"Why you . . . you stinkin', dirty cur, you think you're goin' to
pull me," Billy began. "Turn the light on yourself. I want to see
what kind of an ugly mug you got. Pull me, eh? Pull me? For two
cents I'd get up there an' beat you to a jelly, you--"
"No, no, Billy," Saxon pleaded. "Don't make trouble. It would
mean jail."
"That's right," the constable approved, "listen to your woman."
"She's my wife, an' see you speak of her as such," Billy warned.
"Now get out, if you know what's good for yourself."
"I've seen your kind before," the constable retorted. "An' I've
got my little persuader with me. Take a squint."
The shaft of light shifted, and out of the darkness, illuminated
with ghastly brilliance, they saw thrust a hand holding a
revolver. This hand seemed a thing apart, self-existent, with no
corporeal attachment, and it appeared and disappeared like an
apparition as the thumb-pressure wavered on the switch. One
moment they were staring at the hand and revolver, the next
moment at impenetrable darkness, and the next moment again at the
hand and revolver.
"Now, I guess you'll come," the constable gloated.
"You got another guess comin'," Billy began.
But at that moment the light went out. They heard a quick
movement on the officer's part and the thud of the light-stick on
the ground. Both Billy and the constable fumbled for it, but
Billy found it and flashed it on the other. They saw a
gray-bearded man clad in streaming oilskins. He was an old man,
and reminded Saxon of the sort she had been used to see in Grand
Army processions on Decoration Day.
"Give me that stick," he bullied.
Billy sneered a refusal.
"Then I'll put a hole through you, by criminy."
He leveled the revolver directly at Billy, whose thumb on the
switch did not waver, and they could see the gleaming bullet-tips
in the chambers of the cylinder.
"Why, you whiskery old skunk, you ain't got the grit to shoot
sour apples," was Billy's answer. "I know your kind--brave as
lions when it comes to pullin' miserable, broken-spirited bindle
stiffs, but as leery as a yellow dog when you face a man. Pull
that trigger! Why, you pusillanimous piece of dirt, you'd run
with your tail between your legs if I said boo!"
Suiting action to the word, Billy let out an explosive "BOO!" and
Saxon giggled involuntarily at the startle it caused in the
constable.
"I'll give you a last chance," the latter grated through his
teeth. "Turn over that light-stick an' come along peaceable, or
I'll lay you out."
Saxon was frightened for Billy's sake, and yet only half
frightened. She had a faith that the man dared not fire, and she
felt the old familiar thrills of admiration for Billy's courage.
She could not see his face, but she knew in all certitude that it
was bleak and passionless in the terrifying way she had seen it
when he fought the three Irishmen.
"You ain't the first man I killed," the constable threatened.
"I'm an old soldier, an' I ain't squeamish over blood--"
"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Saxon broke in,
"trying to shame and disgrace peaceable people who've done no
wrong."
"You've done wrong sleepin' here," was his vindication. "This
ain't your property. It's agin the law. An' folks that go agin
the law go to jail, as the two of you'll go. I've sent many a
tramp up for thirty days for sleepin' in this very shack. Why,
it's a regular trap for 'em. I got a good glimpse of your faces
an' could see you was tough characters." He turned on Billy.
"I've fooled enough with you. Are you goin' to give in an' come
peaceable?"
"I'm goin' to tell you a couple of things, old boss," Billy
answered. "Number one: you ain't goin' to pull us. Number two:
we're goin' to sleep the night out here."
"Gimme that light-stick," the constable demanded peremptorily.
"G'wan, Whiskers. You're standin' on your foot. Beat it. Pull
your freight. As for your torch you'll find it outside in the
mud."
Billy shifted the light until it illuminated the doorway, and
then threw the stick as he would pitch a baseball. They were now
in total darkness, and they could hear the intruder gritting his
teeth in rage.
"Now start your shootin' an' see what'll happen to you," Billy
advised menacingly.
Saxon felt for Billy's hand and squeezed it proudly. The
constable grumbled some threat.
"What's that?" Billy demanded sharply. "Ain't you gone yet? Now
listen to me, Whiskers. I've put up with all your shenanigan I'm
goin' to. Now get out or I'll throw you out. An' if you come
monkeyin, around here again you'll get yours. Now get!"
So great was the roar of the storm that they could hear nothing.
