Crossing the Sacramento on an old-fashioned ferry a short distance above
Rio Vista, Saxon and Billy entered the river country. From the top
of the levee she got her revelation. Beneath, lower than the river,
stretched broad, flat land, far as the eye could see. Roads ran in
every direction, and she saw countless farmhouses of which she had never
dreamed when sailing on the lonely river a few feet the other side of
the willowy fringe.
Three weeks they spent among the rich farm islands, which heaped up
levees and pumped day and night to keep afloat. It was a monotonous
land, with an unvarying richness of soil and with only one landmark--Mt.
Diablo, ever to be seen, sleeping in the midday azure, limping its
crinkled mass against the sunset sky, or forming like a dream out of the
silver dawn. Sometimes on foot, often by launch, they criss-crossed and
threaded the river region as far as the peat lands of the Middle River,
down the San Joaquin to Antioch, and up Georgiana Slough to Walnut Grove
on the Sacramento. And it proved a foreign land. The workers of the soil
teemed by thousands, yet Saxon and Billy knew what it was to go a
whole day without finding any one who spoke English. They
encountered--sometimes in whole villages--Chinese, Japanese, Italians,
Portuguese, Swiss, Hindus, Koreans, Norwegians, Danes, French,
Armenians, Slavs, almost every nationality save American. One American
they found on the lower reaches of Georgiana who eked an illicit
existence by fishing with traps. Another American, who spouted blood and
destruction on all political subjects, was an itinerant bee-farmer. At
Walnut Grove, bustling with life, the few Americans consisted of
the storekeeper, the saloonkeeper, the butcher, the keeper of the
drawbridge, and the ferryman. Yet two thriving towns were in Walnut
Grove, one Chinese, one Japanese. Most of the land was owned by
Americans, who lived away from it and were continually selling it to the
foreigners.
A riot, or a merry-making--they could not tell which--was taking place
in the Japanese town, as Saxon and Billy steamed out on the Apache,
bound for Sacramento.
“We're settin' on the stoop,” Billy railed. “Pretty soon they'll crowd
us off of that.”
“There won't be any stoop in the valley of the moon,” Saxon cheered him.
But he was inconsolable, remarking bitterly:
“An' they ain't one of them damn foreigners that can handle four horses
like me.
“But they can everlastingly farm,” he added.
And Saxon, looking at his moody face, was suddenly reminded of a
lithograph she had seen in her childhood. It was of a Plains Indian, in
paint and feathers, astride his horse and gazing with wondering eye at a
railroad train rushing along a fresh-made track. The Indian had passed,
she remembered, before the tide of new life that brought the railroad.
And were Billy and his kind doomed to pass, she pondered, before this
new tide of life, amazingly industrious, that was flooding in from Asia
and Europe?
At Sacramento they stopped two weeks, where Billy drove team and earned
the money to put them along on their travels. Also, life in Oakland and
Carmel, close to the salt edge of the coast, had spoiled them for the
interior. Too warm, was their verdict of Sacramento and they followed
the railroad west, through a region of swamp-land, to Davisville. Here
they were lured aside and to the north to pretty Woodland, where Billy
drove team for a fruit farm, and where Saxon wrung from him a reluctant
consent for her to work a few days in the fruit harvest. She made an
important and mystifying secret of what she intended doing with her
earnings, and Billy teased her about it until the matter passed from his
mind. Nor did she tell him of a money order inclosed with a certain blue
slip of paper in a letter to Bud Strothers.
They began to suffer from the heat. Billy declared they had strayed out
of the blanket climate.
“There are no redwoods here,” Saxon said. “We must go west toward the
coast. It is there we'll find the valley of the moon.”
From Woodland they swung west and south along the county roads to the
fruit paradise of Vacaville. Here Billy picked fruit, then drove team;
and here Saxon received a letter and a tiny express package from Bud
Strothers. When Billy came into camp from the day's work, she bade him
stand still and shut his eyes. For a few seconds she fumbled and did
something to the breast of his cotton work-shirt. Once, he felt a slight
prick, as of a pin point, and grunted, while she laughed and bullied him
to continue keeping his eyes shut.
“Close your eyes and give me a kiss,” she sang, “and then I'll show you
what iss.”
She kissed him and when he looked down he saw, pinned to his shirt, the
gold medals he had pawned the day they had gone to the moving picture
show and received their inspiration to return to the land.
“You darned kid!” he exclaimed, as he caught her to him. “So that's
what you blew your fruit money in on? An' I never guessed!--Come here to
you.”
And thereupon she suffered the pleasant mastery of his brawn, and was
hugged and wrestled with until the coffee pot boiled over and she darted
from him to the rescue.
“I kinda always been a mite proud of 'em,” he confessed, as he rolled
his after-supper cigarette. “They take me back to my kid days when I
amateured it to beat the band. I was some kid in them days, believe
muh.--But say, d'ye know, they'd clean slipped my recollection.
