THE RANCH
I
Soon after this it was time for Bunny to visit his mother.
Bunny’s mother did not bear Dad’s name, as other boys’ mothers do; she
was called Mrs. Lang, and lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of Angel
City. There was an arrangement whereby she had a right to have Bunny
with her one week in every six months; Bunny always knew when this time
was approaching, and looked forward to it with mixed emotions. His
mother was sweet, and gave him the petting which he missed at other
times; “pretty little Mamma,” was her name for herself. But in other
ways the visit was embarrassing, because there were matters supposed to
be kept hidden from Bunny, but which he could not help guessing. Mamma
would question him about Dad’s affairs, and Bunny knew that Dad did not
wish his affairs talked about. Then too, Mamma complained that she never
had enough money; Dad allowed her only two hundred dollars a month, and
how could a young and charming grass-widow exist on such a sum? Her
garage bill was always unpaid, and she would tell Bunny about it, and
expect him to tell Dad—but Dad would evade hearing. And next time,
Mamma would cry, and say that Jim was a tyrant and a miser. The
situation was especially difficult just now, because Mamma had read
about the new well in the papers, and knew just how much money Dad had;
she unfolded to Bunny a plan, that he should try to persuade Dad to
increase her allowance, but without having Dad suspect that she had
suggested it. And this, right after Bunny had renounced the luxury of
small lies!
Also there was the mystery about Mamma’s friends. There were always
gentlemen friends who came to see her while Bunny was there, and who
might or might not be agreeable to Bunny. When he came home, Aunt Emma
would ask him questions, from which it was evident that she wanted to
know about these gentlemen friends, but didn’t want Bunny to know that
she wanted to know. Bunny noticed that Dad never referred to such
matters; he never asked any questions about Mamma, and Aunt Emma always
did her asking out of Dad’s presence.
All this had a peculiar effect upon Bunny. Just as Dad kept a safe
deposit box at the bank, into which nobody ever looked but himself, so
Bunny kept a secret place in his own mind. Outwardly, he was a cheerful
and frank little fellow, if somewhat too mature for his years; but all
the time he was leading a dual life—picking up ideas here and there,
and carrying them off and hiding them, as a squirrel does nuts, so that
he may come back at a later season and crack them open and nibble them.
Some nuts were good and some were bad, and Bunny learned to judge them,
and to throw away the bad ones.
One thing was plain: there was something which men and women did, which
they were all in a conspiracy to keep you from knowing that they did. It
was a dark corner of life, mysterious and rather hateful. In the
beginning, Bunny was loyal to his father, not trying to find out what
his father didn’t want him to know. But this could not continue
indefinitely, for the mind automatically seeks understanding. It was not
merely that the birds and the chickens and the dogs in the street gave
you hints; it was not merely that every street-boy knew, and was eager
to explain; it was that the stupid grown-ups themselves persisted in
saying things which you couldn’t help getting. It was Aunt Emma’s fixed
conviction that every lady was after Dad; “setting her cap at him,” or
“making sheep’s eyes at him”—she had many such phrases. And Dad always
showed a queer embarrassment whenever he had been the least bit polite
to any lady; he seemed to be concerned lest Bunny should share Aunt
Emma’s suspicions. But the truth was, Bunny was irritated by his aunt,
and learned to evade her questions, and not tell what Dad had said to
the nice lady in the hotel at Lobos River, and whether or not the lady
had had dinner with them. These worldly arts Bunny acquired, but all the
time he was in secret revolt. Why couldn’t people talk plainly? Why did
they have to be pretending, and whispering, and making you
uncomfortable?
II
Within a week after bringing in Ross-Bankside No. 1, Dad had a new
derrick under way on the lease, and in another week he had it rigged up,
and the old string of tools was on its way into the earth again. Also he
had two new derricks under way, and two new strings in process of
delivery. There would be four wells, standing on the four corners of a
diamond-shaped figure, three hundred feet on the side. It was necessary
to call house-movers, and take the Bankside homestead to another lot;
but that didn’t trouble Mr. Bankside, who had already moved himself to
an ocean-front palace near Dad, and bought himself a whole outfit of
furniture, and a big new limousine, also a “sport-car,” in which to
drive himself to the country club to play golf every afternoon. The
Bankside family was accustoming itself to the presence of a butler, and
Mrs. Bankside had been proposed at the most exclusive of the ladies’
clubs. Efficiency was the watch-word out here in the West, and when you
decided to change your social status, you put the job right through.
Dad and Bunny made another trip to Lobos River, and not without some
difficulty they conquered the “jinx” in Number Two, and brought in a
very good well. There were to be two more derricks here, and more tools
to be bought and delivered. That was the way in the oil business, as
fast as you got any money, you put it back into new drilling—and, of
course, new responsibilities. You were driven to this by the forces
inherent in the game. You were racing with other people, who were always
threatening to get your oil. As soon as you had one well, you had to
have “offset wells” to protect it from the people on every side who
would otherwise get your oil. Also, you might have trouble in marketing
your oil, and would begin to think, how nice to have your own refinery,
and be entirely independent. But independence had its price, for then
you would have to provide enough oil to keep the refinery going, and you
would want a chain of filling-stations to get rid of your products. It
was a hard game for the little fellow; and no matter how big you got,
there was always somebody bigger!
But Dad had no kick just now; everything was a-comin’ his way
a-whoopin’. Right in the midst of his other triumphs it had occurred to
him to take one of his old Antelope wells and go a little lower, and see
what he found; he tried it—and lo and behold, at eight hundred feet
farther down the darn thing went and blew its head off. They were in a
new layer of oil-sands; and every one of these sixteen old wells, that
had been on the pump for a couple of years, and were about played out,
were ready to present Dad with a new fortune, at a cost of only a few
thousand dollars each!
But right away came a new problem; there was no pipe-line to this field,
and there ought to be one. Dad wanted some of the other operators to go
in with him, and he was going up there and make a deal. Then Bunny came
to him, looking very serious. “Dad, have you forgotten, it’s close to
the fifteenth of November.”
“What about it, son?”
“You promised we were going quail-shooting this year.”
“By gosh, that’s so! But I’m frightfully rushed jist now, son.”
“You’re working too hard, Dad; Aunt Emma says you’re putting a strain on
your kidneys, the doctor has told you so.”
“Does he recommend a quail diet?”
Bunny knew by Dad’s grin that he was going to make some concession.
“Let’s take our camping things,” the boy pleaded, “and when you get
through at Antelope, let’s come home by the San Elido valley.”
“The San Elido! But son, that’s fifty miles out of our way!”
“They say there’s no end of quail there, Dad.”
“Yes, but we can get quail a lot nearer home.”
“I know, Dad; but I’ve never been there, and I want to see it.”
“But what made you hit on that place?”
