"But, say, ain't your skin cool," he repeated with renewed

  wonder. "Soft as velvet, too, an' smooth as silk. It feels

  great."

  Gently explorative, he slid his hand from wrist to elbow and came

  to rest half way back. Tired and languid from the morning in the

  sun, she found herself thrilling to his touch and half-dreamily

  deciding that here was a man she could love, hands and all.

  "Now I've taken the cool all out of that spot." He did not look

  up to her, and she could see the roguish smile that curled on his

  lips. "So I guess I'll try another."

  He shifted his hand along her arm with soft sensuousness, and

  she, looking down at his lips, remembered the long tingling they

  had given hers the first time they had met.

  "Go on and talk," he urged, after a delicious five minutes of

  silence. "I like to watch your lips talking. It's funny, but

  every move they make looks like a tickly kiss."

  Greatly she wanted to stay where she was. Instead, she said:

  "If I talk, you won't like what I say."

  "Go on," he insisted. "You can't say anything I won't like."

  "Well, there's some poppies over there by the fence I want to

  pick. And then it's time for us to be going."

  "I lose," he laughed. "But you made twenty-five tickle kisses

  just the same. I counted 'em. I'll tell you what: you sing 'When

  the Harvest Days Are Over,' and let me have your other cool arm

  while you're doin' it, and then we'll go."

  She sang looking down into his eyes, which ware centered, not on

  hers, but on her lips. When she finished, she slipped his hands

  from her arms and got up. He was about to start for the horses,

  when she held her jacket out to him. Despite the independence

  natural to a girl who earned her own living, she had an innate

  love of the little services and finenesses; and, also, she

  remembered from her childhood the talk by the pioneer women of

  the courtesy and attendance of the caballeros of the

  Spanish-California days.

  Sunset greeted them when, after a wide circle to the east and

  south, they cleared the divide of the Contra Costa hills and

  began dropping down the long grade that led past Redwood Peak to

  Fruitvale. Beneath them stretched the flatlands to the bay,

  checkerboarded into fields and broken by the towns of Elmhurst,

  San Leandro, and Haywards. The smoke of Oakland filled the

  western sky with haze and murk, while beyond, across the bay,

  they could see the first winking lights of San Francisco.

  Darkness was on them, and Billy had become curiously silent. For

  half an hour he had given no recognition of her existence save

  once, when the chill evening wind caused him to tuck the robe

  tightly about her and himself. Half a dozen times Saxon found

  herself on the verge of the remark, "What's on your mind?" but

  each time let it remain unuttered. She sat very close to him. The

  warmth of their bodies intermingled, and she was aware of a great

  restfulness and content.

  "Say, Saxon," he began abruptly. "It's no use my holdin' it in

  any longer. It's ben in my mouth all day, ever since lunch.

  What's the matter with you an' me gettin' married?"

  She knew, very quietly and very gladly, that he meant it.

  Instinctively she was impelled to hold off, to make him woo her,

  to make herself more desirably valuable ere she yielded. Further,

  her woman's sensitiveness and pride were offended. She had never

  dreamed of so forthright and bald a proposal from the man to whom

  she would give herself. The simplicity and directness of Billy's

  proposal constituted almost a hurt. On the other hand she wanted

  him so much--how much she had not realized until now, when he had

  so unexpectedly made himself accessible.

  "Well you gotta say something, Saxon. Hand it to me, good or bad;

  but anyway hand it to me. An' just take into consideration that I

  love you. Why, I love you like the very devil, Saxon. I must,

  because I'm askin' you to marry me, an' I never asked any girl

  that before."

  Another silence fell, and Saxon found herself dwelling on the

  warmth, tingling now, under the lap-robe. When she realized

  whither her thoughts led, she blushed guiltily in the darkness.

  "How old are you, Billy?" she questioned, with a suddenness and

  irrelevance as disconcerting as his first words had been.

  "Twenty-two," he answered.

  "I am twenty-four."

  "As if I didn't know. When you left the orphan asylum and how old

  you were, how long you worked in the jute mills, the cannery, the

  paper-box factory, the laundry--maybe you think I can't do

  addition. I knew how old you was, even to your birthday."

