the perilous fringe +of cream-wet sand where land and ocean met, a new and wonderful thing +attracted their attention. Down from the dark pines and across the +sandhills ran a man, naked save for narrow trunks. He was smooth and +rosy-skinned, cherubic-faced, with a thatch of curly yellow hair, but +his body was hugely thewed as a Hercules'. + +“Gee!--must be Sandow,” Billy muttered low to Saxon. + +But she was thinking of the engraving in her mother's scrapbook and of +the Vikings on the wet sands of England. + +The runner passed them a dozen feet away, crossed the wet sand, never +pausing, till the froth wash was to his knees while above him, ten feet +at least, upreared a wall of overtopping water. Huge and powerful as +his body had seemed, it was now white and fragile in the face of that +imminent, great-handed buffet of the sea. Saxon gasped with anxiety, and +she stole a look at Billy to note that he was tense with watching. + +But the stranger sprang to meet the blow, and, just when it seemed he +must be crushed, he dived into the face of the breaker and disappeared. +The mighty mass of water fell in thunder on the beach, but beyond +appeared a yellow head, one arm out-reaching, and a portion of a +shoulder. Only a few strokes was he able to make ere he was compelled +to dive through another breaker. This was the battle--to win seaward +against the sweep of the shoreward hastening sea. Each time he dived +and was lost to view Saxon caught her breath and clenched her hands. +Sometimes, after the passage of a breaker, they could not find him, and +when they did he would be scores of feet away, flung there like a chip +by a smoke-bearded breaker. Often it seemed he must fail and be thrown +upon the beach, but at the end of half an hour he was beyond the outer +edge of the surf and swimming strong, no longer diving, but topping the +waves. Soon he was so far away that only at intervals could they find +the speck of him. That, too, vanished, and Saxon and Billy looked at +each other, she with amazement at the swimmer's valor, Billy with blue +eyes flashing. + +“Some swimmer, that boy, some swimmer,” he praised. “Nothing +chicken-hearted about him.--Say, I only know tank-swimmin', an' +bay-swimmin', but now I'm goin' to learn ocean-swimmin'. If I could do +that I'd be so proud you couldn't come within forty feet of me. Why, +Saxon, honest to God, I'd sooner do what he done than own a thousan' +farms. Oh, I can swim, too, I'm tellin' you, like a fish--I swum, +one Sunday, from the Narrow Gauge Pier to Sessions' Basin, an' that's +miles--but I never seen anything like that guy in the swimmin' line. +An' I'm not goin' to leave this beach until he comes back.--All by his +lonely out there in a mountain sea, think of it! He's got his nerve all +right, all right.” + +Saxon and Billy ran barefooted up and down the beach, pursuing each +other with brandished snakes of seaweed and playing like children for +an hour. It was not until they were putting on their shoes that they +sighted the yellow head bearing shoreward. Billy was at the edge of the +surf to meet him, emerging, not white-skinned as he had entered, but red +from the pounding he had received at the hands of the sea. + +“You're a wonder, and I just got to hand it to you,” Billy greeted him +in outspoken admiration. + +“It was a big surf to-day,” the young man replied, with a nod of +acknowledgment. + +“It don't happen that you are a fighter I never heard of?” Billy +queried, striving to get some inkling of the identity of the physical +prodigy. + +The other laughed and shook his head, and Billy could not guess that he +was an ex-captain of a 'Varsity Eleven, and incidentally the father of +a family and the author of many books. He looked Billy over with an eye +trained in measuring freshmen aspirants for the gridiron. + +“You're some body of a man,” he appreciated. “You'd strip with the best +of them. Am I right in guessing that you know your way about in the +ring?” + +Billy nodded. “My name's Roberts.” + +The swimmer scowled with a futile effort at recollection. + +“Bill--Bill Roberts,” Billy supplemented. + +“Oh, ho!--Not BIG Bill Roberts? Why, I saw you fight, before the +earthquake, in the Mechanic's Pavilion. It was a preliminary to Eddie +Hanlon and some other fellow. You're a two-handed fighter, I remember +that, with an awful wallop, but slow. Yes, I remember, you were slow +that night, but you got your man.” He put out a wet hand. “My name's +Hazard--Jim Hazard.” + +“An' if you're the football coach that was, a couple of years ago, I've +read about you in the papers. Am I right?” + +They shook hands heartily, and Saxon was introduced. She felt very small +beside the two young giants, and very proud, withal, that she belonged +to the race that gave them birth. She could only listen to them talk. + +“I'd like to put on the gloves with you every day for half an hour,” + Hazard said. “You could teach me a lot. Are you going to stay around +here?” + +“No. We're goin' on down the coast, lookin' for land. Just the same, I +could teach you a few, and there's one thing you could teach me--surf +swimmin'.” + +“I'll swap lessons with you any time,” Hazard offered. He turned to +Saxon. “Why don't you stop in Carmel for a while? It isn't so bad.” + +“It's beautiful,” she acknowledged, with a grateful smile, “but--” She +turned and pointed to their packs on the edge of the lupine. “We're on +the tramp, and lookin' for government land.” + +“If you're looking down past the Sur for it, it will keep,” he laughed. +“Well, I've got to run along and get some clothes on. If you come back +this way, look me up. Anybody will tell you where I live. So long.” + +And, as he had first arrived, he departed, crossing the sandhills on the +run. + +Billy followed him with admiring eyes. + +“Some boy, some boy,” he murmured. “Why, Saxon, he's famous. If I've +seen his face in the papers once, I've seen it a thousand times. An' he +ain't a bit stuck on himself. Just man to man. Say!--I'm beginnin' to +have faith in the old stock again.” + +They turned their backs on the beach and in the tiny main street bought +meat, vegetables, and half a dozen eggs. Billy had to drag Saxon away +from the window of a fascinating shop where were iridescent pearls of +abalone, set and unset. + +“Abalones grow here, all along the coast,” Billy assured her; “an' I'll +get you all you want. Low tide's the time.” + +“My father had a set of cuff-buttons made of abalone shell,” she said. +“They were set in pure, soft gold. I haven't thought about them for +years, and I wonder who has them now.” + +They turned south. Everywhere from among the pines peeped the quaint +pretty houses of the artist folk, and they were not prepared, where the +road dipped to Carmel River, for the building that met their eyes. + +“I know what it is,” Saxon almost whispered. “It's an old Spanish +Mission. It's the Carmel Mission, of course. That's the way the +Spaniards came up from Mexico, building missions as they came and +converting the Indians.” + +“Until we chased them out, Spaniards an' Indians, whole kit an' +caboodle,” Billy observed with calm satisfaction. + +“Just the same, it's wonderful,” Saxon mused, gazing at the big, +half-ruined adobe structure. “There is the Mission Dolores, in San +Francisco, but it's smaller than this and not as old.” + +Hidden from the sea by low hillocks, forsaken by human being and human +habitation, the church of sun-baked clay and straw and chalk-rock stood +hushed and breathless in the midst of the adobe ruins which once had +housed its worshiping thousands. The spirit of the place descended upon +Saxon and Billy, and they walked softly, speaking in whispers, almost +afraid to go in through the open ports. There was neither priest nor +worshiper, yet they found all the evidences of use, by a congregation +which Billy judged must be small from the number of the benches. Later +they climbed the earthquake-racked belfry, noting the hand-hewn timbers; +and in the gallery, discovering the pure quality of their voices, Saxon, +trembling at her own temerity, softly sang the opening bars of “Jesus +Lover of My Soul.” Delighted with the result, she leaned over the +railing, gradually increasing her voice to its full strength as she +sang: + +“Jesus, Lover of my soul, Let me to Thy bosom fly, While the nearer +waters roll, While the tempest still is nigh. Hide me, O my Saviour, +hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide And +receive my soul at last.” + +Billy leaned against the ancient wall and loved her with his eyes, and, +when she had finished, he murmured, almost in a whisper: + +“That was beautiful--just beautiful. An' you ought to a-seen your face +when you sang. It was as beautiful as your voice. Ain't it funny?--I +never think of religion except when I think of you.” + +They camped in the willow bottom, cooked dinner, and spent the afternoon +on the point of low rocks north of the mouth of the river. They had not +intended to spend the afternoon, but found themselves too fascinated to +turn away from the breakers bursting upon the rocks and from the many +kinds of colorful sea life -- starfish, crabs, mussels, sea anemones, and, +once, in a rock-pool, a small devilfish that chilled their blood when +it cast the hooded net of its body around the small crabs they tossed +to it. As the tide grew lower, they gathered a mess of mussels--huge +fellows, five and six inches long and bearded like patriarchs. Then, +while Billy wandered in a vain search for abalones, Saxon lay and +dabbled in the crystal-clear water of a rock-pool, dipping up handfuls +of glistening jewels--ground bits of shell and pebble of flashing rose +and blue and green and violet. Billy came back and lay beside her, +lazying in the sea-cool sunshine, and together they watched the sun sink +into the horizon where the ocean was deepest peacock-blue. + +She reached out her hand to Billy's and sighed with sheer repletion of +content. It seemed she had never lived such a wonderful day. It was as +if all old dreams were coming true. Such beauty of the world she had +never guessed in her fondest imagining. Billy pressed her hand tenderly. + +“What was you thinkin' of?” he asked, as they arose finally to go. + +“Oh, I don't know, Billy. Perhaps that it was better, one day like this, +than ten thousand years in Oakland.” + + + +CHAPTER VII + +They left Carmel River and Carmel Valley behind, and with a rising sun +went south across the hills between the mountains and the sea. The road +was badly washed and gullied and showed little sign of travel. + +“It peters out altogether farther down,” Billy said. “From there on it's +only horse trails. But I don't see much signs of timber, an' this soil's +none so good. It's only used for pasture--no farmin' to speak of.” + +The hills were bare and grassy. Only the canyons were wooded, while the +higher and more distant hills were furry with chaparral. Once they saw +a coyote slide into the brush, and once Billy wished for a gun when +a large wildcat stared at them malignantly and declined to run until +routed by a clod of earth that burst about its ears like shrapnel. + +Several miles along Saxon complained of thirst. Where the road dipped +nearly at sea level to cross a small gulch Billy looked for water. The +bed of the gulch was damp with hill-drip, and he left her to rest while +he sought a spring. + +“Say,” he hailed a few minutes afterward. “Come on down. You just gotta +see this. It'll 'most take your breath away.” + +Saxon followed the faint path that led steeply down through the thicket. +Midway along, where a barbed wire fence was strung high across the mouth +of the gulch and weighted down with big rocks, she caught her first +glimpse of the tiny beach. Only from the sea could one guess its +existence, so completely was it tucked away on three precipitous sides +by the land, and screened by the thicket. Furthermore, the beach was the +head of a narrow rock cove, a quarter of a mile long, up which pent way +the sea roared and was subdued at the last to a gentle pulse of surf. +Beyond the mouth many detached rocks, meeting the full force of the +breakers, spouted foam and spray high in the air. The knees of these +rocks, seen between the surges, were black with mussels. On their +tops sprawled huge sea-lions tawny-wet and roaring in the sun, while +overhead, uttering shrill cries, darted and wheeled a multitude of sea +birds. + +The last of the descent, from the barbed wire fence, was a sliding fall +of a dozen feet, and Saxon arrived on the soft dry sand in a sitting +posture. + +“Oh, I tell you it's just great,” Billy bubbled. “Look at it for a +camping spot. In among the trees there is the prettiest spring you +ever saw. An' look at all the good firewood, an'...” He gazed about and +seaward with eyes that saw what no rush of words could compass. “... +An', an' everything. We could live here. Look at the mussels out +there. An' I bet you we could catch fish. What d'ye say we stop a few +days?--It's vacation anyway--an' I could go back to Carmel for hooks an' +lines.” + +Saxon, keenly appraising his glowing face, realized that he was indeed +being won from the city. + +“An' there ain't no wind here,” he was recommending. “Not a breath. An' +look how wild it is. Just as if we was a thousand miles from anywhere.” + +The wind, which had been fresh and raw across the bare hills, gained no +entrance to the cove; and the beach was warm and balmy, the air sweetly +pungent with the thicket odors. Here and there, in the midst of the +thicket, severe small oak trees and other small trees of which Saxon did +not know the names. Her enthusiasm now vied with Billy's, and, hand in +hand, they started to explore. + +“Here's where we can play real Robinson Crusoe,” Billy cried, as they +crossed the hard sand from highwater mark to the edge of the water. +“Come on, Robinson. Let's stop over. Of course, I'm your Man Friday, an' +what you say goes.” + +“But what shall we do with Man Saturday!” She pointed in mock +consternation to a fresh footprint in the sand. “He may be a savage +cannibal, you know.” + +“No chance. It's not a bare foot but a tennis shoe.” + +“But a savage could get a tennis shoe from a drowned or eaten sailor, +couldn't he?” she contended. + +“But sailors don't wear tennis shoes,” was Billy's prompt refutation. + +“You know too much for Man Friday,” she chided; “but, just the same; if +you'll fetch the packs we'll make camp. Besides, it mightn't have been a +sailor that was eaten. It might have been a passenger.” + +By the end of an hour a snug camp was completed. The blankets were +spread, a supply of firewood was chopped from the seasoned driftwood, +and over a fire the coffee pot had begun to sing. Saxon called to +Billy, who was improvising a table from a wave-washed plank. She pointed +seaward. On the far point of rocks, naked except for swimming trunks, +stood a man. He was gazing toward them, and they could see his long +mop of dark hair blown by the wind. As he started to climb the rocks +landward Billy called Saxon's attention to the fact that the stranger +wore tennis shoes. In a few minutes he dropped down from the rock to the +beach and walked up to them. + +“Gosh!” Billy whispered to Saxon. “He's lean enough, but look at his +muscles. Everybody down here seems to go in for physical culture.” + +As the newcomer approached, Saxon glimpsed sufficient of his face to +be reminded of the old pioneers and of a certain type of face seen +frequently among the old soldiers: Young though he was--not more than +thirty, she decided--this man had the same long and narrow face, with +the high cheekbones, high and slender forehead, and nose high, lean, +and almost beaked. The lips were thin and sensitive; but the eyes were +different from any she had ever seen in pioneer or veteran or any +man. They were so dark a gray that they seemed brown, and there were a +farness and alertness of vision in them as of bright questing through +profounds of space. In a misty way Saxon felt that she had seen him +before. + +“Hello,” he greeted. “You ought to be comfortable here.” He threw down a +partly filled sack. “Mussels. All I could get. The tide's not low enough +yet.” + +Saxon heard Billy muffle an ejaculation, and saw painted on his face the +extremest astonishment. + +“Well, honest to God, it does me proud to meet you,” he blurted out. +“Shake hands. I always said if I laid eyes on you I'd shake.--Say!” + +But Billy's feelings mastered him, and, beginning with a choking giggle, +he roared into helpless mirth. + +The stranger looked at him curiously across their clasped hands, and +glanced inquiringly to Saxon. + +“You gotta excuse me,” Billy gurgled, pumping the other's hand up and +down. “But I just gotta laugh. Why, honest to God, I've woke up nights +an' laughed an' gone to sleep again. Don't you recognize 'm, Saxon? He's +the same identical dude -- say, friend, you're some punkins at a hundred +yards dash, ain't you?” + +And then, in a sudden rush, Saxon placed him. He it was who had stood +with Roy Blanchard alongside the automobile on the day she had wandered, +sick and unwitting, into strange neighborhoods. Nor had that day been +the first time she had seen him. + +“Remember the Bricklayers' Picnic at Weasel Park?” Billy was asking. +“An' the foot race? Why, I'd know that nose of yours anywhere among a +million. You was the guy that stuck your cane between Timothy McManus's +legs an' started the grandest roughhouse Weasel Park or any other park +ever seen.” + +The visitor now commenced to laugh. He stood on one leg as he laughed +harder, then stood on the other leg. Finally he sat down on a log of +driftwood. + +“And you were there,” he managed to gasp to Billy at last. “You saw it. +You saw it.” He turned to Saxon. “--And you?” + +She nodded. + +“Say,” Billy began again, as their laughter eased down, “what I wanta +know is what'd you wanta do it for. Say, what'd you wanta do it for? +I've been askin' that to myself ever since.” + +“So have I,” was the answer. + +“You didn't know Timothy McManus, did you?” + +“No; I'd never seen him before, and I've never seen him since.” + +“But what'd you wanta do it for?” Billy persisted. + +The young man laughed, then controlled himself. + +“To save my life, I don't know. I have one friend, a most intelligent +chap that writes sober, scientific books, and he's always aching to +throw an egg into an electric fan to see what will happen. Perhaps +that's the way it was with me, except that there was no aching. When I +saw those legs flying past, I merely stuck my stick in between. I didn't +know I was going to do it. I just did it. Timothy McManus was no more +surprised than I was.” + +“Did they catch you?” Billy asked. + +“Do I look as if they did? I was never so scared in my life. Timothy +McManus himself couldn't have caught me that day. But what happened +afterward? I heard they had a fearful roughhouse, but I couldn't stop to +see.” + +It was not until a quarter of an hour had passed, during which Billy +described the fight, that introductions took place. Mark Hall was their +visitor's name, and he lived in a bungalow among the Carmel pines. + +“But how did you ever find your way to Bierce's Cove?” he was curious to +know. “Nobody ever dreams of it from the road.” + +“So that's its name?” Saxon said. + +“It's the name we gave it. One of our crowd camped here one summer, +and we named it after him. I'll take a cup of that coffee, if you don't +mind.”--This to Saxon. “And then I'll show your husband around. We're +pretty proud of this cove. Nobody ever comes here but ourselves.” + +“You didn't get all that muscle from bein' chased by McManus,” Billy +observed over the coffee. + +“Massage under tension,” was the cryptic reply. + +“Yes,” Billy said, pondering vacantly. “Do you eat it with a spoon?” + +Hall laughed. + +“I'll show you. Take any muscle you want, tense it, then manipulate it +with your fingers, so, and so.” + +“An' that done all that?” Billy asked skeptically. + +“All that!” the other scorned proudly. “For one muscle you see, there's +five tucked away but under command. Touch your finger to any part of me +and see.” + +Billy complied, touching the right breast. + +“You know something about anatomy, picking a muscleless spot,” scolded +Hall. + +Billy grinned triumphantly, then, to his amazement, saw a muscle grow up +under his finger. He prodded it, and found it hard and honest. + +“Massage under tension!” Hall exulted. “Go on--anywhere you want.” + +And anywhere and everywhere Billy touched, muscles large and small rose +up, quivered, and sank down, till the whole body was a ripple of willed +quick. + +“Never saw anything like it,” Billy marveled at the end; “an' I've seen +some few good men stripped in my time. Why, you're all living silk.” + +“Massage under tension did it, my friend. The doctors gave me up. My +friends called me the sick rat, and the mangy poet, and all that. Then +I quit the city, came down to Carmel, and went in for the open air--and +massage under tension.” + +“Jim Hazard didn't get his muscles that way,” Billy challenged. + +“Certainly not, the lucky skunk; he was born with them. Mine's made. +That's the difference. I'm a work of art. He's a cave bear. Come along. +I'll show you around now. You'd better get your clothes off. Keep on +only your shoes and pants, unless you've got a pair of trunks.” + +“My mother was a poet,” Saxon said, while Billy was getting himself +ready in the thicket. She had noted Hall's reference to himself. + +He seemed incurious, and she ventured further. + +“Some of it was printed.” + +“What was her name?” he asked idly. + +“Dayelle Wiley Brown. She wrote: 'The Viking's Quest'; 'Days of Gold'; +'Constancy'; 'The Caballero'; 'Graves at Little Meadow'; and a lot more. +Ten of them are in 'The Story of the Files.'” + +“I've the book at home,” he remarked, for the first time showing real +interest. “She was a pioneer, of course--before my time. I'll look her +up when I get back to the house. My people were pioneers. They came by +Panama, in the Fifties, from Long Island. My father was a doctor, but +he went into business in San Francisco and robbed his fellow men out of +enough to keep me and the rest of a large family going ever since.--Say, +where are you and your husband bound?” + +When Saxon had told him of their attempt to get away from Oakland and of +their quest for land, he sympathized with the first and shook his head +over the second. + +“It's beautiful down beyond the Sur,” he told her. “I've been all over +those redwood canyons, and the place is alive with game. The government +land is there, too. But you'd be foolish to settle. It's too remote. And +it isn't good farming land, except in patches in the canyons. I know +a Mexican there who is wild to sell his five hundred acres for fifteen +hundred dollars. Three dollars an acre! And what does that mean? That +it isn't worth more. That it isn't worth so much; because he can find no +takers. Land, you know, is worth what they buy and sell it for.” + +Billy, emerging from the thicket, only in shoes and in pants rolled to +the knees, put an end to the conversation; and Saxon watched the two +men, physically so dissimilar, climb the rocks and start out the south +side of the cove. At first her eyes followed them lazily, but soon she +grew interested and worried. Hall was leading Billy up what seemed a +perpendicular wall in order to gain the backbone of the rock. Billy +went slowly, displaying extreme caution; but twice she saw him slip, the +weather-eaten stone crumbling away in his hand and rattling beneath him +into the cove. When Hall reached the top, a hundred feet above the sea, +she saw him stand upright and sway easily on the knife-edge which +she knew fell away as abruptly on the other side. Billy, once on top, +contented himself with crouching on hands and knees. The leader went +on, upright, walking as easily as on a level floor. Billy abandoned the +hands and knees position, but crouched closely and often helped himself +with his hands. + +The knife-edge backbone was deeply serrated, and into one of the notches +both men disappeared. Saxon could not keep down her anxiety, and climbed +out on the north side of the cove, which was less rugged and far less +difficult to travel. Even so, the unaccustomed height, the crumbling +surface, and the fierce buffets of the wind tried her nerve. Soon she +was opposite the men. They had leaped a narrow chasm and were scaling +another tooth. Already Billy was going more nimbly, but his leader often +paused and waited for him. The way grew severer, and several times the +clefts they essayed extended down to the ocean level and spouted spray +from the growling breakers that burst through. At other times, standing +erect, they would fall forward across deep and narrow clefts until their +palms met the opposing side; then, clinging with their fingers, their +bodies would be drawn across and up. + +Near the end, Hall and Billy went out of sight over the south side +of the backbone, and when Saxon saw them again they were rounding the +extreme point of rock and coming back on the cove side. Here the way +seemed barred. A wide fissure, with hopelessly vertical sides, yawned +skywards from a foam-white vortex where the mad waters shot their level +a dozen feet upward and dropped it as abruptly to the black depths of +battered rock and writhing weed. + +Clinging precariously, the men descended their side till the spray was +flying about them. Here they paused. Saxon could see Hall pointing down +across the fissure and imagined he was showing some curious thing to +Billy. She was not prepared for what followed. The surf-level sucked and +sank away, and across and down Hall jumped to a narrow foothold where +the wash had roared yards deep the moment before. Without pause, as +the returning sea rushed up, he was around the sharp corner and clawing +upward hand and foot to escape being caught. Billy was now left alone. +He could not even see Hall, much less be further advised by him, and so +tensely did Saxon watch, that the pain in her finger-tips, crushed +to the rock by which she held, warned her to relax. Billy waited his +chance, twice made tentative preparations to leap and sank back, then +leaped across and down to the momentarily exposed foothold, doubled the +corner, and as he clawed up to join Hall was washed to the waist but not +torn away. + +Saxon did not breathe easily till they rejoined her at the fire. One +glance at Billy told her that he was exceedingly disgusted with himself. + +“You'll do, for a beginner,” Hall cried, slapping him jovially on the +bare shoulder. “That climb is a stunt of mine. Many's the brave lad +that's started with me and broken down before we were half way out. I've +had a dozen balk at that big jump. Only the athletes make it.” + +“I ain't ashamed of admittin' I was scairt,” Billy growled. “You're a +regular goat, an' you sure got my goat half a dozen times. But I'm mad +now. It's mostly trainin', an' I'm goin' to camp right here an' train +till I can challenge you to a race out an' around an' back to the +beach.” + +“Done,” said Hall, putting out his hand in ratification. “And some +time, when we get together in San Francisco, I'll lead you up against +Bierce--the one this cove is named after. His favorite stunt, when +he isn't collecting rattlesnakes, is to wait for a forty-mile-an-hour +breeze, and then get up and walk on the parapet of a skyscraper--on the +lee side, mind you, so that if he blows off there's nothing to fetch him +up but the street. He sprang that on me once.” + +“Did you do it?” Billy asked eagerly. + +“I wouldn't have if I hadn't been on. I'd been practicing it secretly +for a week. And I got twenty dollars out of him on the bet.” + +The tide was now low enough for mussel gathering and Saxon accompanied +the men out the north wall. Hall had several sacks to fill. A rig was +coming for him in the afternoon, he explained, to cart the mussels back +to Carmel. When the sacks were full they ventured further among the +rock crevices and were rewarded with three abalones, among the shells +of which Saxon found one coveted blister-pearl. Hall initiated them into +the mysteries of pounding and preparing the abalone meat for cooking. + +By this time it seemed to Saxon that they had known him a long time. It +reminded her of the old times when Bert had been with them, singing his +songs or ranting about the last of the Mohicans. + +“Now, listen; I'm going to teach you something,” Hall commanded, a large +round rock poised in his hand above the abalone meat. “You must never, +never pound abalone without singing this song. Nor must you sing this +song at any other time. It would be the rankest sacrilege. Abalone +is the food of the gods. Its preparation is a religious function. Now +listen, and follow, and remember that it is a very solemn occasion.” + +The stone came down with a thump on the white meat, and thereafter arose +and fell in a sort of tom-tom accompaniment to the poet's song: + +“Oh! some folks boast of quail on toast, Because they think it's tony; +But I'm content to owe my rent And live on abalone. + +“Oh! Mission Point's a friendly joint Where every crab's a crony, And +true and kind you'll ever find The clinging abalone. + +“He wanders free beside the sea Where 'er the coast is stony; He flaps +his wings and madly sings--The plaintive abalone. + +“Some stick to biz, some flirt with Liz Down on the sands of Coney; But +we, by hell, stay in Carmel, And whang the abalone.” + +He paused with his mouth open and stone upraised. There was a rattle +of wheels and a voice calling from above where the sacks of mussels had +been carried. He brought the stone down with a final thump and stood up. + +“There's a thousand more verses like those,” he said. “Sorry I hadn't +time to teach you them.” He held out his hand, palm downward. “And now, +children, bless you, you are now members of the clan of Abalone Eaters, +and I solemnly enjoin you, never, no matter what the circumstances, +pound abalone meat without chanting the sacred words I have revealed +unto you.” + +“But we can't remember the words from only one hearing,” Saxon +expostulated. + +“That shall be attended to. Next Sunday the Tribe of Abalone Eaters will +descend upon you here in Bierce's Cove, and you will be able to see the +rites, the writers and writeresses, down even to the Iron Man with the +basilisk eyes, vulgarly known as the King of the Sacerdotal Lizards.” + +“Will Jim Hazard come?” Billy called, as Hall disappeared into the +thicket. + +“He will certainly come. Is he not the Cave-Bear Pot-Walloper and +Gridironer, the most fearsome, and, next to me, the most exalted, of all +the Abalone Eaters?” + +Saxon and Billy could only look at each other till they heard the wheels +rattle away. + +“Well, I'll be doggoned,” Billy let out. “He's some boy, that. Nothing +stuck up about him. Just like Jim Hazard, comes along and makes himself +at home, you're as good as he is an' he's as good as you, an' we're all +friends together, just like that, right off the bat.” + +“He's old stock, too,” Saxon said. “He told me while you were +undressing. His folks came by Panama before the railroad was built, and +from what he said I guess he's got plenty of money.” + +“He sure don't act like it.” + +“And isn't he full of fun!” Saxon cried. + +“A regular josher. An' HIM!