Bunny was embarrassed, because he knew Dad was going to think he was
“queer.” Nevertheless, he persisted. “That’s where the Watkins family
live.”
“Watkins family—who are they?”
“Don’t you remember that boy, Paul, that I met one night when you were
talking about the lease?”
“Gosh, son! You still a-frettin’ about that boy?”
“I met Mrs. Groarty on the street yesterday, and she told me about the
family; they’re in dreadful trouble, they’re going to lose their ranch
to the bank because they can’t meet the interest on the mortgage, and
Mrs. Groarty says she can’t think what they’ll do. You know Mrs. Groarty
didn’t get any money herself—at least, she spent her bonus money for
units, and she isn’t getting anything out of them, and has to live on
what her husband gets as a night watchman.”
“What you want to do about it?”
“I want you to buy that mortgage, Dad; or anything, so the Watkinses can
stay in their home. It’s wicked that people should be turned out like
that, when they’re doing the best they can.”
“There’s plenty o’ people bein’ turned out when they don’t meet their
obligations, son.”
“But when it’s not their fault, Dad?”
“It would take a lot of bookkeeping to figger jist whose fault it is;
and the banks don’t keep books that way.” Then seeing the protest in
Bunny’s face, “You’ll find, son there’s a lot o’ harsh things in the
world, that ain’t in your power to change. You’ll jist have to make up
your mind to that, sooner or later.”
“But Dad, there’s four children there, and three of them are girls, and
where are they to go? Paul is away, and they haven’t any way to let him
know what’s happened. Mrs. Groarty showed me a picture of them, Dad;
they’re good, kind people, you can see they’ve never done anything but
work hard. Honest, Dad, I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t help them. You
said you’d buy me a car some day, and I’d rather you took the money and
bought that mortgage. It’s less than a couple of thousand dollars, and
that’s nothing to you.”
“I know, son; but then you’ll get them on your hands—”
“No, they’re not like that, they’re proud; Mrs. Groarty says they
wouldn’t take money from you, any more than Paul would. But if you
bought the mortgage from the bank, they couldn’t help that. Or you might
buy the ranch, Dad, and rent it back to them. Paul says there’s oil on
that ranch—at least his Uncle Eby had seen it on top of the ground.”
“There’s thousands of ranches jist like that in California, son. Oil on
top of the ground don’t mean anything special.”
“Well, Dad, you’ve always said you wanted to try some wild-catting; and
you know, that’s the only way you’ll ever get what you talk about—a
whole big tract that belongs to you, with no royalties to pay, and
nobody to butt in. So let’s take a chance on Paradise, and drive through
there and camp out a few days and get some quail, and we’ll see what we
think of it, and we’ll help those poor people, and give your kidneys a
rest at the same time.”
So Dad said all right; and he went away thinking to himself: “Gosh!
Funny kid!”
III
The San Elido valley lay on the edge of the desert, and you crossed a
corner of the desert to get to it; a bare wilderness of sun-baked sand
and rock, with nothing but grey, dusty desert plants. You sped along
upon a fine paved road, but the land was haunted by the souls of
old-time pioneers who had crossed it in covered wagons or with
pack-mules, and had left their bones beside many a trail. Even now, you
had to be careful when you went off into side-trails across these
wastes; every now and then a car would get stuck with an empty radiator,
and the people would be lucky to get out alive.
You could get water if you sunk a deep well; and so there were fruit
ranches and fields of alfalfa here and there. There came long stretches
where the ground was white, like salt; that was alkali, Dad said, and it
made this country a regular boob-trap. The stranger from the East would
come in and inspect a nice fruit ranch, and would think he was making a
good bargain to get the land next door for a hundred dollars an acre; he
would set out his fruit-trees and patiently water them, and they
wouldn’t grow; nothing would grow but a little alfalfa, and maybe there
was too much alkali for that. The would-be rancher would have to pull up
the trees, and obliterate the traces of them, and set a real-estater to
hunting for another boob.
Strapped to the running-board of Dad’s car, on the right hand side where
Bunny sat, was a big bundle wrapped in a water-proof cover; they were
camping out—which meant that the mind of a boy was back amid racial
memories, the perils and excitements of ten thousand years ago. Tightly
clutched in Bunny’s two hands were a couple of repeating shot-guns; he
held these for hours, partly because he liked the feel of them, and
partly because they had to be carried in the open—if you shut them up
in the compartment they would be “concealed weapons,” and that was
against the law.
Near the head of the valley a dirt road went off, and a sign said:
“Paradise, eight miles.” They wound up a little pass, with mountains
that seemed to be tumbled heaps of rock, of every size and color. There
were fruit ranches, the trees now bare of leaves, with trunks calcimined
white, and young trees with wire netting about them, to keep away the
rabbits. The first rains of the season had fallen, and new grass was
showing—the California spring, which begins in the fall.
The pass broadened out; there were ranch-houses scattered here and
there, and the village of Paradise—one street, with a few scattered
stores, sheltered under eucalyptus trees that made long shadows in the
late afternoon light. Dad drew up at the filling station, which was also
a feed-store. “Can you tell me where is the Watkins ranch?”
“There’s two Watkinses,” said the man. “There’s old Abel Watkins—”
“That’s the one!” exclaimed Bunny.
“He’s got a goat-ranch, over by the slide. It ain’t so easy to find. Was
you plannin’ to get there tonight?”
“We shan’t worry if we get lost,” said Dad; “we got a campin’ outfit.”
So the man gave them complicated directions. You took the lane back of
the school-house, and you made several jogs, and then there were about
sixteen forks, and you must get the right one, and you followed the
slide that took the water down to Roseville, and it was the fourth
arroyo after you had passed old man Tucker’s sheep-ranch, with the
little house up under the pepper trees. And so they started and followed
a winding road that had apparently been laid out by sheep, and the sun
set behind the dark hills, and the clouds turned pink, and they dodged
rocks that were too high for the clearance of the car and crawled down
into little gullies, and up again with a constant shifting of gears.
There was no need to ask about the quail, for the hills echoed with the
melodious double call of the flocks gathering for the night.
Presently they came to the “slide,” which was a wooden runway carrying
water—with many leaks, so that bright green grass was spread in every
direction, and made food for a big flock of sheep, which paid no
attention to the car, nor to all the tooting—the silly fools, they just
_would_ get under your wheels! And then came a man riding horseback; a
big brown handsome fellow, with a fancy-colored handkerchief about his
neck, and a wide-brimmed hat with a leather strap. He was bringing in a
herd of cattle, and as he rode, his saddle and his stirrup-straps went
“Squnch, squnch,” which was a sort of thrilling sound to a boy,
especially there in the evening quiet. Dad stopped, and the man stopped,
and Dad said “Good evening,” and the man answered, “Evenin’.” He had a
pleasant, open face, and told them the way; they couldn’t miss the
arroyo, because it was the only one that had water, and they would see
the buildings as soon as they had got a little way up. And as they went
on Bunny said, “Gee, Dad, but I wish we could live here; I’d like to
ride a horse like that.” He knew this would fetch Dad, because the man
looked jist the way Dad thought a man ought to look, big and sturdy,
colored brown and red like an Injun. Yes, it wouldn’t take much to
persuade Dad to buy the Watkins ranch for his son!