  "That doesn't change the fact that I'm two years older."

  "What of it? If it counted for anything, I wouldn't be lovin'

  you, would I? Your mother was dead right. Love's the big stuff.

  It's what counts. Don't you see? I just love you, an' I gotta

  have you. It's natural, I guess; and I've always found with

  horses, dogs, and other folks, that what's natural is right.

  There's no gettin' away from it, Saxon; I gotta have you, an' I'm

  just hopin' hard you gotta have me. Maybe my hands ain't soft

  like bookkeepers' an' clerks, but they can work for you, an'

  fight like Sam Hill for you, and, Saxon, they can love you."

  The old sex antagonism which she had always experienced with men

  seemed to have vanished. She had no sense of being on the

  defensive. This was no game. It was what she had been looking for

  and dreaming about. Before Billy she was defenseless, and there

  was an all-satisfaction in the knowledge. She could deny him

  nothing. Not even if he proved to be like the others. And out of

  the greatness of the thought rose a greater thought--he would not

  so prove himself.

  She did not speak. Instead, in a glow of spirit and flesh, she

  reached out to his left hand and gently tried to remove it from

  the rein. He did not understand; but when she persisted he

  shifted the rein to his right and let her have her will with the

  other hand. Her head bent over it, and she kissed the teamster

  callouses.

  For the moment he was stunned.

  "You mean it?" he stammered.

  For reply, she kissed the hand again and murmured:

  "I love your hands, Billy. To me they are the most beautiful

  hands in the world, and it would take hours of talking to tell

  you all they mean to me."

  "Whoa!" he called to the horses.

  He pulled them in to a standstill, soothed them with his voice,

  and made the reins fast around the whip. Then he turned to her

  with arms around her and lips to lips.

  "Oh, Billy, I'll make you a good wife," she sobbed, when the kiss

  was broken.

  He kissed her wet eyes and found her lips again.

  "Now you know what I was thinkin' and why I was sweatin' when we

  was eatin' lunch. Just seemed I couldn't hold in much longer from

  tellin' you. Why, you know, you looked good to me from the first

  moment I spotted you."

  "And I think I loved you fr
om that first day, too, Billy. And I

  was so proud of you all that day, you were so kind and gentle,

  and so strong, and the way the men all respected you and the

  girls all wanted you, and the way you fought those three Irishmen

  when I was behind the picnic table. I couldn't love or marry a

  man I wasn't proud of, and I'm so proud of you, so proud."

  "Not half as much as I am right now of myself," he answered, "for

  having won you. It's too good to be true. Maybe the alarm

  clock'll go off and wake me up in a couple of minutes. Well,

  anyway, if it does, I'm goin' to make the best of them two

  minutes first. Watch out I don't eat you, I'm that hungry for

  you."

  He smothered her in an embrace, holding her so tightly to him

  that it almost hurt. After what was to her an age-long period of

  bliss, his arms relaxed and he seemed to make an effort to draw

  himself together.

  "An' the clock ain't gone off yet," he whispered against her

  cheek. "And it's a dark night, an' there's Fruitvale right ahead,

  an' if there ain't King and Prince standin' still in the middle

  of the road. I never thought the time'd come when I wouldn't want

  to take the ribbons on a fine pair of horses. But this is that

  time. I just can't let go of you, and I've gotta some time

  to-night. It hurts worse'n poison, but here goes."

  He restored her to herself, tucked the disarranged robe about

  her, and chirruped to the impatient team.

  Half an hour later he called "Whoa!"

  "I know I'm awake now, but I don't know but maybe I dreamed all

  the rest, and I just want to make sure."

  And again be made the reins fast and took her in his arms.

  CHAPTER XII

  The days flew by for Saxon. She worked on steadily at the

  laundry, even doing more overtime than usual, and all her free

  waking hours were devoted to preparations for the great change

  and to Billy. He had proved himself God's own impetuous lover by

  insisting on getting married the next day after the proposal, and

  then by resolutely refusing to compromise on more than a week's

  delay.