--a POET!” + +“Oh, I don't know, Billy. I've heard that plenty of poets are odd.” + +“That's right, come to think of it. There's Joaquin Miller, lives out +in the hills back of Fruitvale. He's certainly odd. It's right near +his place where I proposed to you. Just the same I thought poets wore +whiskers and eyeglasses, an' never tripped up foot-racers at Sunday +picnics, nor run around with as few clothes on as the law allows, +gatherin' mussels an' climbin' like goats.” + +That night, under the blankets, Saxon lay awake, looking at the stars, +pleasuring in the balmy thicket-scents, and listening to the dull rumble +of the outer surf and the whispering ripples on the sheltered beach a +few feet away. Billy stirred, and she knew he was not yet asleep. + +“Glad you left Oakland, Billy?” she snuggled. + +“Huh!” came his answer. “Is a clam happy?” + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Every half tide Billy raced out the south wall over the dangerous course +he and Hall had traveled, and each trial found him doing it in faster +time. + +“Wait till Sunday,” he said to Saxon. “I'll give that poet a run for his +money. Why, they ain't a place that bothers me now. I've got the head +confidence. I run where I went on hands an' knees. I figured it out this +way: Suppose you had a foot to fall on each side, an' it was soft +hay. They'd be nothing to stop you. You wouldn't fall. You'd go like a +streak. Then it's just the same if it's a mile down on each side. That +ain't your concern. Your concern is to stay on top and go like a streak. +An', d'ye know, Saxon, when I went at it that way it never bothered me +at all. Wait till he comes with his crowd Sunday. I'm ready for him.” + +“I wonder what the crowd will be like,” Saxon speculated. + +“Like him, of course. Birds of a feather flock together. They won't be +stuck up, any of them, you'll see.” + +Hall had sent out fish-lines and a swimming suit by a Mexican cowboy +bound south to his ranch, and from the latter they learned much of the +government land and how to get it. The week flew by; each day Saxon +sighed a farewell of happiness to the sun; each morning they greeted its +return with laughter of joy in that another happy day had begun. They +made no plans, but fished, gathered mussels and abalones, and climbed +among the rocks as the moment moved them. The abalone meat they pounded +religiously to a verse of doggerel improvised by Saxon. Billy prospered. +Saxon had never seen him at so keen a pitch of health. As for herself, +she scarcely needed the little hand-mirror to know that never, since +she was a young girl, had there been such color in her cheeks, such +spontaneity of vivacity. + +“It's the first time in my life I ever had real play,” Billy said. “An' +you an' me never played at all all the time we was married. This beats +bein' any kind of a millionaire.” + +“No seven o'clock whistle,” Saxon exulted. “I'd lie abed in the mornings +on purpose, only everything is too good not to be up. And now you +just play at chopping some firewood and catching a nice big perch, Man +Friday, if you expect to get any dinner.” + +Billy got up, hatchet in hand, from where he had been lying prone, +digging holes in the sand with his bare toes. + +“But it ain't goin' to last,” he said, with a deep sigh of regret. “The +rains'll come any time now. The good weather's hangin' on something +wonderful.” + +On Saturday morning, returning from his run out the south wall, he +missed Saxon. After helloing for her without result, he climbed to the +road. Half a mile away, he saw her astride an unsaddled, unbridled horse +that moved unwillingly, at a slow walk, across the pasture. + +“Lucky for you it was an old mare that had been used to ridin'--see them +saddle marks,” he grumbled, when she at last drew to a halt beside him +and allowed him to help her down. + +“Oh, Billy,” she sparkled, “I was never on a horse before. It was +glorious! I felt so helpless, too, and so brave.” + +“I'm proud of you, just the same,” he said, in more grumbling tones than +before. “'Tain't every married woman'd tackle a strange horse that way, +especially if she'd never ben on one. An' I ain't forgot that you're +goin' to have a saddle animal all to yourself some day--a regular Joe +dandy.” + +The Abalone Eaters, in two rigs and on a number of horses, descended +in force on Bierce's Cove. There were half a score of men and almost as +many women. All were young, between the ages of twenty-five and forty, +and all seemed good friends. Most of them were married. They arrived in +a roar of good spirits, tripping one another down the slippery trail and +engulfing Saxon and Billy in a comradeship as artless and warm as the +sunshine itself. Saxon was appropriated by the girls--she could not +realize them women; and they made much of her, praising her camping and +traveling equipment and insisting on hearing some of her tale. They were +experienced campers themselves, as she quickly discovered when she saw +the pots and pans and clothes-boilers for the mussels which they had +brought. + +In the meantime Billy and the men had undressed and scattered out after +mussels and abalones. The girls lighted on Saxon's ukulele and nothing +would do but she must play and sing. Several of them had been to +Honolulu, and knew the instrument, confirming Mercedes' definition +of ukulele as “jumping flea.” Also, they knew Hawaiian songs she had +learned from Mercedes, and soon, to her accompaniment, all were +singing: “Aloha Oe,” “Honolulu Tomboy,” and “Sweet Lei Lehua.” Saxon +was genuinely shocked when some of them, even the more matronly, danced +hulas on the sand. + +When the men returned, burdened with sacks of shellfish, Mark Hall, as +high priest, commanded the due and solemn rite of the tribe. At a wave +of his hand, the many poised stones came down in unison on the white +meat, and all voices were uplifted in the Hymn to the Abalone. Old +verses all sang, occasionally some one sang a fresh verse alone, +whereupon it was repeated in chorus. Billy betrayed Saxon by begging her +in an undertone to sing the verse she had made, and her pretty voice was +timidly raised in: + +“We sit around and gaily pound, And bear no acrimony Because our +ob--ject is a gob Of sizzling abalone.” + +“Great!” cried the poet, who had winced at ob--ject. “She speaks the +language of the tribe! Come on, children--now!” + +And all chanted Saxon's lines. Then Jim Hazard had a new verse, and one +of the girls, and the Iron Man with the basilisk eyes of greenish-gray, +whom Saxon recognized from Hall's description. To her it seemed he had +the face of a priest. + +“Oh! some like ham and some like lamb And some like macaroni; But bring +me in a pail of gin And a tub of abalone. + +“Oh! some drink rain and some champagne Or brandy by the pony; But I +will try a little rye With a dash of abalone. + +“Some live on hope and some on dope And some on alimony. But our +tom-cat, he lives on fat And tender abalone.” + +A black-haired, black-eyed man with the roguish face of a satyr, who, +Saxon learned, was an artist who sold his paintings at five hundred +apiece, brought on himself universal execration and acclamation by +singing: + +“The more we take, the more they make In deep sea matrimony; Race +suicide cannot betide The fertile abalone.” + +And so it went, verses new and old, verses without end, all in +glorification of the succulent shellfish of Carmel. Saxon's enjoyment +was keen, almost ecstatic, and she had difficulty in convincing herself +of the reality of it all. It seemed like some fairy tale or book story +come true. Again, it seemed more like a stage, and these the actors, she +and Billy having blundered into the scene in some incomprehensible +way. Much of wit she sensed which she did not understand. Much she did +understand. And she was aware that brains were playing as she had +never seen brains play before. The puritan streak in her training was +astonished and shocked by some of the broadness; but she refused to sit +in judgment. They SEEMED good, these light-hearted young people; they +certainly were not rough or gross as were many of the crowds she had +been with on Sunday picnics. None of the men got drunk, although there +were cocktails in vacuum bottles and red wine in a huge demijohn. + +What impressed Saxon most was their excessive jollity, their childlike +joy, and the childlike things they did. This effect was heightened +by the fact that they were novelists and painters, poets and critics, +sculptors and musicians. One man, with a refined and delicate face--a +dramatic critic on a great San Francisco daily, she was told--introduced +a feat which all the men tried and failed at most ludicrously. On the +beach, at regular intervals, planks were placed as obstacles. Then the +dramatic critic, on all fours, galloped along the sand for all the +world like a horse, and for all the world like a horse taking hurdles he +jumped the planks to the end of the course. + +Quoits had been brought along, and for a while these were pitched with +zest. Then jumping was started, and game slid into game. Billy took part +in everything, but did not win first place as often as he had expected. +An English writer beat him a dozen feet at tossing the caber. Jim Hazard +beat him in putting the heavy “rock.” Mark Hall out-jumped him standing +and running. But at the standing high back-jump Billy did come first. +Despite the handicap of his weight, this victory was due to his splendid +back and abdominal lifting muscles. Immediately after this, however, he +was brought to grief by Mark Hall's sister, a strapping young amazon in +cross-saddle riding costume, who three times tumbled him ignominiously +heels over head in a bout of Indian wrestling. + +“You're easy,” jeered the Iron Man, whose name they had learned was Pete +Bideaux. “I can put you down myself, catch-as-catch-can.” + +Billy accepted the challenge, and found in all truth that the other was +rightly nicknamed. In the training camps Billy had sparred and clinched +with giant champions like Jim Jeffries and Jack Johnson, and met the +weight of their strength, but never had he encountered strength like +this of the Iron Man. Do what he could, Billy was powerless, and twice +his shoulders were ground into the sand in defeat. + +“You'll get a chance back at him,” Hazard whispered to Billy, off at one +side. “I've brought the gloves along. Of course, you had no chance with +him at his own game. He's wrestled in the music halls in London with +Hackenschmidt. Now you keep quiet, and we'll lead up to it in a casual +sort of way. He doesn't know about you.” + +Soon, the Englishman who had tossed the caber was sparring with the +dramatic critic, Hazard and Hall boxed in fantastic burlesque, then, +gloves in hand, looked for the next appropriately matched couple. The +choice of Bideaux and Billy was obvious. + +“He's liable to get nasty if he's hurt,” Hazard warned Billy, as he tied +on the gloves for him. “He's old American French, and he's got a devil +of a temper. But just keep your head and tap him--whatever you do, keep +tapping him.” + +“Easy sparring now”; “No roughhouse, Bideaux”; “Just light tapping, you +know,” were admonitions variously addressed to the Iron Man. + +“Hold on a second,” he said to Billy, dropping his hands. “When I get +rapped I do get a bit hot. But don't mind me. I can't help it, you know. +It's only for the moment, and I don't mean it.” + +Saxon felt very nervous, visions of Billy's bloody fights and all the +scabs he had slugged rising in her brain; but she had never seen her +husband box, and but few seconds were required to put her at ease. The +Iron Man had no chance. Billy was too completely the master, guarding +every blow, himself continually and almost at will tapping the other's +face and body. There was no weight in Billy's blows, only a light and +snappy tingle; but their incessant iteration told on the Iron Man's +temper. In vain the onlookers warned him to go easy. His face purpled +with anger, and his blows became savage. But Billy went on, tap, tap, +tap, calmly, gently, imperturbably. The Iron Man lost control, +and rushed and plunged, delivering great swings and upper-cuts of +man-killing quality. Billy ducked, side-stepped, blocked, stalled, and +escaped all damage. In the clinches, which were unavoidable, he locked +the Iron Man's arms, and in the clinches the Iron Man invariably laughed +and apologized, only to lose his head with the first tap the instant +they separated and be more infuriated than ever. + +And when it was over and Billy's identity had been divulged, the Iron +Man accepted the joke on himself with the best of humor. It had been a +splendid exhibition on Billy's part. His mastery of the sport, coupled +with his self-control, had most favorably impressed the crowd, and +Saxon, very proud of her man boy, could not but see the admiration all +had for him. + +Nor did she prove in any way a social failure. When the tired and +sweating players lay down in the dry sand to cool off, she was persuaded +into accompanying their nonsense songs with the ukulele. Nor was it +long, catching their spirit, ere she was singing to them and teaching +them quaint songs of early days which she had herself learned as +a little girl from Cady--Cady, the saloonkeeper, pioneer, and +ex-cavalryman, who had been a bull-whacker on the Salt Intake Trail in +the days before the railroad. + +One song which became an immediate favorite was: + +“Oh! times on Bitter Creek, they never can be beat, Root hog or die is +on every wagon sheet; The sand within your throat, the dust within your +eye, Bend your back and stand it--root hog or die.” + +After the dozen verses of “Root Hog or Die,” Mark Hall claimed to be +especially infatuated with: + +“Obadier, he dreampt a dream, Dreampt he was drivin' a ten-mule team, +But when he woke he heaved a sigh, The lead-mule kicked e-o-wt the +swing-mule's eye.” + +It was Mark Hall who brought up the matter of Billy's challenge to race +out the south wall of the cove, though he referred to the test as lying +somewhere in the future. Billy surprised him by saying he was ready at +any time. Forthwith the crowd clamored for the race. Hall offered to +bet on himself, but there were no takers. He offered two to one to Jim +Hazard, who shook his head and said he would accept three to one as a +sporting proposition. Billy heard and gritted his teeth. + +“I'll take you for five dollars,” he said to Hall, “but not at those +odds. I'll back myself even.” + +“It isn't your money I want; it's Hazard's,” Hall demurred. “Though I'll +give either of you three to one.” + +“Even or nothing,” Billy held out obstinately. + +Hall finally closed both bets--even with Billy, and three to one with +Hazard. + +The path along the knife-edge was so narrow that it was impossible for +runners to pass each other, so it was arranged to time the men, Hall to +go first and Billy to follow after an interval of half a minute. + +Hall toed the mark and at the word was off with the form of a sprinter. +Saxon's heart sank. She knew Billy had never crossed the stretch of sand +at that speed. Billy darted forward thirty seconds later, and reached +the foot of the rock when Hall was half way up. When both were on top +and racing from notch to notch, the Iron Man announced that they had +scaled the wall in the same time to a second. + +“My money still looks good,” Hazard remarked, “though I hope neither of +them breaks a neck. I wouldn't take that run that way for all the gold +that would fill the cove.” + +“But you'll take bigger chances swimming in a storm on Carmel Beach,” + his wife chided. + +“Oh, I don't know,” he retorted. “You haven't so far to fall when +swimming.” + +Billy and Hall had disappeared and were making the circle around the +end. Those on the beach were certain that the poet had gained in the +dizzy spurts of flight along the knife-edge. Even Hazard admitted it. + +“What price for my money now?” he cried excitedly, dancing up and down. + +Hall had reappeared, the great jump accomplished, and was running +shoreward. But there was no gap. Billy was on his heels, and on his +heels he stayed, in to shore, down the wall, and to the mark on the +beach. Billy had won by half a minute. + +“Only by the watch,” he panted. “Hall was over half a minute ahead of me +out to the end. I'm not slower than I thought, but he's faster. He's +a wooz of a sprinter. He could beat me ten times outa ten, except for +accident. He was hung up at the jump by a big sea. That's where I caught +'m. I jumped right after 'm on the same sea, then he set the pace home, +and all I had to do was take it.” + +“That's all right,” said Hall. “You did better than beat me. That's the +first time in the history of Bierce's Cove that two men made that jump +on the same sea. And all the risk was yours, coming last.” + +“It was a fluke,” Billy insisted. + +And at that point Saxon settled the dispute of modesty and raised a +general laugh by rippling chords on the ukulele and parodying an old +hymn in negro minstrel fashion: + +“De Lawd move in er mischievous way His blunders to perform.” + +In the afternoon Jim Hazard and Hall dived into the breakers and swam +to the outlying rocks, routing the protesting sea-lions and taking +possession of their surf-battered stronghold. Billy followed the +swimmers with his eyes, yearning after them so undisguisedly that Mrs. +Hazard said to him: + +“Why don't you stop in Carmel this winter? Jim will teach you all he +knows about the surf. And he's wild to box with you. He works long hours +at his desk, and he really needs exercise.” + + +Not until sunset did the merry crowd carry their pots and pans and +trove of mussels up to the road and depart. Saxon and Billy watched them +disappear, on horses and behind horses, over the top of the first hill, +and then descended hand in hand through the thicket to the camp. Billy +threw himself on the sand and stretched out. + +“I don't know when I've been so tired,” he yawned. “An' there's one +thing sure: I never had such a day. It's worth livin' twenty years for +an' then some.” + +He reached out his hand to Saxon, who lay beside him. + +“And, oh, I was so proud of you, Billy,” she said. “I never saw you box +before. I didn't know it was like that. The Iron Man was at your mercy +all the time, and you kept it from being violent or terrible. Everybody +could look on and enjoy--and they did, too.” + +“Huh, I want to say you was goin' some yourself. They just took to you. +Why, honest to God, Saxon, in the singin' you was the whole show, along +with the ukulele. All the women liked you, too, an' that's what counts.” + +It was their first social triumph, and the taste of it was sweet: + +“Mr. Hall said he'd looked up the 'Story of the Files,'” Saxon +recounted. “And he said mother was a true poet. He said it was +astonishing the fine stock that had crossed the Plains. He told me a lot +about those times and the people I didn't know. And he's read all about +the fight at Little Meadow. He says he's got it in a book at home, and +if we come back to Carmel he'll show it to me.” + +“He wants us to come back all right. D'ye know what he said to me, +Saxon? He gave me a letter to some guy that's down on the government +land--some poet that's holdin' down a quarter of a section--so we'll be +able to stop there, which'll come in handy if the big rains catch us. +An'--Oh! that's what I was drivin' at. He said he had a little shack he +lived in while the house was buildin'. The Iron Man's livin' in it now, +but he's goin' away to some Catholic college to study to be a priest, +an' Hall said the shack'd be ours as long as we wanted to use it. An' he +said I could do what the Iron Man was doin' to make a livin'. Hall was +kind of bashful when he was offerin' me work. Said it'd be only odd +jobs, but that we'd make out. I could help'm plant potatoes, he said; +an' he got half savage when he said I couldn't chop wood. That was his +job, he said; an' you could see he was actually jealous over it.” + +“And Mrs. Hall said just about the same to me, Billy. Carmel wouldn't be +so bad to pass the rainy season in. And then, too, you could go swimming +with Mr. Hazard.” + +“Seems as if we could settle down wherever we've a mind to,” Billy +assented. “Carmel's the third place now that's offered. Well, after +this, no man need be afraid of makin' a go in the country.” + +“No good man,” Saxon corrected. + +“I guess you're right.” Billy thought for a moment. “Just the same a +dub, too, has a better chance in the country than in the city.” + +“Who'd have ever thought that such fine people existed?” Saxon pondered. +“It's just wonderful, when you come to think of it.” + +“It's only what you'd expect from a rich poet that'd trip up a +foot-racer at an Irish picnic,” Billy exposited. + +“The only crowd such a guy'd run with would be like himself, or he'd +make a crowd that was. I wouldn't wonder that he'd make this crowd. Say, +he's got some sister, if anybody'd ride up on a sea-lion an' ask you. +She's got that Indian wrestlin' down pat, an' she's built for it. An' +say, ain't his wife a beaut?” + +A little longer they lay in the warm sand. It was Billy who broke the +silence, and what he said seemed to proceed out of profound meditation. + +“Say, Saxon, d'ye know I don't care if I never see movie pictures +again.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Saxon and Billy were gone weeks on the trip south, but in the end they +came back to Carmel. They had stopped with Hafler, the poet in the +Marble House, which he had built with his own hands. This queer dwelling +was all in one room, built almost entirely of white marble. Hafler +cooked, as over a campfire, in the huge marble fireplace, which he used +in all ways as a kitchen. There were divers shelves of books, and the +massive furniture he had made from redwood, as he had made the shakes +for the roof. A blanket, stretched across a corner, gave Saxon privacy. +The poet was on the verge of departing for San Francisco and New York, +but remained a day over with them to explain the country and run over +the government land with Billy. Saxon had wanted to go along that +morning, but Hafler scornfully rejected her, telling her that her legs +were too short. That night, when the men returned, Billy was played out +to exhaustion. He frankly acknowledged that Hafler had walked him into +the ground, and that his tongue had been hanging out from the first +hour. Hafler estimated that they had covered fifty-five miles. + +“But such miles!” Billy enlarged. “Half the time up or down, an' 'most +all the time without trails. An' such a pace. He was dead right about +your short legs, Saxon. You wouldn't a-lasted the first mile. An' such +country! We ain't seen anything like it yet.” + +Hafler left the next day to catch the train at Monterey. He gave them +the freedom of the Marble House, and told them to stay the whole winter +if they wanted. Billy elected to loaf around and rest up that day. +He was stiff and sore. Moreover, he was stunned by the exhibition of +walking prowess on the part of the poet. + +“Everybody can do something top-notch down in this country,” he +marveled. “Now take that Hafler. He's a bigger man than me, an' a +heavier. An' weight's against walkin', too. But not with him. He's done +eighty miles inside twenty-four hours, he told me, an' once a hundred +an' seventy in three days. Why, he made a show outa me. I felt ashamed +as a little kid.” + +“Remember, Billy,” Saxon soothed him, “every man to his own game. And +down here you're a top-notcher at your own game. There isn't one you're +not the master of with the gloves.” + +“I guess that's right,” he conceded. “But just the same it goes against +the grain to be walked off my legs by a poet--by a poet, mind you.” + +They spent days in going over the government land, and in the end +reluctantly decided against taking it up. The redwood canyons and great +cliffs of the Santa Lucia Mountains fascinated Saxon; but she remembered +what Hafler had told her of the summer fogs which hid the sun sometimes +for a week or two at a time, and which lingered for months. Then, too, +there was no access to market. It was many miles to where the nearest +wagon road began, at Post's, and from there on, past Point Sur to +Carmel, it was a weary and perilous way. Billy, with his teamster +judgment, admitted that for heavy hauling it was anything but a picnic. +There was the quarry of perfect marble on Hafler's quarter section. He +had said that it would be worth a fortune if near a railroad; but, as it +was, he'd make them a present of it if they wanted it. + +Billy visioned the grassy slopes pastured with his horses and cattle, +and found it hard to turn his back; but he listened with a willing ear +to Saxon's argument in favor of a farm-home like the one they had seen +in the moving pictures in Oakland. Yes, he agreed, what they wanted was +an all-around farm, and an all-around farm they would have if they hiked +forty years to find it. + +“But it must have redwoods on it,” Saxon hastened to stipulate. “I've +fallen in love with them. And we can get along without fog. And there +must be good wagon-roads, and a railroad not more than a thousand miles +away.” + +Heavy winter rains held them prisoners for two weeks in the Marble +House. Saxon browsed among Hafler's books, though most of them were +depressingly beyond her, while Billy hunted with Hafler's guns. But he +was a poor shot and a worse hunter. His only success was with rabbits, +which he managed to kill on occasions when they stood still. With the +rifle he got nothing, although he fired at half a dozen different deer, +and, once, at a huge cat-creature with a long tail which he was certain +was a mountain lion. Despite the way he grumbled at himself, Saxon could +see the keen joy he was taking. This belated arousal of the hunting +instinct seemed to make almost another man of him. He was out early and +late, compassing prodigious climbs and tramps--once reaching as far as +the gold mines Tom had spoken of, and being away two days. + +“Talk about pluggin' away at a job in the city, an' goin' to movie' +pictures and Sunday picnics for amusement!” he would burst out. “I can't +see what was eatin' me that I ever put up with such truck. Here's where +I oughta ben all the time, or some place like it.” + +He was filled with this new mode of life, and was continually recalling +old hunting tales of his father and telling them to Saxon. + +“Say, I don't get stiffened any more after an all-day tramp,” he +exulted. “I'm broke in. An' some day, if I meet up with that Hafler, +I'll challenge'm to a tramp that'll break his heart.” + +“Foolish boy, always wanting to play everybody's game and beat them at +it,” Saxon laughed delightedly. + +“Aw, I guess you're right,” he growled. “Hafler can always out-walk me. +He's made that way. But some day, just the same, if I ever see 'm again, +I'll invite 'm to put on the gloves.. .. though I won't be mean enough +to make 'm as sore as he made me.” + +After they left Post's on the way back to Carmel, the condition of the +road proved the wisdom of their rejection of the government land. They +passed a rancher's wagon overturned, a second wagon with a broken +axle, and the stage a hundred yards down the mountainside, where it had +fallen, passengers, horses, road, and all. + +“I guess they just about quit tryin' to use this road in the winter,” + Billy said. “It's horse-killin' an' man-killin', an' I can just see 'm +freightin' that marble out over it I don't think.” + +Settling down at Carmel was an easy matter. The Iron Man had already +departed to his Catholic college, and the “shack” turned out to be a +three-roomed house comfortably furnished for housekeeping. Hall put +Billy to work on the potato patch--a matter of three acres which the +poet farmed erratically to the huge delight of his crowd. He planted at +all seasons, and it was accepted by the community that what did not rot +in the ground was evenly divided between the gophers and trespassing +cows. A plow was borrowed, a team of horses hired, and Billy took +hold. Also he built a fence around the patch, and after that was set +to staining the shingled roof of the bungalow. Hall climbed to the +ridge-pole to repeat his warning that Billy must keep away from his +wood-pile. One morning Hall came over and watched Billy chopping wood +for Saxon. The poet looked on covetously as long as he could restrain +himself. + +“It's plain you don't know how to use an axe,” he sneered. “Here, let me +show you.” + +He worked away for an hour, all the while delivering an exposition on +the art of chopping wood. + +“Here,” Billy expostulated at last, taking hold of the axe. “I'll have +to chop a cord of yours now in order to make this up to you.” + +Hall surrendered the axe reluctantly. + +“Don't let me catch you around my wood-pile, that's all,” he threatened. +“My wood-pile is my castle, and you've got to understand that.” + +From a financial standpoint, Saxon and Billy were putting aside much +money. They paid no rent, their simple living was cheap, and Billy had +all the work he cared to accept. The various members of the crowd seemed +in a conspiracy to keep him busy. It was all odd jobs, but he preferred +it so, for it enabled him to suit his time to Jim Hazard's. Each day +they boxed and took a long swim through the surf. When Hazard finished +his morning's writing, he would whoop through the pines to Billy, who +dropped whatever work he was doing. After the swim, they would take a +fresh shower at Hazard's house, rub each other down in training camp +style, and be ready for the noon meal. In the afternoon Hazard returned +to his desk, and Billy to his outdoor work, although, still later, they +often met for a few miles' run over the hills. Training was a matter +of habit to both men. Hazard, when he had finished with seven years of +football, knowing the dire death that awaits the big-muscled athlete who +ceases training abruptly, had been compelled to keep it up. Not only was +it a necessity, but he had grown to like it. Billy also liked it, for he +took great delight in the silk of his body. + +Often, in the early morning, gun in hand, he was off with Mark Hall, who +taught him to shoot and hunt. Hall had dragged a shotgun around from the +days when he wore knee pants, and his keen observing eyes and knowledge +of the habits of wild life were a revelation to Billy. This part of the +country was too settled for large game, but Billy kept Saxon supplied +with squirrels and quail, cottontails and jackrabbits, snipe and wild +ducks. And they learned to eat roasted mallard and canvasback in the +California style of sixteen minutes in a hot oven. As he became expert +with shotgun and rifle, he began to regret the deer and the mountain +lion he had missed down below the Sur; and to the requirements of the +farm he and Saxon sought he added plenty of game. + +But it was not all play in Carmel. That portion of the community which +Saxon and Billy came to know, “the crowd,” was hard-working. Some worked +regularly, in the morning or late at night. Others worked spasmodically, +like the wild Irish playwright, who would shut himself up for a week at +a time, then emerge, pale and drawn, to play like a madman against the +time of his next retirement. The pale and youthful father of a family, +with the face of Shelley, who wrote vaudeville turns for a living and +blank verse tragedies and sonnet cycles for the despair of managers and +publishers, hid himself in a concrete cell with three-foot walls, so +piped, that, by turning a lever, the whole structure spouted water upon +the impending intruder. But in the main, they respected each other's +work-time. They drifted into one another's houses as the spirit +prompted, but if they found a man at work they went their way. This +obtained to all except Mark Hall, who did not have to work for a living; +and he climbed trees to get away from popularity and compose in peace. + +The crowd was unique in its democracy and solidarity. It had little +intercourse with the sober and conventional part of Carmel. This section +constituted the aristocracy of art and letters, and was sneered at as +bourgeois. In return, it looked askance at the crowd with its rampant +bohemianism. The taboo extended to Billy and Saxon. Billy took up the +attitude of the clan and sought no work from the other camp. Nor was +work offered him. + +Hall kept open house. The big living room, with its huge fireplace, +divans, shelves and tables of books and magazines, was the center of +things. Here, Billy and Saxon were expected to be, and in truth +found themselves to be, as much at home as anybody. Here, when wordy +discussions on all subjects under the sun were not being waged, Billy +played at cut-throat Pedro, horrible fives, bridge, and pinochle. Saxon, +a favorite of the young women, sewed with them, teaching them pretties +and being taught in fair measure in return. + +It was Billy, before they had been in Carmel a week, who said shyly to +Saxon: + +“Say, you can't guess how I'm missin' all your nice things. What's +the matter with writin' Tom to express 'm down? When we start trampin' +again, we'll express 'm back.” + +Saxon wrote the letter, and all that day her heart was singing. Her man +was still her lover. And there were in his eyes all the old lights which +had been blotted out during the nightmare period of the strike. + +“Some pretty nifty skirts around here, but you've got 'em all beat, or +I'm no judge,” he told her. And again: “Oh, I love you to death anyway. +But if them things ain't shipped down there'll be a funeral.” + +Hall and his wife owned a pair of saddle horses which were kept at the +livery stable, and here Billy naturally gravitated. The stable operated +the stage and carried the mails between Carmel and Monterey. Also, it +rented out carriages and mountain wagons that seated nine persons. +With carriages and wagons a driver was furnished. The stable often found +itself short a driver, and Billy was quickly called upon. He became an +extra man at the stable. He received three dollars a day at such times, +and drove many parties around the Seventeen Mile Drive, up Carmel +Valley, and down the coast to the various points and beaches. + +“But they're a pretty uppish sort, most of 'em,” he said to Saxon, +referring to the persons he drove. “Always MISTER Roberts this, an' +MISTER Roberts that--all kinds of ceremony so as to make me not forget +they consider themselves better 'n me. You see, I ain't exactly a +servant, an' yet I ain't good enough for them. I'm the driver--something +half way between a hired man and a chauffeur. Huh! When they eat they +give me my lunch off to one side, or afterward. No family party like +with Hall an' HIS kind. An' that crowd to-day, why, they just naturally +didn't have no lunch for me at all. After this, always, you make me +up my own lunch. I won't be be holdin' to 'em for nothin', the damned +geezers. An' you'd a-died to seen one of 'em try to give me a tip. I +didn't say nothin'. I just looked at 'm like I didn't see 'm, an' turned +away casual-like after a moment, leavin' him as embarrassed as hell.” + +Nevertheless, Billy enjoyed the driving, never more so than when he held +the reins, not of four plodding workhorses, but of four fast driving +animals, his foot on the powerful brake, and swung around curves and +along dizzy cliff-rims to a frightened chorus of women passengers. And +when it came to horse judgment and treatment of sick and injured horses +even the owner of the stable yielded place to Billy. + +“I could get a regular job there any time,” he boasted quietly to Saxon. +“Why, the country's just sproutin' with jobs for any so-so sort of a +fellow. I bet anything, right now, if I said to the boss that I'd +take sixty dollars an' work regular, he'd jump for me. He's hinted as +much.--And, say! Are you onta the fact that yours truly has learnt a new +trade. Well he has. He could take a job stage-drivin' anywheres. They +drive six on some of the stages up in Lake County. If we ever get there, +I'll get thick with some driver, just to get the reins of six in my +hands. An' I'll have you on the box beside me. Some goin' that! Some +goin'!” + +Billy took little interest in the many discussions waged in Hall's big +living room. “Wind-chewin',” was his term for it. To him it was so much +good time wasted that might be employed at a game of Pedro, or going +swimming, or wrestling in the sand. Saxon, on the contrary, delighted +in the logomachy, though little enough she understood of it, following +mainly by feeling, and once in a while catching a high light. + +But what she could never comprehend was the pessimism that so often +cropped up. The wild Irish playwright had terrible spells of depression. +Shelley, who wrote vaudeville turns in the concrete cell, was a chronic +pessimist. St. John, a young magazine writer, was an anarchic disciple +of Nietzsche. Masson, a painter, held to a doctrine of eternal +recurrence that was petrifying. And Hall, usually so merry, could +outfoot them all when he once got started on the cosmic pathos of +religion and the gibbering anthropomorphisms of those who loved not to +die. At such times Saxon was oppressed by these sad children of art. It +was inconceivable that they, of all people, should be so forlorn. + +One night Hall turned suddenly upon Billy, who had been following dimly +and who only comprehended that to them everything in life was rotten and +wrong. + +“Here, you pagan, you, you stolid and flesh-fettered ox, you monstrosity +of over-weening and perennial health and joy, what do you think of it?” + Hall demanded. + +“Oh, I've had my troubles,” Billy answered, speaking in his wonted slow +way. “I've had my hard times, an' fought a losin' strike, an' soaked my +watch, an' ben unable to pay my rent or buy grub, an' slugged scabs, an' +ben slugged, and ben thrown into jail for makin' a fool of myself. If +I get you, I'd be a whole lot better to be a swell hog fattenin' for +market an' nothin' worryin', than to be a guy sick to his stomach from +not savvyin' how the world is made or from wonderin' what's the good of +anything.” + +“That's good, that prize hog,” the poet laughed. “Least irritation, +least effort--a compromise of Nirvana and life. Least irritation, least +effort, the ideal existence: a jellyfish floating in a tideless, tepid, +twilight sea.” + +“But you're missin' all the good things,” Billy objected. + +“Name them,” came the challenge. + +Billy was silent a moment. To him life seemed a large and generous +thing. He felt as if his arms ached from inability to compass it all, +and he began, haltingly at first, to put his feeling into speech. + +“If you'd ever stood up in the ring an' out-gamed an' out-fought a man +as good as yourself for twenty rounds, you'd get what I'm drivin' at. +Jim Hazard an' I get it when we swim out through the surf an' laugh in +the teeth of the biggest breakers that ever pounded the beach, an' +when we come out from the shower, rubbed down and dressed, our skin an' +muscles like silk, our bodies an' brains all a-tinglin' like silk.. ..” + +He paused and gave up from sheer inability to express ideas that were +nebulous at best and that in reality were remembered sensations. + +“Silk of the body, can you beat it?” he concluded lamely, feeling that +he had failed to make his point, embarrassed by the circle of listeners. + +“We know all that,” Hall retorted. “The lies of the flesh. Afterward +come rheumatism and diabetes. The wine of life is heady, but all too +quickly it turns to--” + +“Uric acid,” interpolated the wild Irish playwright. + +“They's plenty more of the good things,” Billy took up with a sudden +rush of words. “Good things all the way up from juicy porterhouse and +the kind of coffee Mrs. Hall makes to....” He hesitated at what he was +about to say, then took it at a plunge. “To a woman you can love an' +that loves you. Just take a look at Saxon there with the ukulele in her +lap. There's where I got the jellyfish in the dishwater an' the prize +hog skinned to death.” + +A shout of applause and great hand-clapping went up from the girls, and +Billy looked painfully uncomfortable. + +“But suppose the silk goes out of your body till you creak like a rusty +wheelbarrow?” Hall pursued. “Suppose, just suppose, Saxon went away with +another man. What then?” + +Billy considered a space. + +“Then it'd be me for the dishwater an' the jellyfish, I guess.” He +straightened up in his chair and threw back his shoulders unconsciously +as he ran a hand over his biceps and swelled it. Then he took another +look at Saxon. “But thank the Lord I still got a wallop in both my arms +an' a wife to fill 'em with love.” + +Again the girls applauded, and Mrs. Hall cried: + +“Look at Saxon! She blushing! What have you to say for yourself?” + +“That no woman could be happier,” she stammered, “and no queen as proud. +And that--” + +She completed the thought by strumming on the ukulele and singing: + +“De Lawd move in er mischievous way His blunders to perform.” + +“I give you best,” Hall grinned to Billy. + +“Oh, I don't know,” Billy disclaimed modestly. “You've read so much I +guess you know more about everything than I do.” + +“Oh! Oh!” “Traitor!” “Taking it all back!” the girls cried variously. + +Billy took heart of courage, reassured them with a slow smile, and said: + +“Just the same I'd sooner be myself than have book indigestion. An' as +for Saxon, why, one kiss of her lips is worth more'n all the libraries +in the world.