Well, they went wabbling on down the sheep-trail, counting the arroyos,
whose walls loomed high in the twilight, crowned with fantastic piles of
rocks. The lights of the car were on, and swung this way and that,
picking out the road; until at last there was an arroyo with water—you
knew it by the bright green grass—and they turned in, and followed a
still more bumpy lane, and there ahead were some buildings, with one
light shining in a window. It was the ranch where Paul Watkins had been
born and raised; and something in Bunny stirred with a quite
inexplicable thrill—as if he were approaching the birth-place of
Abraham Lincoln, or some person of that great sort!
Suddenly Dad spoke. “Listen, son,” he said. “There might be oil
here—there’s always one chance in a million, so don’t you say nothin’
about it. You can tell them you met Paul if you want to, but don’t say
that he mentioned no oil, and don’t you mention none. Let me do all the
talkin’ about business.”
It was a “California house,” that is, it was made of boards a foot wide,
running vertically, with little strips of “batting” to cover the cracks.
It had no porch, whether front or back, nothing but one flat stone for a
step. The paint, if there had ever been any, was so badly faded that you
saw no trace of it by the lights of the car. On the other side of the
lane, and farther up the little valley, loomed a group of sheds, with a
big pen made of boards, patched here and there with poles cut from
eucalyptus trees. From this place came the stirring and murmuring of a
great number of animals crowded together.
The family stood in the yard, lined up to stare at the unaccustomed
spectacle of an automobile entering their premises. There was a man,
lean and stooped, and a boy, somewhat shorter, but already stooped; both
of them clad in faded blue shirts without collar, and denim trousers,
very much patched, held up by suspenders. There were three girls, in a
descending row, in nondescript calico dresses; and in the doorway a
woman, a little wraith of a woman, sallow and worn. All six of them
stood motionless and silent, while the car came into the yard, and
stopped, and the engine fell to a soft purring. “Good evening,” said
Dad.
“Howdy, brother,” said the man.
“Is this the Watkins place!”
“Yes, brother.” It was a feeble, uncertain voice, but it thrilled Bunny
to the depths, for he knew that this voice was accustomed to “babble”
and “talk in tongues.” Suppose the family were to “let go,” and start
their “jumping” and “rolling” while Bunny was there!
“We’re huntin’,” Dad explained, “and we was told this would be a good
place to camp. You got good water?”
“None better. Make yourself to home, brother.”
“Well, we’ll go up the lane jist a bit, somewheres out of the way. You
got a big tree that’ll give us shade?”
“Eli, you show ’em the oak-tree, and help ’em git fixed.”
And again Bunny was thrilled; for this was Eli, that had been blessed of
the Holy Spirit, and had the “shivers,” and had healed old Mrs. Bugner,
that had complications, by the laying on of hands. Bunny remembered
every detail about this family, the most extraordinary he had ever come
upon outside of a story-book.
IV
Eli moved up the lane, the car following. There was a big live oak tree
with a clear space underneath, and Dad placed the car so that the lights
streamed upon the space—you never needed to worry about darkness, when
you were camping with a car! They stopped, and Bunny slid over the top
of his door, and went to work on the straps which held the big bundle to
the running-board. He had it off in a jiffy, and unrolled it, and quite
magical were the things which came out of it. There was a tent, made of
such light water-proofed silk that a structure eight feet square rolled
up to a bundle which might have been a suit of clothes. There were the
tent poles, made in several joints which screwed together; and the
stakes, and a little camp hatchet to drive them with. There were three
warm camping-blankets, besides the water-proof cover, which also made a
blanket. There were two pneumatic pillows, and a pneumatic mattress,
which you sat and puffed at until you were red in the face—it was great
sport! Finally there was a canvas bag containing a set of camp utensils,
all made of aluminum, and fitting one into another, everything with
detachable handles; and aluminum boxes with several compartments for
grub. When all these things were set in order, you could be as
comfortable in the midst of a desert or on top of a mountain as in the
best hotel room.
Mr. Watkins told Eli to help, but Dad said never mind, they knew jist
what to do, and it was easy. So then Mr. Watkins told Eli to fetch a
pail of water; and next he asked if they’d like some milk—they had only
goat’s milk, of course. Dad said that was fine; and Bunny was
transported to the Balkans, or whatever exciting places he had read
about, where the people live on goat’s milk. Mr. Watkins said for Ruth
to go git some; and Bunny was thrilled again, because Ruth was the
sister that Paul loved, and that he said had “sense.” Mr. Watkins called
after her to fatch some “aigs” too; and Dad said they’d like some
bread—and then Bunny got a shock, for the old man said they didn’t git
no bread, they hadn’t room to raise grain, and corn didn’t fill out good
up here in the hills, so all they had was taters. And Dad said potatoes
would do jist as good, they’d boil some for supper; and Mr. Watkins said
they’d git ’em quicker if the missus was to bile ’em on the stove—thus
showing a complete misapprehension of the significance of a
camping-trip. Dad said no, they’d want a fire anyway; and Mr. Watkins
said they was gettin’ a nip o’ frost every night now, and for Eli to
rustle ’em up a lot of wood. This was easily done, for as soon as you
went a few feet up the side of the arroyo you came upon desert brush,
much of which was dead and dry, and Eli tore some of the bushes loose
and dragged them down and broke them to pieces over his knee. Then he
fetched a couple of stones—that also was easy, for you could hardly
walk a dozen feet on the Watkins ranch without hitting your toe on a
stone.
Very soon they had a fire going, and the potatoes boiling merrily in the
pot, and a jar of bacon open and sizzling in the frying pan. Dad did the
cooking—it was a dignified occupation, while Bunny hustled about and
set the plates and things on the water-proof cover which served as a
table cloth without a table. When the bacon was done, Dad cracked the
eggs on the side of the pan, and fried them “with their eyes open.” And
there was the goat’s milk, rich and creamy, cold from the
“spring-house;” you didn’t mind the strong flavor, because you persuaded
yourself it was romantic. The milk was served in aluminum cups which
were part of the camping outfit; and also there was a plate of honey and
comb—sage-honey, brown, and strong of flavor—which Ruth had brought.
Dad invited the family to come and have something, but the old man said
no thanks, they had all et. Dad said would they please at least sit
down, because they didn’t seem comfortable jist standin’ there; so Eli
and the three girls, and their mother, who had joined them, all sat down
on stones at a modest distance from the light, and Mr. Watkins sat on a
stone a little closer, and while they ate Dad talked with him about the
state of the weather, and of the crops, and about their way of life up
here in the hills.