Oakland's a thousan' years away from you an' me, an' ten thousan'
miles.”
“Then this will bring you back to it,” Saxon said, opening Bud's letter
and reading it aloud.
Bud had taken it for granted that Billy knew the wind-up of the strike;
so he devoted himself to the details as to which men had got back their
jobs, and which had been blacklisted. To his own amazement he had been
taken back, and was now driving Billy's horses. Still more amazing was
the further information he had to impart. The old foreman of the West
Oakland stables had died, and since then two other foremen had done
nothing but make messes of everything. The point of all which was that
the Boss had spoken that day to Bud, regretting the disappearance of
Billy.
“Don't make no mistake,” Bud wrote. “The Boss is onto all your curves.
I bet he knows every scab you slugged. Just the same he says to
me--Strothers, if you ain't at liberty to give me his address, just
write yourself and tell him for me to come a running. I'll give him a
hundred and twenty-five a month to take hold the stables.”
Saxon waited with well-concealed anxiety when the letter was finished.
Billy, stretched out, leaning on one elbow, blew a meditative ring of
smoke. His cheap workshirt, incongruously brilliant with the gold of
the medals that flashed in the firelight, was open in front, showing
the smooth skin and splendid swell of chest. He glanced around--at the
blankets bowered in a green screen and waiting, at the campfire and the
blackened, battered coffee pot, at the well-worn hatchet, half buried in
a tree trunk, and lastly at Saxon. His eyes embraced her; then into them
came a slow expression of inquiry. But she offered no help.
“Well,” he uttered finally, “all you gotta do is write Bud Strothers,
an' tell 'm not on the Boss's ugly tintype.--An' while you're about it,
I'll send 'm the money to get my watch out. You work out the interest.
The overcoat can stay there an' rot.”
But they did not prosper in the interior heat. They lost weight. The
resilience went out of their minds and bodies. As Billy expressed it,
their silk was frazzled. So they shouldered their packs and headed west
across the wild mountains. In the Berryessa Valley, the shimmering heat
waves made their eyes ache, and their heads; so that they traveled on in
the early morning and late afternoon. Still west they headed, over more
mountains, to beautiful Napa Valley. The next valley beyond was Sonoma,
where Hastings had invited them to his ranch. And here they would have
gone, had not Billy chanced upon a newspaper item which told of the
writer's departure to cover some revolution that was breaking out
somewhere in Mexico.
“We'll see 'm later on,” Billy said, as they turned northwest, through
the vineyards and orchards of Napa Valley. “We're like that millionaire
Bert used to sing about, except it's time that we've got to burn. Any
direction is as good as any other, only west is best.”
Three times in the Napa Valley Billy refused work. Past St. Helena,
Saxon hailed with joy the unmistakable redwoods they could see growing
up the small canyons that penetrated the western wall of the valley.
At Calistoga, at the end of the railroad, they saw the six-horse stages
leaving for Middletown and Lower Lake. They debated their route. That
way led to Lake County and not toward the coast, so Saxon and Billy
swung west through the mountains to the valley of the Russian River,
coming out at Healdsburg. They lingered in the hop-fields on the
rich bottoms, where Billy scorned to pick hops alongside of Indians,
Japanese, and Chinese.
“I couldn't work alongside of 'em an hour before I'd be knockin' their
blocks off,” he explained. “Besides, this Russian River's some nifty.
Let's pitch camp and go swimmin'.”
So they idled their way north up the broad, fertile valley, so happy
that they forgot that work was ever necessary, while the valley of the
moon was a golden dream, remote, but sure, some day of realization.
At Cloverdale, Billy fell into luck. A combination of sickness and
mischance found the stage stables short a driver. Each day the train
disgorged passengers for the Geysers, and Billy, as if accustomed to it
all his life, took the reins of six horses and drove a full load over
the mountains in stage time. The second trip he had Saxon beside him on
the high boxseat. By the end of two weeks the regular driver was back.
Billy declined a stable-job, took his wages, and continued north.
Saxon had adopted a fox terrier puppy and named him Possum, after the
dog Mrs. Hastings had told them about. So young was he that he quickly
became footsore, and she carried him until Billy perched him on top
of his pack and grumbled that Possum was chewing his back hair to a
frazzle.
They passed through the painted vineyards of Asti at the end of the
grape-picking, and entered Ukiah drenched to the skin by the first
winter rain.
“Say,” Billy said, “you remember the way the Roamer just skated along.
Well, this summer's done the same thing--gone by on wheels. An' now it's
up to us to find some place to winter. This Ukiah looks like a pretty
good burg. We'll get a room to-night an' dry out. An' to-morrow I'll
hustle around to the stables, an' if I locate anything we can rent a
shack an' have all winter to think about where we'll go next year.”