“I'm not done with you children,” had been Mrs. Mortimer's parting
words; and several times that winter she ran up to advise, and to teach
Saxon how to calculate her crops for the small immediate market, for the
increasing spring market, and for the height of summer, at which time
she would be able to sell all she could possibly grow and then not
supply the demand. In the meantime, Hazel and Hattie were used every
odd moment in hauling manure from Glen Ellen, whose barnyards had never
known such a thorough cleaning. Also there were loads of commercial
fertilizer from the railroad station, bought under Mrs. Mortimer's
instructions.
The convicts paroled were Chinese. Both had served long in prison, and
were old men; but the day's work they were habitually capable of won
Mrs. Mortimer's approval. Gow Yum, twenty years before, had had charge
of the vegetable garden of one of the great Menlo Park estates. His
disaster had come in the form of a fight over a game of fan tan in the
Chinese quarter at Redwood City. His companion, Chan Chi, had been
a hatchet-man of note, in the old fighting days of the San Francisco
tongs. But a quarter of century of discipline in the prison vegetable
gardens had cooled his blood and turned his hand from hatchet to hoe.
These two assistants had arrived in Glen Ellen like precious goods
in bond and been receipted for by the local deputy sheriff, who, in
addition, reported on them to the prison authorities each month. Saxon,
too, made out a monthly report and sent it in.
As for the danger of their cutting her throat, she quickly got over the
idea of it. The mailed hand of the State hovered over them. The taking
of a single drink of liquor would provoke that hand to close down and
jerk them back to prison-cells. Nor had they freedom of movement. When
old Gow Yum needed to go to San Francisco to sign certain papers
before the Chinese Consul, permission had first to be obtained from
San Quentin. Then, too, neither man was nasty tempered. Saxon had been
apprehensive of the task of bossing two desperate convicts; but when
they came she found it a pleasure to work with them. She could tell them
what to do, but it was they who knew how to do. From them she learned all
the ten thousand tricks and quirks of artful gardening, and she was not
long in realizing how helpless she would have been had she depended on
local labor.
Still further, she had no fear, because she was not alone. She had
been using her head. It was quickly apparent to her that she could not
adequately oversee the outside work and at the same time do the house
work. She wrote to Ukiah to the energetic widow who had lived in the
adjoining house and taken in washing. She had promptly closed with
Saxon's offer. Mrs. Paul was forty, short in stature, and weighed two
hundred pounds, but never wearied on her feet. Also she was devoid of
fear, and, according to Billy, could settle the hash of both Chinese
with one of her mighty arms. Mrs. Paul arrived with her son, a country
lad of sixteen who knew horses and could milk Hilda, the pretty Jersey
which had successfully passed Edmund's expert eye. Though Mrs. Paul ably
handled the house, there was one thing Saxon insisted on doing--namely,
washing her own pretty flimsies.
“When I 'm no longer able to do that,” she told Billy, “you can take
a spade to that clump of redwoods beside Wild Water and dig a hole. It
will be time to bury me.”
It was early in the days of Madrono Ranch, at the time of Mrs.
Mortimer's second visit, that Billy drove in with a load of pipe; and
house, chicken yards, and barn were piped from the second-hand tank he
installed below the house-spring.
“Huh! I guess I can use my head,” he said. “I watched a woman over on
the other side of the valley, packin' water two hundred feet from the
spring to the house; an' I did some figurin'. I put it at three trips a
day and on wash days a whole lot more; an' you can't guess what I made
out she traveled a year packin' water. One hundred an' twenty-two miles.
D'ye get that? One hundred and twenty-two miles! I asked her how long
she'd been there. Thirty-one years. Multiply it for yourself. Three
thousan', seven hundred an' eighty-two miles--all for the sake of two
hundred feet of pipe. Wouldn't that jar you?”
“Oh, I ain't done yet. They's a bath-tub an' stationary tubs a-comin'
soon as I can see my way. An', say, Saxon, you know that little clear
flat just where Wild Water runs into Sonoma. They's all of an acre of
it. An' it's mine! Got that? An' no walkin' on the grass for you. It'll
be my grass. I 'm goin' up stream a ways an' put in a ram. I got a big
second-hand one staked out that I can get for ten dollars, an' it'll
pump more water'n I need. An' you'll see alfalfa growin' that'll make
your mouth water. I gotta have another horse to travel around on. You're
usin' Hazel an' Hattie too much to give me a chance; an' I'll never see
'm as soon as you start deliverin' vegetables. I guess that alfalfa'll
help some to keep another horse goin'.”
But Billy was destined for a time to forget his alfalfa in the
excitement of bigger ventures. First, came trouble. The several
hundred dollars he had arrived with in Sonoma Valley, and all his own
commissions since earned, had gone into improvements and living. The
eighteen dollars a week rental for his six horses at Lawndale went to
pay wages. And he was unable to buy the needed saddle-horse for his
horse-buying expeditions. This, however, he had got around by again
using his head and killing two birds with one stone. He began breaking
colts to drive, and in the driving drove them wherever he sought horses.