And when Dad and Bunny were done, and stretched themselves on the
blankets, feeling fine and comfortable, Mr. Watkins offered to have the
tent put up by Eli, but Dad again said not to mind, it was very simple
and would only take a few minutes. Then Mr. Watkins said that one of the
gals would wash up for them, and Dad said all right, he’d like that; so
Bunny got the pans and plates together, and the middle-sized girl, who
went by the name of Meelie, carried them off to the house. And then they
chatted some more; and Bunny saw that Dad was skilfully finding out
about the family, and getting their confidence.
Suddenly came a critical moment in the acquaintance; there was a pause,
and in a voice different from his usual one, solemn and burdened with
feeling, Abel Watkins said: “Brother, may I ask a personal question?”
“Yes, sure,” said Dad.
“Brother, are you saved?”
Bunny caught his breath; for he remembered what Paul had said about Mr.
Watkins’ way—if you said anything contrary to his religion, he would
roll up his eyes and begin to pray out loud and “let go.” Bunny had told
Dad about this; and evidently Dad had figured out what to do. He replied
in a tone no less solemn: “Yes, brother, we are saved.”
“You been washed in the Blood?”
“Yes, brother, we been washed.”
“What is your church, brother.”
“It is called the Church of the True Word.”
There was a pause. “I dunno as I know that there message,” said Mr.
Watkins.
“I am sorry,” said Dad. “I should like to explain it, but we’re not
permitted to talk about our faith with strangers.”
“But brother!” Mr. Watkins was evidently bewildered by that. “We are
told in the Book that ‘The Lord has called us for to preach the Gospel
unto them;’ and also, ‘the Gospel must first be published among all
nations.’”
“Brother,” said Dad, still with the utmost earnestness, “I understand
that; but according to our faith, we get to know men in friendship, and
talk about our religion later. We all have to respect the convictions of
others.”
“Yes, brother,” said Mr. Watkins; and his voice sort of faded away, and
you could see he did not know what to say next. He looked at the members
of his family, as if seeking support from them; but they hadn’t yet said
anything, except “Yes, Pap,” when he gave them an order.
So it was up to Dad to relieve the embarrassment. “We come here to look
for quail,” he said. “I hear aplenty of ’em about.”
V
It was growing so cold that the little fire no longer sufficed for
comfort; so the Watkins family took their departure, and Dad and Bunny
set up the tent, and stowed their goods in it, and Bunny did his job of
puffing at the mattress until it was full. The stars were shining, so
they made their bed in the open. After spreading the blankets, they took
off their shoes and outside clothing, and laid them in the tent, and
crawled under the blankets in a hurry—gee, but that cold made you jump!
Bunny snuggled up into a ball, and lay there, feeling the night breeze
on his forehead; and he remarked: “Say, Dad, what is the Church of the
True Word?”
Dad chuckled. “The poor old crack-brain,” he said; “I had to get some
way to shut him up.”
They lay still, and pretty soon Dad was breathing deeply. But the boy,
though he was tired, did not go to sleep at once. He lay thinking: Dad’s
code was different from the one which Bunny had decided to follow. Dad
would lie, whenever he considered it necessary; he would argue that the
other person could not use the truth, or had no right to it in the
particular circumstances. And yet, this also was plain, Dad didn’t want
Bunny to follow that same code. He would tell Bunny to say nothing, but
he would never tell Bunny to lie; and as a rule, when he had to do any
lying, he would do it out of Bunny’s presence! There were lots of things
like that; Dad smoked cigars, and he took a drink now and then, but he
didn’t want Bunny to smoke or to drink. It was queer.
Bunny’s head and face were cold, but the rest of him was warm, and he
was drifting, drifting off; his thoughts became a blur—but then
suddenly he was wide awake again. What was that? The mattress was
rocking; it rolled you from side to side, so that you had to put out
your elbows. “Dad!” cried Bunny. “What’s that?” And Dad came suddenly
awake; he sat up, and Bunny sat up—putting his two hands out to keep
himself steady. “By jiminy!” cried Dad. “An earthquake!”
Sure enough, an earthquake! And say, it was queer to feel the solid
ground, that you counted on, shaking you about like that! The tree began
to creak over their heads, as if a wind were rocking it; they jumped up
and got out from under. A clamor arose, a bleating and moaning—the
goats, who liked this sensation even less than the humans, having no
ideas of earth structures and geological faults to steady their minds.
And then came another kind of clamor—from the Watkins family, who
apparently had rushed out of their cabin. “Glory hallelujah! Jesus, save
us! Lord, have mercy!”
Dad said, “It’s all over now; let’s crawl in, or we’ll have them folks
up here praying over us.”
Bunny obeyed, and they lay still. “Gee, that was a terrible earthquake!”
whispered the boy. “Do you think it knocked down any cities?”
“It was likely jist local,” answered Dad. “They have lots of them up
here in this hill country.”
“Then you’d think the Watkinses would be used to them.”
“They enjoy makin’ a fuss, I guess. They don’t have so much excitement
in their lives.” And that was all Dad had to say. He had plenty of
excitements in his own life, and was not specially interested in
earthquakes, and still less in the ravings of religious maniacs. He was
soon fast asleep again.
But Bunny lay and listened. The Watkins family had “let go,” and were
having a regular holy jumping service, out there under the cold white
stars. They shouted, they prayed, they laughed and sang, they cried
“Glory! Glory!” and “Amen!” and “Selah!” and other words which Bunny did
not understand, but which may have been Greek or Hebrew, or else the
speech of the archangels. The voice of old Abel Watkins dominated, and
the shrill screams of the children made a chorus, and the bleating of
the goats was like a lot of double basses in an orchestra. Cold chills
ran up and down Bunny’s back; for, after all, the scientific mind in
him, which knew about earth structures and geological faults, was only a
century or two old, while the instinctive mind which pronounces
incantations, is thousands and perhaps hundreds of thousands of years
old. Priests have wrought frenzies and pronounced dooms, and because the
priests believed them and the victims believed them, they have worked,
and therefore they were believed more than ever. And now here was an
incantation against earthquakes—and people down on their knees, with
their hands in the air and their bodies swaying—
“Chariots to glory, chariots to glory,
Chariots to glory with the Holy Lamb!”
Bunny dozed off at last; and when he opened his eyes again, the dawn was
pink behind the hills, and Dad was slipping into his khaki
hunting-clothes. Bunny didn’t stop to rub his eyes, he popped out of bed
and got his clothes on quick—that cold just froze your bones!