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +“There must be hills and valleys, and rich land, and streams of clear water, +good wagon roads and a railroad not too far away, plenty of sunshine, +and cold enough at night to need blankets, and not only pines but plenty +of other kinds of trees, with open spaces to pasture Billy's horses +and cattle, and deer and rabbits for him to shoot, and lots and lots +of redwood trees, and... and... well, and no fog,” Saxon concluded the +description of the farm she and Billy sought. + +Mark Hall laughed delightedly. + +“And nightingales roosting in all the trees,” he cried; “flowers that +neither fail nor fade, bees without stings, honey dew every morning, +showers of manna betweenwhiles, fountains of youth and quarries of +philosopher's stones--why, I know the very place. Let me show you.” + +She waited while he pored over road-maps of the state. Failing in them, +he got out a big atlas, and, though all the countries of the world were +in it, he could not find what he was after. + +“Never mind,” he said. “Come over to-night and I'll be able to show +you.” + +That evening he led her out on the veranda to the telescope, and she +found herself looking through it at the full moon. + +“Somewhere up there in some valley you'll find that farm,” he teased. + +Mrs. Hall looked inquiringly at them as they returned inside. + +“I've been showing her a valley in the moon where she expects to go +farming,” he laughed. + +“We started out prepared to go any distance,” Saxon said. “And if it's +to the moon, I expect we can make it.” + +“But my dear child, you can't expect to find such a paradise on the +earth,” Hall continued. “For instance, you can't have redwoods without +fog. They go together. The redwoods grow only in the fog belt.” + +Saxon debated a while. + +“Well, we could put up with a little fog,” she conceded, “--almost +anything to have redwoods. I don't know what a quarry of philosopher's +stones is like, but if it's anything like Mr. Hafler's marble quarry, +and there's a railroad handy, I guess we could manage to worry along. +And you don't have to go to the moon for honey dew. They scrape it off +of the leaves of the bushes up in Nevada County. I know that for a fact, +because my father told my mother about it, and she told me.” + +A little later in the evening, the subject of farming having remained +uppermost, Hall swept off into a diatribe against the “gambler's +paradise,” which was his epithet for the United States. + +“When you think of the glorious chance,” he said. “A new country, +bounded by the oceans, situated just right in latitude, with the richest +land and vastest natural resources of any country in the world, settled +by immigrants who had thrown off all the leading strings of the Old +World and were in the humor for democracy. There was only one thing to +stop them from perfecting the democracy they started, and that thing was +greediness. + +“They started gobbling everything in sight like a lot of swine, and +while they gobbled democracy went to smash. Gobbling became gambling. It +was a nation of tin horns. Whenever a man lost his stake, all he had +to do was to chase the frontier west a few miles and get another +stake. They moved over the face of the land like so many locusts. They +destroyed everything--the Indians, the soil, the forests, just as +they destroyed the buffalo and the passenger pigeon. Their morality in +business and politics was gambler morality. Their laws were gambling +laws--how to play the game. Everybody played. Therefore, hurrah for the +game. Nobody objected, because nobody was unable to play. As I said, the +losers chased the frontier for fresh stakes. The winner of to-day, +broke to-morrow, on the day following might be riding his luck to royal +flushes on five-card draws. + +“So they gobbled and gambled from the Atlantic to the Pacific, until +they'd swined a whole continent. When they'd finished with the lands +and forests and mines, they turned back, gambling for any little +stakes they'd overlooked, gambling for franchises and monopolies, using +politics to protect their crooked deals and brace games. And democracy +gone clean to smash. + +“And then was the funniest time of all. The losers couldn't get any more +stakes, while the winners went on gambling among themselves. The losers +could only stand around with their hands in their pockets and look on. +When they got hungry, they went, hat in hand, and begged the successful +gamblers for a job. The losers went to work for the winners, and they've +been working for them ever since, and democracy side-tracked up Salt +Creek. You, Billy Roberts, have never had a hand in the game in your +life. That's because your people were among the also-rans.” + +“How about yourself?” Billy asked. “I ain't seen you holdin' any hands.” + +“I don't have to. I don't count. I am a parasite.” + +“What's that?” + +“A flea, a woodtick, anything that gets something for nothing. I batten +on the mangy hides of the workingmen. I don't have to gamble. I don't +have to work. My father left me enough of his winnings.--Oh, don't preen +yourself, my boy. Your folks were just as bad as mine. But yours lost, +and mine won, and so you plow in my potato patch.” + +“I don't see it,” Billy contended stoutly. “A man with gumption can win +out to-day--” + +“On government land?” Hall asked quickly. + +Billy swallowed and acknowledged the stab. + +“Just the same he can win out,” he reiterated. + +“Surely--he can win a job from some other fellow? A young husky with a +good head like yours can win jobs anywhere. But think of the handicaps +on the fellows who lose. How many tramps have you met along the road who +could get a job driving four horses for the Carmel Livery Stable? And +some of them were as husky as you when they were young. And on top of +it all you've got no shout coming. It's a mighty big come-down from +gambling for a continent to gambling for a job.” + +“Just the same--” Billy recommenced. + +“Oh, you've got it in your blood,” Hall cut him off cavalierly. “And why +not? Everybody in this country has been gambling for generations. It was +in the air when you were born. You've breathed it all your life. You, +who 've never had a white chip in the game, still go on shouting for it +and capping for it.” + +“But what are all of us losers to do?” Saxon inquired. + +“Call in the police and stop the game,” Hall recommended. “It's +crooked.” + +Saxon frowned. + +“Do what your forefathers didn't do,” he amplified. “Go ahead and +perfect democracy.” + +She remembered a remark of Mercedes. “A friend of mine says that +democracy is an enchantment.” + +“It is--in a gambling joint. There are a million boys in our public +schools right now swallowing the gump of canal boy to President, and +millions of worthy citizens who sleep sound every night in the belief +that they have a say in running the country.” + +“You talk like my brother Tom,” Saxon said, failing to comprehend. “If +we all get into politics and work hard for something better maybe we'll +get it after a thousand years or so. But I want it now.” She clenched +her hands passionately. “I can't wait; I want it now.” + +“But that is just what I've been telling you, my dear girl. That's +what's the trouble with all the losers. They can't wait. They want it +now--a stack of chips and a fling at the game. Well, they won't get it +now. That's what's the matter with you, chasing a valley in the moon. +That's what's the matter with Billy, aching right now for a chance to +win ten cents from me at Pedro cussing wind-chewing under his breath.” + +“Gee! you'd make a good soap-boxer,” commented Billy. + +“And I'd be a soap-boxer if I didn't have the spending of my father's +ill-gotten gains. It's none of my affair. Let them rot. They'd be just +as bad if they were on top. It's all a mess--blind bats, hungry swine, +and filthy buzzards--” + +Here Mrs. Hall interfered. + +“Now, Mark, you stop that, or you'll be getting the blues.” + +He tossed his mop of hair and laughed with an effort. + +“No I won't,” he denied. “I'm going to get ten cents from Billy at a +game of Pedro. He won't have a look in.” + +Saxon and Billy flourished in the genial human atmosphere of Carmel. +They appreciated in their own estimation. Saxon felt that she was +something more than a laundry girl and the wife of a union teamster. +She was no longer pent in the narrow working class environment of a +Pine street neighborhood. Life had grown opulent. They fared better +physically, materially, and spiritually; and all this was reflected +in their features, in the carriage of their bodies. She knew Billy had +never been handsomer nor in more splendid bodily condition. He swore he +had a harem, and that she was his second wife--twice as beautiful as the +first one he had married. And she demurely confessed to him that Mrs. +Hall and several others of the matrons had enthusiastically admired her +form one day when in for a cold dip in Carmel river. They had got around +her, and called her Venus, and made her crouch and assume different +poses. + +Billy understood the Venus reference; for a marble one, with broken +arms, stood in Hall's living room, and the poet had told him the world +worshiped it as the perfection of female form. + +“I always said you had Annette Kellerman beat a mile,” Billy said; and +so proud was his air of possession that Saxon blushed and trembled, and +hid her hot face against his breast. + +The men in the crowd were open in their admiration of Saxon, in an +above-board manner. But she made no mistake. She did not lose her head. +There was no chance of that, for her love for Billy beat more strongly +than ever. Nor was she guilty of over-appraisal. She knew him for what +he was, and loved him with open eyes. He had no book learning, no art, +like the other men. His grammar was bad; she knew that, just as she knew +that he would never mend it. Yet she would not have exchanged him for +any of the others, not even for Mark Hall with the princely heart whom +she loved much in the same way that she loved his wife. + +For that matter, she found in Billy a certain health and rightness, a +certain essential integrity, which she prized more highly than all +book learning and bank accounts. It was by virtue of this health, and +rightness, and integrity, that he had beaten Hall in argument the night +the poet was on the pessimistic rampage. Billy had beaten him, not with +the weapons of learning, but just by being himself and by speaking out +the truth that was in him. Best of all, he had not even known that he +had beaten, and had taken the applause as good-natured banter. But Saxon +knew, though she could scarcely tell why; and she would always remember +how the wife of Shelley had whispered to her afterward with shining +eyes: “Oh, Saxon, you must be so happy.” + +Were Saxon driven to speech to attempt to express what Billy meant to +her, she would have done it with the simple word “man.” Always he was +that to her. Always in glowing splendor, that was his connotation--MAN. +Sometimes, by herself, she would all but weep with joy at recollection +of his way of informing some truculent male that he was standing on his +foot. “Get off your foot. You're standin' on it.” It was Billy! It was +magnificently Billy. And it was this Billy who loved her. She knew it. +She knew it by the pulse that only a woman knows how to gauge. He loved +her less wildly, it was true; but more fondly, more maturely. It was +the love that lasted--if only they did not go back to the city where the +beautiful things of the spirit perished and the beast bared its fangs. + +In the early spring, Mark Hall and his wife went to New York, the two +Japanese servants of the bungalow were dismissed, and Saxon and Billy +were installed as caretakers. Jim Hazard, too, departed on his yearly +visit to Paris; and though Billy missed him, he continued his long swims +out through the breakers. Hall's two saddle horses had been left in his +charge, and Saxon made herself a pretty cross-saddle riding costume +of tawny-brown corduroy that matched the glints in her hair. Billy no +longer worked at odd jobs. As extra driver at the stable he earned more +than they spent, and, in preference to cash, he taught Saxon to ride, +and was out and away with her over the country on all-day trips. A +favorite ride was around by the coast to Monterey, where he taught her +to swim in the big Del Monte tank. They would come home in the evening +across the hills. Also, she took to following him on his early morning +hunts, and life seemed one long vacation. + +“I'll tell you one thing,” he said to Saxon, one day, as they drew their +horses to a halt and gazed down into Carmel Valley. “I ain't never going +to work steady for another man for wages as long as I live.” + +“Work isn't everything,” she acknowledged. + +“I should guess not. Why, look here, Saxon, what'd it mean if I worked +teamin' in Oakland for a million dollars a day for a million years and +just had to go on stayin' there an' livin' the way we used to? It'd mean +work all day, three squares, an' movin' pictures for recreation. Movin' +pictures! Huh! We're livin' movin' pictures these days. I'd sooner have +one year like what we're havin' here in Carmel and then die, than a +thousan' million years like on Pine street.” + +Saxon had warned the Halls by letter that she and Billy intended +starting on their search for the valley in the moon as soon as the first +of summer arrived. Fortunately, the poet was put to no inconvenience, +for Bideaux, the Iron Man with the basilisk eyes, had abandoned his +dreams of priesthood and decided to become an actor. He arrived at +Carmel from the Catholic college in time to take charge of the bungalow. + +Much to Saxon's gratification, the crowd was loth to see them depart. +The owner of the Carmel stable offered to put Billy in charge at ninety +dollars a month. Also, he received a similar offer from the stable in +Pacific Grove. + +“Whither away,” the wild Irish playwright hailed them on the station +platform at Monterey. He was just returning from New York. + +“To a valley in the moon,” Saxon answered gaily. + +He regarded their business-like packs. + +“By George!” he cried. “I'll do it! By George! Let me come along.” Then +his face fell. “And I've signed the contract,” he groaned. “Three acts! +Say, you're lucky. And this time of year, too.” + + + +CHAPTER XI + +“We hiked into Monterey last winter, but we're ridin' out now, b 'gosh!” + Billy said as the train pulled out and they leaned back in their seats. + +They had decided against retracing their steps over the ground already +traveled, and took the train to San Francisco. They had been warned by +Mark Hall of the enervation of the south, and were bound north for their +blanket climate. Their intention was to cross the Bay to Sausalito and +wander up through the coast counties. Here, Hall had told them, they +would find the true home of the redwood. But Billy, in the smoking car +for a cigarette, seated himself beside a man who was destined to deflect +them from their course. He was a keen-faced, dark-eyed man, undoubtedly +a Jew; and Billy, remembering Saxon's admonition always to ask +questions, watched his opportunity and started a conversation. It took +but a little while to learn that Gunston was a commission merchant, and +to realize that the content of his talk was too valuable for Saxon to +lose. Promptly, when he saw that the other's cigar was finished, Billy +invited him into the next car to meet Saxon. Billy would have been +incapable of such an act prior to his sojourn in Carmel. That much at +least he had acquired of social facility. + +“He's just ben tellin' me about the potato kings, and I wanted him to +tell you,” Billy explained to Saxon after the introduction. “Go on and +tell her, Mr. Gunston, about that fan tan sucker that made nineteen +thousan' last year in celery an' asparagus.” + +“I was just telling your husband about the way the Chinese make things +go up the San Joaquin river. It would be worth your while to go up there +and look around. It's the good season now--too early for mosquitoes. +You can get off the train at Black Diamond or Antioch and travel around +among the big farming islands on the steamers and launches. The fares +are cheap, and you'll find some of those big gasoline boats, like the +Duchess and Princess, more like big steamboats.” + +“Tell her about Chow Lam,” Billy urged. + +The commission merchant leaned back and laughed. + +“Chow Lam, several years ago, was a broken-down fan tan player. He +hadn't a cent, and his health was going back on him. He had worn out +his back with twenty years' work in the gold mines, washing over the +tailings of the early miners. And whatever he'd made he'd lost at +gambling. Also, he was in debt three hundred dollars to the Six +Companies--you know, they're Chinese affairs. And, remember, this was +only seven years ago--health breaking down, three hundred in debt, and +no trade. Chow Lam blew into Stockton and got a job on the peat lands at +day's wages. It was a Chinese company, down on Middle River, that farmed +celery and asparagus. This was when he got onto himself and took stock +of himself. A quarter of a century in the United States, back not so +strong as it used to was, and not a penny laid by for his return to +China. He saw how the Chinese in the company had done it--saved their +wages and bought a share. + +“He saved his wages for two years, and bought one share in a +thirty-share company. That was only five years ago. They leased three +hundred acres of peat land from a white man who preferred traveling +in Europe. Out of the profits of that one share in the first year, he +bought two shares in another company. And in a year more, out of the +three shares, he organized a company of his own. One year of this, with +bad luck, and he just broke even. That brings it up to three years ago. +The following year, bumper crops, he netted four thousand. The next +year it was five thousand. And last year he cleaned up nineteen thousand +dollars. Pretty good, eh, for old broken-down Chow Lam?” + +“My!” was all Saxon could say. + +Her eager interest, however, incited the commission merchant to go on. + +“Look at Sing Kee--the Potato King of Stockton. I know him well. I've +had more large deals with him and made less money than with any man +I know. He was only a coolie, and he smuggled himself into the United +States twenty years ago. Started at day's wages, then peddled vegetables +in a couple of baskets slung on a stick, and after that opened up a +store in Chinatown in San Francisco. But he had a head on him, and he +was soon onto the curves of the Chinese farmers that dealt at his store. +The store couldn't make money fast enough to suit him. He headed up the +San Joaquin. Didn't do much for a couple of years except keep his eyes +peeled. Then he jumped in and leased twelve hundred acres at seven +dollars an acre.” + +“My God!” Billy said in an awe-struck voice. “Eight thousan', four +hundred dollars just for rent the first year. I know five hundred acres +I can buy for three dollars an acre.” + +“Will it grow potatoes?” Gunston asked. + +Billy shook his head. “Nor nothin' else, I guess.” + +All three laughed heartily and the commission merchant resumed: + +“That seven dollars was only for the land. Possibly you know what it +costs to plow twelve hundred acres?” + +Billy nodded solemnly. + +“And he got a hundred and sixty sacks to the acre that year,” Gunston +continued. “Potatoes were selling at fifty cents. My father was at the +head of our concern at the time, so I know for a fact. And Sing Kee +could have sold at fifty cents and made money. But did he? Trust a +Chinaman to know the market. They can skin the commission merchants at +it. Sing Kee held on. When 'most everybody else had sold, potatoes began +to climb. He laughed at our buyers when we offered him sixty cents, +seventy cents, a dollar. Do you want to know what he finally did sell +for? One dollar and sixty-five a sack. Suppose they actually cost him +forty cents. A hundred and sixty times twelve hundred... let me see... +twelve times nought is nought and twelve times sixteen is a hundred and +ninety-two... a hundred and ninety-two thousand sacks at a dollar and a +quarter net... four into a hundred and ninety-two is forty-eight, plus, +is two hundred and forty--there you are, two hundred and forty thousand +dollars clear profit on that year's deal.” + +“An' him a Chink,” Billy mourned disconsolately. He turned to Saxon. +“They ought to be some new country for us white folks to go to. +Gosh!--we're settin' on the stoop all right, all right.” + +“But, of course, that was unusual,” Gunston hastened to qualify. “There +was a failure of potatoes in other districts, and a corner, and in some +strange way Sing Kee was dead on. He never made profits like that again. +But he goes ahead steadily. Last year he had four thousand acres in +potatoes, a thousand in asparagus, five hundred in celery and five +hundred in beans. And he's running six hundred acres in seeds. No matter +what happens to one or two crops, he can't lose on all of them.” + +“I've seen twelve thousand acres of apple trees,” Saxon said. “And I'd +like to see four thousand acres in potatoes.” + +“And we will,” Billy rejoined with great positiveness. “It's us for the +San Joaquin. We don't know what's in our country. No wonder we're out on +the stoop.” + +“You'll find lots of kings up there,” Gunston related. “Yep Hong +Lee--they call him 'Big Jim,' and Ah Pock, and Ah Whang, and--then +there's Shima, the Japanese potato king. He's worth several millions. +Lives like a prince.” + +“Why don't Americans succeed like that?” asked Saxon. + +“Because they won't, I guess. There's nothing to stop them except +themselves. I'll tell you one thing, though--give me the Chinese to deal +with. He's honest. His word is as good as his bond. If he says he'll +do a thing, he'll do it. And, anyway, the white man doesn't know how +to farm. Even the up-to-date white farmer is content with one crop at a +time and rotation of crops. Mr. John Chinaman goes him one better, and +grows two crops at one time on the same soil. I've seen it--radishes and +carrots, two crops, sown at one time.” + +“Which don't stand to reason,” Billy objected. “They'd be only a half +crop of each.” + +“Another guess coming,” Gunston jeered. “Carrots have to be thinned when +they're so far along. So do radishes. But carrots grow slow. Radishes +grow fast. The slow-going carrots serve the purpose of thinning the +radishes. And when the radishes are pulled, ready for market, that thins +the carrots, which come along later. You can't beat the Chink.” + +“Don't see why a white man can't do what a Chink can,” protested Billy. + +“That sounds all right,” Gunston replied. “The only objection is that +the white man doesn't. The Chink is busy all the time, and he keeps +the ground just as busy. He has organization, system. Who ever heard of +white farmers keeping books? The Chink does. No guess work with him. He +knows just where he stands, to a cent, on any crop at any moment. And he +knows the market. He plays both ends. How he does it is beyond me, but +he knows the market better than we commission merchants. + +“Then, again, he's patient but not stubborn. Suppose he does make a +mistake, and gets in a crop, and then finds the market is wrong. In such +a situation the white man gets stubborn and hangs on like a bulldog. But +not the Chink. He's going to minimize the losses of that mistake. That +land has got to work, and make money. Without a quiver or a regret, the +moment he's learned his error, he puts his plows into that crop, turns +it under, and plants something else. He has the savve. He can look at a +sprout, just poked up out of the ground, and tell how it's going to turn +out--whether it will head up or won't head up; or if it's going to head +up good, medium, or bad. That's one end. Take the other end. He controls +his crop. He forces it or holds it back with an eye on the market. And +when the market is just right, there's his crop, ready to deliver, timed +to the minute.” + +The conversation with Gunston lasted hours, and the more he talked of +the Chinese and their farming ways the more Saxon became aware of a +growing dissatisfaction. She did not question the facts. The trouble was +that they were not alluring. Somehow, she could not find place for them +in her valley of the moon. It was not until the genial Jew left the +train that Billy gave definite statement to what was vaguely bothering +her. + +“Huh! We ain't Chinks. We're white folks. Does a Chink ever want to ride +a horse, hell-bent for election an' havin' a good time of it? Did you +ever see a Chink go swimmin' out through the breakers at Carmel?--or +boxin', wrestlin', runnin' an' jumpin' for the sport of it? Did you ever +see a Chink take a shotgun on his arm, tramp six miles, an' come back +happy with one measly rabbit? What does a Chink do? Work his damned head +off. That's all he's good for. To hell with work, if that's the whole +of the game--an' I've done my share of work, an' I can work alongside of +any of 'em. But what's the good? If they's one thing I've learned solid +since you an' me hit the road, Saxon, it is that work's the least part +of life. God!--if it was all of life I couldn't cut my throat quick +enough to get away from it. I want shotguns an' rifles, an' a horse +between my legs. I don't want to be so tired all the time I can't love +my wife. Who wants to be rich an' clear two hundred an' forty thousand +on a potato deal! Look at Rockefeller. Has to live on milk. I want +porterhouse and a stomach that can bite sole-leather. An' I want you, +an' plenty of time along with you, an' fun for both of us. What's the +good of life if they ain't no fun?” + +“Oh, Billy!” Saxon cried. “It's just what I've been trying to get +straightened out in my head. It's been worrying me for ever so long. I +was afraid there was something wrong with me--that I wasn't made for +the country after all. All the time I didn't envy the San Leandro +Portuguese. I didn't want to be one, nor a Pajaro Valley Dalmatian, nor +even a Mrs. Mortimer. And you didn't either. What we want is a valley +of the moon, with not too much work, and all the fun we want. And we'll +just keep on looking until we find it. And if we don't find it, we'll +go on having the fun just as we have ever since we left Oakland. And, +Billy... we're never, never going to work our damned heads off, are we?” + +“Not on your life,” Billy growled in fierce affirmation. + +They walked into Black Diamond with their packs on their backs. It was a +scattered village of shabby little cottages, with a main street that +was a wallow of black mud from the last late spring rain. The sidewalks +bumped up and down in uneven steps and landings. Everything seemed +un-American. The names on the strange dingy shops were unspeakably +foreign. The one dingy hotel was run by a Greek. Greeks were +everywhere--swarthy men in sea-boots and tam-o'-shanters, hatless +women in bright colors, hordes of sturdy children, and all speaking in +outlandish voices, crying shrilly and vivaciously with the volubility of +the Mediterranean. + +“Huh!--this ain't the United States,” Billy muttered. Down on the water +front they found a fish cannery and an asparagus cannery in the height +of the busy season, where they looked in vain among the toilers for +familiar American faces. Billy picked out the bookkeepers and foremen +for Americans. All the rest were Greeks, Italians, and Chinese. + +At the steamboat wharf, they watched the bright-painted Greek boats +arriving, discharging their loads of glorious salmon, and departing. New +York Cut-Off, as the slough was called, curved to the west and north and +flowed into a vast body of water which was the united Sacramento and San +Joaquin rivers. + +Beyond the steamboat wharf, the fishing wharves dwindled to stages for +the drying of nets; and here, away from the noise and clatter of the +alien town, Saxon and Billy took off their packs and rested. The tall, +rustling tules grew out of the deep water close to the dilapidated +boat-landing where they sat. Opposite the town lay a long flat island, +on which a row of ragged poplars leaned against the sky. + +“Just like in that Dutch windmill picture Mark Hall has,” Saxon said. + +Billy pointed out the mouth of the slough and across the broad reach +of water to a cluster of tiny white buildings, behind which, like a +glimmering mirage, rolled the low Montezuma Hills. + +“Those houses is Collinsville,” he informed her. “The Sacramento river +comes in there, and you go up it to Rio Vista an' Isleton, and Walnut +Grove, and all those places Mr. Gunston was tellin' us about. It's +all islands and sloughs, connectin' clear across an' back to the San +Joaquin.” + +“Isn't the sun good,” Saxon yawned. “And how quiet it is here, so short +a distance away from those strange foreigners. And to think! in the +cities, right now, men are beating and killing each other for jobs.” + +Now and again an overland passenger train rushed by in the distance, +echoing along the background of foothills of Mt. Diablo, which bulked, +twin-peaked, greencrinkled, against the sky. Then the slumbrous quiet +would fall, to be broken by the far call of a foreign tongue or by a +gasoline fishing boat chugging in through the mouth of the slough. + +Not a hundred feet away, anchored close in the tules, lay a beautiful +white yacht. Despite its tininess, it looked broad and comfortable. +Smoke was rising for'ard from its stovepipe. On its stern, in gold +letters, they read Roamer. On top of the cabin, basking in the sunshine, +lay a man and woman, the latter with a pink scarf around her head. The +man was reading aloud from a book, while she sewed. Beside them sprawled +a fox terrier. + +“Gosh! they don't have to stick around cities to be happy,” Billy +commented. + +A Japanese came on deck from the cabin, sat down for'ard, and began +picking a chicken. The feathers floated away in a long line toward the +mouth of the slough. + +“Oh! Look!” Saxon pointed in her excitement. “He's fishing! And the line +is fast to his toe!” + +The man had dropped the book face-downward on the cabin and reached for +the line, while the woman looked up from her sewing, and the terrier +began to bark. In came the line, hand under hand, and at the end a +big catfish. When this was removed, and the line rebaited and dropped +overboard, the man took a turn around his toe and went on reading. + +A Japanese came down on the landing-stage beside Saxon and Billy, and +hailed the yacht. He carried parcels of meat and vegetables; one coat +pocket bulged with letters, the other with morning papers. In response +to his hail, the Japanese on the yacht stood up with the part-plucked +chicken. The man said something to him, put aside the book, got into the +white skiff lying astern, and rowed to the landing. As he came alongside +the stage, he pulled in his oars, caught hold, and said good morning +genially. + +“Why, I know you,” Saxon said impulsively, to Billy's amazement. “You +are.. ..” + +Here she broke off in confusion. + +“Go on,” the man said, smiling reassurance. + +“You are Jack Hastings, I 'm sure of it. I used to see your photograph +in the papers all the time you were war correspondent in the +Japanese-Russian War. You've written lots of books, though I've never +read them.” + + “Right you are,” he ratified. “And what's your name?” + +Saxon introduced herself and Billy, and, when she noted the writer's +observant eye on their packs, she sketched the pilgrimage they were +on. The farm in the valley of the moon evidently caught his fancy, and, +though the Japanese and his parcels were safely in the skiff, Hastings +still lingered. When Saxon spoke of Carmel, he seemed to know everybody +in Hall's crowd, and when he heard they were intending to go to Rio +Vista, his invitation was immediate. + +“Why, we're going that way ourselves, inside an hour, as soon as slack +water comes,” he exclaimed. “It's just the thing. Come on on board. +We'll be there by four this afternoon if there's any wind at all. Come +on. My wife's on board, and Mrs. Hall is one of her best chums. We've +been away to South America--just got back; or you'd have seen us in +Carmel. Hal wrote to us about the pair of you.” + +It was the second time in her life that Saxon had been in a small boat, +and the Roamer was the first yacht she had ever been on board. The +writer's wife, whom he called Clara, welcomed them heartily, and Saxon +lost no time in falling in love with her and in being fallen in love +with in return. So strikingly did they resemble each other, that +Hastings was not many minutes in calling attention to it. He made them +stand side by side, studied their eyes and mouths and ears, compared +their hands, their hair, their ankles, and swore that his fondest +dream was shattered--namely, that when Clara had been made the mold was +broken. + +On Clara's suggestion that it might have been pretty much the same mold, +they compared histories. Both were of the pioneer stock. Clara's mother, +like Saxon's, had crossed the Plains with ox-teams, and, like Saxon's, +had wintered in Salt Intake City--in fact, had, with her sisters, opened +the first Gentile school in that Mormon stronghold. And, if Saxon's +father had helped raise the Bear Flag rebellion at Sonoma, it was at +Sonoma that Clara's father had mustered in for the War of the Rebellion +and ridden as far east with his troop as Salt Lake City, of which +place he had been provost marshal when the Mormon trouble flared up. +To complete it all, Clara fetched from the cabin an ukulele of boa wood +that was the twin to Saxon's, and together they sang “Honolulu Tomboy.” + +Hastings decided to eat dinner--he called the midday meal by its +old-fashioned name--before sailing; and down below Saxon was surprised +and delighted by the measure of comfort in so tiny a cabin. There was +just room for Billy to stand upright. A centerboard-case divided the +room in half longitudinally, and to this was attached the hinged +table from which they ate. Low bunks that ran the full cabin length, +upholstered in cheerful green, served as seats. A curtain, easily +attached by hooks between the centerboard-case and the roof, at night +screened Mrs. Hastings' sleeping quarters. On the opposite side the two +Japanese bunked, while for'ard, under the deck, was the galley. So +small was it that there was just room beside it for the cook, who was +compelled by the low deck to squat on his hands. The other Japanese, who +had brought the parcels on board, waited on the table. + +“They are looking for a ranch in the valley of the moon,” Hastings +concluded his explanation of the pilgrimage to Clara. + +“Oh!