Billy rolled a cigarette. When he lighted it, they saw the barn
was empty. Billy chuckled.
"Say, I was so mad I clean forgot my run-around. It's only just
beginnin' to tune up again."
Saxon made him lie down and receive her soothing ministrations.
"There is no use moving till morning," she said. "Then, just as
soon as it's light, we'll catch a car into San Jose, rent a
room, get a hot breakfast, and go to a drug store for the proper
stuff for poulticing or whatever treatment's needed."
"But Benson," Billy demurred.
"I'll telephone him from town. It will only cost five cents. I
saw he had, a wire. And you couldn't plow on account of the rain,
even if your finger was well. Besides, we'll both be mending
together. My heel will be all right by the time it clears up and
we can start traveling."
CHAPTER V
Early on Monday morning, three days later, Saxon and Billy took
an electric car to the end of the line, and started a second time
for San Juan. Puddles were standing in the road, but the sun
shone from a blue sky, and everywhere, on the ground, was a faint
hint of budding green. At Benson's Saxon waited while Billy went
in to get his six dollars for the three days' plowing.
"Kicked like a steer because I was quittin'," he told her when he
came back. "He wouldn't listen at first. Said he'd put me to
drivin' in a few days, an' that there wasn't enough good
four-horse men to let one go easily."
"And what did you say?"
"Oh, I just told 'm I had to be movin' along. An' when he tried
to argue I told 'm my wife was with me, an' she was blamed
anxious to get along."
"But so are you, Billy."
"Sure, Pete; but just the same I wasn't as keen as you. Doggone
it, I was gettin' to like that plowin'. I'll never be scairt to
ask for a job at it again. I've got to where I savvy the burro,
an' you bet I can plow against most of 'm right now."
An hour afterward, with a good three miles to their credit, they
edged to the side of the road at the sound of an automobile
behind them. But the machine did not pass. Benson was alone in
it, and he came t
o a stop alongside.
"Where are you bound?" he inquired of Billy, with a quick,
measuring glance at Saxon.
"Monterey--if you're goin' that far," Billy answered with a
chuckle.
"I can give you a lift as far as Watsonville. It would take you
several days on shank's mare with those loads. Climb in." He
addressed Saxon directly. "Do you want to ride in front?"
Saxon glanced to Billy.
"Go on," he approved. "It's fine in front.--This is my wife, Mr.
Benson--Mrs. Roberts."
"Oh, ho, so you're the one that took your husband away from me,"
Benson accused good humoredly, as he tucked the robe around her.
Saxon shouldered the responsibility and became absorbed in
watching him start the car.
"I'd be a mighty poor farmer if I owned no more land than you'd
plowed before you came to me," Benson, with a twinkling eye,
jerked over his shoulder to Billy.
"I'd never had my hands on a plow but once before," Billy
confessed. "But a fellow has to learn some time."
"At two dollars a day?"
"If he can get some alfalfa artist to put up for it," Billy met
him complacently.
Benson laughed heartily.
"You're a quick learner," he complimented. "I could see that you
and plows weren't on speaking acquaintance. But you took hold
right. There isn't one man in ten I could hire off the county
road that could do as well as you were doing on the third day.
But your big asset is that you know horses. It was half a joke
when I told you to take the lines that morning. You're a trained
horseman and a born horseman as well."
"He's very gentle with horses," Saxon said.
"But there's more than that to it," Benson took her up. "Your
husband's got the WAY with him. It's hard to explain. But that's
what it is--the WAY. It's an instinct almost. Kindness is
necessary. But GRIP is more so. Your husband grips his horses.
Take the test I gave him with the four-horse load. It was too
complicated and severe. Kindness couldn't have done it. It took
grip. I could see it the moment he started. There wasn't any
doubt in his mind. There wasn't any doubt in the horses. They got
the feel of him. They just knew the thing was going to be done
and that it was up to them to do it. They didn't have any fear,
but just the same they knew the boss was in the seat. When he
took hold of those lines, he took hold of the horses. He gripped
them, don't you see. He picked them up and put them where he
wanted them, swung them up and down and right and left, made
them pull, and slack, and back--and they knew everything was
going to come out right. Oh, horses may be stupid, but they're
not altogether fools. They know when the proper horseman has hold
of them, though how they know it so quickly is beyond me."