He clambered up the hill-side and began pulling dead brush, and got a
fire going and the saucepan on. And then came Eli, bringing the clean
plates and things, and asking whether they wanted last night’s milk,
which was cold, or this morning’s milk, which was warm. “And say, did
you feel that yearthquake!” asked Eli, in excitement. “Say, that was a
terrible yearthquake! Does you-all have yearthquakes in you-all’s
parts?”
Eli had pale yellow hair, which had not been cut for some time, and had
not been combed since the “yearthquake.” He had pale blue eyes which
protruded slightly, and gave him an eager look. He had a long neck with
a conspicuous Adam’s apple. His legs had grown too fast for the pair of
worn trousers which were supposed to cover them, and which revealed
Eli’s shoes without socks. He stood there, staring at every detail of
the equipment and clothing of these city strangers, and at the same time
attempting to probe their souls. “What does this yere True Word teach
about yearthquakes?”
Dad was busy frying the bacon and eggs, and he said they would like some
of this morning’s milk—which was a way to get rid of Eli. But it didn’t
take Eli long to come back, and he stood and followed every morsel of
food as it went into their mouths; and he told them that the family had
“prayed a mighty power” over that yearthquake, and yearthquakes meant
the Holy Spirit was growing weary of fornications and drunkenness and
lying in the world, and had they been doing any of them things? Bunny
had but a vague idea concerning fornications, but he knew that Dad had
told a whopping big lie just a short time before that “yearthquake,” and
he chuckled to himself as he thought what a portent the Watkinses would
make out of that, if they knew!
The old man came, to make sure they were all right. Mr. Watkins was a
bigger and taller edition of his son, with the same prominent pale blue
eyes and large Adam’s apple; his face was weather-beaten, heavily lined
with care, and you could see he was a kind old man, honest and good, for
all his craziness. He too talked about the “yearthquakes,” and told
about one which had shaken down brick and concrete buildings in
Roseville a couple of years ago. Then he said that Meelie and Sadie were
going out to school, and they would bring in some bread if the strangers
wanted it. So Dad gave him a dollar, and they had a little argument,
because Mr. Watkins said they wouldn’t take only the regular price what
they got for the eggs and the milk and the taters at the store, and they
didn’t want no pay for the camping out, because that wasn’t no trouble
to them, they was glad to see strangers; it was a lonely life they lived
up in these here hills, and if it wasn’t for the Lord and His Gospel,
they would have very little pleasure in life.
VI
Dad and Bunny strapped on their cartridge belts, which went over their
shoulders, and they loaded up the repeating shot-guns, and set out up
the little valley and over the hills. Bunny didn’t really care very much
about killing quail, he was sorry for the lovely black and brown birds,
that had such proud and stately crests, and ran with such quick
twinkling legs, and made such pretty calls at sundown. But Bunny never
said anything about these ideas, because he knew Dad liked to hunt, and
it was the only way you could get him away from his work, and out into
the open, which the doctor said was good for his health. Dad was quick
as lightning to swing his gun, and it looked as if he didn’t aim at all,
but apparently he did; and he never made the mistake that Bunny did, of
trying to shoot at two birds at the same time. Also Dad had time to
watch Bunny and teach him—to make sure that they travelled in an even
line, and didn’t get turned so that one was out in front of the other’s
gun.
Well they tramped the hills and the valleys, and the birds rose, flying
in every direction—a whir, and a grey streak—bang, bang—and either
they were gone, or else they were down. But you didn’t run to pick them
up, because there would be others, they would hide and run, and you
moved on, and banged some more, until finally you gathered up all you
could find, bundles of soft warm feathers, spotted with blood. Sometimes
they were still alive, and you had to wring their necks, and that was
the part Bunny hated.
They filled their bags, and then they tramped back to camp, tired and
hungry—oh gosh! Eli came, offering to clean the birds for them, and
they were glad to let him, and gave him half the birds for the family to
eat—it was pitiful to see the light in the eyes of the poor,
half-starved youth when he heard this news. It isn’t easy to live
altogether in the spirit while you are not fully grown!
Eli took the birds to the house, where there was a chopping-block and
pails of water handy; and meantime Bunny stretched out to rest, with his
feet up in front. Suddenly he sat up with an exclamation. “Dad! Look at
that!”
“Look at what?”
“At my shoe!”
“What is it?”
Bunny pulled his foot up close. “Dad, that’s oil!”
“Are you sure?”
“What else could it be?” He got up and hopped over, so Dad could see for
himself. “It’s all up over the top.”
“You sure it wasn’t there before?”
“Of course not, Dad! It’s still soft. I couldn’t pack up my shoes like
that and not see. I must have stepped into a regular pool of it. And oh,
say—I’ll bet you it was the earthquake! Some oil came up through a
crack!”
Bunny took off his shoe, and Dad examined the find. He said not to get
too much excited, it was a common thing to find oil pools close to the
surface; as a rule they were small, and didn’t amount to anything. But
still, oil signs were not to be neglected; so after lunch they would go
out again, and retrace their steps, and see what they could find.
It was easy for Dad to say not to get excited; so little did he know
about his boy’s mind! This was Bunny’s dream, that he had had for years.
You see, Dad was all the time talking about how he was going to get a
real oil-tract some day—one that belonged to himself alone. He would
figure up and show that when you paid a man a sixth royalty, you were
really giving half your net profits—for you had to pay all the costs,
not merely of the drilling, but of the upkeep and operation of the well,
and the marketing of the oil. The other fellow got half your money—and
didn’t do a thing but own the land! Well, some day Dad would get a tract
of his own discovery, and have it to himself, so that he could develop
it right, and build an oil-town that he could run right, without any
interference or any graft.
How was he to find that tract? That was Bunny’s dream! He had lived the
adventure in a score of different forms; he would be digging a hole in
the ground, and the oil would come spouting up, and he would cover it
over to hide it, and Dad would buy the land for miles around, and take
Bunny into partnership with him; or else Bunny would be exploring a cave
in the mountains, and he would fall into a pool of oil and get out with
great difficulty. There were many different ways he had pictured—but
never once had he thought of having an earthquake come and split open
the ground, just before he and Dad were starting out after quail!
Bunny was so much excited that he hardly noticed the taste of that
especially delicious meal of quail and fried potatoes and boiled
turnips. Just as soon as Dad had got his cigar smoked, they set forth
again, keeping their eyes on the ground, except when they lifted them to
study the landmarks, and to figure whether they had taken this opening
through the hills or that. They had walked half a mile or so, when a
couple of quail rose, and Dad dropped them both, and walked over to pick
them up, and then he called, “Here you are, son!” Bunny thought he meant
the birds; but Dad called again, “Come over here!” And when the boy was
near he said, “Here’s your oil!”
There it was, sure enough; a black streak of it, six or eight inches
wide, wiggling here and there, following a crack in the ground; it was
soft and oozy, and now and then it bubbled, as if it were still leaking
up. Dad knelt down and stuck his finger into it, and held it up to the
light to see the color; he broke off a dead branch from a bush and poked
it into the crevice to see how deep it was, and how much more came up.