--don't you know--” she cried; but was silenced by her husband. + +“Hush,” he said peremptorily, then turned to their guests. “Listen. +There's something in that valley of the moon idea, but I won't tell you +what. It is a secret. Now we've a ranch in Sonoma Valley about eight +miles from the very town of Sonoma where you two girls' fathers took up +soldiering; and if you ever come to our ranch you'll learn the secret. +Oh, believe me, it's connected with your valley of the moon.--Isn't it, +Mate?” + +This last was the mutual name he and Clara had for each other. + +She smiled and laughed and nodded her head. + +“You might find our valley the very one you are looking for,” she said. + +But Hastings shook his head at her to check further speech. She turned +to the fox terrier and made it speak for a piece of meat. + +“Her name's Peggy,” she told Saxon. “We had two Irish terriers down in +the South Seas, brother and sister, but they died. We called them Peggy +and Possum. So she's named after the original Peggy.” + +Billy was impressed by the ease with which the Roamer was operated. +While they lingered at table, at a word from Hastings the two Japanese +had gone on deck. Billy could hear them throwing down the halyards, +casting off gaskets, and heaving the anchor short on the tiny winch. In +several minutes one called down that everything was ready, and all went +on deck. Hoisting mainsail and jigger was a matter of minutes. Then +the cook and cabin-boy broke out anchor, and, while one hove it up, the +other hoisted the jib. Hastings, at the wheel, trimmed the sheet. The +Roamer paid off, filled her sails, slightly heeling, and slid across the +smooth water and out the mouth of New York Slough. The Japanese coiled +the halyards and went below for their own dinner. + +“The flood is just beginning to make,” said Hastings, pointing to a +striped spar-buoy that was slightly tipping up-stream on the edge of the +channel. + +The tiny white houses of Collinsville, which they were nearing, +disappeared behind a low island, though the Montezuma Hills, with their +long, low, restful lines, slumbered on the horizon apparently as far +away as ever. + +As the Roamer passed the mouth of Montezuma Slough and entered the +Sacramento, they came upon Collinsville close at hand. Saxon clapped her +hands. + +“It's like a lot of toy houses,” she said, “cut out of cardboard. And +those hilly fields are just painted up behind.” + +They passed many arks and houseboats of fishermen moored among the +tules, and the women and children, like the men in the boats, were +dark-skinned, black-eyed, foreign. As they proceeded up the river, they +began to encounter dredges at work, biting out mouthfuls of the sandy +river bottom and heaping it on top of the huge levees. Great mats of +willow brush, hundreds of yards in length, were laid on top of the +river-slope of the levees and held in place by steel cables and +thousands of cubes of cement. The willows soon sprouted, Hastings told +them, and by the time the mats were rotted away the sand was held in +place by the roots of the trees. + +“It must cost like Sam Hill,” Billy observed. + +“But the land is worth it,” Hastings explained. “This island land is +the most productive in the world. This section of California is like +Holland. You wouldn't think it, but this water we're sailing on +is higher than the surface of the islands. They're like leaky +boats--calking, patching, pumping, night and day and all the time. But +it pays. It pays.” + +Except for the dredgers, the fresh-piled sand, the dense willow +thickets, and always Mt. Diablo to the south, nothing was to be seen. +Occasionally a river steamboat passed, and blue herons flew into the +trees. + +“It must be very lonely,” Saxon remarked. + +Hastings laughed and told her she would change her mind later. Much +he related to them of the river lands, and after a while he got on the +subject of tenant farming. Saxon had started him by speaking of the +land-hungry Anglo-Saxons. + +“Land-hogs,” he snapped. “That's our record in this country. As one old +Reuben told a professor of an agricultural experiment station: 'They +ain't no sense in tryin' to teach me farmin'. I know all about it. Ain't +I worked out three farms?' It was his kind that destroyed New England. +Back there great sections are relapsing to wilderness. In one state, +at least, the deer have increased until they are a nuisance. There are +abandoned farms by the tens of thousands. I've gone over the lists of +them--farms in New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Connecticut. +Offered for sale on easy payment. The prices asked wouldn't pay for the +improvements, while the land, of course, is thrown in for nothing. + +“And the same thing is going on, in one way or another, the same +land-robbing and hogging, over the rest of the country--down in Texas, +in Missouri, and Kansas, out here in California. Take tenant farming. +I know a ranch in my county where the land was worth a hundred and +twenty-five an acre. And it gave its return at that valuation. When the +old man died, the son leased it to a Portuguese and went to live in the +city. In five years the Portuguese skimmed the cream and dried up the +udder. The second lease, with another Portuguese for three years, gave +one-quarter the former return. No third Portuguese appeared to offer +to lease it. There wasn't anything left. That ranch was worth fifty +thousand when the old man died. In the end the son got eleven thousand +for it. Why, I've seen land that paid twelve per cent., that, after the +skimming of a five-years' lease, paid only one and a quarter per cent.” + +“It's the same in our valley,” Mrs. Hastings supplemented. “All the old +farms are dropping into ruin. Take the Ebell Place, Mate.” Her husband +nodded emphatic indorsement. “When we used to know it, it was a perfect +paradise of a farm. There were dams and lakes, beautiful meadows, lush +hayfields, red hills of grape-lands, hundreds of acres of good pasture, +heavenly groves of pines and oaks, a stone winery, stone barns, +grounds--oh, I couldn't describe it in hours. When Mrs. Bell died, the +family scattered, and the leasing began. It's a ruin to-day. The trees +have been cut and sold for firewood. There's only a little bit of the +vineyard that isn't abandoned--just enough to make wine for the present +Italian lessees, who are running a poverty-stricken milk ranch on the +leavings of the soil. I rode over it last year, and cried. The beautiful +orchard is a horror. The grounds have gone back to the wild. Just +because they didn't keep the gutters cleaned out, the rain trickled down +and dry-rotted the timbers, and the big stone barn is caved in. The same +with part of the winery--the other part is used for stabling the cows. +And the house!--words can't describe!” + +“It's become a profession,” Hastings went on. “The 'movers.' They lease, +clean out and gut a place in several years, and then move on. They're +not like the foreigners, the Chinese, and Japanese, and the rest. In the +main they're a lazy, vagabond, poor-white sort, who do nothing else but +skin the soil and move, skin the soil and move. Now take the Portuguese +and Italians in our country. They are different. They arrive in the +country without a penny and work for others of their countrymen until +they've learned the language and their way about. Now they're not +movers. What they are after is land of their own, which they will love +and care for and conserve. But, in the meantime, how to get it? Saving +wages is slow. There is a quicker way. They lease. In three years they +can gut enough out of somebody else's land to set themselves up for +life. It is sacrilege, a veritable rape of the land; but what of it? +It's the way of the United States.” + +He turned suddenly on Billy. + +“Look here, Roberts. You and your wife are looking for your bit of land. +You want it bad. Now take my advice. It's cold, hard advice. Become a +tenant farmer. Lease some place, where the old folks have died and the +country isn't good enough for the sons and daughters. Then gut it. Wring +the last dollar out of the soil, repair nothing, and in three years +you'll have your own place paid for. Then turn over a new leaf, and love +your soil. Nourish it. Every dollar you feed it will return you two. +And have nothing scrub about the place. If it's a horse, a cow, a pig, +a chicken, or a blackberry vine, see that it's thoroughbred.” + +“But it's wicked!” Saxon wrung out. “It's wicked advice.” + +“We live in a wicked age,” Hastings countered, smiling grimly. “This +wholesale land-skinning is the national crime of the United States +to-day. Nor would I give your husband such advice if I weren't +absolutely certain that the land he skins would be skinned by some +Portuguese or Italian if he refused. As fast as they arrive and settle +down, they send for their sisters and their cousins and their aunts. If +you were thirsty, if a warehouse were burning and beautiful Rhine wine +were running to waste, would you stay your hand from scooping a drink? +Well, the national warehouse is afire in many places, and no end of +the good things are running to waste. Help yourself. If you don't, the +immigrants will.” + +“Oh, you don't know him,” Mrs. Hastings hurried to explain. “He spends +all his time on the ranch in conserving the soil. There are over a +thousand acres of woods alone, and, though he thins and forests like +a surgeon, he won't let a tree be chopped without his permission. He's +even planted a hundred thousand trees. He's always draining and ditching +to stop erosion, and experimenting with pasture grasses. And every +little while he buys some exhausted adjoining ranch and starts building +up the soil.” + +“Wherefore I know what I 'm talking about,” Hastings broke in. “And my +advice holds. I love the soil, yet to-morrow, things being as they +are and if I were poor, I'd gut five hundred acres in order to buy +twenty-five for myself. When you get into Sonoma Valley, look me up, +and I'll put you onto the whole game, and both ends of it. I'll show you +construction as well as destruction. When you find a farm doomed to be +gutted anyway, why jump in and do it yourself.” + +“Yes, and he mortgaged himself to the eyes,” laughed Mrs. Hastings, +“to keep five hundred acres of woods out of the hands of the charcoal +burners.” + +Ahead, on the left bank of the Sacramento, just at the fading end of +the Montezuma Hills, Rio Vista appeared. The Roamer slipped through the +smooth water, past steamboat wharves, landing stages, and warehouses. +The two Japanese went for'ard on deck. At command of Hastings, the jib +ran down, and he shot the Roomer into the wind, losing way, until he +called, “Let go the hook!” The anchor went down, and the yacht swung to +it, so close to shore that the skiff lay under overhanging willows. + +“Farther up the river we tie to the bank,” Mrs. Hastings said, “so that +when you wake in the morning you find the branches of trees sticking +down into the cabin.” + +“Ooh!” Saxon murmured, pointing to a lump on her wrist. “Look at that. A +mosquito.” + +“Pretty early for them,” Hastings said. “But later on they're terrible. +I've seen them so thick I couldn't back the jib against them.” + +Saxon was not nautical enough to appreciate his hyperbole, though Billy +grinned. + +“There are no mosquitoes in the valley of the moon,” she said. + +“No, never,” said Mrs. Hastings, whose husband began immediately to +regret the smallness of the cabin which prevented him from offering +sleeping accommodations. + +An automobile bumped along on top of the levee, and the young boys and +girls in it cried, “Oh, you kid!” to Saxon and Billy, and Hastings, who +was rowing them ashore in the skiff. Hastings called, “Oh, you kid!” + back to them; and Saxon, pleasuring in the boyishness of his sunburned +face, was reminded of the boyishness of Mark Hall and his Carmel crowd. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Crossing the Sacramento on an old-fashioned ferry a short distance above +Rio Vista, Saxon and Billy entered the river country. From the top +of the levee she got her revelation. Beneath, lower than the river, +stretched broad, flat land, far as the eye could see. Roads ran in +every direction, and she saw countless farmhouses of which she had never +dreamed when sailing on the lonely river a few feet the other side of +the willowy fringe. + +Three weeks they spent among the rich farm islands, which heaped up +levees and pumped day and night to keep afloat. It was a monotonous +land, with an unvarying richness of soil and with only one landmark--Mt. +Diablo, ever to be seen, sleeping in the midday azure, limping its +crinkled mass against the sunset sky, or forming like a dream out of the +silver dawn. Sometimes on foot, often by launch, they criss-crossed and +threaded the river region as far as the peat lands of the Middle River, +down the San Joaquin to Antioch, and up Georgiana Slough to Walnut Grove +on the Sacramento. And it proved a foreign land. The workers of the soil +teemed by thousands, yet Saxon and Billy knew what it was to go a +whole day without finding any one who spoke English. They +encountered--sometimes in whole villages--Chinese, Japanese, Italians, +Portuguese, Swiss, Hindus, Koreans, Norwegians, Danes, French, +Armenians, Slavs, almost every nationality save American. One American +they found on the lower reaches of Georgiana who eked an illicit +existence by fishing with traps. Another American, who spouted blood and +destruction on all political subjects, was an itinerant bee-farmer. At +Walnut Grove, bustling with life, the few Americans consisted of +the storekeeper, the saloonkeeper, the butcher, the keeper of the +drawbridge, and the ferryman. Yet two thriving towns were in Walnut +Grove, one Chinese, one Japanese. Most of the land was owned by +Americans, who lived away from it and were continually selling it to the +foreigners. + +A riot, or a merry-making--they could not tell which--was taking place +in the Japanese town, as Saxon and Billy steamed out on the Apache, +bound for Sacramento. + +“We're settin' on the stoop,” Billy railed. “Pretty soon they'll crowd +us off of that.” + +“There won't be any stoop in the valley of the moon,” Saxon cheered him. + +But he was inconsolable, remarking bitterly: + +“An' they ain't one of them damn foreigners that can handle four horses +like me. + +“But they can everlastingly farm,” he added. + +And Saxon, looking at his moody face, was suddenly reminded of a +lithograph she had seen in her childhood. It was of a Plains Indian, in +paint and feathers, astride his horse and gazing with wondering eye at a +railroad train rushing along a fresh-made track. The Indian had passed, +she remembered, before the tide of new life that brought the railroad. +And were Billy and his kind doomed to pass, she pondered, before this +new tide of life, amazingly industrious, that was flooding in from Asia +and Europe? + +At Sacramento they stopped two weeks, where Billy drove team and earned +the money to put them along on their travels. Also, life in Oakland and +Carmel, close to the salt edge of the coast, had spoiled them for the +interior. Too warm, was their verdict of Sacramento and they followed +the railroad west, through a region of swamp-land, to Davisville. Here +they were lured aside and to the north to pretty Woodland, where Billy +drove team for a fruit farm, and where Saxon wrung from him a reluctant +consent for her to work a few days in the fruit harvest. She made an +important and mystifying secret of what she intended doing with her +earnings, and Billy teased her about it until the matter passed from his +mind. Nor did she tell him of a money order inclosed with a certain blue +slip of paper in a letter to Bud Strothers. + +They began to suffer from the heat. Billy declared they had strayed out +of the blanket climate. + +“There are no redwoods here,” Saxon said. “We must go west toward the +coast. It is there we'll find the valley of the moon.” + +From Woodland they swung west and south along the county roads to the +fruit paradise of Vacaville. Here Billy picked fruit, then drove team; +and here Saxon received a letter and a tiny express package from Bud +Strothers. When Billy came into camp from the day's work, she bade him +stand still and shut his eyes. For a few seconds she fumbled and did +something to the breast of his cotton work-shirt. Once, he felt a slight +prick, as of a pin point, and grunted, while she laughed and bullied him +to continue keeping his eyes shut. + +“Close your eyes and give me a kiss,” she sang, “and then I'll show you +what iss.” + +She kissed him and when he looked down he saw, pinned to his shirt, the +gold medals he had pawned the day they had gone to the moving picture +show and received their inspiration to return to the land. + +“You darned kid!” he exclaimed, as he caught her to him. “So that's +what you blew your fruit money in on? An' I never guessed!--Come here to +you.” + +And thereupon she suffered the pleasant mastery of his brawn, and was +hugged and wrestled with until the coffee pot boiled over and she darted +from him to the rescue. + +“I kinda always been a mite proud of 'em,” he confessed, as he rolled +his after-supper cigarette. “They take me back to my kid days when I +amateured it to beat the band. I was some kid in them days, believe +muh.--But say, d'ye know, they'd clean slipped my recollection. +Oakland's a thousan' years away from you an' me, an' ten thousan' +miles.” + +“Then this will bring you back to it,” Saxon said, opening Bud's letter +and reading it aloud. + +Bud had taken it for granted that Billy knew the wind-up of the strike; +so he devoted himself to the details as to which men had got back their +jobs, and which had been blacklisted. To his own amazement he had been +taken back, and was now driving Billy's horses. Still more amazing was +the further information he had to impart. The old foreman of the West +Oakland stables had died, and since then two other foremen had done +nothing but make messes of everything. The point of all which was that +the Boss had spoken that day to Bud, regretting the disappearance of +Billy. + +“Don't make no mistake,” Bud wrote. “The Boss is onto all your curves. +I bet he knows every scab you slugged. Just the same he says to +me--Strothers, if you ain't at liberty to give me his address, just +write yourself and tell him for me to come a running. I'll give him a +hundred and twenty-five a month to take hold the stables.” + +Saxon waited with well-concealed anxiety when the letter was finished. +Billy, stretched out, leaning on one elbow, blew a meditative ring of +smoke. His cheap workshirt, incongruously brilliant with the gold of +the medals that flashed in the firelight, was open in front, showing +the smooth skin and splendid swell of chest. He glanced around--at the +blankets bowered in a green screen and waiting, at the campfire and the +blackened, battered coffee pot, at the well-worn hatchet, half buried in +a tree trunk, and lastly at Saxon. His eyes embraced her; then into them +came a slow expression of inquiry. But she offered no help. + +“Well,” he uttered finally, “all you gotta do is write Bud Strothers, +an' tell 'm not on the Boss's ugly tintype.--An' while you're about it, +I'll send 'm the money to get my watch out. You work out the interest. +The overcoat can stay there an' rot.” + +But they did not prosper in the interior heat. They lost weight. The +resilience went out of their minds and bodies. As Billy expressed it, +their silk was frazzled. So they shouldered their packs and headed west +across the wild mountains. In the Berryessa Valley, the shimmering heat +waves made their eyes ache, and their heads; so that they traveled on in +the early morning and late afternoon. Still west they headed, over more +mountains, to beautiful Napa Valley. The next valley beyond was Sonoma, +where Hastings had invited them to his ranch. And here they would have +gone, had not Billy chanced upon a newspaper item which told of the +writer's departure to cover some revolution that was breaking out +somewhere in Mexico. + +“We'll see 'm later on,” Billy said, as they turned northwest, through +the vineyards and orchards of Napa Valley. “We're like that millionaire +Bert used to sing about, except it's time that we've got to burn. Any +direction is as good as any other, only west is best.” + +Three times in the Napa Valley Billy refused work. Past St. Helena, +Saxon hailed with joy the unmistakable redwoods they could see growing +up the small canyons that penetrated the western wall of the valley. +At Calistoga, at the end of the railroad, they saw the six-horse stages +leaving for Middletown and Lower Lake. They debated their route. That +way led to Lake County and not toward the coast, so Saxon and Billy +swung west through the mountains to the valley of the Russian River, +coming out at Healdsburg. They lingered in the hop-fields on the +rich bottoms, where Billy scorned to pick hops alongside of Indians, +Japanese, and Chinese. + +“I couldn't work alongside of 'em an hour before I'd be knockin' their +blocks off,” he explained. “Besides, this Russian River's some nifty. +Let's pitch camp and go swimmin'.” + +So they idled their way north up the broad, fertile valley, so happy +that they forgot that work was ever necessary, while the valley of the +moon was a golden dream, remote, but sure, some day of realization. +At Cloverdale, Billy fell into luck. A combination of sickness and +mischance found the stage stables short a driver. Each day the train +disgorged passengers for the Geysers, and Billy, as if accustomed to it +all his life, took the reins of six horses and drove a full load over +the mountains in stage time. The second trip he had Saxon beside him on +the high boxseat. By the end of two weeks the regular driver was back. +Billy declined a stable-job, took his wages, and continued north. + +Saxon had adopted a fox terrier puppy and named him Possum, after the +dog Mrs. Hastings had told them about. So young was he that he quickly +became footsore, and she carried him until Billy perched him on top +of his pack and grumbled that Possum was chewing his back hair to a +frazzle. + +They passed through the painted vineyards of Asti at the end of the +grape-picking, and entered Ukiah drenched to the skin by the first +winter rain. + +“Say,” Billy said, “you remember the way the Roamer just skated along. +Well, this summer's done the same thing--gone by on wheels. An' now it's +up to us to find some place to winter. This Ukiah looks like a pretty +good burg. We'll get a room to-night an' dry out. An' to-morrow I'll +hustle around to the stables, an' if I locate anything we can rent a +shack an' have all winter to think about where we'll go next year.” + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +The winter proved much less exciting than the one spent in Carmel, and +keenly as Saxon had appreciated the Carmel folk, she now appreciated +them more keenly than ever. In Ukiah she formed nothing more than +superficial acquaintances. Here people were more like those of the +working class she had known in Oakland, or else they were merely +wealthy and herded together in automobiles. There was no democratic +artist-colony that pursued fellowship disregardful of the caste of +wealth. + +Yet it was a more enjoyable winter than any she had spent in Oakland. +Billy had failed to get regular employment; so she saw much of him, and +they lived a prosperous and happy hand-to-mouth existence in the tiny +cottage they rented. As extra man at the biggest livery stable, Billy's +spare time was so great that he drifted into horse-trading. It was +hazardous, and more than once he was broke, but the table never wanted +for the best of steak and coffee, nor did they stint themselves for +clothes. + +“Them blamed farmers--I gotta pass it to 'em,” Billy grinned one day, +when he had been particularly bested in a horse deal. “They won't tear +under the wings, the sons of guns. In the summer they take in boarders, +an' in the winter they make a good livin' doin' each other up at tradin' +horses. An' I just want to tell YOU, Saxon, they've sure shown me a few. +An' I 'm gettin' tough under the wings myself. I'll never tear again +so as you can notice it. Which means one more trade learned for yours +truly. I can make a livin' anywhere now tradin' horses.” + +Often Billy had Saxon out on spare saddle horses from the stable, and +his horse deals took them on many trips into the surrounding country. +Likewise she was with him when he was driving horses to sell on +commission; and in both their minds, independently, arose a new idea +concerning their pilgrimage. Billy was the first to broach it. + +“I run into an outfit the other day, that's stored in town,” he said, +“an' it's kept me thinkin' ever since. Ain't no use tryin' to get you to +guess it, because you can't. I'll tell you--the swellest wagon-campin' +outfit anybody ever heard of. First of all, the wagon's a peacherino. +Strong as they make 'em. It was made to order, upon Puget Sound, an' it +was tested out all the way down here. No load an' no road can strain it. +The guy had consumption that had it built. A doctor an' a cook traveled +with 'm till he passed in his checks here in Ukiah two years ago. But +say--if you could see it. Every kind of a contrivance--a place for +everything--a regular home on wheels. Now, if we could get that, an' a +couple of plugs, we could travel like kings, an' laugh at the weather.” + +“Oh! Billy! it's just what I've been dreamin' all winter. It would +be ideal. And... well, sometimes on the road I 'm sure you can't help +forgetting what a nice little wife you've got... and with a wagon I +could have all kinds of pretty clothes along.” + +Billy's blue eyes glowed a caress, cloudy and warm; as he said quietly: + +“I've ben thinkin' about that.” + +“And you can carry a rifle and shotgun and fishing poles and +everything,” she rushed along. “And a good big axe, man-size, instead of +that hatchet you're always complaining about. And Possum can lift up +his legs and rest. And--but suppose you can't buy it? How much do they +want?” + +“One hundred an' fifty big bucks,” he answered. “But dirt cheap at that. +It's givin' it away. I tell you that rig wasn't built for a cent less +than four hundred, an' I know wagon-work in the dark. Now, if I can put +through that dicker with Caswell's six horses--say, I just got onto that +horse-buyer to-day. If he buys 'em, who d'ye think he'll ship 'em to? +To the Boss, right to the West Oakland stables. I 'm goin' to get you to +write to him. Travelin', as we're goin' to, I can pick up bargains. An' +if the Boss'll talk, I can make the regular horse-buyer's commissions. +He'll have to trust me with a lot of money, though, which most likely he +won't, knowin' all his scabs I beat up.” + +“If he could trust you to run his stable, I guess he isn't afraid to let +you handle his money,” Saxon said. + +Billy shrugged his shoulders in modest dubiousness. + +“Well, anyway, as I was sayin' if I can sell Caswell's six horses, why, +we can stand off this month's bills an' buy the wagon.” + +“But horses!” Saxon queried anxiously. + +“They'll come later--if I have to take a regular job for two or three +months. The only trouble with that 'd be that it'd run us pretty well +along into summer before we could pull out. But come on down town an' +I'll show you the outfit right now.” + +Saxon saw the wagon and was so infatuated with it that she lost a +night's sleep from sheer insomnia of anticipation. Then Caswell's six +horses were sold, the month's bills held over, and the wagon became +theirs. One rainy morning, two weeks later, Billy had scarcely left the +house, to be gone on an all-day trip into the country after horses, when +he was back again. + +“Come on!” he called to Saxon from the street. “Get your things on an' +come along. I want to show you something.” + +He drove down town to a board stable, and took her through to a large, +roofed inclosure in the rear. There he led to her a span of sturdy +dappled chestnuts, with cream-colored manes and tails. + +“Oh, the beauties! the beauties!” Saxon cried, resting her cheek against +the velvet muzzle of one, while the other roguishly nuzzled for a share. + +“Ain't they, though?” Billy reveled, leading them up and down before her +admiring gaze. “Thirteen hundred an' fifty each, an' they don't look the +weight, they're that slick put together. I couldn't believe it myself, +till I put 'em on the scales. Twenty-seven hundred an' seven pounds, +the two of 'em. An' I tried 'em out--that was two days ago. Good +dispositions, no faults, an' true-pullers, automobile broke an' all +the rest. I'd back 'em to out-pull any team of their weight I ever +seen.--Say, how'd they look hooked up to that wagon of ourn?” + +Saxon visioned the picture, and shook her head slowly in a reaction of +regret. + +“Three hundred spot cash buys 'em,” Billy went on. “An' that's bed-rock. +The owner wants the money so bad he's droolin' for it. Just gotta sell, +an' sell quick. An' Saxon, honest to God, that pair'd fetch five hundred +at auction down in the city. Both mares, full sisters, five an' six +years old, registered Belgian sire, out of a heavy standard-bred mare +that I know. Three hundred takes 'em, an' I got the refusal for three +days.” + +Saxon's regret changed to indignation. + +“Oh, why did you show them to me? We haven't any three hundred, and you +know it. All I've got in the house is six dollars, and you haven't that +much.” + +“Maybe you think that's all I brought you down town for,” he replied +enigmatically. “Well, it ain't.” + +He paused, licked his lips, and shifted his weight uneasily from one leg +to the other. + +“Now you listen till I get all done before you say anything. Ready?” + +She nodded. + +“Won't open your mouth?” + +This time she obediently shook her head. + +“Well, it's this way,” he began haltingly. “They's a youngster come up +from Frisco, Young Sandow they call 'm, an' the Pride of Telegraph Hill. +He's the real goods of a heavyweight, an' he was to fight Montana +Red Saturday night, only Montana Red, just in a little trainin' bout, +snapped his forearm yesterday. The managers has kept it quiet. Now +here's the proposition. Lots of tickets sold, an' they'll be a big crowd +Saturday night. At the last moment, so as not to disappoint 'em, they'll +spring me to take Montana's place. I 'm the dark horse. Nobody knows +me--not even Young Sandow. He's come up since my time. I'll be a rube +fighter. I can fight as Horse Roberts. + +“Now, wait a minute. The winner'll pull down three hundred big round +iron dollars. Wait, I 'm tellin' you! It's a lead-pipe cinch. It's +like robbin' a corpse. Sandow's got all the heart in the world--regular +knock-down-an'-drag-out-an'-hang-on fighter. I've followed 'm in the +papers. But he ain't clever. I 'm slow, all right, all right, but I 'm +clever, an' I got a hay-maker in each arm. I got Sandow's number an' I +know it. + +“Now, you got the say-so in this. If you say yes, the nags is ourn. If +you say no, then it's all bets off, an' everything all right, an' I'll +take to harness-washin' at the stable so as to buy a couple of plugs. +Remember, they'll only be plugs, though. But don't look at me while +you're makin' up your mind. Keep your lamps on the horses.” + +It was with painful indecision that she looked at the beautiful animals. + +“Their names is Hazel an' Hattie,” Billy put in a sly wedge. “If we get +'em we could call it the 'Double H' outfit.” + +But Saxon forgot the team and could only see Billy's frightfully bruised +body the night he fought the Chicago Terror. She was about to speak, +when Billy, who had been hanging on her lips, broke in: + +“Just hitch 'em up to our wagon in your mind an' look at the outfit. You +got to go some to beat it.” + +“But you're not in training, Billy,” she said suddenly and without +having intended to say it. + +“Huh!” he snorted. “I've been in half trainin' for the last year. My +legs is like iron. They'll hold me up as long as I've got a punch left +in my arms, and I always have that. Besides, I won't let 'm make a long +fight. He's a man-eater, an' man-eaters is my meat. I eat 'm alive. It's +the clever boys with the stamina an' endurance that I can't put away. +But this young Sandow's my meat. I'll get 'm maybe in the third or +fourth round--you know, time 'm in a rush an' hand it to 'm just as +easy. It's a lead-pipe cinch, I tell you. Honest to God, Saxon, it's a +shame to take the money.” + +“But I hate to think of you all battered up,” she temporized. “If I +didn't love you so, it might be different. And then, too, you might get +hurt.” + +Billy laughed in contemptuous pride of youth and brawn. + +“You won't know I've been in a fight, except that we'll own Hazel +an' Hattie there. An' besides, Saxon, I just gotta stick my fist in +somebody's face once in a while. You know I can go for months peaceable +an' gentle as a lamb, an' then my knuckles actually begin to itch to +land on something. Now, it's a whole lot sensibler to land on Young +Sandow an' get three hundred for it, than to land on some hayseed an' +get hauled up an' fined before some justice of the peace. Now take +another squint at Hazel an' Hattie. They're regular farm furniture, good +to breed from when we get to that valley of the moon. An' they're heavy +enough to turn right into the plowin', too.” + + +The evening of the fight at quarter past eight, Saxon parted from Billy. +At quarter past nine, with hot water, ice, and everything ready in +anticipation, she heard the gate click and Billy's step come up the +porch. She had agreed to the fight much against her better judgment, and +had regretted her consent every minute of the hour she had just waited; +so that, as she opened the front door, she was expectant of any sort of +a terrible husband-wreck. But the Billy she saw was precisely the Billy +she had parted from. + +“There was no fight?” she cried, in so evident disappointment that he +laughed. + +“They was all yellin' 'Fake! Fake!' when I left, an' wantin' their money +back.” + +“Well, I've got YOU,” she laughed, leading him in, though secretly she +sighed farewell to Hazel and Hattie. + +“I stopped by the way to get something for you that you've been wantin' +some time,” Billy said casually. “Shut your eyes an' open your hand; an' +when you open your eyes you'll find it grand,” he chanted. + +Into her hand something was laid that was very heavy and very cold, and +when her eyes opened she saw it was a stack of fifteen twenty-dollar +gold pieces. + +“I told you it was like takin' money from a corpse,” he exulted, as +he emerged grinning from the whirlwind of punches, whacks, and hugs in +which she had enveloped him. “They wasn't no fight at all. D 'ye want +to know how long it lasted? Just twenty-seven seconds--less 'n half +a minute. An' how many blows struck? One. An' it was me that done it. +Here, I'll show you. It was just like this--a regular scream.” + +Billy had taken his place in the middle of the room, slightly crouching, +chin tucked against the sheltering left shoulder, fists closed, elbows +in so as to guard left side and abdomen, and forearms close to the body. + +“It's the first round,” he pictured. “Gong's sounded, an' we've shook +hands. Of course, seein' as it's a long fight an' we've never seen each +other in action, we ain't in no rush. We're just feelin' each other out +an' fiddlin' around. Seventeen seconds like that. Not a blow struck. +Nothin'. An' then it's all off with the big Swede. It takes some time to +tell it, but it happened in a jiffy, in less'n a tenth of a second. I +wasn't expectin' it myself. We're awful close together. His left glove +ain't a foot from my jaw, an' my left glove ain't a foot from his. He +feints with his right, an' I know it's a feint, an' just hunch up my +left shoulder a bit an' feint with my right. That draws his guard over +just about an inch, an' I see my openin'. My left ain't got a foot +to travel. I don't draw it back none. I start it from where it is, +corkscrewin' around his right guard an' pivotin' at the waist to put the +weight of my shoulder into the punch. An' it connects!