  "Why wait?" he demanded. "We're not gettin' any younger so far as

  I can notice, an' think of all we lose every day we wait."

  In the end, he gave in to a month, which was well, for in two

  weeks he was transferred, with half a dozen other drivers, to

  work from the big stables of Corberly and Morrison in West

  Oakland. House-hunting in the other end of town ceased, and on

  Pine Street, between Fifth and Fourth, and in immediate proximity

  to the great Southern Pacific railroad yards, Billy and Saxon

  rented a neat cottage of four small rooms for ten dollars a

  month.

  "Dog-cheap is what I call it, when I think of the small rooms

  I've ben soaked for," was Billy's judgment. "Look at the one I

  got now, not as big as the smallest here, an' me payin' six

  dollars a month for it."

  "But it's furnished," Saxon reminded him. "You see, that makes a

  difference."

  But Billy didn't see.

  "I ain't much of a scholar, Saxon, but I know simple arithmetic;

  I've soaked my watch when I was hard up, and I can calculate

  interest. How much do you figure it will cost to furnish the

  house, carpets on the floor, linoleum on the kitchen, and all?"

  "We can do it nicely for three hundred dollars," she answered.

  "I've been thinking it over and I'm sure we can do it for that."

  "Three hundred," he muttered, wrinkling his brows with

  concentration. "Three hundred, say at six per cent.--that'd be

  six cents on the dollar, sixty cents on ten dollars, six dollars

  on the hundred, on three hundred eighteen dollars. Say--I'm a

  bear at multiplyin' by ten. Now divide eighteen by twelve, that'd

  be a dollar an' a half a month interest." He stopped, satisfied

  that he had proved his contention. Then his face quickened with a

  fresh thought. "Hold on! That ain't all. That'd be the interest

  on the furniture for four rooms. Divide by four. What's a dollar

  an' a half divided by four?"

  "Four into fifteen, three times and three to carry," Saxon

  recited glibly. "Four into thirty is seven, twenty-eight, two to

  carry; and two-fourths is one-half. There you are."

  "Gee! You're the real bear at figures." He hesitated. "I didn't

  follow you. How much did you say it was?"

  "Thirty-seven and a half cents."

  "Ah, ha! Now we'll see how much I've ben gouged for my one room.

  Ten dollars a month for four rooms is two an' a half for one. Add

  thirty-seven an' a half cents interest on furniture, an' that

  makes two dollars an' eighty-seven an' a half cents. Subtract

  from six dollars. . . ."

  "Three dollars and twelve and a half cents," she supplied

  quickly.

  "There we are! Three dollars an' twelve an' a half cents I'm

  jiggered out of on the room I'm rentin'. Say! Bein' married is

  like savin' money, ain't it?"

  "But furniture wears out, Billy."

  "By golly, I never thought of that. It ought to be figured, too.

  Anyway, we've got a snap here, and next Saturday afternoon you've

  gotta get off from the laundry so as we can go an' buy our

  furniture. I saw Salinger's last night. I give'm fifty down, and

  the rest installment plan, ten dollars a month. In twenty-five

  months the furniture's ourn. An' remember, Saxon, you wanta buy

  everything you want, no matter how much it costs. No scrimpin' on

  what's for you an' me. Get me?"

  She nodded, with no betrayal on her face of the myriad secret

  economies that filled her mind. A hint of moisture glistened in

  her eyes.

  "You're so good to me, Billy," she murmured, as she came to him

  and was met inside his arms.

  "So you've gone an' done it," Mary commented, one morning in the

  laundry. They had not been at work ten minutes ere her eye had

  glimpsed the topaz ring on the third finger of Saxon's left hand.

  "Who's the lucky one? Charley Long or Billy Roberts?"

  "Billy," was the answer.

  "Huh! Takin' a young boy to raise, eh?"

  Saxon showed that the stab had gone home, and Mary was all

  contrition.

  "Can't you take a josh? I'm glad to death at the news. Billy's a

  awful good man, and I'm glad to see you get him. There ain't many

  like him knockin' 'round, an' they ain't to be had for the

  askin'. An' you're both lucky. You was just made for each other,

  an' you'll make him a better wife than any girl I know. When is

  it to be?"