When Dad got up again he said, “That’s real oil, no doubt of it I guess
it won’t do any harm to buy this ranch.”
So they went back. Bunny was dancing, both outside and inside, and Dad
was figuring and planning, and neither of them bothered about the quail.
“Did Mrs. Groarty ever tell you how much land there is in this ranch?”
asked Dad.
“She said it was a section.”
“We’ll have to find out where it runs. And by the way, son, don’t make
any mistake, now, not a word to any one about oil, not even after I buy
the place. It won’t do any harm to get a lot of land in these here
hills. You don’t have to pay much for rocks.”
“But listen, Dad; you’ll pay Mr. Watkins a fair price!”
“I’ll pay him a land price, but I ain’t a-goin’ to pay him no oil price.
In the first place, he’d maybe get suspicious, and refuse to sell. He’s
got nothin’ to do with any oil that’s here—it ain’t been any use to
him, and wouldn’t be in a million years. And besides, what use could a
poor feeble-minded old fellow like that make of oil money?”
“But we don’t want to take advantage of him, Dad!”
“I’ll see that he don’t suffer; I’ll jist fix the money so he can’t give
it away to no missionaries, and I’ll always take care of him, and of the
children, and see they get along. But there’s purely not a-goin’ to be
no oil-royalties! And if any of them ask you about me, son, you jist say
I’m in business—I trade in land, and all kinds o’ stuff. Tell them I
got a general store, and I buy machinery, and lend money. That’s all
quite true.”
They walked on, and Bunny began to unfold the elements of a moral
problem that was to occupy him, off and on, for many years. Just what
rights did the Watkinses have to the oil that lay underneath this ranch?
The boy didn’t say any more to his father, because he knew that his
father’s mind was made up, and of course he would obey his father’s
orders. But he debated the matter all the way until they got back to the
ranch, where they saw the old man patching his goat-pen. They joined
him, and after chatting about the quail for a bit, Dad remarked: “Mr.
Watkins, I wonder if you’d come into the house and have a chat with me,
you and your wife.” And when Mr. Watkins said he would, Dad turned to
Bunny, saying: “Excuse me, son—see if you can get some birds by
yourself.” And Bunny knew exactly what that meant—Dad thought that his
son would be happier if he didn’t actually witness the surgical
operation whereby the pitiful Watkinses were to be separated from their
six hundred and forty acres of rocks!
VII
Bunny wandered up the arroyo, and high on the slope he saw the goats
feeding. He went up to watch them; and so he got acquainted with Ruth.
She sat upon a big boulder, gazing out over the rim of the hills. She
was bare-headed and bare-legged, and you saw that she was outgrowing the
patched and faded calico dress which was her only covering. She was a
thin child, and gave the impression she was pale, in spite of her
brownness; it was an anaemic brown, without much red in it. She had the
blue eyes of the family, and a round, domed forehead, with hair pulled
straight back and tied with a bit of old ribbon. She sat tending the
flocks and herds, as boys and girls had done two thousand years ago in
Palestine, which she read about in the only book to be found in the
Watkins household. One week out of three she did this, ten or twelve
hours a day, taking turns with her sisters. Very seldom did anyone come
near, and now she was ill at ease as the strange boy came climbing up;
she did not look at him, and her toes were twisted together.
But Bunny had the formula for entrance to her heart. “You are Ruth,
aren’t you?” he asked, and when she nodded, he said “I know Paul.”
So in a flash they were friends. “Oh, where?” She clasped her hands
together and gazed at him.
Bunny told how he had been at Mrs. Groarty’s—saying nothing about oil,
of course—and how Paul had come, and just what had happened. She drank
in every word, not interrupting; Ruth never did say much, her feelings
ran deep, and made no foam upon the surface. But Bunny knew that her
whole soul was hanging on his story; she fairly worshiped her brother.
“And you never seen him again?” she whispered.
“I never really saw him at all,” said Bunny; “I wouldn’t know him now,
if I was to meet him. You don’t know where he is?”
“I’ve had three letters. Always it’s a new place, and he says he ain’t
stayin’ there. Some day, he says, he’ll come to see me—jest me. He’s
scairt o’ Pap.”
“What would Pap do?”
“Pap would whale him. He’s terrible set agin him. He says he’s a limb of
Satan. Paul says he don’t believe what’s in the Book? Do you believe
it?”
Bunny hesitated, remembering Dad and his “True Word.” He decided he
could trust Ruth that far, so he told her he didn’t think he believed
quite everything. And Ruth, gazing into his eyes with intense concern,
inquired: “What is it makes yearthquakes?”
So Bunny told what Mr. Eaton had taught him about the earth’s crust and
its shrinking, and the faults in the strata, that were the first to
yield to the strain. He judged by the wondering look on her face that
this was the first hint of natural science that had ever come to her
mind. “So you don’t have to be scairt!” she said.
And then Bunny saw the signs of another idea dawning in her mind. Ruth
was gazing at him, more intently than ever, and she exclaimed, “Oh! It
was you sent that money!”
“Money?” said he, innocently.
“Four times they come a letter with a five-dollar bill in it, and no
writin’. Pap said it was the Holy Spirit—but it was you! Warn’t it?”
Thus directly attacked, Bunny nodded his confession; and Ruth colored,
and began to stammer her embarrassed thanks—she didn’t see how they
could ever repay it—they were having such a hard time. Bunny stopped
her—that was all nonsense, Dad had more money than he knew what to do
with. Bunny explained that Dad was offering to buy the ranch from her
parents, and pay off the mortgage, and let them live there for as long
as they wanted to, for a very small rent. The tears began to run down
Ruth’s cheeks, and she had to turn her head away; she could not control
herself, and it was embarrassing, because she had nothing with which to
wipe the tears away, every bit of her dress being needed to cover her
bare legs. She slid off the boulder, and had a little sobbing fit out of
his sight; and Bunny sat troubled, not so much by this display of
emotion, as by the ethical war going on in his soul. He told himself, it
was really true that his motive in getting Dad to come here had been to
help the Watkinses; the oil had been merely a pretext to persuade Dad.
For that matter, Dad would have bought the ranch, just to help the
family, and without any oil; it might have taken some arguing, but he
would have done it! So Bunny comforted himself; but all the time he was
thinking of that surgical operation going on down in the cabin, while he
sat here letting Ruth think of him as a hero and a savior.