--Square on the +point of the chin, sideways. He drops deado. I walk back to my corner, +an', honest to God, Saxon, I can't help gigglin' a little, it was that +easy. The referee stands over 'm an' counts 'm out. He never quivers. +The audience don't know what to make of it an' sits paralyzed. His +seconds carry 'm to his corner an' set 'm on the stool. But they gotta +hold 'm up. Five minutes afterward he opens his eyes--but he ain't +seein' nothing. They're glassy. Five minutes more, an' he stands +up. They got to help hold 'm, his legs givin' under 'm like they was +sausages. An' the seconds has to help 'm through the ropes, an' they +go down the aisle to his dressin' room a-helpin' 'm. An' the +crowd beginning to yell fake an' want its money back. Twenty-seven +seconds--one punch--n' a spankin' pair of horses for the best wife Billy +Roberts ever had in his long experience.” + +All of Saxon's old physical worship of her husband revived and doubled +on itself many times. He was in all truth a hero, worthy to be of that +wing-helmeted company leaping from the beaked boats upon the bloody +English sands. The next morning he was awakened by her lips pressed on +his left hand. + +“Hey!--what are you doin'?'” he demanded. + +“Kissing Hazel and Hattie good morning,” she answered demurely. “And now +I 'm going to kiss you good morning.. .. And just where did your punch +land? Show me.” + +Billy complied, touching the point of her chin with his knuckles. With +both her hands on his arm, she shoved it back and tried to draw it +forward sharply in similitude of a punch. But Billy withstrained her. + +“Wait,” he said. “You don't want to knock your jaw off. I'll show you. A +quarter of an inch will do.” + +And at a distance of a quarter of an inch from her chin he administered +the slightest flick of a tap. + +On the instant Saxon's brain snapped with a white flash of light, while +her whole body relaxed, numb and weak, volitionless, sad her vision +reeled and blurred. The next instant she was herself again, in her eyes +terror and understanding. + +“And it was at a foot that you struck him,” she murmured in a voice of +awe. + +“Yes, and with the weight of my shoulders behind it,” Billy laughed. +“Oh, that's nothing.--Here, let me show you something else.” + +He searched out her solar plexus, and did no more than snap his middle +finger against it. This time she experienced a simple paralysis, +accompanied by a stoppage of breath, but with a brain and vision +that remained perfectly clear. In a moment, however, all the unwonted +sensations were gone. + +“Solar Plexus,” Billy elucidated. “Imagine what it's like when the other +fellow lifts a wallop to it all the way from his knees. That's the punch +that won the championship of the world for Bob Fitzsimmons.” + +Saxon shuddered, then resigned herself to Billy's playful demonstration +of the weak points in the human anatomy. He pressed the tip of a finger +into the middle of her forearm, and she knew excruciating agony. On +either side of her neck, at the base, he dented gently with his thumbs, +and she felt herself quickly growing unconscious. + +“That's one of the death touches of the Japs,” he told her, and went +on, accompanying grips and holds with a running exposition. “Here's +the toe-hold that Notch defeated Hackenschmidt with. I learned it +from Farmer Burns.--An' here's a half-Nelson.--An' here's you makin' +roughhouse at a dance, an' I 'm the floor manager, an' I gotta put you +out.” + +One hand grasped her wrist, the other hand passed around and under her +forearm and grasped his own wrist. And at the first hint of pressure she +felt that her arm was a pipe-stem about to break. + +“That's called the 'come along.'--An' here's the strong arm. A boy +can down a man with it. An' if you ever get into a scrap an' the other +fellow gets your nose between his teeth--you don't want to lose your +nose, do you? Well, this is what you do, quick as a flash.” + +Involuntarily she closed her eyes as Billy's thumb-ends pressed into +them. She could feel the fore-running ache of a dull and terrible hurt. + +“If he don't let go, you just press real hard, an' out pop his eyes, an' +he's blind as a bat for the rest of his life. Oh, he'll let go all right +all right.” + +He released her and lay back laughing. + +“How d'ye feel?” he asked. “Those ain't boxin' tricks, but they're all +in the game of a roughhouse.” + +“I feel like revenge,” she said, trying to apply the “come along” to his +arm. + +When she exerted the pressure she cried out with pain, for she had +succeeded only in hurting herself. Billy grinned at her futility. She +dug her thumbs into his neck in imitation of the Japanese death touch, +then gazed ruefully at the bent ends of her nails. She punched him +smartly on the point of the chin, and again cried out, this time to the +bruise of her knuckles. + +“Well, this can't hurt me,” she gritted through her teeth, as she +assailed his solar plexus with her doubled fists. + +By this time he was in a roar of laughter. Under the sheaths of muscles +that were as armor, the fatal nerve center remained impervious. + +“Go on, do it some more,” he urged, when she had given up, breathing +heavily. “It feels fine, like you was ticklin' me with a feather.” + +“All right, Mister Man,” she threatened balefully. “You can talk about +your grips and death touches and all the rest, but that's all man's +game. I know something that will beat them all, that will make a strong +man as helpless as a baby. Wait a minute till I get it. There. Shut your +eyes. Ready? I won't be a second.” + +He waited with closed eyes, and then, softly as rose petals fluttering +down, he felt her lips on his mouth. + +“You win,” he said in solemn ecstasy, and passed his arms around her. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +In the morning Billy went down town to pay for Hazel and Hattie. It was +due to Saxon's impatient desire to see them, that he seemed to take a +remarkably long time about so simple a transaction. But she forgave him +when he arrived with the two horses hitched to the camping wagon. + +“Had to borrow the harness,” he said. “Pass Possum up and climb in, an' +I'll show you the Double H Outfit, which is some outfit, I'm tellin' +you.” + +Saxon's delight was unbounded and almost speechless as they drove out +into the country behind the dappled chestnuts with the cream-colored +tails and manes. The seat was upholstered, high-backed, and comfortable; +and Billy raved about the wonders of the efficient brake. He trotted the +team along the hard county road to show the standard-going in them, and +put them up a steep earthroad, almost hub-deep with mud, to prove that +the light Belgian sire was not wanting in their make-up. + +When Saxon at last lapsed into complete silence, he studied her +anxiously, with quick sidelong glances. She sighed and asked: + +“When do you think we'll be able to start?” + +“Maybe in two weeks... or, maybe in two or three months.” He sighed with +solemn deliberation. “We're like the Irishman with the trunk an' nothin' +to put in it. Here's the wagon, here's the horses, an' nothin' to pull. +I know a peach of a shotgun I can get, second-hand, eighteen dollars; +but look at the bills we owe. Then there's a new '22 Automatic rifle I +want for you. An' a 30-30 I've had my eye on for deer. An' you want a +good jointed pole as well as me. An' tackle costs like Sam Hill. An' +harness like I want will cost fifty bucks cold. An' the wagon ought to +be painted. Then there's pasture ropes, an' nose-bags, an' a harness +punch, an' all such things. An' Hazel an' Hattie eatin' their heads off +all the time we're waitin'. An' I 'm just itchin' to be started myself.” + +He stopped abruptly and confusedly. + +“Now, Billy, what have you got up your sleeve?--I can see it in your +eyes,” Saxon demanded and indicted in mixed metaphors. + +“Well, Saxon, you see, it's like this. Sandow ain't satisfied. He's +madder 'n a hatter. Never got one punch at me. Never had a chance to +make a showin', an' he wants a return match. He's blattin' around town +that he can lick me with one hand tied behind 'm, an' all that kind of +hot air. Which ain't the point. The point is, the fight-fans is wild +to see a return-match. They didn't get a run for their money last time. +They'll fill the house. The managers has seen me already. That was why +I was so long. They's three hundred more waitin' on the tree for me to +pick two weeks from last night if you'll say the word. It's just the +same as I told you before. He's my meat. He still thinks I 'm a rube, +an' that it was a fluke punch.” + +“But, Billy, you told me long ago that fighting took the silk out of +you. That was why you'd quit it and stayed by teaming.” + +“Not this kind of fightin',” he answered. “I got this one all doped out. +I'll let 'm last till about the seventh. Not that it'll be necessary, +but just to give the audience a run for its money. Of course, I'll get a +lump or two, an' lose some skin. Then I'll time 'm to that glass jaw +of his an' drop 'm for the count. An' we'll be all packed up, an' next +mornin' we'll pull out. What d'ye say? Aw, come on.” + + +Saturday night, two weeks later, Saxon ran to the door when the gate +clicked. Billy looked tired. His hair was wet, his nose swollen, one +cheek was puffed, there was skin missing from his ears, and both eyes +were slightly bloodshot. + +“I 'm darned if that boy didn't fool me,” he said, as he placed the roll +of gold pieces in her hand and sat down with her on his knees. “He's +some boy when he gets extended. Instead of stoppin' 'm at the seventh, +he kept me hustlin' till the fourteenth. Then I got 'm the way I said. +It's too bad he's got a glass jaw. He's quicker'n I thought, an' he's +got a wallop that made me mighty respectful from the second round--an' +the prettiest little chop an' come-again I ever saw. But that glass jaw! +He kept it in cotton wool till the fourteenth an' then I connected. + +“--An', say. I 'm mighty glad it did last fourteen rounds. I still got +all my silk. I could see that easy. I wasn't breathin' much, an' every +round was fast. An' my legs was like iron. I could a-fought forty +rounds. You see, I never said nothin', but I've been suspicious all the +time after that beatin' the Chicago Terror gave me.” + +“Nonsense!--you would have known it long before now,” Saxon cried. “Look +at all your boxing, and wrestling, and running at Carmel.” + +“Nope.” Billy shook his head with the conviction of utter knowledge. +“That's different. It don't take it outa you. You gotta be up against +the real thing, fightin' for life, round after round, with a husky you +know ain't lost a thread of his silk yet--then, if you don't blow up, if +your legs is steady, an' your heart ain't burstin', an' you ain't wobbly +at all, an' no signs of queer street in your head--why, then you know +you still got all your silk. An' I got it, I got all mine, d'ye hear me, +an' I ain't goin' to risk it on no more fights. That's straight. Easy +money's hardest in the end. From now on it's horsebuyin' on commish, an' +you an' me on the road till we find that valley of the moon.” + +Next morning, early, they drove out of Ukiah. Possum sat on the seat +between them, his rosy mouth agape with excitement. They had originally +planned to cross over to the coast from Ukiah, but it was too early +in the season for the soft earth-roads to be in shape after the winter +rains; so they turned east, for Lake County, their route to extend +north through the upper Sacramento Valley and across the mountains into +Oregon. Then they would circle west to the coast, where the roads by +that time would be in condition, and come down its length to the Golden +Gate. + +All the land was green and flower-sprinkled, and each tiny valley, as +they entered the hills, was a garden. + +“Huh!” Billy remarked scornfully to the general landscape. “They say a +rollin' stone gathers no moss. Just the same this looks like some outfit +we've gathered. Never had so much actual property in my life at one +time--an' them was the days when I wasn't rollin'. Hell--even the +furniture wasn't ourn. Only the clothes we stood up in, an' some old +socks an' things.” + +Saxon reached out and touched his hand, and he knew that it was a hand +that loved his hand. + +“I've only one regret,” she said. “You've earned it all yourself. I've +had nothing to do with it.” + +“Huh!--you've had everything to do with it. You're like my second in a +fight. You keep me happy an' in condition. A man can't fight without +a good second to take care of him. Hell, I wouldn't a-ben here if it +wasn't for you. You made me pull up stakes an' head out. Why, if it +hadn't been for you I'd a-drunk myself dead an' rotten by this time, or +had my neck stretched at San Quentin over hittin' some scab too hard +or something or other. An' look at me now. Look at that roll of +greenbacks”--he tapped his breast--“to buy the Boss some horses. Why, +we're takin' an unendin' vacation, an' makin' a good livin' at the same +time. An' one more trade I got--horse-buyin' for Oakland. If I show I've +got the savve, an' I have, all the Frisco firms'll be after me to buy +for them. An' it's all your fault. You're my Tonic Kid all right, all +right, an' if Possum wasn't lookin', I'd--well, who cares if he does +look?” + +And Billy leaned toward her sidewise and kissed her. + +The way grew hard and rocky as they began to climb, but the divide was +an easy one, and they soon dropped down the canyon of the Blue Lakes +among lush fields of golden poppies. In the bottom of the canyon lay a +wandering sheet of water of intensest blue. Ahead, the folds of hills +interlaced the distance, with a remote blue mountain rising in the +center of the picture. + +They asked questions of a handsome, black-eyed man with curly gray hair, +who talked to them in a German accent, while a cheery-faced woman smiled +down at them out of a trellised high window of the Swiss cottage perched +on the bank. Billy watered the horses at a pretty hotel farther on, +where the proprietor came out and talked and told him he had built it +himself, according to the plans of the black-eyed man with the curly +gray hair, who was a San Francisco architect. + +“Goin' up, goin' up,” Billy chortled, as they drove on through the +winding hills past another lake of intensest blue. “D'ye notice the +difference in our treatment already between ridin' an' walkin' with +packs on our backs? With Hazel an' Hattie an' Saxon an' Possum, an' +yours truly, an' this high-toned wagon, folks most likely take us for +millionaires out on a lark.” + +The way widened. Broad, oak-studded pastures with grazing livestock lay +on either hand. Then Clear Lake opened before them like an inland sea, +flecked with little squalls and flaws of wind from the high mountains on +the northern slopes of which still glistened white snow patches. + +“I've heard Mrs. Hazard rave about Lake Geneva,” Saxon recalled; “but I +wonder if it is more beautiful than this.” + +“That architect fellow called this the California Alps, you remember,” + Billy confirmed. “An' if I don't mistake, that's Lakeport showin' up +ahead. An' all wild country, an' no railroads.” + +“And no moon valleys here,” Saxon criticized. “But it is beautiful, oh, +so beautiful.” + +“Hotter'n hell in the dead of summer, I'll bet,” was Billy's opinion. +“Nope, the country we're lookin' for lies nearer the coast. Just the +same it is beautiful... like a picture on the wall. What d'ye say we +stop off an' go for a swim this afternoon?” + +Ten days later they drove into Williams, in Colusa County, and for the +first time again encountered a railroad. Billy was looking for it, +for the reason that at the rear of the wagon walked two magnificent +work-horses which he had picked up for shipment to Oakland. + +“Too hot,” was Saxon's verdict, as she gazed across the shimmering level +of the vast Sacramento Valley. “No redwoods. No hills. No forests. No +manzanita. No madronos. Lonely, and sad--” + +“An' like the river islands,” Billy interpolated. “Richer 'n hell, but +looks too much like hard work. It'll do for those that's stuck on hard +work--God knows, they's nothin' here to induce a fellow to knock off +ever for a bit of play. No fishin', no huntin', nothin' but work. I'd +work myself, if I had to live here.” + +North they drove, through days of heat and dust, across the California +plains, and everywhere was manifest the “new” farming--great irrigation +ditches, dug and being dug, the land threaded by power-lines from the +mountains, and many new farmhouses on small holdings newly fenced. The +bonanza farms were being broken up. However, many of the great estates +remained, five to ten thousand acres in extent, running from the +Sacramento bank to the horizon dancing in the heat waves, and studded +with great valley oaks. + +“It takes rich soil to make trees like those,” a ten-acre farmer told +them. + +They had driven off the road a hundred feet to his tiny barn in order to +water Hazel and Hattie. A sturdy young orchard covered most of his ten +acres, though a goodly portion was devoted to whitewashed henhouses and +wired runways wherein hundreds of chickens were to be seen. He had just +begun work on a small frame dwelling. + +“I took a vacation when I bought,” he explained, “and planted the trees. +Then I went back to work an' stayed with it till the place was cleared. +Now I 'm here for keeps, an' soon as the house is finished I'll send +for the wife. She's not very well, and it will do her good. We've been +planning and working for years to get away from the city.” He stopped in +order to give a happy sigh. “And now we're free.” + +The water in the trough was warm from the sun. + +“Hold on,” the man said. “Don't let them drink that. I'll give it to +them cool.” + +Stepping into a small shed, he turned an electric switch, and a motor +the size of a fruit box hummed into action. A five-inch stream of +sparkling water splashed into the shallow main ditch of his irrigation +system and flowed away across the orchard through many laterals. + +“Isn't it beautiful, eh?--beautiful! beautiful!” the man chanted in an +ecstasy. “It's bud and fruit. It's blood and life. Look at it! It makes +a gold mine laughable, and a saloon a nightmare. I know. I... I used to +be a barkeeper. In fact, I've been a barkeeper most of my life. That's +how I paid for this place. And I've hated the business all the time. I +was a farm boy, and all my life I've been wanting to get back to it. And +here I am at last.” + +He wiped his glasses the better to behold his beloved water, then seized +a hoe and strode down the main ditch to open more laterals. + +“He's the funniest barkeeper I ever seen,” Billy commented. “I took +him for a business man of some sort. Must a-ben in some kind of a quiet +hotel.” + +“Don't drive on right away,” Saxon requested. “I want to talk with him.” + +He came back, polishing his glasses, his face beaming, watching the +water as if fascinated by it. It required no more exertion on Saxon's +part to start him than had been required on his part to start the motor. + +“The pioneers settled all this in the early fifties,” he said. “The +Mexicans never got this far, so it was government land. Everybody got a +hundred and sixty acres. And such acres! The stories they tell about how +much wheat they got to the acre are almost unbelievable. Then several +things happened. The sharpest and steadiest of the pioneers held what +they had and added to it from the other fellows. It takes a great many +quarter sections to make a bonanza farm. It wasn't long before it was +'most all bonanza farms.” + +“They were the successful gamblers,” Saxon put in, remembering Mark +Hall's words. + +The man nodded appreciatively and continued. + +“The old folks schemed and gathered and added the land into the big +holdings, and built the great barns and mansions, and planted the house +orchards and flower gardens. The young folks were spoiled by so much +wealth and went away to the cities to spend it. And old folks and young +united in one thing: in impoverishing the soil. Year after year they +scratched it and took out bonanza crops. They put nothing back. All they +left was plow-sole and exhausted land. Why, there's big sections they +exhausted and left almost desert. + +“The bonanza farmers are all gone now, thank the Lord, and here's where +we small farmers come into our own. It won't be many years before the +whole valley will be farmed in patches like mine. Look at what we're +doing! Worked-out land that had ceased to grow wheat, and we turn the +water on, treat the soil decently, and see our orchards! + +“We've got the water--from the mountains, and from under the ground. I +was reading an account the other day. All life depends on food. All food +depends on water. It takes a thousand pounds of water to produce one +pound of food; ten thousand pounds to produce one pound of meat. How +much water do you drink in a year? About a ton. But you eat about +two hundred pounds of vegetables and two hundred pounds of meat +a year--which means you consume one hundred tons of water in the +vegetables and one thousand tons in the meat--which means that it takes +eleven hundred and one tons of water each year to keep a small woman +like you going.” + +“Gee!” was all Billy could say. + +“You see how population depends upon water,” the ex-barkeeper went on. +“Well, we've got the water, immense subterranean supplies, and in not +many years this valley will be populated as thick as Belgium.” + +Fascinated by the five-inch stream, sluiced out of the earth and back +to the earth by the droning motor, he forgot his discourse and stood and +gazed, rapt and unheeding, while his visitors drove on. + +“An' him a drink-slinger!” Billy marveled. “He can sure sling the +temperance dope if anybody should ask you.” + +“It's lovely to think about--all that water, and all the happy people +that will come here to live--” + +“But it ain't the valley of the moon!” Billy laughed. + +“No,” she responded. “They don't have to irrigate in the valley of +the moon, unless for alfalfa and such crops. What we want is the water +bubbling naturally from the ground, and crossing the farm in little +brooks, and on the boundary a fine big creek--” + +“With trout in it!” Billy took her up. “An' willows and trees of all +kinds growing along the edges, and here a riffle where you can flip +out trout, and there a deep pool where you can swim and high-dive. An' +kingfishers, an' rabbits comin' down to drink, an', maybe, a deer.” + +“And meadowlarks in the pasture,” Saxon added. “And mourning doves +in the trees. We must have mourning doves--and the big, gray +tree-squirrels.” + +“Gee!--that valley of the moon's goin' to be some valley,” Billy +meditated, flicking a fly away with his whip from Hattie's side. “Think +we'll ever find it?” + +Saxon nodded her head with great certitude. + +“Just as the Jews found the promised land, and the Mormons Utah, and the +Pioneers California. You remember the last advice we got when we left +Oakland? 'Tis them that looks that finds.'” + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Ever north, through a fat and flourishing rejuvenated land, stopping at +the towns of Willows, Red Bluff and Redding, crossing the counties of +Colusa, Glenn, Tehama, and Shasta, went the spruce wagon drawn by the +dappled chestnuts with cream-colored manes and tails. Billy picked up +only three horses for shipment, although he visited many farms; and +Saxon talked with the women while he looked over the stock with the men. +And Saxon grew the more convinced that the valley she sought lay not +there. + +At Redding they crossed the Sacramento on a cable ferry, and made a +day's scorching traverse through rolling foot-hills and flat tablelands. +The heat grew more insupportable, and the trees and shrubs were blasted +and dead. Then they came again to the Sacramento, where the great +smelters of Kennett explained the destruction of the vegetation. + +They climbed out of the smelting town, where eyrie houses perched +insecurely on a precipitous landscape. It was a broad, well-engineered +road that took them up a grade miles long and plunged down into the +Canyon of the Sacramento. The road, rock-surfaced and easy-graded, hewn +out of the canyon wall, grew so narrow that Billy worried for fear of +meeting opposite-bound teams. Far below, the river frothed and flowed +over pebbly shallows, or broke tumultuously over boulders and cascades, +in its race for the great valley they had left behind. + +Sometimes, on the wider stretches of road, Saxon drove and Billy walked +to lighten the load. She insisted on taking her turns at walking, and +when he breathed the panting mares on the steep, and Saxon stood by +their heads caressing them and cheering them, Billy's joy was too deep +for any turn of speech as he gazed at his beautiful horses and his +glowing girl, trim and colorful in her golden brown corduroy, the brown +corduroy calves swelling sweetly under the abbreviated slim skirt. And +when her answering look of happiness came to him--a sudden dimness in +her straight gray eyes--he was overmastered by the knowledge that he +must say something or burst. + +“O, you kid!” he cried. + +And with radiant face she answered, “O, you kid!” + +They camped one night in a deep dent in the canyon, where was snuggled +a box-factory village, and where a toothless ancient, gazing with faded +eyes at their traveling outfit, asked: “Be you showin'?” + +They passed Castle Crags, mighty-bastioned and glowing red against the +palpitating blue sky. They caught their first glimpse of Mt. Shasta, a +rose-tinted snow-peak rising, a sunset dream, between and beyond green +interlacing walls of canyon--a landmark destined to be with them for +many days. At unexpected turns, after mounting some steep grade, Shasta +would appear again, still distant, now showing two peaks and glacial +fields of shimmering white. Miles and miles and days and days they +climbed, with Shasta ever developing new forms and phases in her summer +snows. + +“A moving picture in the sky,” said Billy at last. + +“Oh,--it is all so beautiful,” sighed Saxon. “But there are no +moon-valleys here.” + +They encountered a plague of butterflies, and for days drove through +untold millions of the fluttering beauties that covered the road with +uniform velvet-brown. And ever the road seemed to rise under the noses +of the snorting mares, filling the air with noiseless flight, drifting +down the breeze in clouds of brown and yellow soft-flaked as snow, and +piling in mounds against the fences, ever driven to float helplessly on +the irrigation ditches along the roadside. Hazel and Hattie soon grew +used to them though Possum never ceased being made frantic. + +“Huh!--who ever heard of butterfly-broke horses?” Billy chaffed. “That's +worth fifty bucks more on their price.” + +“Wait till you get across the Oregon line into the Rogue River +Valley,” they were told. “There's God's Paradise--climate, scenery, +and fruit-farming; fruit ranches that yield two hundred per cent. on a +valuation of five hundred dollars an acre.” + +“Gee!” Billy said, when he had driven on out of hearing; “that's too +rich for our digestion.” + +And Saxon said, “I don't know about apples in the valley of the moon, +but I do know that the yield is ten thousand per cent. of happiness on a +valuation of one Billy, one Saxon, a Hazel, a Hattie, and a Possum.” + +Through Siskiyou County and across high mountains, they came to Ashland +and Medford and camped beside the wild Rogue River. + +“This is wonderful and glorious,” pronounced Saxon; “but it is not the +valley of the moon.” + +“Nope, it ain't the valley of the moon,” agreed Billy, and he said it +on the evening of the day he hooked a monster steelhead, standing to his +neck in the ice-cold water of the Rogue and fighting for forty minutes, +with screaming reel, ere he drew his finny prize to the bank and with +the scalp-yell of a Comanche jumped and clutched it by the gills. + +“'Them that looks finds,'” predicted Saxon, as they drew north out of +Grant's Pass, and held north across the mountains and fruitful Oregon +valleys. + +One day, in camp by the Umpqua River, Billy bent over to begin skinning +the first deer he had ever shot. He raised his eyes to Saxon and +remarked: + +“If I didn't know California, I guess Oregon'd suit me from the ground +up.” + +In the evening, replete with deer meat, resting on his elbow and smoking +his after-supper cigarette, he said: + +“Maybe they ain't no valley of the moon. An' if they ain't, what of it? +We could keep on this way forever. I don't ask nothing better.” + +“There is a valley of the moon,” Saxon answered soberly. “And we are +going to find it. We've got to. Why Billy, it would never do, never to +settle down. There would be no little Hazels and little Hatties, nor +little... Billies--” + +“Nor little Saxons,” Billy interjected. + +“Nor little Possums,” she hurried on, nodding her head and reaching out +a caressing hand to where the fox terrier was ecstatically gnawing +a deer-rib. A vicious snarl and a wicked snap that barely missed her +fingers were her reward. + +“Possum!” she cried in sharp reproof, again extending her hand. + +“Don't,” Billy warned. “He can't help it, and he's likely to get you +next time.” + +Even more compelling was the menacing threat that Possum growled, his +jaws close-guarding the bone, eyes blazing insanely, the hair rising +stiffly on his neck. + +“It's a good dog that sticks up for its bone,” Billy championed. “I +wouldn't care to own one that didn't.” + +“But it's my Possum,” Saxon protested. “And he loves me. Besides, he +must love me more than an old bone. And he must mind me.--Here, you, +Possum, give me that bone! Give me that bone, sir!” + +Her hand went out gingerly, and the growl rose in volume and key till it +culminated in a snap. + +“I tell you it's instinct,” Billy repeated. “He does love you, but he +just can't help doin' it.” + +“He's got a right to defend his bones from strangers but not from his +mother,” Saxon argued. “I shall make him give up that bone to me.” + +“Fox terriers is awful highstrung, Saxon. You'll likely get him +hysterical.” + +But she was obstinately set in her purpose. She picked up a short stick +of firewood. + +“Now, sir, give me that bone.” + +She threatened with the stick, and the dog's growling became ferocious. +Again he snapped, then crouched back over his bone. Saxon raised the +stick as if to strike him, and he suddenly abandoned the bone, rolled +over on his back at her feet, four legs in the air, his ears lying +meekly back, his eyes swimming and eloquent with submission and appeal. + +“My God!” Billy breathed in solemn awe. “Look at it!--presenting his +solar plexus to you, his vitals an' his life, all defense down, as much +as sayin': 'Here I am. Stamp on me. Kick the life outa me.' I love you, +I am your slave, but I just can't help defendin' my bone. My instinct's +stronger'n me. Kill me, but I can't help it.” + +Saxon was melted. Tears were in her eyes as she stooped and gathered +the mite of an animal in her arms. Possum was in a frenzy of agitation, +whining, trembling, writhing, twisting, licking her face, all for +forgiveness. + +“Heart of gold with a rose in his mouth,” Saxon crooned, burying her +face in the soft and quivering bundle of sensibilities. “Mother is +sorry. She'll never bother you again that way. There, there, little +love. See? There's your bone. Take it.” + +She put him down, but he hesitated between her and the bone, patently +looking to her for surety of permission, yet continuing to tremble in +the terrible struggle between duty and desire that seemed tearing him +asunder. Not until she repeated that it was all right and nodded her +head consentingly did he go to the bone. And once, a minute later, he +raised his head with a sudden startle and gazed inquiringly at her. +She nodded and smiled, and Possum, with a happy sigh of satisfaction, +dropped his head down to the precious deer-rib. + +“That Mercedes was right when she said men fought over jobs like dogs +over bones,” Billy enunciated slowly. “It's instinct. Why, I couldn't +no more help reaching my fist to the point of a scab's jaw than could +Possum from snappin' at you. They's no explainin' it. What a man has to +he has to. The fact that he does a thing shows he had to do it whether +he can explain it or not. You remember Hall couldn't explain why he +stuck that stick between Timothy McManus's legs in the foot race. What +a man has to, he has to. That's all I know about it. I never had no +earthly reason to beat up that lodger we had, Jimmy Harmon. He was a +good guy, square an' all right. But I just had to, with the strike goin' +to smash, an' everything so bitter inside me that I could taste it. +I never told you, but I saw 'm once after I got out--when my arms was +mendin'. I went down to the roundhouse an' waited for 'm to come in +off a run, an' apologized to 'm. Now why did I apologize? I don't know, +except for the same reason I punched 'm--I just had to.” + +And so Billy expounded the why of like in terms of realism, in the camp +by the Umpqua River, while Possum expounded it, in similar terms of fang +and appetite, on the rib of deer. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +With Possum on the seat beside her, Saxon drove into the town of +Roseburg. She drove at a walk. At the back of the wagon were tied two +heavy young work-horses. Behind, half a dozen more marched free, and +the rear was brought up by Billy, astride a ninth horse. All these he +shipped from Roseburg to the West Oakland stables. + +It was in the Umpqua Valley that they heard the parable of the white +sparrow. The farmer who told it was elderly and flourishing. His farm +was a model of orderliness and system. Afterwards, Billy heard neighbors +estimate his wealth at a quarter of a million. + +“You've heard the story of the farmer and the white sparrow'” he asked +Billy, at dinner. + +“Never heard of a white sparrow even,” Billy answered. + +“I must say they're pretty rare,” the farmer owned. “But here's the +story: Once there was a farmer who wasn't making much of a success. +Things just didn't seem to go right, till at last, one day, he heard +about the wonderful white sparrow. It seems that the white sparrow comes +out only just at daybreak with the first light of dawn, and that it +brings all kinds of good luck to the farmer that is fortunate enough +to catch it. Next morning our farmer was up at daybreak, and before, +looking for it. And, do you know, he sought for it continually, for +months and months, and never caught even a glimpse of it.” Their host +shook his head. “No; he never found it, but he found so many things +about the farm needing attention, and which he attended to before +breakfast, that before he knew it the farm was prospering, and it +wasn't long before the mortgage was paid off and he was starting a bank +account.” + +That afternoon, as they drove along, Billy was plunged in a deep +reverie. + +“Oh, I got the point all right,” he said finally. “An' yet I ain't +satisfied. Of course, they wasn't a white sparrow, but by getting up +early an' attendin' to things he'd been slack about before--oh, I got it +all right. An' yet, Saxon, if that's what a farmer's life means, I don't +want to find no moon valley. Life ain't hard work. Daylight to dark, +hard at it--might just as well be in the city. What's the difference? +Al' the time you've got to yourself is for sleepin', an' when you're +sleepin' you're not enjoyin' yourself. An' what's it matter where you +sleep, you're deado. Might as well be dead an' done with it as work your +head off that way. I'd sooner stick to the road, an' shoot a deer an' +catch a trout once in a while, an' lie on my back in the shade, an' +laugh with you an' have fun with you, an'... an' go swimmin'. An' I 'm a +willin' worker, too. But they's all the difference in the world between +a decent amount of work an' workin' your head off.” + +Saxon was in full accord. She looked back on her years of toil and +contrasted them with the joyous life she had lived on the road. + +“We don't want to be rich,” she said. “Let them hunt their white +sparrows in the Sacramento islands and the irrigation valleys. When we +get up early in the valley of the moon, it will be to hear the birds +sing and sing with them. And if we work hard at times, it will be only +so that we'll have more time to play. And when you go swimming I 'm +going with you. And we'll play so hard that we'll be glad to work for +relaxation.” + + +“I 'm gettin' plumb dried out,” Billy announced, mopping the sweat from +his sunburned forehead. “What d'ye say we head for the coast?” + +West they turned, dropping down wild mountain gorges from the height +of land of the interior valleys. So fearful was the road, that, on one +stretch of seven miles, they passed ten broken-down automobiles. Billy +would not force the mares and promptly camped beside a brawling stream +from which he whipped two trout at a time. Here, Saxon caught her first +big trout. She had been accustomed to landing them up to nine and ten +inches, and the screech of the reel when the big one was hooked caused +her to cry out in startled surprise. Billy came up the riffle to her +and gave counsel. Several minutes later, cheeks flushed and eyes dancing +with excitement, Saxon dragged the big fellow carefully from the +water's edge into the dry sand. Here it threw the hook out and flopped +tremendously until she fell upon it and captured it in her hands. + +“Sixteen inches,” Billy said, as she held it up proudly for inspection. +“--Hey!--what are you goin' to do?” + +“Wash off the sand, of course,” was her answer. + +“Better put it in the basket,” he advised, then closed his mouth and +grimly watched. + +She stooped by the side of the stream and dipped in the splendid fish. +It flopped, there was a convulsive movement on her part, and it was +gone. + +“Oh!” Saxon cried in chagrin. + +“Them that finds should hold,” quoth Billy. + +“I don't care,” she replied. “It was a bigger one than you ever caught +anyway.” + +“Oh, I 'm not denyin' you're a peach at fishin',” he drawled. “You +caught me, didn't you?” + +“I don't know about that,” she retorted. “Maybe it was like the man +who was arrested for catching trout out of season. His defense was self +defense.” + +Billy pondered, but did not see. + +“The trout attacked him,” she explained. + +Billy grinned. Fifteen minutes later he said: + +“You sure handed me a hot one.” + + +The sky was overcast, and, as they drove along the bank of the Coquille +River, the fog suddenly enveloped them. + +“Whoof!” Billy exhaled joyfully. “Ain't it great! I can feel myself +moppin' it up like a dry sponge. I never appreciated fog before.” + +Saxon held out her arms to receive it, making motions as if she were +bathing in the gray mist. + +“I never thought I'd grow tired of the sun,” she said; “but we've had +more than our share the last few weeks.” + +“Ever since we hit the Sacramento Valley,” Billy affirmed. “Too much sun +ain't good. I've worked that out. Sunshine is like liquor. Did you ever +notice how good you felt when the sun come out after a week of cloudy +weather. Well, that sunshine was just like a jolt of whiskey. Had the +same effect. Made you feel good all over. Now, when you're swimmin', an' +come out an' lay in the sun, how good you feel. That's because you're +lappin' up a sun-cocktail. But suppose you lay there in the sand a +couple of hours. You don't feel so good. You're so slow-movin' it takes +you a long time to dress. You go home draggin' your legs an' feelin' +rotten, with all the life sapped outa you. What's that? It's the +katzenjammer. You've been soused to the ears in sunshine, like so much +whiskey, an' now you're payin' for it. That's straight. That's why fog +in the climate is best.” + +“Then we've been drunk for months,” Saxon said. “And now we're going to +sober up.” + +“You bet. Why, Saxon, I can do two days' work in one in this +climate.--Look at the mares. Blame me if they ain't perkin' up already.” + +Vainly Saxon's eye roved the pine forest in search of her beloved +redwoods. They would find them down in California, they were told in the +town of Bandon. + +“Then we're too far north,” said Saxon. “We must go south to find our +valley of the moon.” + +And south they went, along roads that steadily grew worse, through the +dairy country of Langlois and through thick pine forests to Port Orford, +where Saxon picked jeweled agates on the beach while Billy caught +enormous rockcod. No railroads had yet penetrated this wild region, and +the way south grew wilder and wilder. At Gold Beach they encountered +their old friend, the Rogue River, which they ferried across where +it entered the Pacific. Still wilder became the country, still more +terrible the road, still farther apart the isolated farms and clearings. + +And here were neither Asiatics nor Europeans. The scant population +consisted of the original settlers and their descendants. More than one +old man or woman Saxon talked with, who could remember the trip across +the Plains with the plodding oxen. West they had fared until the Pacific +itself had stopped them, and here they had made their clearings, built +their rude houses, and settled. In them Farthest West had been reached. +Old customs had changed little. There were no railways. No automobile +as yet had ventured their perilous roads. Eastward, between them and the +populous interior valleys, lay the wilderness of the Coast Range--a game +paradise, Billy heard; though he declared that the very road he traveled +was game paradise enough for him. Had he not halted the horses, turned +the reins over to Saxon, and shot an eight-pronged buck from the +wagon-seat? + +South of Gold Beach, climbing a narrow road through the virgin forest, +they heard from far above the jingle of bells. A hundred yards farther +on Billy found a place wide enough to turn out. Here he waited, while +the merry bells, descending the mountain, rapidly came near. They heard +the grind of brakes, the soft thud of horses' hoofs, once a sharp cry of +the driver, and once a woman's laughter. + +“Some driver, some driver,” Billy muttered. “I take my hat off to 'm +whoever he is, hittin' a pace like that on a road like this.--Listen +to that! He's got powerful brakes.--Zocie! That WAS a chuck-hole! Some +springs, Saxon, some springs!” + +Where the road zigzagged above, they glimpsed through the trees four +sorrel horses trotting swiftly, and the flying wheels of a small, +tan-painted trap. + +At the bend of the road the leaders appeared again, swinging wide on +the curve, the wheelers flashed into view, and the light two-seated +rig; then the whole affair straightened out and thundered down upon them +across a narrow plank-bridge. In the front seat were a man and woman; in +the rear seat a Japanese was squeezed in among suit cases, rods, guns, +saddles, and a typewriter case, while above him and all about him, +fastened most intricately, sprouted a prodigious crop of deer- and +elk-horns. + +“It's Mr. and Mrs. Hastings,” Saxon cried. + +“Whoa!” Hastings yelled, putting on the brake and gathering his horses +in to a stop alongside. Greetings flew back and forth, in which the +Japanese, whom they had last seen on the Roamer at Rio Vista, gave and +received his share. + +“Different from the Sacramento islands, eh?” Hastings said to Saxon. +“Nothing but old American stock in these mountains. And they haven't +changed any. As John Fox, Jr., said, they're our contemporary ancestors. +Our old folks were just like them.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, between them, told of their long drive. They were +out two months then, and intended to continue north through Oregon and +Washington to the Canadian boundary. + +“Then we'll ship our horses and come home by train,” concluded Hastings. + +“But the way you drive you oughta be a whole lot further along than +this,” Billy criticized. + +“But we keep stopping off everywhere,” Mrs. Hastings explained. + +“We went in to the Hoopa Reservation,” said Mr. Hastings, “and canoed +down the Trinity and Klamath Rivers to the ocean. And just now we've +come out from two weeks in the real wilds of Curry County.” + +“You must go in,” Hastings advised. “You'll get to Mountain Ranch +to-night. And you can turn in from there. No roads, though. You'll have +to pack your horses. But it's full of game. I shot five mountain lions +and two bear, to say nothing of deer. And there are small herds of elk, +too.--No; I didn't shoot any. They're protected. These horns I got from +the old hunters. I'll tell you all about it.” + +And while the men talked, Saxon and Mrs. Hastings were not idle. + +“Found your valley of the moon yet?” the writer's wife asked, as they +were saying good-by. + +Saxon shook her head. + +“You will find it if you go far enough; and be sure you go as far as +Sonoma Valley and our ranch. Then, if you haven't found it yet, we'll +see what we can do.” + +Three weeks later, with a bigger record of mountain lions and bear +than Hastings' to his credit, Billy emerged from Curry County and drove +across the line into California. At once Saxon found herself among the +redwoods. But they were redwoods unbelievable. Billy stopped the wagon, +got out, and paced around one. + +“Forty-five feet,” he announced. “That's fifteen in diameter. And +they're all like it only bigger. No; there's a runt. It's only about +nine feet through. An' they're hundreds of feet tall.” + +“When I die, Billy, you must bury me in a redwood grove,” Saxon adjured. + +“I ain't goin' to let you die before I do,” he assured her. “An' then +we'll leave it in our wills for us both to be buried that way.” + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +South they held along the coast, hunting, fishing, swimming, and +horse-buying. Billy shipped his purchases on the coasting steamers. +Through Del Norte and Humboldt counties they went, and through Mendocino +into Sonoma--counties larger than Eastern states--threading the giant +woods, whipping innumerable trout-streams, and crossing countless rich +valleys. Ever Saxon sought the valley of the moon. Sometimes, when all +seemed fair, the lack was a railroad, sometimes madrono and manzanita +trees, and, usually, there was too much fog. + +“We do want a sun-cocktail once in a while,” she told Billy. + +“Yep,” was his answer. “Too much fog might make us soggy. What we're +after is betwixt an' between, an' we'll have to get back from the coast +a ways to find it.” + +This was in the fall of the year, and they turned their backs on the +Pacific at old Fort Ross and entered the Russian River Valley, far +below Ukiah, by way of Cazadero and Guerneville. At Santa Rosa Billy was +delayed with the shipping of several horses, so that it was not until +afternoon that he drove south and east for Sonoma Valley. + +“I guess we'll no more than make Sonoma Valley when it'll be time to +camp,” he said, measuring the sun with his eye. “This is called Bennett +Valley. You cross a divide from it and come out at Glen Ellen. Now this +is a mighty pretty valley, if anybody should ask you. An' that's some +nifty mountain over there.” + +“The mountain is all right,” Saxon adjudged. “But all the rest of the +hills are too bare. And I don't see any big trees. It takes rich soil to +make big trees.” + +“Oh, I ain't sayin' it's the valley of the moon by a long ways. All +the same, Saxon, that's some mountain. Look at the timber on it. I bet +they's deer there.” + +“I wonder where we'll spend this winter,” Saxon remarked. + +“D'ye know, I've just been thinkin' the same thing. Let's winter at +Carmel. Mark Hall's back, an' so is Jim Hazard. What d'ye say?” + +Saxon nodded. + +“Only you won't be the odd-job man this time.” + +“Nope. We can make trips in good weather horse-buyin',” Billy confirmed, +his face beaming with self-satisfaction. “An' if that walkin' poet of +the Marble House is around, I'll sure get the gloves on with 'm just in +memory of the time he walked me off my legs--” + +“Oh! Oh!” Saxon cried. “Look, Billy! Look!” + +Around a bend in the road came a man in a sulky, driving a heavy +stallion. The animal was a bright chestnut-sorrel, with cream-colored +mane and tail. The tail almost swept the ground, while the mane was so +thick that it crested out of the neck and flowed down, long and wavy. He +scented the mares and stopped short, head flung up and armfuls of creamy +mane tossing in the breeze. He bent his head until flaring nostrils +brushed impatient knees, and between the fine-pointed ears could be +seen a mighty and incredible curve of neck. Again he tossed his head, +fretting against the bit as the driver turned widely aside for safety +in passing. They could see the blue glaze like a sheen on the surface +of the horse's bright, wild eyes, and Billy closed a wary thumb on his +reins and himself turned widely. He held up his hand in signal, and the +driver of the stallion stopped when well past, and over his shoulder +talked draught-horses with Billy. + +Among other things, Billy learned that the stallion's name was +Barbarossa, that the driver was the owner, and that Santa Rosa was his +headquarters. + +“There are two ways to Sonoma Valley from here,” the man directed. “When +you come to the crossroads the turn to the left will take you to Glen +Ellen by Bennett Peak--that's it there.” + +Rising from rolling stubble fields, Bennett Peak towered hot in the sun, +a row of bastion hills leaning against its base. But hills and mountains +on that side showed bare and heated, though beautiful with the sunburnt +tawniness of California. + +“The turn to the right will take you to Glen Ellen, too, only it's +longer and steeper grades. But your mares don't look as though it'd +bother them.” + +“Which is the prettiest way?” Saxon asked. + +“Oh, the right hand road, by all means,” said the man. “That's Sonoma +Mountain there, and the road skirts it pretty well up, and goes through +Cooper's Grove.” + +Billy did not start immediately after they had said good-by, and he +and Saxon, heads over shoulders, watched the roused Barbarossa plunging +mutinously on toward Santa Rosa. + +“Gee!” Billy said. “I'd like to be up here next spring.” + +At the crossroads Billy hesitated and looked at Saxon. + +“What if it is longer?” she said. “Look how beautiful it is--all covered +with green woods; and I just know those are redwoods in the canyons. +You never can tell. The valley of the moon might be right up there +somewhere. And it would never do to miss it just in order to save half +an hour.” + +They took the turn to the right and began crossing a series of steep +foothills. As they approached the mountain there were signs of a greater +abundance of water. They drove beside a running stream, and, though the +vineyards on the hills were summer-dry, the farmhouses in the hollows +and on the levels were grouped about with splendid trees. + +“Maybe it sounds funny,” Saxon observed; “but I 'm beginning to love +that mountain already. It almost seems as if I'd seen it before, +somehow, it's so all-around satisfying--oh!” + +Crossing a bridge and rounding a sharp turn, they were suddenly +enveloped in a mysterious coolness and gloom. All about them arose +stately trunks of redwood. The forest floor was a rosy carpet of autumn +fronds. Occasional shafts of sunlight, penetrating the deep shade, +warmed the somberness of the grove. Alluring paths led off among the +trees and into cozy nooks made by circles of red columns growing around +the dust of vanished ancestors--witnessing the titanic dimensions of +those ancestors by the girth of the circles in which they stood. + +Out of the grove they pulled to the steep divide, which was no more than +a buttress of Sonoma Mountain. The way led on through rolling uplands +and across small dips and canyons, all well wooded and a-drip with +water. In places the road was muddy from wayside springs. + +“The mountain's a sponge,” said Billy. “Here it is, the tail-end of dry +summer, an' the ground's just leakin' everywhere.” + +“I know I've never been here before,” Saxon communed aloud. “But it's +all so familiar! So I must have dreamed it. And there's madronos!--a +whole grove! And manzanita! Why, I feel just as if I was coming home... +Oh, Billy, if it should turn out to be our valley.” + +“Plastered against the side of a mountain?” he queried, with a skeptical +laugh. + +“No; I don't mean that. I mean on the way to our valley. Because the +way--all ways--to our valley must be beautiful. And this; I've seen it +all before, dreamed it.” + +“It's great,” he said sympathetically. “I wouldn't trade a square mile +of this kind of country for the whole Sacramento Valley, with the river +islands thrown in and Middle River for good measure. If they ain't deer +up there, I miss my guess. An' where they's springs they's streams, an' +streams means trout.” + +They passed a large and comfortable farmhouse, surrounded by wandering +barns and cow-sheds, went on under forest arches, and emerged beside a +field with which Saxon was instantly enchanted. It flowed in a gentle +concave from the road up the mountain, its farther boundary an unbroken +line of timber. The field glowed like rough gold in the approaching +sunset, and near the middle of it stood a solitary great redwood, with +blasted top suggesting a nesting eyrie for eagles. The timber beyond +clothed the mountain in solid green to what they took to be the top. +But, as they drove on, Saxon, looking back upon what she called her +field, saw the real summit of Sonoma towering beyond, the mountain +behind her field a mere spur upon the side of the larger mass. + +Ahead and toward the right, across sheer ridges of the mountains, +separated by deep green canyons and broadening lower down into rolling +orchards and vineyards, they caught their first sight of Sonoma Valley +and the wild mountains that rimmed its eastern side. To the left they +gazed across a golden land of small hills and valleys. Beyond, to the +north, they glimpsed another portion of the valley, and, still beyond, +the opposing wall of the valley--a range of mountains, the highest of +which reared its red and battered ancient crater against a rosy and +mellowing sky. From north to southeast, the mountain rim curved in the +brightness of the sun, while Saxon and Billy were already in the shadow +of evening. He looked at Saxon, noted the ravished ecstasy of her face, +and stopped the horses. All the eastern sky was blushing to rose, which +descended upon the mountains, touching them with wine and ruby. Sonoma +Valley began to fill with a purple flood, laving the mountain bases, +rising, inundating, drowning them in its purple. Saxon pointed in +silence, indicating that the purple flood was the sunset shadow of +Sonoma Mountain. Billy nodded, then chirruped to the mares, and the +descent began through a warm and colorful twilight. + +On the elevated sections of the road they felt the cool, delicious +breeze from the Pacific forty miles away; while from each little dip and +hollow came warm breaths of autumn earth, spicy with sunburnt grass and +fallen leaves and passing flowers. + +They came to the rim of a deep canyon that seemed to penetrate to +the heart of Sonoma Mountain. Again, with no word spoken, merely +from watching Saxon, Billy stopped the wagon. The canyon was wildly +beautiful. Tall redwoods lined its entire length. On its farther rim +stood three rugged knolls covered with dense woods of spruce and oak. +From between the knolls, a feeder to the main canyon and likewise +fringed with redwoods, emerged a smaller canyon. Billy pointed to a +stubble field that lay at the feet of the knolls. + +“It's in fields like that I've seen my mares a-pasturing,” he said. + +They dropped down into the canyon, the road following a stream that +sang under maples and alders. The sunset fires, refracted from the +cloud-driftage of the autumn sky, bathed the canyon with crimson, +in which ruddy-limbed madronos and wine-wooded manzanitas burned and +smoldered. The air was aromatic with laurel. Wild grape vines bridged +the stream from tree to tree. Oaks of many sorts were veiled in lacy +Spanish moss. Ferns and brakes grew lush beside the stream. From +somewhere came the plaint of a mourning dove. Fifty feet above the +ground, almost over their heads, a Douglas squirrel crossed the road--a +flash of gray between two trees; and they marked the continuance of its +aerial passage by the bending of the boughs. + +“I've got a hunch,” said Billy. + +“Let me say it first,” Saxon begged. + +He waited, his eyes on her face as she gazed about her in rapture. + +“We've found our valley,” she whispered. “Was that it?” + +He nodded, but checked speech at sight of a small boy driving a cow +up the road, a preposterously big shotgun in one hand, in the other as +preposterously big a jackrabbit. “How far to Glen Ellen?” Billy asked. + +“Mile an' a half,” was the answer. + +“What creek is this?” inquired Saxon. + +“Wild Water. It empties into Sonoma Creek half a mile down.” + +“Trout?”--this from Billy. + +“If you know how to catch 'em,” grinned the boy. + +“Deer up the mountain?” + +“It ain't open season,” the boy evaded. + +“I guess you never shot a deer,” Billy slyly baited, and was rewarded +with: + +“I got the horns to show.” + +“Deer shed their horns,” Billy teased on. “Anybody can find 'em.” + +“I got the meat on mine. It ain't dry yet--” + +The boy broke off, gazing with shocked eyes into the pit Billy had dug +for him. + +“It's all right, sonny,” Billy laughed, as he drove on. “I ain't the +game warden. I 'm buyin' horses.” + +More leaping tree squirrels, more ruddy madronos and majestic oaks, more +fairy circles of redwoods, and, still beside the singing stream, they +passed a gate by the roadside. Before it stood a rural mail box, on +which was lettered “Edmund Hale.” Standing under the rustic arch, +leaning upon the gate, a man and woman composed a pieture so arresting +and beautiful that Saxon caught her breath. They were side by side, the +delicate hand of the woman curled in the hand of the man, which looked +as if made to confer benedictions. His face bore out this impression--a +beautiful-browed countenance, with large, benevolent gray eyes under a +wealth of white hair that shone like spun glass. He was fair and large; +the little woman beside him was daintily wrought. She was saffron-brown, +as a woman of the white race can well be, with smiling eyes of bluest +blue. In quaint sage-green draperies, she seemed a flower, with +her small vivid face irresistibly reminding Saxon of a springtime +wake-robin. + +Perhaps the picture made by Saxon and Billy was equally arresting and +beautiful, as they drove down through the golden end of day. The two +couples had eyes only for each other. The little woman beamed joyously. +The man's face glowed into the benediction that had trembled there. +To Saxon, like the field up the mountain, like the mountain itself, it +seemed that she had always known this adorable pair. She knew that she +loved them. + +“How d'ye do,” said Billy. + +“You blessed children,” said the man. “I wonder if you know how dear you +look sitting there.” + +That was all. The wagon had passed by, rustling down the road, which was +carpeted with fallen leaves of maple, oak, and alder. Then they came to +the meeting of the two creeks. + +“Oh, what a place for a home,” Saxon cried, pointing across Wild Water. +“See, Billy, on that bench there above the meadow.” + +“It's a rich bottom, Saxon; and so is the bench rich. Look at the big +trees on it. An' they's sure to be springs.” + +“Drive over,” she said. + +Forsaking the main road, they crossed Wild Water on a narrow bridge +and continued along an ancient, rutted road that ran beside an equally +ancient worm-fence of split redwood rails. They came to a gate, open and +off its hinges, through which the road led out on the bench. + +“This is it--I know it,” Saxon said with conviction. “Drive in, Billy.” + +A small, whitewashed farmhouse with broken windows showed through the +trees. + +“Talk about your madronos--” + +Billy pointed to the father of all madronos, six feet in diameter at its +base, sturdy and sound, which stood before the house. + +They spoke in low tones as they passed around the house under great +oak trees and came to a stop before a small barn. They did not wait to +unharness. Tying the horses, they started to explore. The pitch from +the bench to the meadow was steep yet thickly wooded with oaks and +manzanita. As they crashed through the underbrush they startled a score +of quail into flight. + +“How about game?” Saxon queried. + +Billy grinned, and fell to examining a spring which bubbled a clear +stream into the meadow. Here the ground was sunbaked and wide open in a +multitude of cracks. + +Disappointment leaped into Saxon's face, but Billy, crumbling a clod +between his fingers, had not made up his mind. + +“It's rich,” he pronounced; “--the cream of the soil that's been washin' +down from the hills for ten thousan' years. But--” + +He broke off, stared all about, studying the configuration of the +meadow, crossed it to the redwood trees beyond, then came back. + +“It's no good as it is,” he said. “But it's the best ever if it's +handled right. All it needs is a little common sense an' a lot of +drainage. This meadow's a natural basin not yet filled level. They's a +sharp slope through the redwoods to the creek. Come on, I'll show you.” + +They went through the redwoods and came out on Sonoma Creek. At this +spot was no singing. The stream poured into a quiet pool. The willows on +their side brushed the water. The opposite side was a steep bank. Billy +measured the height of the bank with his eye, the depth of the water +with a driftwood pole. + +“Fifteen feet,” he announced. “That allows all kinds of high-divin' from +the bank. An' it's a hundred yards of a swim up an' down.” + +They followed down the pool. It emptied in a riffle, across exposed +bedrock, into another pool. As they looked, a trout flashed into the air +and back, leaving a widening ripple on the quiet surface. + +“I guess we won't winter in Carmel,” Billy said. “This place was +specially manufactured for us. In the morning I'll find out who owns +it.” + +Half an hour later, feeding the horses, he called Saxon's attention to a +locomotive whistle. + +“You've got your railroad,” he said. “That's a train pulling into Glen +Ellen, an' it's only a mile from here.” + +Saxon was dozing off to sleep under the blankets when Billy aroused her. + +“Suppose the guy that owns it won't sell?” + +“There isn't the slightest doubt,” Saxon answered with unruffled +certainty. “This is our place. I know it.” + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +They were awakened by Possum, who was indignantly reproaching a tree +squirrel for not coming down to be killed. The squirrel chattered +garrulous remarks that drove Possum into a mad attempt to climb the +tree. Billy and Saxon giggled and hugged each other at the terrier's +frenzy. + +“If this is goin' to be our place, they'll be no shootin' of tree +squirrels,” Billy said. + +Saxon pressed his hand and sat up. From beneath the bench came the cry +of a meadow lark. + +“There isn't anything left to be desired,” she sighed happily. + +“Except the deed,” Billy corrected. + +After a hasty breakfast, they started to explore, running the irregular +boundaries of the place and repeatedly crossing it from rail fence to +creek and back again. Seven springs they found along the foot of the +bench on the edge of the meadow. + +“There's your water supply,” Billy said. “Drain the meadow, work the +soil up, and with fertilizer and all that water you can grow crops the +year round. There must be five acres of it, an' I wouldn't trade it for +Mrs. Mortimer's.” + +They were standing in the old orchard, on the bench where they had +counted twenty-seven trees, neglected but of generous girth. + +“And on top the bench, back of the house, we can grow berries.” Saxon +paused, considering a new thought. “If only Mrs. Mortimer would come up +and advise us!--Do you think she would, Billy?” + +“Sure she would. It ain't more 'n four hours' run from San Jose. But +first we'll get our hooks into the place. Then you can write to her.” + +Sonoma Creek gave the long boundary to the little farm, two sides were +worm fenced, and the fourth side was Wild Water. + +“Why, we'll have that beautiful man and woman for neighbors,” Saxon +recollected. “Wild Water will be the dividing line between their place +and ours.” + +“It ain't ours yet,” Billy commented. “Let's go and call on 'em. They'll +be able to tell us all about it.” + +“It's just as good as,” she replied. “The big thing has been the +finding. And whoever owns it doesn't care much for it. It hasn't been +lived in for a long time. And--Oh, Billy--are you satisfied!” + +“With every bit of it,” he answered frankly, “as far as it goes. But the +trouble is, it don't go far enough.” + +The disappointment in her face spurred him to renunciation of his +particular dream. + +“We'll buy it--that's settled,” he said. “But outside the meadow, they's +so much woods that they's little pasture--not more 'n enough for a +couple of horses an' a cow. But I don't care. We can't have everything, +an' what they is is almighty good.” + +“Let us call it a starter,” she consoled. “Later on we can add to +it--maybe the land alongside that runs up the Wild Water to the three +knolls we saw yesterday.” + +“Where I seen my horses pasturin',” he remembered, with a flash of eye. +“Why not? So much has come true since we hit the road, maybe that'll +come true, too. + +“We'll work for it, Billy.” + +“We'll work like hell for it,” he said grimly. + + +They passed through the rustic gate and along a path that wound through +wild woods. There was no sign of the house until they came abruptly +upon it, bowered among the trees. It was eight-sided, and so justly +proportioned that its two stories made no show of height. The house +belonged there. It might have sprung from the soil just as the trees +had. There were no formal grounds. The wild grew to the doors. The +low porch of the main entrance was raised only a step from the ground. +“Trillium Covert,” they read, in quaint carved letters under the eave of +the porch. + +“Come right upstairs, you dears,” a voice called from above, in response +to Saxon's knock. + +Stepping back and looking up, she beheld the little lady smiling down +from a sleeping-porch. Clad in a rosy-tissued and flowing house gown, +she again reminded Saxon of a flower. + +“Just push the front door open and find your way,” was the direction. + +Saxon led, with Billy at her heels. They came into a room bright with +windows, where a big log smoldered in a rough-stone fireplace. On the +stone slab above stood a huge Mexican jar, filled with autumn branches +and trailing fluffy smoke-vine. The walls were finished in warm natural +woods, stained but without polish. The air was aromatic with clean +wood odors. A walnut organ loomed in a shallow corner of the room. All +corners were shallow in this octagonal dwelling. In another corner were +many rows of books. Through the windows, across a low couch indubitably +made for use, could be seen a restful picture of autumn trees and yellow +grasses, threaded by wellworn paths that ran here and there over the +tiny estate. A delightful little stairway wound past more windows to the +upper story. Here the little lady greeted them and led them into what +Saxon knew at once was her room. The two octagonal sides of the house +which showed in this wide room were given wholly to windows. Under +the long sill, to the floor, were shelves of books. Books lay here and +there, in the disorder of use, on work table, couch and desk. On a sill +by an open window, a jar of autumn leaves breathed the charm of the +sweet brown wife, who seated herself in a tiny rattan chair, enameled a +cheery red, such as children delight to rock in. + +“A queer house,” Mrs. Hale laughed girlishly and contentedly. “But we +love it. Edmund made it with his own hands even to the plumbing, though +he did have a terrible time with that before he succeeded.” + +“How about that hardwood floor downstairs?