So far all was well. But a new administration in San Francisco, pledged
to economy, had stopped all street work. This meant the shutting down of
the Lawndale quarry, which was one of the sources of supply for paving
blocks. The six horses would not only be back on his hands, but he would
have to feed them. How Mrs. Paul, Gow Yum, and Chan Chi were to be paid
was beyond him.
“I guess we've bit off more'n we could chew,” he admitted to Saxon.
That night he was late in coming home, but brought with him a radiant
face. Saxon was no less radiant.
“It's all right,” she greeted him, coming out to the barn where he was
unhitching a tired but fractious colt. “I've talked with all three. They
see the situation, and are perfectly willing to let their wages stand a
while. By another week I start Hazel and Hattie delivering vegetables.
Then the money will pour in from the hotels and my books won't look
so lopsided. And--oh, Billy--you'd never guess. Old Gow Yum has a bank
account. He came to me afterward--I guess he was thinking it over--and
offered to lend me four hundred dollars. What do you think of that?”
“That I ain't goin' to be too proud to borrow it off 'm, if he IS a
Chink. He's a white one, an' maybe I'll need it. Because, you see--well,
you can't guess what I've been up to since I seen you this mornin'. I've
been so busy I ain't had a bite to eat.”
“Using your head?” She laughed.
“You can call it that,” he joined in her laughter. “I've been spendin'
money like water.”
“But you haven't got any to spend,” she objected.
“I've got credit in this valley, I'll let you know,” he replied. “An' I
sure strained it some this afternoon. Now guess.”
“A saddle-horse?”
He roared with laughter, startling the colt, which tried to bolt and
lifted him half off the ground by his grip on its frightened nose and
neck.
“Oh, I mean real guessin',” he urged, when the animal had dropped back
to earth and stood regarding him with trembling suspicion.
“Two saddle-horses?”
“Aw, you ain't got imagination. I'll tell you. You know Thiercroft. I
bought his big wagon from 'm for sixty dollars. I bought a wagon from
the Kenwood blacksmith--so-so, but it'll do--for forty-five dollars. An'
I bought Ping's wagon--a peach--for sixty-five dollars. I could a-got it
for fifty if he hadn't seen I wanted it bad.”
“But the money?” Saxon questioned faintly. “You hadn't a hundred dollars
left.”
“Didn't I tell you I had credit? Well, I have. I stood 'm off for them
wagons. I ain't spent a cent of cash money to-day except for a
couple of long-distance switches. Then I bought three sets of
work-harness--they're chain harness an' second-hand--for twenty dollars
a set. I bought 'm from the fellow that's doin' the haulin' for the
quarry. He don't need 'm any more. An' I rented four wagons from 'm,
an' four span of horses, too, at half a dollar a day for each horse,
an' half a dollar a day for each wagon--that's six dollars a day rent
I gotta pay 'm. The three sets of spare harness is for my six horses.
Then... lemme see... yep, I rented two barns in Glen Ellen, an' I
ordered fifty tons of hay an' a carload of bran an' barley from the
store in Glenwood--you see, I gotta feed all them fourteen horses, an'
shoe 'm, an' everything.
“Oh, sure Pete, I've went some. I hired seven men to go drivin' for me
at two dollars a day, an'--ouch! Jehosaphat! What you doin'!”
“No,” Saxon said gravely, having pinched him, “you're not dreaming.”
She felt his pulse and forehead. “Not a sign of fever.” She sniffed
his breath. “And you've not been drinking. Go on, tell me the rest of
this... whatever it is.”
“Ain't you satisfied?”
“No. I want more. I want all.”
“All right. But I just want you to know, first, that the boss I used to
work for in Oakland ain't got nothin' on me. I 'm some man of affairs,
if anybody should ride up on a vegetable wagon an' ask you. Now, I 'm
goin' to tell you, though I can't see why the Glen Ellen folks didn't
beat me to it. I guess they was asleep. Nobody'd a-overlooked a thing
like it in the city. You see, it was like this: you know that fancy
brickyard they're gettin' ready to start for makin' extra special fire
brick for inside walls? Well, here was I worryin' about the six horses
comin' back on my hands, earnin' me nothin' an' eatin' me into the
poorhouse. I had to get 'm work somehow, an' I remembered the brickyard.
I drove the colt down an' talked with that Jap chemist who's been doin'
the experimentin'. Gee! They was foremen lookin' over the ground an'
everything gettin' ready to hum. I looked over the lay an' studied it.
Then I drove up to where they're openin' the clay pit--you know, that
fine, white chalky stuff we saw 'em borin' out just outside the hundred
an' forty acres with the three knolls. It's a down-hill haul, a mile,
an' two horses can do it easy. In fact, their hardest job'll be haulin'
the empty wagons up to the pit. Then I tied the colt an' went to
figurin'.