Dad had said, “What use could a poor feeble-minded old fellow like that
make of oil money?” Dad would argue the same way about Ruth, Bunny knew:
she was healthy and happy, sitting out there in the sun with her bare
brown legs; it was the best thing in the world for her—far better than
if her legs were covered with costly silk stockings. And that was all
right; but then—some little imp was starting arguments in Bunny’s
mind—why should other women have the silk stockings? There was Aunt
Emma, at her dressing-table, with not only silk stockings, but corsets
imported from Paris, and a whole drug-store full of fixings; why would
it not be good for Aunt Emma to sit out here in the sun with bare brown
legs and tend the goats?
VIII
There was Dad’s voice, calling Bunny; so he said good-bye, and ran down
the arroyo. Dad was sitting in the car. “We’re a-goin’ in to Paradise,”
he said. “But first, change them oil shoes.” Bunny did so, and put the
shoes away in the back of the car. He hopped in, and they drove down the
lane, and Dad remarked, with a cheerful smile, “Well, son, we own the
ranch.”
Dad was amused by the game he had just played, and told Bunny about it,
overlooking the possibility of complications in Bunny’s feelings. Dad
had tactfully begun talking to Mr. and Mrs. Watkins about the family’s
lack of bread, and that had started Mr. Watkins telling the whole
situation. There was a sixteen hundred dollar mortgage against the
ranch, with nearly three hundred dollars interest overdue, and they had
got a final notice from the bank, that foreclosure proceedings would
begin next week. So Dad had explained that he wanted a place for summer
camping, where his boy could have an outdoor life, and he would buy the
ranch at a fair price. Poor Mrs. Watkins began to cry—she had been born
on this place, it seemed, it was her homestead. Dad said she didn’t need
to worry, they might stay right on, and have all the farming rights of
the place, he would lease it to them for ninety-nine years at ten
dollars a year. The old man caught Dad’s hand; he had known the Lord
would save them, he said. Dad decided that was a good lead, so he
explained that the Lord had sent him, according to the revelation of the
True Word; after which Mr. Watkins had done jist whatever the Lord had
told Dad to tell him to do!
And J. Arnold Ross had put the affairs of that family in order, you
bet—there would be no more nonsense of giving away their money to
missionaries! The Lord had told Dad to tell Mr. Watkins that he was to
use his money to feed and clothe and educate his children. The Lord had
furthermore told him that the equity in his land was not to be paid in
cash, but was to consist of certificates of deposit in a trust-company,
which would pay them a small income, about fifteen dollars a month—a
lot better than having to pay the bank nearly ten dollars a month
interest on a mortgage! Moreover, the Lord had directed that this money
was to be held in trust for the children; and Bunny’s friend Paul could
thank Dad for having saved him a share. Mr. Watkins had said that one of
his sons was a black sheep, and unworthy of the Lord’s care, but Dad had
stated it as a revelation of the True Word that there was no sheep so
black but that the Lord would wash it white in His own good time; and
Mr. Watkins had joyfully accepted this revelation, and he and his wife
had put their names to a contract of sale which Dad had drawn up. The
purchase price was thirty-seven hundred dollars, which had been Mr.
Watkins’ own figure—he had said that this hill land was worth five
dollars an acre, and he figured his improvements at five hundred. They
weren’t really worth that, they were a lot of ruins, Dad said, but he
took the old man’s valuation of them. The contract provided that Mr.
Watkins was to have water sufficient to irrigate two acres of land,
which was jist about all he had under cultivation now; of course, Dad
would give him more, if he could use it, but Dad wouldn’t take no chance
of disputes about water-rights. In the morning Mr. and Mrs. Watkins
would drive out to Paradise, and Dad would hire a four-passenger car
there, and drive them to some other town, where they could put the
matter into escrow without too much talk.
In the meantime, Dad was on his way to Paradise, to set the town’s one
real estate agent to work buying more land for him. “Why don’t you send
for Ben Skutt?” asked Bunny; but Dad answered that Ben was a rascal—he
had caught him trying to collect a commission from the other party. And
anyhow, a local man could do it better—Dad would buy him with an extra
commission, let Bunny watch and see how it was worked. Fortunately, Dad
had taken the precaution to bring along a cashier’s check for three
thousand dollars. “I didn’t know jist how long we might camp,” he said,
with his sly humor.
So they came to an office labelled, “J. H. Hardacre, Real Estate,
Insurance and Loans.” Mr. Hardacre sat with his feet on his desk and a
cigar in his mouth, waiting for his prey; he was a lean, hungry-looking
spider, and was not fooled for an instant by Dad’s old khaki
hunting-clothes—he knew that here was money, and he swung his feet to
the floor and sat right up. Dad took a chair, and remarked on the
weather, and asked about the earthquake, and finally said that he had a
relative who wanted to live in the open for his health, and Dad had jist
bought the Abel Watkins place, and he jist thought he’d like to raise
goats on a bigger scale, and could he get some land adjoining? Mr.
Hardacre answered right away, there was a pile of that hill-stuff to be
had; there was the Bandy tract, right alongside—and Mr. Hardacre got
out a big map and began to show Dad with his pencil, there was close to
a thousand acres of that, but it was mostly back in the hills, and all
rocks. Dad asked what it could be bought for, and Mr. Hardacre said all
that hill-stuff was held at five or six dollars an acre. He began to
show other tracts, and Dad said wait now, and he got a paper and pencil
and began to jot down the names and the acreage and the price.
Apparently everything around here could be bought—whenever the man
failed to include any tract, Dad would ask “And what about that?” and
Mr. Hardacre would say, “That’s the old Rascum tract—yes, I reckon that
could be got.” And Dad said, “Let’s list them all,” and a queer look
began to come over Mr. Hardacre’s face—it was dawning upon him that
this was the great hour of his life.
“Now, Mr. Hardacre,” said Dad, “let’s you and me talk turkey. I want to
buy some land, if it can be got reasonable. Of course as soon as people
find you want it, they begin to boost the price; so let’s get that
clear, I want it jist enough to pay a fair price, and I don’t want it no
more than that, and if anybody starts a-boostin’ you jist tell ’em to
forget it, and I’ll forget it, too. But all the land you can buy
reasonable, you buy for me, and collect your commission from the seller
in the regular way, and besides that, you’ll get a five percent
commission from me. That means, I want you to be my man, and do
everything you can to get me the land at the lowest prices. I don’t need
to point out to you that my one idea is to buy quick and quiet, so
people won’t have time to decide there’s a boom on. You get me?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hardacre. “But I’m not sure how quietly it can be done;
this is a pretty small place, there’s lots of talk, and it takes time to
put through a deal.”
“It won’t take no time at all if you jist handle it my way and use good
sense. You don’t mention me, you do the buyin’ for an unknown client,
and you buy options for cash—that means, if the people are hereabouts,
you close the deals right off.”
“But that’ll take quite a bunch of money,” said Mr. Hardacre, a little
frightened.