--an' the fireplace?” Billy +inquired. + +“All, all,” she replied proudly. “And half the furniture. That cedar +desk there, the table--with his own hands.” + +“They are such gentle hands,” Saxon was moved to say. + +Mrs. Hale looked at her quickly, her vivid face alive with a grateful +light. + +“They are gentle, the gentlest hands I have ever known,” she said +softly. “And you are a dear to have noticed it, for you only saw them +yesterday in passing.” + +“I couldn't help it,” Saxon said simply. + +Her gaze slipped past Mrs. Hale, attracted by the wall beyond, which +was done in a bewitching honeycomb pattern dotted with golden bees. The +walls were hung with a few, a very few, framed pictures. + +“They are all of people,” Saxon said, remembering the beautiful +paintings in Mark Hall's bungalow. + +“My windows frame my landscape paintings,” Mrs. Hale answered, pointing +out of doors. “Inside I want only the faces of my dear ones whom I +cannot have with me always. Some of them are dreadful rovers.” + +“Oh!” Saxon was on her feet and looking at a photograph. “You know Clara +Hastings!” + +“I ought to. I did everything but nurse her at my breast. She came to +me when she was a little baby. Her mother was my sister. Do you know +how greatly you resemble her? I remarked it to Edmund yesterday. He had +already seen it. It wasn't a bit strange that his heart leaped out to +you two as you came drilling down behind those beautiful horses.” + +So Mrs. Hale was Clara's aunt--old stock that had crossed the Plains. +Saxon knew now why she had reminded her so strongly of her own mother. + +The talk whipped quite away from Billy, who could only admire the +detailed work of the cedar desk while he listened. Saxon told of meeting +Clara and Jack Hastings on their yacht and on their driving trip in +Oregon. They were off again, Mrs. Hale said, having shipped their horses +home from Vancouver and taken the Canadian Pacific on their way to +England. Mrs. Hale knew Saxon's mother or, rather, her poems; and +produced, not only “The Story of the Files,” but a ponderous scrapbook +which contained many of her mother's poems which Saxon had never seen. +A sweet singer, Mrs. Hale said; but so many had sung in the days of gold +and been forgotten. There had been no army of magazines then, and the +poems had perished in local newspapers. + +Jack Hastings had fallen in love with Clara, the talk ran on; then, +visiting at Trillium Covert, he had fallen in love with Sonoma Valley +and bought a magnificent home ranch, though little enough he saw of it, +being away over the world so much of the time. Mrs. Hale talked of her +own Journey across the Plains, a little girl, in the late Fifties, and, +like Mrs. Mortimer, knew all about the fight at Little Meadow, and the +tale of the massacre of the emigrant train of which Billy's father had +been the sole survivor. + +“And so,” Saxon concluded, an hour later, “we've been three years +searching for our valley of the moon, and now we've found it.” + +“Valley of the Moon?” Mrs. Hale queried. “Then you knew about it all the +time. What kept you so long?” + +“No; we didn't know. We just started on a blind search for it. Mark Hall +called it a pilgrimage, and was always teasing us to carry long staffs. +He said when we found the spot we'd know, because then the staffs would +burst into blossom. He laughed at all the good things we wanted in our +valley, and one night he took me out and showed me the moon through +a telescope. He said that was the only place we could find such a +wonderful valley. He meant it was moonshine, but we adopted the name and +went on looking for it.” + +“What a coincidence!” Mrs. Hale exclaimed. “For this is the Valley of +the Moon.” + +“I know it,” Saxon said with quiet confidence. “It has everything we +wanted.” + +“But you don't understand, my dear. This is the Valley of the Moon. This +is Sonoma Valley. Sonoma is an Indian word, and means the Valley of the +Moon. That was what the Indians called it for untold ages before the +first white men came. We, who love it, still so call it.” + +And then Saxon recalled the mysterious references Jack Hastings and +his wife had made to it, and the talk tripped along until Billy grew +restless. He cleared his throat significantly and interrupted. + +“We want to find out about that ranch acrost the creek--who owns it, if +they'll sell, where we'll find 'em, an' such things.” + +Mrs. Hale stood up. + +“We'll go and see Edmund,” she said, catching Saxon by the hand and +leading the way. + +“My!” Billy ejaculated, towering above her. “I used to think Saxon was +small. But she'd make two of you.” + +“And you're pretty big,” the little woman smiled; “but Edmund is taller +than you, and broader-shouldered.” + +They crossed a bright hall, and found the big beautiful husband lying +back reading in a huge Mission rocker. Beside it was another tiny +child's chair of red-enameled rattan. Along the length of his thigh, the +head on his knee and directed toward a smoldering log in a fireplace, +clung an incredibly large striped cat. Like its master, it turned its +head to greet the newcomers. Again Saxon felt the loving benediction +that abided in his face, his eyes, his hands--toward which she +involuntarily dropped her eyes. Again she was impressed by the +gentleness of them. They were hands of love. They were the hands of a +type of man she had never dreamed existed. No one in that merry crowd of +Carmel had prefigured him. They were artists. This was the scholar, +the philosopher. In place of the passion of youth and all youth's mad +revolt, was the benignance of wisdom. Those gentle hands had passed all +the bitter by and plucked only the sweet of life. Dearly as she loved +them, she shuddered to think what some of those Carmelites would be like +when they were as old as he--especially the dramatic critic and the Iron +Man. + +“Here are the dear children, Edmund,” Mrs. Hale said. “What do you +think! They want to buy the Madrono Ranch. They've been three years +searching for it--I forgot to tell them we had searched ten years for +Trillium Covert. Tell them all about it. Surely Mr. Naismith is still of +a mind to sell!” + +They seated themselves in simple massive chairs, and Mrs. Hale took the +tiny rattan beside the big Mission rocker, her slender hand curled like +a tendril in Edmund's. And while Saxon listened to the talk, her eyes +took in the grave rooms lined with books. She began to realize how +a mere structure of wood and stone may express the spirit of him who +conceives and makes it. Those gentle hands had made all this--the very +furniture, she guessed as her eyes roved from desk to chair, from work +table to reading stand beside the bed in the other room, where stood a +green-shaded lamp and orderly piles of magazines and books. + +As for the matter of Madrono Ranch, it was easy enough he was saying. +Naismith would sell. Had desired to sell for the past five years, ever +since he had engaged in the enterprise of bottling mineral water at the +springs lower down the valley. It was fortunate that he was the +owner, for about all the rest of the surrounding land was owned by a +Frenchman--an early settler. He would not part with a foot of it. He was +a peasant, with all the peasant's love of the soil, which, in him, had +become an obsession, a disease. He was a land-miser. With no business +capacity, old and opinionated, he was land poor, and it was an open +question which would arrive first, his death or bankruptcy. + +As for Madrono Ranch, Naismith owned it and had set the price at fifty +dollars an acre. That would be one thousand dollars, for there were +twenty acres. As a farming investment, using old-fashioned methods, it +was not worth it. As a business investment, yes; for the virtues of the +valley were on the eve of being discovered by the outside world, and +no better location for a summer home could be found. As a happiness +investment in joy of beauty and climate, it was worth a thousand times +the price asked. And he knew Naismith would allow time on most of the +amount. Edmund's suggestion was that they take a two years' lease, with +option to buy, the rent to apply to the purchase if they took it up. +Naismith had done that once with a Swiss, who had paid a monthly rental +of ten dollars. But the man's wife had died, and he had gone away. + +Edmund soon divined Billy's renunciation, though not the nature of it; +and several questions brought it forth--the old pioneer dream of land +spaciousness; of cattle on a hundred hills; one hundred and sixty acres +of land the smallest thinkable division. + +“But you don't need all that land, dear lad,” Edmund said softly. “I +see you understand intensive farming. Have you thought about intensive +horse-raising?” + +Billy's jaw dropped at the smashing newness of the idea. He considered +it, but could see no similarity in the two processes. Unbelief leaped +into his eyes. + +“You gotta show me!” he cried. + +The elder man smiled gently. + +“Let us see. In the first place, you don't need those twenty acres +except for beauty. There are five acres in the meadow. You don't need +more than two of them to make your living at selling vegetables. In +fact, you and your wife, working from daylight to dark, cannot properly +farm those two acres. Remains three acres. You have plenty of water for +it from the springs. Don't be satisfied with one crop a year, like the +rest of the old-fashioned farmers in this valley. Farm it like +your vegetable plot, intensively, all the year, in crops that make +horse-feed, irrigating, fertilizing, rotating your crops. Those three +acres will feed as many horses as heaven knows how huge an area of +unseeded, uncared for, wasted pasture would feed. Think it over. I'll +lend you books on the subject. I don't know how large your crops will +be, nor do I know how much a horse eats; that's your business. But I am +certain, with a hired man to take your place helping your wife on her +two acres of vegetables, that by the time you own the horses your three +acres will feed, you will have all you can attend to. Then it will be +time to get more land, for more horses, for more riches, if that way +happiness lie.” + +Billy understood. In his enthusiasm he dashed out: + +“You're some farmer.” + +Edmund smiled and glanced toward his wife. + +“Give him your opinion of that, Annette.” + +Her blue eyes twinkled as she complied. + +“Why, the dear, he never farms. He has never farmed. But he knows.” She +waved her hand about the booklined walls. “He is a student of good. He +studies all good things done by good men under the sun. His pleasure is +in books and wood-working.” + +“Don't forget Dulcie,” Edmund gently protested. + +“Yes, and Dulcie.” Annette laughed. “Dulcie is our cow. It is a great +question with Jack Hastings whether Edmund dotes more on Dulcie, or +Dulcie dotes more on Edmund. When he goes to San Francisco Dulcie is +miserable. So is Edmund, until he hastens back. Oh, Dulcie has given me +no few jealous pangs. But I have to confess he understands her as no one +else does.” + +“That is the one practical subject I know by experience,” Edmund +confirmed. “I am an authority on Jersey cows. Call upon me any time for +counsel.” + +He stood up and went toward his book-shelves; and they saw how +magnificently large a man he was. He paused a book in his hand, to +answer a question from Saxon. No; there were no mosquitoes, although, +one summer when the south wind blew for ten days--an unprecedented +thing--a few mosquitoes had been carried up from San Pablo Bay. As for +fog, it was the making of the valley. And where they were situated, +sheltered behind Sonoma Mountain, the fogs were almost invariably high +fogs. Sweeping in from the ocean forty miles away, they were deflected +by Sonoma Mountain and shunted high into the air. Another thing, +Trillium Covert and Madrono Ranch were happily situated in a narrow +thermal belt, so that in the frosty mornings of winter the temperature +was always several degrees higher than in the rest of the valley. In +fact, frost was very rare in the thermal belt, as was proved by the +successful cultivation of certain orange and lemon trees. + +Edmund continued reading titles and selecting books until he had drawn +out quite a number. He opened the top one, Bolton Hall's “Three Acres +and Liberty,” and read to them of a man who walked six hundred and fifty +miles a year in cultivating, by old-fashioned methods, twenty acres, +from which he harvested three thousand bushels of poor potatoes; and of +another man, a “new” farmer, who cultivated only five acres, walked two +hundred miles, and produced three thousand bushels of potatoes, early +and choice, which he sold at many times the price received by the first +man. + +Saxon received the books from Edmund, and, as she heaped them in Billy's +arms, read the titles. They were: Wickson's “California Fruits,” + Wickson's “California Vegetables,” Brooks' “Fertilizers,” Watson's +“Farm Poultry,” King's “Irrigation and Drainage,” Kropotkin's “Fields, +Factories and Workshops,” and Farmer's Bulletin No. 22 on “The Feeding +of Farm Animals.” + +“Come for more any time you want them,” Edmund invited. “I have hundreds +of volumes on farming, and all the Agricultural Bulletins... . And you +must come and get acquainted with Dulcie your first spare time,” he +called after them out the door. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +Mrs. Mortimer arrived with seed catalogs and farm books, to find Saxon +immersed in the farm books borrowed from Edmund. Saxon showed her +around, and she was delighted with everything, including the terms of +the lease and its option to buy. + +“And now,” she said. “What is to be done? Sit down, both of you. This is +a council of war, and I am the one person in the world to tell you what +to do. I ought to be. Anybody who has reorganized and recatalogued a +great city library should be able to start you young people on in short +order. Now, where shall we begin?” + +She paused for breath of consideration. + +“First, Madrono Ranch is a bargain. I know soil, I know beauty, I +know climate. Madrono Ranch is a gold mine. There is a fortune in that +meadow. Tilth--I'll tell you about that later. First, here's the +land. Second, what are you going to do with it? Make a living? Yes. +Vegetables? Of course. What are you going to do with them after you have +grown them? Sell. Where?--Now listen. You must do as I did. Cut out the +middle man. Sell directly to the consumer. Drum up your own market. +Do you know what I saw from the car windows coming up the valley, +only several miles from here? Hotels, springs, summer resorts, winter +resorts--population, mouths, market. How is that market supplied? I +looked in vain for truck gardens.--Billy, harness up your horses and +be ready directly after dinner to take Saxon and me driving. Never mind +everything else. Let things stand. What's the use of starting for a +place of which you haven't the address. We'll look for the address +this afternoon. Then we'll know where we are--at.”--The last syllable a +smiling concession to Billy. + +But Saxon did not accompany them. There was too much to be done in +cleaning the long-abandoned house and in preparing an arrangement for +Mrs. Mortimer to sleep. And it was long after supper time when Mrs. +Mortimer and Billy returned. + +“You lucky, lucky children,” she began immediately. “This valley is just +waking up. Here's your market. There isn't a competitor in the valley. +I thought those resorts looked new--Caliente, Boyes Hot Springs, El +Verano, and all along the line. Then there are three little hotels in +Glen Ellen, right next door. Oh, I've talked with all the owners and +managers.” + +“She's a wooz,” Billy admired. “She'd brace up to God on a business +proposition. You oughta seen her.” + +Mrs. Mortimer acknowledged the compliment and dashed on. + +“And where do all the vegetables come from? Wagons drive down twelve to +fifteen miles from Santa Rosa, and up from Sonoma. Those are the nearest +truck farms, and when they fail, as they often do, I am told, to supply +the increasing needs, the managers have to express vegetables all +the way from San Francisco. I've introduced Billy. They've agreed to +patronize home industry. Besides, it is better for them. You'll deliver +just as good vegetables just as cheap; you will make it a point to +deliver better, fresher vegetables; and don't forget that delivery for +you will be cheaper by virtue of the shorter haul. + +“No day-old egg stunt here. No jams nor jellies. But you've got lots of +space up on the bench here on which you can't grow vegetables. To-morrow +morning I'll help you lay out the chicken runs and houses. Besides, +there is the matter of capons for the San Francisco market. You'll start +small. It will be a side line at first. I'll tell you all about that, +too, and send you the literature. You must use your head. Let others +do the work. You must understand that thoroughly. The wages of +superintendence are always larger than the wages of the laborers. You +must keep books. You must know where you stand. You must know what pays +and what doesn't and what pays best. Your books will tell that. I'll +show you all in good time.” + +“An' think of it--all that on two acres!” Billy murmured. + +Mrs. Mortimer looked at him sharply. + +“Two acres your granny,” she said with asperity. “Five acres. And then +you won't be able to supply your market. And you, my boy, as soon as +the first rains come will have your hands full and your horses weary +draining that meadow. We'll work those plans out to-morrow Also, there +is the matter of berries on the bench here--and trellised table +grapes, the choicest. They bring the fancy prices. There will be +blackberries--Burbank's, he lives at Santa Rosa--Loganberries, Mammoth +berries. But don't fool with strawberries. That's a whole occupation in +itself. They're not vines, you know. I've examined the orchard. It's a +good foundation. We'll settle the pruning and grafts later.” + +“But Billy wanted three acres of the meadow,” Saxon explained at the +first chance. + +“What for?” + +“To grow hay and other kinds of food for the horses he's going to +raise.” + +“Buy it out of a portion of the profits from those three acres,” Mrs. +Mortimer decided on the instant. + +Billy swallowed, and again achieved renunciation. + +“All right,” he said, with a brave show of cheerfulness. “Let her go. Us +for the greens.” + +During the several days of Mrs. Mortimer's visit, Billy let the two +women settle things for themselves. Oakland had entered upon a boom, and +from the West Oakland stables had come an urgent letter for more horses. +So Billy was out, early and late, scouring the surrounding country for +young work animals. In this way, at the start, he learned his valley +thoroughly. There was also a clearing out at the West Oakland stables of +mares whose feet had been knocked out on the hard city pavements, and +he was offered first choice at bargain prices. They were good animals. +He knew what they were because he knew them of old time. The soft earth +of the country, with a preliminary rest in pasture with their shoes +pulled off, would put them in shape. They would never do again on +hard-paved streets, but there were years of farm work in them. And +then there was the breeding. But he could not undertake to buy them. He +fought out the battle in secret and said nothing to Saxon. + +At night, he would sit in the kitchen and smoke, listening to all that +the two women had done and planned in the day. The right kind of horses +was hard to buy, and, as he put it, it was like pulling a tooth to get a +farmer to part with one, despite the fact that he had been authorized to +increase the buying sum by as much as fifty dollars. Despite the coming +of the automobile, the price of heavy draught animals continued to rise. +From as early as Billy could remember, the price of the big work horses +had increased steadily. After the great earthquake, the price had +jumped; yet it had never gone back. + +“Billy, you make more money as a horse-buyer than a common laborer, +don't you?” Mrs. Mortimer asked. “Very well, then. You won't have to +drain the meadow, or plow it, or anything. You keep right on buying +horses. Work with your head. But out of what you make you will please +pay the wages of one laborer for Saxon's vegetables. It will be a good +investment, with quick returns.” + +“Sure,” he agreed. “That's all anybody hires any body for--to make money +outa 'm. But how Saxon an' one man are goin' to work them five acres, +when Mr. Hale says two of us couldn't do what's needed on two acres, is +beyond me.” + +“Saxon isn't going to work,” Mrs. Mortimer retorted. + +“Did you see me working at San Jose? Saxon is going to use her head. +It's about time you woke up to that. A dollar and a half a day is what +is earned by persons who don't use their heads. And she isn't going to +be satisfied with a dollar and a half a day. Now listen. I had a long +talk with Mr. Hale this afternoon. He says there are practically no +efficient laborers to be hired in the valley.” + +“I know that,” Billy interjected. “All the good men go to the cities. +It's only the leavin's that's left. The good ones that stay behind ain't +workin' for wages.” + +“Which is perfectly true, every word. Now listen, children. I knew about +it, and I spoke to Mr. Hale. He is prepared to make the arrangements for +you. He knows all about it himself, and is in touch with the Warden. In +short, you will parole two good-conduct prisoners from San Quentin; and +they will be gardeners. There are plenty of Chinese and Italians there, +and they are the best truck-farmers. You kill two birds with one stone. +You serve the poor convicts, and you serve yourselves.” + +Saxon hesitated, shocked; while Billy gravely considered the question. + +“You know John,” Mrs. Mortimer went on, “Mr. Hale's man about the place? +How do you like him?” + +“Oh, I was wishing only to-day that we could find somebody like him,” + Saxon said eagerly. “He's such a dear, faithful soul. Mrs. Hale told me +a lot of fine things about him.” + +“There's one thing she didn't tell you,” smiled Mrs. Mortimer. “John is +a paroled convict. Twenty-eight years ago, in hot blood, he killed a +man in a quarrel over sixty-five cents. He's been out of prison with +the Hales three years now. You remember Louis, the old Frenchman, on my +place? He's another. So that's settled. When your two come--of course +you will pay them fair wages--and we'll make sure they're the same +nationality, either Chinese or Italians--well, when they come, John, +with their help, and under Mr. Hale's guidance, will knock together a +small cabin for them to live in. We'll select the spot. Even so, when +your farm is in full swing you'll have to have more outside help. So +keep your eyes open, Billy, while you're gallivanting over the valley.” + +The next night Billy failed to return, and at nine o'clock a Glen Ellen +boy on horseback delivered a telegram. Billy had sent it from Lake +County. He was after horses for Oakland. + +Not until the third night did he arrive home, tired to exhaustion, but +with an ill concealed air of pride. + +“Now what have you been doing these three days?” Mrs. Mortimer demanded. + +“Usin' my head,” he boasted quietly. “Killin' two birds with one stone; +an', take it from me, I killed a whole flock. Huh! I got word of it at +Lawndale, an' I wanta tell you Hazel an' Hattie was some tired when I +stabled 'm at Calistoga an' pulled out on the stage over St. Helena. +I was Johnny-on-the-spot, an' I nailed 'm--eight whoppers--the whole +outfit of a mountain teamster. Young animals, sound as a dollar, and +the lightest of 'em over fifteen hundred. I shipped 'm last night from +Calistoga. An', well, that ain't all. + +“Before that, first day, at Lawndale, I seen the fellow with the teamin' +contract for the pavin'-stone quarry. Sell horses! He wanted to buy 'em. +He wanted to buy 'em bad. He'd even rent 'em, he said.” + +“And you sent him the eight you bought!” Saxon broke in. + +“Guess again. I bought them eight with Oakland money, an' they was +shipped to Oakland. But I got the Lawndale contractor on long distance, +and he agreed to pay me half a dollar a day rent for every work horse up +to half a dozen. Then I telegraphed the Boss, tellin' him to ship me six +sore-footed mares, Bud Strothers to make the choice, an' to charge to my +commission. Bud knows what I 'm after. Soon as they come, off go their +shoes. Two weeks in pasture, an' then they go to Lawndale. They can do +the work. It's a down-hill haul to the railroad on a dirt road. Half a +dollar rent each--that's three dollars a day they'll bring me six days a +week. I don't feed 'em, shoe 'm, or nothin', an' I keep an eye on 'm to +see they're treated right. Three bucks a day, eh! Well, I guess that'll +keep a couple of dollar-an '-a-half men goin' for Saxon, unless she +works 'em Sundays. Huh! The Valley of the Moon! Why, we'll be wearin' +diamonds before long. Gosh! A fellow could live in the city a thousan' +years an' not get such chances. It beats China lottery.” + +He stood up. + +“I 'm goin' out to water Hazel an' Hattie, feed 'm, an' bed 'm down. +I'll eat soon as I come back.” + +The two women were regarding each other with shining eyes, each on the +verge of speech when Billy returned to the door and stuck his head in. + +“They's one thing maybe you ain't got,” he said. “I pull down them three +dollars every day; but the six mares is mine, too. I own 'm. They're +mine. Are you on?” + + + +CHAPTER XX + +“I'm not done with you children,” had been Mrs. Mortimer's parting +words; and several times that winter she ran up to advise, and to teach +Saxon how to calculate her crops for the small immediate market, for the +increasing spring market, and for the height of summer, at which time +she would be able to sell all she could possibly grow and then not +supply the demand. In the meantime, Hazel and Hattie were used every +odd moment in hauling manure from Glen Ellen, whose barnyards had never +known such a thorough cleaning. Also there were loads of commercial +fertilizer from the railroad station, bought under Mrs. Mortimer's +instructions. + +The convicts paroled were Chinese. Both had served long in prison, and +were old men; but the day's work they were habitually capable of won +Mrs. Mortimer's approval. Gow Yum, twenty years before, had had charge +of the vegetable garden of one of the great Menlo Park estates. His +disaster had come in the form of a fight over a game of fan tan in the +Chinese quarter at Redwood City. His companion, Chan Chi, had been +a hatchet-man of note, in the old fighting days of the San Francisco +tongs. But a quarter of century of discipline in the prison vegetable +gardens had cooled his blood and turned his hand from hatchet to hoe. +These two assistants had arrived in Glen Ellen like precious goods +in bond and been receipted for by the local deputy sheriff, who, in +addition, reported on them to the prison authorities each month. Saxon, +too, made out a monthly report and sent it in. + +As for the danger of their cutting her throat, she quickly got over the +idea of it. The mailed hand of the State hovered over them. The taking +of a single drink of liquor would provoke that hand to close down and +jerk them back to prison-cells. Nor had they freedom of movement. When +old Gow Yum needed to go to San Francisco to sign certain papers +before the Chinese Consul, permission had first to be obtained from +San Quentin. Then, too, neither man was nasty tempered. Saxon had been +apprehensive of the task of bossing two desperate convicts; but when +they came she found it a pleasure to work with them. She could tell them +what to do, but it was they who knew how to do. From them she learned all +the ten thousand tricks and quirks of artful gardening, and she was not +long in realizing how helpless she would have been had she depended on +local labor. + +Still further, she had no fear, because she was not alone. She had +been using her head. It was quickly apparent to her that she could not +adequately oversee the outside work and at the same time do the house +work. She wrote to Ukiah to the energetic widow who had lived in the +adjoining house and taken in washing. She had promptly closed with +Saxon's offer. Mrs. Paul was forty, short in stature, and weighed two +hundred pounds, but never wearied on her feet. Also she was devoid of +fear, and, according to Billy, could settle the hash of both Chinese +with one of her mighty arms. Mrs. Paul arrived with her son, a country +lad of sixteen who knew horses and could milk Hilda, the pretty Jersey +which had successfully passed Edmund's expert eye. Though Mrs. Paul ably +handled the house, there was one thing Saxon insisted on doing--namely, +washing her own pretty flimsies. + +“When I 'm no longer able to do that,” she told Billy, “you can take +a spade to that clump of redwoods beside Wild Water and dig a hole. It +will be time to bury me.” + +It was early in the days of Madrono Ranch, at the time of Mrs. +Mortimer's second visit, that Billy drove in with a load of pipe; and +house, chicken yards, and barn were piped from the second-hand tank he +installed below the house-spring. + +“Huh! I guess I can use my head,” he said. “I watched a woman over on +the other side of the valley, packin' water two hundred feet from the +spring to the house; an' I did some figurin'. I put it at three trips a +day and on wash days a whole lot more; an' you can't guess what I made +out she traveled a year packin' water. One hundred an' twenty-two miles. +D'ye get that? One hundred and twenty-two miles! I asked her how long +she'd been there. Thirty-one years. Multiply it for yourself. Three +thousan', seven hundred an' eighty-two miles--all for the sake of two +hundred feet of pipe. Wouldn't that jar you?” + +“Oh, I ain't done yet. They's a bath-tub an' stationary tubs a-comin' +soon as I can see my way. An', say, Saxon, you know that little clear +flat just where Wild Water runs into Sonoma. They's all of an acre of +it. An' it's mine! Got that? An' no walkin' on the grass for you. It'll +be my grass. I 'm goin' up stream a ways an' put in a ram. I got a big +second-hand one staked out that I can get for ten dollars, an' it'll +pump more water'n I need. An' you'll see alfalfa growin' that'll make +your mouth water. I gotta have another horse to travel around on. You're +usin' Hazel an' Hattie too much to give me a chance; an' I'll never see +'m as soon as you start deliverin' vegetables. I guess that alfalfa'll +help some to keep another horse goin'.” + +But Billy was destined for a time to forget his alfalfa in the +excitement of bigger ventures. First, came trouble. The several +hundred dollars he had arrived with in Sonoma Valley, and all his own +commissions since earned, had gone into improvements and living. The +eighteen dollars a week rental for his six horses at Lawndale went to +pay wages. And he was unable to buy the needed saddle-horse for his +horse-buying expeditions. This, however, he had got around by again +using his head and killing two birds with one stone. He began breaking +colts to drive, and in the driving drove them wherever he sought horses. + +So far all was well. But a new administration in San Francisco, pledged +to economy, had stopped all street work. This meant the shutting down of +the Lawndale quarry, which was one of the sources of supply for paving +blocks. The six horses would not only be back on his hands, but he would +have to feed them. How Mrs. Paul, Gow Yum, and Chan Chi were to be paid +was beyond him. + +“I guess we've bit off more'n we could chew,” he admitted to Saxon. + +That night he was late in coming home, but brought with him a radiant +face. Saxon was no less radiant. + +“It's all right,” she greeted him, coming out to the barn where he was +unhitching a tired but fractious colt. “I've talked with all three. They +see the situation, and are perfectly willing to let their wages stand a +while. By another week I start Hazel and Hattie delivering vegetables. +Then the money will pour in from the hotels and my books won't look +so lopsided. And--oh, Billy--you'd never guess. Old Gow Yum has a bank +account. He came to me afterward--I guess he was thinking it over--and +offered to lend me four hundred dollars. What do you think of that?” + +“That I ain't goin' to be too proud to borrow it off 'm, if he IS a +Chink. He's a white one, an' maybe I'll need it. Because, you see--well, +you can't guess what I've been up to since I seen you this mornin'. I've +been so busy I ain't had a bite to eat.” + +“Using your head?” She laughed. + +“You can call it that,” he joined in her laughter. “I've been spendin' +money like water.” + +“But you haven't got any to spend,” she objected. + +“I've got credit in this valley, I'll let you know,” he replied. “An' I +sure strained it some this afternoon. Now guess.” + +“A saddle-horse?” + +He roared with laughter, startling the colt, which tried to bolt and +lifted him half off the ground by his grip on its frightened nose and +neck. + +“Oh, I mean real guessin',” he urged, when the animal had dropped back +to earth and stood regarding him with trembling suspicion. + +“Two saddle-horses?” + +“Aw, you ain't got imagination. I'll tell you. You know Thiercroft. I +bought his big wagon from 'm for sixty dollars. I bought a wagon from +the Kenwood blacksmith--so-so, but it'll do--for forty-five dollars. An' +I bought Ping's wagon--a peach--for sixty-five dollars. I could a-got it +for fifty if he hadn't seen I wanted it bad.” + +“But the money?” Saxon questioned faintly. “You hadn't a hundred dollars +left.” + +“Didn't I tell you I had credit? Well, I have. I stood 'm off for them +wagons. I ain't spent a cent of cash money to-day except for a +couple of long-distance switches. Then I bought three sets of +work-harness--they're chain harness an' second-hand--for twenty dollars +a set. I bought 'm from the fellow that's doin' the haulin' for the +quarry. He don't need 'm any more. An' I rented four wagons from 'm, +an' four span of horses, too, at half a dollar a day for each horse, +an' half a dollar a day for each wagon--that's six dollars a day rent +I gotta pay 'm. The three sets of spare harness is for my six horses. +Then... lemme see... yep, I rented two barns in Glen Ellen, an' I +ordered fifty tons of hay an' a carload of bran an' barley from the +store in Glenwood--you see, I gotta feed all them fourteen horses, an' +shoe 'm, an' everything. + +“Oh, sure Pete, I've went some. I hired seven men to go drivin' for me +at two dollars a day, an'--ouch! Jehosaphat! What you doin'!” + +“No,” Saxon said gravely, having pinched him, “you're not dreaming.” + She felt his pulse and forehead. “Not a sign of fever.” She sniffed +his breath. “And you've not been drinking. Go on, tell me the rest of +this... whatever it is.” + +“Ain't you satisfied?” + +“No. I want more. I want all.” + +“All right. But I just want you to know, first, that the boss I used to +work for in Oakland ain't got nothin' on me. I 'm some man of affairs, +if anybody should ride up on a vegetable wagon an' ask you. Now, I 'm +goin' to tell you, though I can't see why the Glen Ellen folks didn't +beat me to it. I guess they was asleep. Nobody'd a-overlooked a thing +like it in the city. You see, it was like this: you know that fancy +brickyard they're gettin' ready to start for makin' extra special fire +brick for inside walls? Well, here was I worryin' about the six horses +comin' back on my hands, earnin' me nothin' an' eatin' me into the +poorhouse. I had to get 'm work somehow, an' I remembered the brickyard. +I drove the colt down an' talked with that Jap chemist who's been doin' +the experimentin'. Gee! They was foremen lookin' over the ground an' +everything gettin' ready to hum. I looked over the lay an' studied it. +Then I drove up to where they're openin' the clay pit--you know, that +fine, white chalky stuff we saw 'em borin' out just outside the hundred +an' forty acres with the three knolls. It's a down-hill haul, a mile, +an' two horses can do it easy. In fact, their hardest job'll be haulin' +the empty wagons up to the pit. Then I tied the colt an' went to +figurin'. + +“The Jap professor'd told me the manager an' the other big guns of the +company was comin' up on the mornin' train. I wasn't shoutin' things +out to anybody, but I just made myself into a committee of welcome; an', +when the train pulled in, there I was, extendin' the glad hand of the +burg--likewise the glad hand of a guy you used to know in Oakland once, +a third-rate dub prizefighter by the name of--lemme see--yep, I got +it right--Big Bill Roberts was the name he used to sport, but now he's +known as William Roberts, E. S. Q. + +“Well, as I was sayin', I gave 'm the glad hand, an' trailed along with +'em to the brickyard, an' from the talk I could see things was doin'. +Then I watched my chance an' sprung my proposition. I was scared stiff +all the time for maybe the teamin' was already arranged. But I knew it +wasn't when they asked for my figures. I had 'm by heart, an' I rattled +'m off, and the top-guy took 'm down in his note-book. + +“'We're goin' into this big, an' at once,' he says, lookin' at me sharp. +'What kind of an outfit you got, Mr. Roberts?'” + +“Me!--with only Hazel an' Hattie, an' them too small for heavy teamin'. + +“'I can slap fourteen horses an' seven wagons onto the job at the jump,' +says I. 'An' if you want more, I'll get 'm, that's all.' + +“'Give us fifteen minutes to consider, Mr. Roberts,' he says. + +“'Sure,' says I, important as all hell--ahem--me!--'but a couple of +other things first. I want a two year contract, an' them figures all +depends on one thing. Otherwise they don't go.' + +“'What's that,' he says. + +“'The dump,' says I. 'Here we are on the ground, an' I might as well +show you.' + +“An' I did. I showed 'm where I'd lose out if they stuck to their plan, +on account of the dip down an' pull up to the dump. 'All you gotta do,' +I says, 'is to build the bunkers fifty feet over, throw the road around +the rim of the hill, an' make about seventy or eighty feet of elevated +bridge.' + +“Say, Saxon, that kind of talk got 'em. It was straight. Only they'd +been thinkin' about bricks, while I was only thinkin' of teamin'. + +“I guess they was all of half an hour considerin', an' I was almost as +miserable waitin' as when I waited for you to say yes after I asked you. +I went over the figures, calculatin' what I could throw off if I had +to. You see, I'd given it to 'em stiff--regular city prices; an' I was +prepared to trim down. Then they come back. + +“'Prices oughta be lower in the country,' says the top-guy. + +“'Nope,' I says. 