  Going home from the laundry a few days later, Saxon encountered

  Charley Long. He blocked the sidewalk, and compelled speech with

  her.

  "So you're runnin' with a prizefighter," he sneered. "A blind man

  can see your finish."

  For the first time she was unafraid of this big-bodied,

  black-browed men with the hairy-matted hands and fingers. She

  held up her left hand.

  "See that? It's something, with all your strength, that you could

  never put on my finger. Billy Roberts put it on inside a week. He

  got your number, C
harley Long, and at the same time he got me."

  "Skiddoo for you," Long retorted. "Twenty-three's your number."

  "He's not like you," Saxon went on. "He's a man, every bit of

  him, a fine, clean man."

  Long laughed hoarsely.

  "He's got your goat all right."

  "And yours," she flashed back.

  "I could tell you things about him. Saxon, straight, he ain't no

  good. If I was to tell you--"

  "You'd better get out of my way," she interrupted, "or I'll tell

  him, and you know what you'll get, you great big bully."

  Long shuffled uneasily, then reluctantly stepped aside.

  "You're a caution," he said, half admiringly.

  "So's Billy Roberts," she laughed, and continued on her way.

  After half a dozen steps she stopped. "Say," she called.

  The big blacksmith turned toward her with eagerness.

  "About a block back," she said, "I saw a man with hip disease.

  You might go and beat him up."

  Of one extravagance Saxon was guilty in the course of the brief

  engagement period. A full day's wages she spent in the purchase

  of half a dozen cabinet photographs of herself. Billy had

  insisted that life was unendurable could he not look upon her

  semblance the last thing when he went to bed at night and the

  first thing when he got up in the morning. In return, his

  photographs, one conventional and one in the stripped fighting

  costume of the ring, ornamented her looking glass. It was while

  gazing at the latter that she was reminded of her wonderful

  mother's tales of the ancient Saxons and sea-foragers of the

  English coasts. From the chest of drawers that had crossed the

  plains she drew forth another of her several precious heirloom--a

  scrap-book of her mother's in which was pasted much of the

  fugitive newspaper verse of pioneer California days. Also, there

  were copies of paintings and old wood engravings from the

  magazines of a generation and more before.

  Saxon ran the pages with familiar fingers and stopped at the

  picture she was seeking. Between bold headlands of rock and under

  a gray cloud-blown sky, a dozen boats, long and lean and dark,

  beaked like monstrous birds, were landing on a foam-whitened

  beach of sand. The men in the boats, half naked, huge-muscled and

  fair-haired, wore winged helmets. In their hands were swords and

  spears, and they were leaping, waist-deep, into the sea-wash and

  wading ashore. Opposed to them, contesting the landing, were

  skin-clad savages, unlike Indians, however, who clustered on the

  beach or waded into the water to their knees. The first blows

  were being struck, and here and there the bodies of the dead and

  wounded rolled in the surf. One fair-haired invader lay across

  the gunwale of a boat, the manner of his death told by the arrow

  that transfixed his breast. In the air, leaping past him into the

  water, sword in hand, was Billy. There was no mistaking it. The

  striking blondness, the face, the eyes, the mouth were the same.

  The very expression on the face was what had been on Billy's the

  day of the picnic when he faced the three wild Irishmen.

  Somewhere out of the ruck of those warring races had emerged

  Billy's ancestors, and hers, was her afterthought, as she closed

  the book and put it back in the drawer. And some of those

  ancestors had made this ancient and battered chest of drawers

  which had crossed the salt ocean and the plains and been pierced

  by a bullet in the fight with the Indians at Little Meadow.

  Almost, it seemed, she could visualize the women who had kept

  their pretties and their family homespun in its drawers--the

  women of those wandering generations who were grandmothers and

  greater great grandmothers of her own mother. Well, she sighed,

  it was a good stock to be born of, a hard-working, hard-fighting

  stock. She fell to wondering what her life would have been like

  had she been born a Chinese woman, or an Italian woman like those