“The Jap professor'd told me the manager an' the other big guns of the
company was comin' up on the mornin' train. I wasn't shoutin' things
out to anybody, but I just made myself into a committee of welcome; an',
when the train pulled in, there I was, extendin' the glad hand of the
burg--likewise the glad hand of a guy you used to know in Oakland once,
a third-rate dub prizefighter by the name of--lemme see--yep, I got
it right--Big Bill Roberts was the name he used to sport, but now he's
known as William Roberts, E. S. Q.
“Well, as I was sayin', I gave 'm the glad hand, an' trailed along with
'em to the brickyard, an' from the talk I could see things was doin'.
Then I watched my chance an' sprung my proposition. I was scared stiff
all the time for maybe the teamin' was already arranged. But I knew it
wasn't when they asked for my figures. I had 'm by heart, an' I rattled
'm off, and the top-guy took 'm down in his note-book.
“'We're goin' into this big, an' at once,' he says, lookin' at me sharp.
'What kind of an outfit you got, Mr. Roberts?'”
“Me!--with only Hazel an' Hattie, an' them too small for heavy teamin'.
“'I can slap fourteen horses an' seven wagons onto the job at the jump,'
says I. 'An' if you want more, I'll get 'm, that's all.'
“'Give us fifteen minutes to consider, Mr. Roberts,' he says.
“'Sure,' says I, important as all hell--ahem--me!--'but a couple of
other things first. I want a two year contract, an' them figures all
depends on one thing. Otherwise they don't go.'
“'What's that,' he says.
“'The dump,' says I. 'Here we are on the ground, an' I might as well
show you.'
“An' I did. I showed 'm where I'd lose out if they stuck to their plan,
on account of the dip down an' pull up to the dump. 'All you gotta do,'
I says, 'is to build the bunkers fifty feet over, throw the road around
the rim of the hill, an' make about seventy or eighty feet of elevated
bridge.'
“Say, Saxon, that kind of talk got 'em. It was straight. Only they'd
been thinkin' about bricks, while I was only thinkin' of teamin'.
“I guess they was all of half an hour considerin', an' I was almost as
miserable waitin' as when I waited for you to say yes after I asked you.
I went over the figures, calculatin' what I could throw off if I had
to. You see, I'd given it to 'em stiff--regular city prices; an' I was
prepared to trim down. Then they come back.
“'Prices oughta be lower in the country,' says the top-guy.
“'Nope,' I says. 'This is a wine-grape valley. It don't raise enough
hay an' feed for its own animals. It has to be shipped in from the San
Joaquin Valley. Why, I can buy hay an' feed cheaper in San Francisco,
laid down, than I can here an' haul it myself.'
“An' that struck 'm hard. It was true, an' they knew it. But--say! If
they'd asked about wages for drivers, an' about horse-shoein' prices,
I'd a-had to come down; because, you see, they ain't no teamsters' union
in the country, an' no horseshoers' union, an' rent is low, an' them two
items come a whole lot cheaper. Huh! This afternoon I got a word bargain
with the blacksmith across from the post office; an' he takes my whole
bunch an' throws off twenty-five cents on each shoein', though it's on
the Q. T. But they didn't think to ask, bein' too full of bricks.”
Billy felt in his breast pocket, drew out a legal-looking document, and
handed it to Saxon.
“There it is,” he said, “the contract, full of all the agreements,
prices, an' penalties. I saw Mr. Hale down town an' showed it to 'm.
He says it's O.K. An' say, then I lit out. All over town, Kenwood,
Lawndale, everywhere, everybody, everything. The quarry teamin' finishes
Friday of this week. An' I take the whole outfit an' start Wednesday of
next week haulin' lumber for the buildin's, an' bricks for the kilns,
an' all the rest. An' when they're ready for the clay I 'm the boy
that'll give it to them.
“But I ain't told you the best yet. I couldn't get the switch right
away from Kenwood to Lawndale, and while I waited I went over my figures
again. You couldn't guess it in a million years. I'd made a mistake in
addition somewhere, an' soaked 'm ten per cent. more'n I'd expected.
Talk about findin' money! Any time you want them couple of extra men to
help out with the vegetables, say the word. Though we're goin' to have
to pinch the next couple of months. An' go ahead an' borrow that four
hundred from Gow Yum. An' tell him you'll pay eight per cent. interest,
an' that we won't want it more 'n three or four months.”
When Billy got away from Saxon's arms, he started leading the colt up
and down to cool it off. He stopped so abruptly that his back collided
with the colt's nose, and there was a lively minute of rearing and
plunging. Saxon waited, for she knew a fresh idea had struck Billy.
“Say,” he said, “do you know anything about bank accounts and drawin'
checks?”