"Don't look at me," Caruso said. "Those old coots ain't been near my
shop for years."
When the chuckles died, MacAllister, the druggist, voiced the thought
that rested unspoken on all their minds. "I wonder if that fellow
realizes what a worthless piece of land he's bought."
"He looked it over." This was Hammond, of the bank.
"'Course, you didn't try to talk him out of it!"
"Would you have?" Hammond retorted indignantly.
Henderson jabbed the air with his cigar. "I think he was a coal miner,
back East. Saved up his money to get on the land."
"_I_ think he's a gypsy," Caruso said.
"You ought to know," Tipton, the grocer, laughed. Caruso got fined for
his reply, and with the tinkle of coins in the luncheon club kitty the
men dispersed.
* * * * *
Joe Merklos' relatives arrived that night. Henderson, who told Jerry
Bronson about it, had made an early morning delivery of feed nearby, and
driven on to take a look at Merklos' purchase. From the ridge, he viewed
Dark Valley's three miles of width and six or so of length. Figures were
moving about the gaunt and windowless farm buildings. At least one plow
was in operation, and the good blue friendliness of smoke arose here and
there.
"Looked like a lot of people, Jerry. But you know--I didn't see any cars
or trucks around."
Jerry's blue eyes crinkled. Human nature didn't like puzzles any more
than it liked strangers. He returned to the tedious civil case he was
working on. About three o'clock, he decided he was tired and bored
enough to call it a day. He got into his car and headed for Dark Valley.
Aside from his curiosity, he thought he might talk to the two old
squatters at the far end. The Carvers were independent and truculent.
Now that Joe Merklos' relatives had arrived in full force, there was
danger of a clash.
As the road topped the ridge, it left green fields and orchards abruptly
behind. But Dark Valley had a wild sort of beauty, cupped as it was
between two rows of hills which curved together as higher, jumbled
foothills to the west.
Jerry's car trailed a plume of dust as it slid down to the dry riverbed.
He made a left turn and started up the valley road. At the first farm he
saw dark, plump women in billowing dresses, wearing peasant scarves over
their heads. They moved about the barnyard, raking dead leaves and
scratching busily at the baked earth of the old truck gardens. Chickens
and ducks strayed, and Jerry caught a glimpse of children. He waved to
the group and was answered by nods and flashing smiles.
Then he had a shock. One of the women was working the handle of a pump
that had been bone-dry for fifteen years--and a slender stream of clear
water spilled into her wooden tub!
Somewhat dazedly, Jerry drove on. He saw more of the Merklos people at
other farms. Men were working in the withered orchards. New fence posts
and rails were going up; bright axes flashed in the dry and scraggly
wood lots.
Jerry's thoughts kept returning to the water in that first pump. Could
it be that they had learned the valley had a supply again? That would be
a mighty joke on Hammond and the First National Bank.
The road, badly rutted by erosion and drifted over with sand and dry
leaves, began to rise. Jerry shifted into low gear. Then, suddenly, he
stopped. He'd had another shock. He had just realized this road was
_unused_. He recalled the twin ruts, patterned with rabbit and bird
tracks, clear back to the turn-off. Without question, his car had been
the first to mark the road since winter.
Then how had these dozens of people come, with their chickens and ducks
and children and tools? He had seen no cars, no wagons, no carts. _How
had these people come?_
Jerry sat back in the seat and grinned. He fished out his tobacco pouch
and filled his pipe. There were times when he considered himself fairly
mature, fairly well balanced. Yet he was as ready as the next to build a
house of mystery out of the insubstantial timber of ignorance.
Of course there was a reasonable explanation. They must have walked from
the railroad. It was a good many miles, but it was perfectly possible.
Feeling better, Jerry followed the tortuous road to the western crest.
His long legs hadn't taken him far from the car when he heard a harsh,
"Hold up!"
First one, then the other Carver brother stepped out from a scrub oak
thicket--short, leathery old men, with ragged whiskers and dirt seamed
into their faces and wrists. They eyed him malevolently over raised
shotguns.
"Came to talk to you," Jerry said mildly.
One of them--he thought it was Ed--spat.
"Ah, now," Jerry went on in an aggrieved tone, "that's a fine way to
treat a son of Jack Bronson."
The Carver brothers glanced at one another, then the shotguns lowered.
"Come along," they said gruffly. In the littered yard by their cabin,
they pointed to a bench and squatted down before it on their thin old
shanks.
"New people in Dark Valley."
They nodded.
"They've bought it from the bank. They own it clear to the ridge line,
including your place, here."
"We been here forty years," said Ed.
"If I owned it you could stay forty more."
"They send you?" the voice was sharp, suspicious.