“I got a little change in my pocket,” said Dad, “and I brought a
cashier’s check for three thousand, that I can turn into cash in the
mornin’. You see, Mr. Hardacre, I happen to be jist crazy about quail
shootin’, and I had the idea that if I found plenty of quail, I’d get a
little land to shoot over. But get this clear, I can shoot quail on one
hill jist as good as on the next—and I don’t let nobody mistake me for
a quail!”
Dad took out of his card-case a letter from the president of a big bank
in Angel City, advising whomever it might concern that Mr. James Ross
was a man of large resources and the highest integrity. Dad had two such
letters, as Bunny knew—one in the name of James Ross and the other in
the name of J. Arnold Ross; the former was the one he used when he
bought oil lands, and no one had ever yet got onto his identity in time!
Dad’s proposition was this: He would make a contract with Mr. Hardacre,
whereby Mr. Hardacre was authorized to buy ten-day options upon a long
list of tracts, of specified acreage and at specified prices, paying
five percent upon the purchase price for each option, and Dad agreeing
to take up all these options within three days, and to pay Mr. Hardacre
five percent on all purchases. Mr. Hardacre, torn between anxiety and
acquisitiveness, finally said he guessed he’d take a chance on it, and
if Dad threw him down, it would be easy for him to go into bankruptcy!
He sat at his rusty typewriter and made two copies of the agreement,
with a long list of tracts that were to cost Dad something over sixty
thousand dollars. They read that over twice, and Dad signed it, and Mr.
Hardacre signed it with a rather shaky hand, and Dad said fine, and
counted out ten one hundred dollar bills on the desk, and said for Mr.
Hardacre to get to work right away. He would do well to have his options
all ready for the other party to sign, and Dad thought he had some
blanks in the car—he wasn’t jist sure, but he’d see. He went out, and
Mr. Hardacre said to Bunny, quite casual and friendly-like, “What is
your father’s business, little man?” And Bunny, smiling to himself,
answered, “Oh, Dad’s in all kinds of business, he buys land, and lots of
things.” “What other things?” And Bunny said, “Well, he has a general
store, and then sometimes he buys machinery, and he lends money.” And
then Dad came back; through a stroke of good fortune he happened to have
a bunch of option blanks in his car—and Bunny smiled to himself again,
for he never yet had seen the time when Dad did not happen to have
exactly the right document, or the right tool, or the right grub, or the
right antiseptic and surgical tape, stowed away somewhere in that car!
IX
They drove back to camp, and it was coming on to sunset again, and the
quail were calling all over the hills. They passed the horseman bringing
in the cattle, and he stopped and had a chat about the earthquake, and
then he rode on, his saddle and stirrup-straps going “Squnch, squnch.”
And Dad said, “We’ll maybe buy that fellow out before night, and you can
ride his horse.” And they went on, and presently came another fellow,
this time on foot. He was a young chap, tall and lanky, but stooped as
if he had hold of plow-handles; he was wearing country clothes and a
straw hat, and he strode rapidly by them, staring hard at both of them,
barely nodding in answer to Dad’s friendly “Good evening.” Dad remarked,
“Queer-looking chap, that,” and Bunny retained an impression of a face,
very serious, with a large prominent nose, and a broad mouth drooping at
the corners.
They went on, and came to their camp, and built a fire, and got
themselves a gorgeous supper, with a panful of quail and bacon, and hot
cocoa, and toast made of the bread which Meelie and Sadie had brought
in, and some canned peaches which Bunny had bought. And after supper
Bunny saw Ruth down by the goat-pen, and he strolled over to meet her;
she gazed about timidly, to make certain no one else was near, and then
she whispered, “Paul was here!”
Bunny started, amazed. “_Paul?_” And then suddenly the truth flashed
over him. “That was Paul we passed on the road!” He described the figure
to Ruth, and she said yes, that had been Paul; he had taken a
“hitch-hike” to see her, as he had promised, and he had brought her
fifteen dollars saved from his earnings. “I told him we didn’t have no
need for it now; but he left it.”
Then Bunny cried: “Oh, why didn’t he stop and talk to Dad and me? He
barely nodded to us!”
Ruth was evidently embarrassed; it was hard to get her to talk about
Paul any more. But Bunny persisted, he was so anxious to know Paul, he
said, and it seemed as if Paul didn’t like him. Only then was Ruth moved
to tell him what Paul had said. “He was mad because Pap had sold the
ranch. He says we hadn’t ought to done it.”
“But what else could you do?”
“He says we’d ought to sell the goats, and pay the bank, and raise
strawberries, like some o’ the folks is doin’ here. We could git along
and be independent—”
“Paul is so proud!” cried Bunny. “He’s so afraid of charity!”
“No, it ain’t exactly that,” said Ruth.
“What is it then?”
“Well—it ain’t very polite to talk about—” Ruth was embarrassed again.
“What is it, Ruth? I want to try to understand Paul.”
“Well, he says your Pap is a big oil man, and he says there’s oil on
this ranch, and you know it, for he told you so.”
There was a silence.
“Is your Pap an oil man?”
Bunny forced himself to answer. “Dad’s a business man; he buys land, and
all kinds of things. He has a general store, and he buys machinery, and
lends money.” That was what Dad had ordered him to say, and it was
strictly the truth, as we know; and yet Bunny considered himself a liar
while he said it. He was misleading Ruth—gentle, innocent, trusting
Ruth, with the wide, candid eyes and the kind, sweet features; Ruth, who
was incapable of a hateful thought or a selfish impulse, whose whole
life was to be one long immolation in the cause of the brother she
loved! Oh, why did it happen that he had to practice deception upon
Ruth?
They talked about Paul some more. He had sat up in the hills most of the
afternoon and told his sister about himself. He was getting along all
right, he said; he had got a job with an old lawyer who didn’t mind his
having run away from home, but would help him to keep hidden. This
lawyer was what was called a free-thinker—he said you had a right to
believe whatever you chose, and Paul was his gardener and handy man, and
the old lawyer gave him books to read, and Paul was getting educated. It
sounded wonderful, and terrible at the same time—Paul had read a book
about the Bible, that showed it was nothing but old Hebrew history and
fairy-tales, and full of contradictions and bloody murders and
fornications, and things that there was no sense calling God’s word. And
Paul wanted Ruth to read it, and Ruth was in an agony of concern—but
Bunny noticed it was Paul’s soul she was afraid for, and not her own!
Then Bunny went back to Dad, and told him that was Paul they had passed
on the road; and Dad said “Indeed?” and repeated that he was a “queer
looking chap.” Dad wasn’t interested, he had no slightest inkling of
Bunny’s distress of soul; his thoughts were all on the great discovery,
and the deals he was putting through. He lay on his back, with a pillow
under his head, gazing up at the stars. “There’s one thing sure,
son”—and there was laughter in his voice; “either you and me move up to
front row seats in the oil-game, or else, by golly, we’ll be the goat
and sheep kings of California!”