The Valley of the Moon

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 women 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, hut 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 thins--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 ou 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, out 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 gnesses 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! Backup!" 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 horn 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'n 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 shadowe 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 hay 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 offendor 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 apologire. I admire

your taste in skirts, an' take it from me that's a compliment;

but I did'nt 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 thc

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 baok, 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 angiy 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

approciable 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.

"Nohody'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 thiird time. His blows were

clean end 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 onta 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 days 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."

Thers 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 insecessible, 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 celled 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 wall 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, end

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 tha 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

Tun 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 sald. "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 sald. "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 curions 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

ditferent. 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 he big doin's with the Horseshoers."

"Only I'm not," she contradicted.

"Oh, yes you are," he asserted with absolute assurance. "We'll

eatch 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 rememborin' him an' what he got."

"I wish yon'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.--Fridey

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 ayes. 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 recordbreaker at

rough-housin'." (Here Long's face showed pleasure.) "You ought to

have the Police Gazette diamond belt for rough-bousin' 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 fiercenes. 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 detalls 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,

Bllly 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 foiks. 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 afterwerd 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 end 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 hy 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 sereechin' 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, wby

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,

aimost 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, lumubering 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 insuiting. 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 'a 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 gain' 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."

"Takln' 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 huabands, an' havin' children they're not ashamed of, an'

just bein' happy aecordin' 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 ineeffable 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 funnny."

"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 fightfans. 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 wss 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 homes. 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 atop 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 she 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 suprise 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 ware 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 wss 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 juat 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 he 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 be 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 remmded 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 men 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 admiiringly.

"So's Billy Roberts," she laughed, and continned 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 heirloom--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 tha

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. Ha 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. Ha 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 he 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 he 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 gueas 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 evor

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 bullding 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 wers 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 he 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

hit 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 tlie 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 fryin 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'ra 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 inexpreasible 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 ventnred.

"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

state, 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 Hawalians, 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 then

all woman's beauty was their wisdom. Princes end 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, sad 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 idess 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 aceess

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 thcm, 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 ssid 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 himaelf 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 he 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 he 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 he 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 pessmistic, 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 takin' 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, be 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 he 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 steep. 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 be 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," be 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 equivoeated; 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

donn. 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

polities 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 wont 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 hia 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 everyhody. 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 tightenig 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 pussed, 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 tho 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 o]d

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

sidewMk, 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, almout 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 wagon's. 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," be 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 waked 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-hustin' 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 tha 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 sansed 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

achiiig 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."

Tear's 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, bronder-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 trade's, that odd jobs at common labor were hard to

obtain. Billy occasionally got a day's wdrk 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, lastad 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 superstitions, 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

hy 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

firm's 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 yon 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 hurrylug 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 asid. "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,

emphasising 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 tbe 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 broathed. "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 ambulanees 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 aud

universal. This man no longer condemned Bert, himself muttering

vaguely of dynamite, end 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 WES 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--serere 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 tha 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 figlitin' 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 unexpeeted. 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 eases

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 Ban 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. I 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 paths 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 hall 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 washtubs

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 tho 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 indecisions 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 along7 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 Glate. 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 one

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 teen 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 VII

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 F'risco. 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, queering, 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 believed 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 buttering 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 happens" 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 Batting, 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 hand. 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 fiyin', 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 lend '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 often 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 in 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' roan',

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 eallin',

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 lend?" 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 coin'

the same thing. Eather 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. Book 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 jiggerrooed 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 Josquin

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

grizzliest 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 him7"

"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, enslled 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 in 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 men1 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 invitlng 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 neeessary," 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 Ameriean. 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

Bill 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 '11 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

eoald 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 boss," 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 ease 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 parsing, till the froth wash was to his knees while above

him, ten feet at least, upreared a was 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 are he was come pelted to dye through another breaker. This

was the battle--to win seaward against the Creep 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 enfold 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. Inter 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

roak-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 Carme1 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 hey" 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 eaUed 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 sufflcient 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 you7"

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 Park7" 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

wants know is what'd you wanta do it for. Say, what'd you wants

do it for? I've been askin' that to myeelf ever since."

"So have I," was the answer.

"You didn't know Timothy McManus, did you7"

"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 women'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, ocasionally 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 universa1 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 diffculty 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 ax-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 narorw 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 t 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 poets

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. Hailer 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. "A1ways 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 or 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 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." 412

THE VAI`I,EY OF THE MOON 413

"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.

Hafier'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 Stabler 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. Islet 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 interferred.

"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' movie'

pictures for recreation. Movin' pictures! Huh! We're livin'

movie' 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 teen 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 wan 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," Glunston 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. :EIven 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.

Eastings, 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 pay nent. 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. lend

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 tomorrow, 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 cries-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 Americane 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' coin'

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 fights" 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 fess In 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 hisn. 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 shored 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 shok 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 in

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' tit 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 ax-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 rol}ing 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 BOberly. "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? A1' 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 reeeived 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. Elastings, " 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 titantic 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, laying 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 mandronos 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. Eale 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 Erenchman--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 book1ined 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 receded 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, E1 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 pave meets, 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 Franciseo 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 do. Prom 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, I`awndale, 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 sbruptly 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 ukelele; 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. Cook 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, doated

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 dryer 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 briig 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

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