'This is a wine-grape valley. It don't raise enough +hay an' feed for its own animals. It has to be shipped in from the San +Joaquin Valley. Why, I can buy hay an' feed cheaper in San Francisco, +laid down, than I can here an' haul it myself.' + +“An' that struck 'm hard. It was true, an' they knew it. But--say! If +they'd asked about wages for drivers, an' about horse-shoein' prices, +I'd a-had to come down; because, you see, they ain't no teamsters' union +in the country, an' no horseshoers' union, an' rent is low, an' them two +items come a whole lot cheaper. Huh! This afternoon I got a word bargain +with the blacksmith across from the post office; an' he takes my whole +bunch an' throws off twenty-five cents on each shoein', though it's on +the Q. T. But they didn't think to ask, bein' too full of bricks.” + +Billy felt in his breast pocket, drew out a legal-looking document, and +handed it to Saxon. + +“There it is,” he said, “the contract, full of all the agreements, +prices, an' penalties. I saw Mr. Hale down town an' showed it to 'm. +He says it's O.K. An' say, then I lit out. All over town, Kenwood, +Lawndale, everywhere, everybody, everything. The quarry teamin' finishes +Friday of this week. An' I take the whole outfit an' start Wednesday of +next week haulin' lumber for the buildin's, an' bricks for the kilns, +an' all the rest. An' when they're ready for the clay I 'm the boy +that'll give it to them. + +“But I ain't told you the best yet. I couldn't get the switch right +away from Kenwood to Lawndale, and while I waited I went over my figures +again. You couldn't guess it in a million years. I'd made a mistake in +addition somewhere, an' soaked 'm ten per cent. more'n I'd expected. +Talk about findin' money! Any time you want them couple of extra men to +help out with the vegetables, say the word. Though we're goin' to have +to pinch the next couple of months. An' go ahead an' borrow that four +hundred from Gow Yum. An' tell him you'll pay eight per cent. interest, +an' that we won't want it more 'n three or four months.” + +When Billy got away from Saxon's arms, he started leading the colt up +and down to cool it off. He stopped so abruptly that his back collided +with the colt's nose, and there was a lively minute of rearing and +plunging. Saxon waited, for she knew a fresh idea had struck Billy. + +“Say,” he said, “do you know anything about bank accounts and drawin' +checks?” + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +It was on a bright June morning that Billy told Saxon to put on her +riding clothes to try out a saddle-horse. + +“Not until after ten o'clock,” she said. “By that time I'll have the +wagon off on a second trip.” + +Despite the extent of the business she had developed, her executive +ability and system gave her much spare time. She could call on the +Hales, which was ever a delight, especially now that the Hastings +were back and that Clara was often at her aunt's. In this congenial +atmosphere Saxon burgeoned. She had begun to read--to read with +understanding; and she had time for her books, for work on her pretties, +and for Billy, whom she accompanied on many expeditions. + +Billy was even busier than she, his work being more scattered and +diverse. And, as well, he kept his eye on the home barn and horses +which Saxon used. In truth he had become a man of affairs, though Mrs. +Mortimer had gone over his accounts, with an eagle eye on the expense +column, discovering several minor leaks, and finally, aided by Saxon, +bullied him into keeping books. Each night, after supper, he and Saxon +posted their books. Afterward, in the big morris chair he had insisted +on buying early in the days of his brickyard contract, Saxon would creep +into his arms and strum on the ukulele; or they would talk long about +what they were doing and planning to do. Now it would be: + +“I'm mixin' up in politics, Saxon. It pays. You bet it pays. If by next +spring I ain't got a half a dozen teams workin' on the roads an' pullin' +down the county money, it's me back to Oakland an' askin' the Boss for a +job.” + +Or, Saxon: “They're really starting that new hotel between Caliente and +Eldridge. And there's some talk of a big sanitarium back in the hills.” + +Or, it would be: “Billy, now that you've piped that acre, you've just +got to let me have it for my vegetables. I'll rent it from you. I'll +take your own estimate for all the alfalfa you can raise on it, and pay +you full market price less the cost of growing it.” + +“It's all right, take it.” Billy suppressed a sigh. “Besides, I 'm too +busy to fool with it now.” + +Which prevarication was bare-faced, by virtue of his having just +installed the ram and piped the land. + +“It will be the wisest, Billy,” she soothed, for she knew his dream of +land-spaciousness was stronger than ever. “You don't want to fool with +an acre. There's that hundred and forty. We'll buy it yet if old Chavon +ever dies. Besides, it really belongs to Madrono Ranch. The two together +were the original quarter section.” + +“I don't wish no man's death,” Billy grumbled. “But he ain't gettin' +no good out of it, over-pasturin' it with a lot of scrub animals. I've +sized it up every inch of it. They's at least forty acres in the three +cleared fields, with water in the hills behind to beat the band. The +horse feed I could raise on it'd take your breath away. Then they's at +least fifty acres I could run my brood mares on, pasture mixed up with +trees and steep places and such. The other fifty's just thick woods, an' +pretty places, an' wild game. An' that old adobe barn's all right. With +a new roof it'd shelter any amount of animals in bad weather. Look at me +now, rentin' that measly pasture back of Ping's just to run my restin' +animals. They could run in the hundred an' forty if I only had it. I +wonder if Chavon would lease it.” + +Or, less ambitious, Billy would say: “I gotta skin over to Petaluma +to-morrow, Saxon. They's an auction on the Atkinson Ranch an' maybe I +can pick up some bargains.” + +“More horses!” + +“Ain't I got two teams haulin' lumber for the new winery? An' Barney's +got a bad shoulder-sprain. He'll have to lay off a long time if he's to +get it in shape. An' Bridget ain't ever goin' to do a tap of work again. +I can see that stickin' out. I've doctored her an' doctored her. She's +fooled the vet, too. An' some of the other horses has gotta take a rest. +That span of grays is showin' the hard work. An' the big roan's goin' +loco. Everybody thought it was his teeth, but it ain't. It's straight +loco. It's money in pocket to take care of your animals, an' horses is +the delicatest things on four legs. Some time, if I can ever see my way +to it, I 'm goin' to ship a carload of mules from Colusa County--big, +heavy ones, you know. They'd sell like hot cakes in the valley +here--them I didn't want for myself.” + +Or, in lighter vein, Billy: “By the way, Saxon, talkin' of accounts, +what d'you think Hazel an' Hattie is worth?--fair market price?” + +“Why?” + +“I 'm askin' you.” + +“Well, say, what you paid for them--three hundred dollars.” + +“Hum.” Billy considered deeply. “They're worth a whole lot more, but let +it go at that. An' now, gettin' back to accounts, suppose you write me a +check for three hundred dollars.” + +“Oh! Robber!” + +“You can't show me. Why, Saxon, when I let you have grain an' hay from +my carloads, don't you give me a check for it? An' you know how you're +stuck on keepin' your accounts down to the penny,” he teased. “If you're +any kind of a business woman you just gotta charge your business with +them two horses. I ain't had the use of 'em since I don't know when.” + +“But the colts will be yours,” she argued. “Besides, I can't afford +brood mares in my business. In almost no time, now, Hazel and Hattie +will have to be taken off from the wagon--they're too good for it +anyway. And you keep your eyes open for a pair to take their place. I'll +give you a check for THAT pair, but no commission.” + +“All right,” Billy conceded. “Hazel an' Hattie come back to me; but you +can pay me rent for the time you did use 'em.” + +“If you make me, I'll charge you board,” she threatened. + +“An' if you charge me board, I'll charge you interest for the money I've +stuck into this shebang.” + +“You can't,” Saxon laughed. “It's community property.” + +He grunted spasmodically, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. + +“Straight on the solar plexus,” he said, “an' me down for the count. But +say, them's sweet words, ain't they--community property.” He rolled them +over and off his tongue with keen relish. “An' when we got married +the top of our ambition was a steady job an' some rags an' sticks +of furniture all paid up an' half-worn out. We wouldn't have had any +community property only for you.” + +“What nonsense! What could I have done by myself? You know very well +that you earned all the money that started us here. You paid the wages +of Gow Yum and Chan Chi, and old Hughie, and Mrs. Paul, and--why, you've +done it all.” + +She drew her two hands caressingly across his shoulders and down along +his great biceps muscles. + +“That's what did it, Billy.” + +“Aw hell! It's your head that done it. What was my muscles good for with +no head to run 'em,--sluggin' scabs, beatin' up lodgers, an' crookin' +the elbow over a bar. The only sensible thing my head ever done was when +it run me into you. Honest to God, Saxon, you've been the makin' of me.” + +“Aw hell, Billy,” she mimicked in the way that delighted him, “where +would I have been if you hadn't taken me out of the laundry? I couldn't +take myself out. I was just a helpless girl. I'd have been there yet if +it hadn't been for you. Mrs. Mortimer had five thousand dollars; but I +had you.” + +“A woman ain't got the chance to help herself that a man has,” he +generalized. “I'll tell you what: It took the two of us. It's been +team-work. We've run in span. If we'd a-run single, you might still be +in the laundry; an', if I was lucky, I'd be still drivin' team by the +day an' sportin' around to cheap dances.” + + +Saxon stood under the father of all madronos, watching Hazel and Hattie +go out the gate, the full vegetable wagon behind them, when she saw +Billy ride in, leading a sorrel mare from whose silken coat the sun +flashed golden lights. + +“Four-year-old, high-life, a handful, but no vicious tricks,” Billy +chanted, as he stopped beside Saxon. “Skin like tissue paper, mouth like +silk, but kill the toughest broncho ever foaled--look at them lungs an' +nostrils. They call her Ramona--some Spanish name: sired by Morellita +outa genuine Morgan stock.” + +“And they will sell her?” Saxon gasped, standing with hands clasped in +inarticulate delight. + +“That's what I brought her to show you for.” + +“But how much must they want for her?” was Saxon's next question, so +impossible did it seem that such an amazement of horse-flesh could ever +be hers. + +“That ain't your business,” Billy answered brusquely. “The brickyard's +payin' for her, not the vegetable ranch. She's yourn at the word. What +d'ye say?” + + +“I'll tell you in a minute.” + +Saxon was trying to mount, but the animal danced nervously away. + +“Hold on till I tie,” Billy said. “She ain't skirt-broke, that's the +trouble.” + +Saxon tightly gripped reins and mane, stepped with spurred foot on +Billy's hand, and was lifted lightly into the saddle. + +“She's used to spurs,” Billy called after. “Spanish broke, so don't +check her quick. Come in gentle. An' talk to her. She's high-life, you +know.” + +Saxon nodded, dashed out the gate and down the road, waved a hand to +Clara Hastings as she passed the gate of Trillium Covert, and continued +up Wild Water canyon. + +When she came back, Ramona in a pleasant lather, Saxon rode to the rear +of the house, past the chicken houses and the flourishing berry-rows, +to join Billy on the rim of the bench, where he sat on his horse in the +shade, smoking a cigarette. Together they looked down through an +opening among the trees to the meadow which was a meadow no longer. With +mathematical accuracy it was divided into squares, oblongs, and narrow +strips, which displayed sharply the thousand hues of green of a truck +garden. Gow Yum and Chan Chi, under enormous Chinese grass hats, were +planting green onions. Old Hughie, hoe in hand, plodded along the main +artery of running water, opening certain laterals, closing others. From +the work-shed beyond the barn the strokes of a hammer told Saxon that +Carlsen was wire-binding vegetable boxes. Mrs. Paul's cheery soprano, +lifted in a hymn, floated through the trees, accompanied by the whirr of +an egg-beater. A sharp barking told where Possum still waged hysterical +and baffled war on the Douglass squirrels. Billy took a long draw from +his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and continued to look down at the +meadow. Saxon divined trouble in his manner. His rein-hand was on the +pommel, and her free hand went out and softly rested on his. Billy +turned his slow gaze upon her mare's lather, seeming not to note it, and +continued on to Saxon's face. + +“Huh!” he equivocated, as if waking up. “Them San Leandro Porchugeeze +ain't got nothin' on us when it comes to intensive farmin'. Look at that +water runnin'. You know, it seems so good to me that sometimes I just +wanta get down on hands an' knees an' lap it all up myself.” + +“Oh, to have all the water you want in a climate like this!” Saxon +exclaimed. + +“An' don't be scared of it ever goin' back on you. If the rains fooled +you, there's Sonoma Creek alongside. All we gotta do is install a +gasolene pump.” + +“But we'll never have to, Billy. I was talking with 'Redwood' Thompson. +He's lived in the valley since Fifty-three, and he says there's never +been a failure of crops on account of drought. We always get our rain.” + +“Come on, let's go for a ride,” he said abruptly. “You've got the time.” + +“All right, if you'll tell me what's bothering you.” + +He looked at her quickly. + +“Nothin',” he grunted. “Yes, there is, too. What's the difference? You'd +know it sooner or later. You ought to see old Chavon. His face is that +long he can't walk without bumpin' his knee on his chin. His gold-mine's +peterin' out.” + +“Gold mine!” + +“His clay pit. It's the same thing. He's gettin' twenty cents a yard for +it from the brickyard.” + +“And that means the end of your teaming contract.” Saxon saw the +disaster in all its hugeness. “What about the brickyard people?” + +“Worried to death, though they've kept secret about it. They've had men +out punchin' holes all over the hills for a week, an' that Jap chemist +settin' up nights analyzin' the rubbish they've brought in. It's +peculiar stuff, that clay, for what they want it for, an' you don't find +it everywhere. Them experts that reported on Chavon's pit made one +hell of a mistake. Maybe they was lazy with their borin's. Anyway, +they slipped up on the amount of clay they was in it. Now don't get to +botherin'. It'd come out somehow. You can't do nothin'.” + +“But I can,” Saxon insisted. “We won't buy Ramona.” + +“You ain't got a thing to do with that,” he answered. “I 'm buyin' her, +an' her price don't cut any figure alongside the big game I 'm playin'. +Of course, I can always sell my horses. But that puts a stop to their +makin' money, an' that brickyard contract was fat.” + +“But if you get some of them in on the road work for the county?” she +suggested. + +“Oh, I got that in mind. An' I 'm keepin' my eyes open. They's a chance +the quarry will start again, an' the fellow that did that teamin' has +gone to Puget Sound. An' what if I have to sell out most of the horses? +Here's you and the vegetable business. That's solid. We just don't go +ahead so fast for a time, that's all. I ain't scared of the country any +more. I sized things up as we went along. They ain't a jerk burg we hit +all the time on the road that I couldn't jump into an' make a go. An' +now where d'you want to ride?” + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +They cantered out the gate, thundered across the bridge, and passed +Trillium Covert before they pulled in on the grade of Wild Water Canyon. +Saxon had chosen her field on the big spur of Sonoma Mountains as the +objective of their ride. + +“Say, I bumped into something big this mornin' when I was goin' to fetch +Ramona,” Billy said, the clay pit trouble banished for the time. “You +know the hundred an' forty. I passed young Chavon along the road, an'--I +don't know why--just for ducks, I guess--I up an' asked 'm if he thought +the old man would lease the hundred an' forty to me. An' what d 'you +think! He said the old man didn't own it. Was just leasin' it himself. +That's how we was always seein' his cattle on it. It's a gouge into his +land, for he owns everything on three sides of it. + +“Next I met Ping. He said Hilyard owned it an' was willin' to sell, only +Chavon didn't have the price. Then, comin' back, I looked in on Payne. +He's quit blacksmithin'--his back's hurtin' 'm from a kick--an' just +startin' in for real estate. Sure, he said, Hilyard would sell, an' had +already listed the land with 'm. Chavon's over-pastured it, an' Hilyard +won't give 'm another lease.” + +When they had climbed out of Wild Water Canyon they turned their horses +about and halted on the rim where they could look across at the three +densely wooded knolls in the midst of the desired hundred and forty. + +“We'll get it yet,” Saxon said. + +“Sure we will,” Billy agreed with careless certitude. “I've ben lookin' +over the big adobe barn again. Just the thing for a raft of horses, an' +a new roof'll be cheaper 'n I thought. Though neither Chavon or me'll be +in the market to buy it right away, with the clay pinchin' out.” + + +When they reached Saxon's field, which they had learned was the property +of Redwood Thompson, they tied the horses and entered it on foot. The +hay, just cut, was being raked by Thompson, who hallo'd a greeting to +them. It was a cloudless, windless day, and they sought refuge from the +sun in the woods beyond. They encountered a dim trail. + +“It's a cow trail,” Billy declared. “I bet they's a teeny pasture tucked +away somewhere in them trees. Let's follow it.” + +A quarter of an hour later, several hundred feet up the side of the +spur, they emerged on an open, grassy space of bare hillside. Most of +the hundred and forty, two miles away, lay beneath them, while they were +level with the tops of the three knolls. Billy paused to gaze upon the +much-desired land, and Saxon joined him. + +“What is that?” she asked, pointing toward the knolls. “Up the little +canyon, to the left of it, there on the farthest knoll, right under that +spruce that's leaning over.” + +What Billy saw was a white scar on the canyon wall. + +“It's one on me,” he said, studying the scar. “I thought I knew every +inch of that land, but I never seen that before. Why, I was right in +there at the head of the canyon the first part of the winter. It's awful +wild. Walls of the canyon like the sides of a steeple an' covered with +thick woods.” + +“What is it?” she asked. “A slide?” + +“Must be--brought down by the heavy rains. If I don't miss my guess--” + Billy broke off, forgetting in the intensity with which he continued to +look. + +“Hilyard'll sell for thirty an acre,” he began again, disconnectedly. +“Good land, bad land, an' all, just as it runs, thirty an acre. That's +forty-two hundred. Payne's new at real estate, an' I'll make 'm split +his commission an' get the easiest terms ever. We can re-borrow that +four hundred from Gow Yum, an' I can borrow money on my horses an' +wagons--” + +“Are you going to buy it to-day?” Saxon teased. + +She scarcely touched the edge of his thought. He looked at her, as if he +had heard, then forgot her the next moment. + +“Head work,” he mumbled. “Head work. If I don't put over a hot one--” + +He started back down the cow trail, recollected Saxon, and called over +his shoulder: + +“Come on. Let's hustle. I wanta ride over an' look at that.” + +So rapidly did he go down the trail and across the field, that Saxon had +no time for questions. She was almost breathless from her effort to keep +up with him. + +“What is it?” she begged, as he lifted her to the saddle. + +“Maybe it's all a joke--I'll tell you about it afterward,” he put her +off. + +They galloped on the levels, trotted down the gentler slopes of road, +and not until on the steep descent of Wild Water canyon did they rein +to a walk. Billy's preoccupation was gone, and Saxon took advantage to +broach a subject which had been on her mind for some time. + +“Clara Hastings told me the other day that they're going to have a +house party. The Hazards are to be there, and the Halls, and Roy +Blanchard....” + +She looked at Billy anxiously. At the mention of Blanchard his head had +tossed up as to a bugle call. Slowly a whimsical twinkle began to glint +up through the cloudy blue of his eyes. + +“It's a long time since you told any man he was standing on his foot,” + she ventured slyly. + +Billy began to grin sheepishly. + +“Aw, that's all right,” he said in mock-lordly fashion. “Roy Blanchard +can come. I'll let 'm. All that was a long time ago. Besides, I 'm too +busy to fool with such things.” + +He urged his horse on at a faster walk, and as soon as the slope +lessened broke into a trot. At Trillium Covert they were galloping. + +“You'll have to stop for dinner first,” Saxon said, as they neared the +gate of Madrono Ranch. + +“You stop,” he answered. “I don't want no dinner.” + +“But I want to go with you,” she pleaded. “What is it?” + +“I don't dast tell you. You go on in an' get your dinner.” + +“Not after that,” she said. “Nothing can keep me from coming along now.” + +Half a mile farther on, they left the highway, passed through a patent +gate which Billy had installed, and crossed the fields on a road +which was coated thick with chalky dust. This was the road that led to +Chavon's clay pit. The hundred and forty lay to the west. Two wagons, in +a cloud of dust, came into sight. + +“Your teams, Billy,” cried Saxon. “Think of it! Just by the use of the +head, earning your money while you're riding around with me.” + +“Makes me ashamed to think how much cash money each one of them teams is +bringin' me in every day,” he acknowledged. + +They were turning off from the road toward the bars which gave entrance +to the one hundred and forty, when the driver of the foremost wagon +hallo'd and waved his hand. They drew in their horses and waited. + +“The big roan's broke loose,” the driver said, as he stopped beside them. +“Clean crazy loco--bitin', squealin', strikin', kickin'. Kicked clean +out of the harness like it was paper. Bit a chunk out of Baldy the +size of a saucer, an' wound up by breakin' his own hind leg. Liveliest +fifteen minutes I ever seen.” + +“Sure it's broke?” Billy demanded sharply. + +“Sure thing.” + +“Well, after you unload, drive around by the other barn and get Ben. +He's in the corral. Tell Matthews to be easy with 'm. An' get a gun. +Sammy's got one. You'll have to see to the big roan. I ain't got time +now.--Why couldn't Matthews a-come along with you for Ben? You'd save +time.” + +“Oh, he's just stickin' around waitin',” the driver answered. “He +reckoned I could get Ben.” + +“An' lose time, eh? Well, get a move on.” + +“That's the way of it,” Billy growled to Saxon as they rode on. “No +savve. No head. One man settin' down an' holdin his hands while another +team drives outa its way doin what he oughta done. That's the trouble +with two-dollar-a-day men.” + +“With two-dollar-a-day heads,” Saxon said quickly. “What kind of heads +do you expect for two dollars?” + +“That's right, too,” Billy acknowledged the hit. “If they had better +heads they'd be in the cities like all the rest of the better men. +An' the better men are a lot of dummies, too. They don't know the big +chances in the country, or you couldn't hold 'm from it.” + +Billy dismounted, took the three bars down, led his horse through, then +put up the bars. + +“When I get this place, there'll be a gate here,” he announced. “Pay +for itself in no time. It's the thousan' an' one little things like this +that count up big when you put 'm together.” He sighed contentedly. “I +never used to think about such things, but when we shook Oakland I began +to wise up. It was them San Leandro Porchugeeze that gave me my first +eye-opener. I'd been asleep, before that.” + +They skirted the lower of the three fields where the ripe hay stood +uncut. Billy pointed with eloquent disgust to a break in the fence, +slovenly repaired, and on to the standing grain much-trampled by cattle. + +“Them's the things,” he criticized. “Old style. An' look how thin +that crop is, an' the shallow plowin'. Scrub cattle, scrub seed, scrub +farmin'. Chavon's worked it for eight years now, an' never rested it +once, never put anything in for what he took out, except the cattle into +the stubble the minute the hay was on.” + +In a pasture glade, farther on, they came upon a bunch of cattle. + +“Look at that bull, Saxon. Scrub's no name for it. They oughta be a +state law against lettin' such animals exist. No wonder Chavon's that +land poor he's had to sink all his clay-pit earnin's into taxes an' +interest. He can't make his land pay. Take this hundred an forty. +Anybody with the savve can just rake silver dollars offen it. I'll show +'m.” + +They passed the big adobe barn in the distance. + +“A few dollars at the right time would a-saved hundreds on that roof,” + Billy commented. “Well, anyway, I won't be payin' for any improvements +when I buy. An I'll tell you another thing. This ranch is full of water, +and if Glen Ellen ever grows they'll have to come to see me for their +water supply.” + +Billy knew the ranch thoroughly, and took short-cuts through the woods +by way of cattle paths. Once, he reined in abruptly, and both stopped. +Confronting them, a dozen paces away, was a half-grown red fox. For half +a minute, with beady eyes, the wild thing studied them, with twitching +sensitive nose reading the messages of the air. Then, velvet-footed, it +leapt aside and was gone among the trees. + +“The son-of-a-gun!” Billy ejaculated. + +As they approached Wild Water; they rode out into a long narrow meadow. +In the middle was a pond. + +“Natural reservoir, when Glen Ellen begins to buy water,” Billy said. +“See, down at the lower end there?--wouldn't cost anything hardly +to throw a dam across. An' I can pipe in all kinds of hill-drip. An' +water's goin' to be money in this valley not a thousan' years from +now.--An' all the ginks, an' boobs, an' dubs, an' gazabos poundin' their +ear deado an' not seein' it comin.--An' surveyors workin' up the valley +for an electric road from Sausalito with a branch up Napa Valley.” + +They came to the rim of Wild Water canyon. Leaning far back in their +saddles, they slid the horses down a steep declivity, through big spruce +woods, to an ancient and all but obliterated trail. + +“They cut this trail 'way back in the Fifties,” Billy explained. “I only +found it by accident. Then I asked Poppe yesterday. He was born in the +valley. He said it was a fake minin' rush across from Petaluma. The +gamblers got it up, an' they must a-drawn a thousan' suckers. You see +that flat there, an' the old stumps. That's where the camp was. They +set the tables up under the trees. The flat used to be bigger, but the +creek's eaten into it. Poppe said they was a couple of killin's an' one +lynchin'.” + +Lying low against their horses' necks, they scrambled up a steep cattle +trail out of the canyon, and began to work across rough country toward +the knolls. + +“Say, Saxon, you're always lookin' for something pretty. I'll show +you what'll make your hair stand up... soon as we get through this +manzanita.” + +Never, in all their travels, had Saxon seen so lovely a vista as the one +that greeted them when they emerged. The dim trail lay like a rambling +red shadow cast on the soft forest floor by the great redwoods and +over-arching oaks. It seemed as if all local varieties of trees and +vines had conspired to weave the leafy roof--maples, big madronos and +laurels, and lofty tan-bark oaks, scaled and wrapped and interwound with +wild grape and flaming poison oak. Saxon drew Billy's eyes to a mossy +bank of five-finger ferns. All slopes seemed to meet to form this basin +and colossal forest bower. Underfoot the floor was spongy with water. An +invisible streamlet whispered under broad-fronded brakes. On every hand +opened tiny vistas of enchantment, where young redwoods grouped +still and stately about fallen giants, shoulder-high to the horses, +moss-covered and dissolving into mold. + +At last, after another quarter of an hour, they tied their horses on the +rim of the narrow canyon that penetrated the wilderness of the knolls. +Through a rift in the trees Billy pointed to the top of the leaning +spruce. + +“It's right under that,” he said. “We'll have to follow up the bed of +the creek. They ain't no trail, though you'll see plenty of deer paths +crossin' the creek. You'll get your feet wet.” + +Saxon laughed her joy and held on close to his heels, splashing through +pools, crawling hand and foot up the slippery faces of water-worn rocks, +and worming under trunks of old fallen trees. + +“They ain't no real bed-rock in the whole mountain,” Billy elucidated, +“so the stream cuts deeper'n deeper, an' that keeps the sides cavin' in. +They're as steep as they can be without fallin' down. A little farther +up, the canyon ain't much more'n a crack in the ground--but a mighty +deep one if anybody should ask you. You can spit across it an' break +your neck in it.” + +The climbing grew more difficult, and they were finally halted, in a +narrow cleft, by a drift-jam. + +“You wait here,” Billy directed, and, lying flat, squirmed on through +crashing brush. + +Saxon waited till all sound had died away. She waited ten minutes +longer, then followed by the way Billy had broken. Where the bed of the +canyon became impossible, she came upon what she was sure was a deer +path that skirted the steep side and was a tunnel through the close +greenery. She caught a glimpse of the overhanging spruce, almost above +her head on the opposite side, and emerged on a pool of clear water in a +clay-like basin. This basin was of recent origin, having been formed by +a slide of earth and trees. Across the pool arose an almost sheer wall +of white. She recognized it for what it was, and looked about for Billy. +She heard him whistle, and looked up. Two hundred feet above, at the +perilous top of the white wall, he was holding on to a tree trunk. The +overhanging spruce was nearby. + +“I can see the little pasture back of your field,” he called down. “No +wonder nobody ever piped this off. The only place they could see it from +is that speck of pasture. An' you saw it first. Wait till I come down +and tell you all about it. I didn't dast before.” + +It required no shrewdness to guess the truth. Saxon knew this was the +precious clay required by the brickyard. Billy circled wide of the +slide and came down the canyon-wall, from tree to tree, as descending a +ladder. + +“Ain't it a peach?” he exulted, as he dropped beside her. “Just look at +it--hidden away under four feet of soil where nobody could see it, an' +just waitin' for us to hit the Valley of the Moon. Then it up an' slides +a piece of the skin off so as we can see it.” + +“Is it the real clay?” Saxon asked anxiously. + +“You bet your sweet life. I've handled too much of it not to know it +in the dark. Just rub a piece between your fingers.--Like that. Why, +I could tell by the taste of it. I've eaten enough of the dust of the +teams. Here's where our fun begins. Why, you know we've been workin' our +heads off since we hit this valley. Now we're on Easy street.” + +“But you don't own it,” Saxon objected. + +“Well, you won't be a hundred years old before I do. Straight from here +I hike to Payne an' bind the bargain--an option, you know, while title's +searchin' an' I 'm raisin' money. We'll borrow that four hundred back +again from Gow Yum, an' I'll borrow all I can get on my horses an' +wagons, an' Hazel and Hattie, an' everything that's worth a cent. An' +then I get the deed with a mortgage on it to Hilyard for the balance. +An' then--it's takin' candy from a baby--I'll contract with the +brickyard for twenty cents a yard--maybe more. They'll be crazy with joy +when they see it. Don't need any borin's. They's nearly two hundred feet +of it exposed up an' down. The whole knoll's clay, with a skin of soil +over it.” + +“But you'll spoil all the beautiful canyon hauling out the clay,” Saxon +cried with alarm. + +“Nope; only the knoll. The road'll come in from the other side. It'll be +only half a mile to Chavon's pit. I'll build the road an' charge steeper +teamin', or the brickyard can build it an' I'll team for the same rate +as before. An' twenty cents a yard pourin' in, all profit, from the +jump. I'll sure have to buy more horses to do the work.” + +They sat hand in hand beside the pool and talked over the details. + +“Say, Saxon,” Billy said, after a pause had fallen, “sing 'Harvest +Days,' won't you?” + +And, when she had complied: “The first time you sung that song for me +was comin' home from the picnic on the train--” + +“The very first day we met each other,” she broke in. “What did you +think about me that day?” + +“Why, what I've thought ever since--that you was made for me.--I thought +that right at the jump, in the first waltz. An' what'd you think of me? + +“Oh, I wondered, and before the first waltz, too, when we were +introduced and shook hands--I wondered if you were the man. Those were +the very words that flashed into my mind.--IS HE THE MAN?” + +“An' I kinda looked a little some good to you?” he queried. “_I_ thought +so, and my eyesight has always been good.” + +“Say!” Billy went off at a tangent. “By next winter, with everything +hummin' an' shipshape, what's the matter with us makin' a visit to +Carmel? It'll be slack time for you with the vegetables, an' I'll be +able to afford a foreman.” + +Saxon's lack of enthusiasm surprised him. + +“What's wrong?” he demanded quickly. + +With downcast demurest eyes and hesitating speech, Saxon said: + +“I did something yesterday without asking your advice, Billy.” + +He waited. + +“I wrote to Tom,” she added, with an air of timid confession. + +Still he waited--for he knew not what. + +“I asked him to ship up the old chest of drawers--my mother's, you +remember--that we stored with him.” + +“Huh! I don't see anything outa the way about that,” Billy said with +relief. “We need the chest, don't we? An' we can afford to pay the +freight on it, can't we?” + +“You are a dear stupid man, that's what you are. Don't you know what is +in the chest?” + +He shook his head, and what she added was so soft that it was almost a +whisper: + +“The baby clothes.” + +“No!” he exclaimed. + +“True.” + +“Sure?” + +She nodded her head, her cheeks flooding with quick color. + +“It's what I wanted, Saxon, more'n anything else in the world. I've been +thinkin' a whole lot about it lately, ever since we hit the valley,” he +went on, brokenly, and for the first time she saw tears unmistakable +in his eyes. “But after all I'd done, an' the hell I'd raised, an' +everything, I... I never urged you, or said a word about it. But I +wanted it... oh, I wanted it like ... like I want you now.” + +His open arms received her, and the pool in the heart of the canyon knew +a tender silence. + +Saxon felt Billy's finger laid warningly on her lips. Guided by his +hand, she turned her head back, and together they gazed far up the side +of the knoll where a doe and a spotted fawn looked down upon them from a +tiny open space between the trees. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Valley of the Moon, by Jack London + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1449 *** |