Benson paused, half vexed at his volubility, and gazed keenly at
Saxon to see if she had followed him. What he saw in her face
and eyes satisfied him, and he added, with a short laugh:
"Horseflesh is a hobby of mine. Don't think otherwise because I
am running a stink engine. I'd rather be streaking along here
behind a pair of fast-steppers. But I'd lose time on them, and,
worse than that, I'd be too anxious about them all the time. As
for this thing, why, it has no nerves, no delicate joints nor
tendons; it's a case of let her rip."
The miles flew past and Saxon was soon deep in talk with her
host. Here again, she discerned immediately, was a type of the
new farmer. The knowledge she had picked up enabled her to talk
to advantage, and when Benson talked she was amazed that she
could understand so much. In response to his direct querying, she
told him her and Billy's plans, sketching the Oakland life
vaguely, and dwelling on their future intentions.
Almost as in a dream, when they passed the nurseries at Morgan
Hill, she learned they had come twenty miles, and realized that
it was a longer stretch than they had planned to walk that day.
And still the machine hummed on, eating up the distance as ever
it flashed into view.
"I wondered what so good a man as your husband was doing on the
road," Benson told her.
"Yes," she smiled. "He said you said he must be a good man gone
wrong."
"But you see, I didn't know about YOU. Now I understand. Though I
must say it's extraordinary in these days for a young couple like
you to pack your blankets in search of land. And, before I forget
it, I want to tell you one thing." He turned to Billy. "I am just
telling your wife that there's an all-the-year job waiting for
you on my ranch. And there's a tight little cottage of three
rooms the two of you can housekeep in. Don't forget."
Among other things Saxon discovered that Benson had gone through
the College of Agriculture at the University of California--a
branch of learning she had not known existed. He gave her small
hope in her search for government land.
"The only government land left," he informed her, "is what is not
good enough to take up for one reason or another. If it's good
land down there where you're going, then the market is
inaccessible. I know no railroads tap in there."
"Wait till we strike Pajaro Valley," he said, when they had
passed Gilroy and were booming on toward Sargent's. "I'll show
you what can be done with the soil--and not by cow-college
graduates but by uneducated foreigners that the high and mighty
American has always sneered at. I'll show you. It's one of the
most wonderful demonstrations in the state."
At Sargent's he left them in the machine a few minutes while he
transacted business.
"Whew! It beats hikin'," Billy said. "The day's young yet and
when he drops us we'll be fresh for a few miles on our own. Just
the same, when we get settled an' well off, I guess I'll stick by
horses. They'll always be good enough for me."
"A machine's only good to get somewhere in a hurry," Saxon
agreed. "Of course, if we got very, very rich--"
"Say, Saxon," Billy broke in, suddenly struck with an idea. "I've
learned one thing. I ain't afraid any more of not gettin' work in
the country. I was at first, but I didn't tell you. Just the same
I was dead leery when we pulled out on the San Leandro pike. An'
here, already, is two places open--Mrs. Mortimer's an' Benson's;
an' steady jobs, too. Yep, a man can get work in the country."
"Ah," Saxon amended, with a proud little smile, "you haven't said
it right. Any GOOD man can get work in the country. The big
farmers don't hire men out of charity."
"Sure; they ain't in it for their health," he grinned.
"And they jump at you. That's because you are a good man. They
can see it with half an eye. Why, Billy, take all the working
tramps we've met on the road already. There wasn't one to compare
with you. I looked them over. They're all weak--weak in their
bodies, weak in their heads, weak both ways."
"Yep, they are a pretty measly bunch," Billy admitted modest
ly.
"It's the wrong time of the year to see Pajaro Valley," Benson
said, when he again sat beside Saxon and Sargent's was a thing of
the past. "Just the same, it's worth seeing any time. Think of
it--twelve thousand acres of apples! Do you know what they call
Pajaro Valley now? New Dalmatia. We're being squeezed out. We
Yankees thought we were smart. Well, the Dalmatians came along
and showed they were smarter. They were miserable
immigrants--poorer than Job's turkey. First, they worked at day's
labor in the fruit harvest. Next they began, in a small way,
buying the apples on the trees. The more money they made the
bigger became their deals. Pretty soon they were renting the
orchards on long leases. And now, they are beginning to buy the
land. It won't be long before they own the whole valley, and the
last American will be gone.
"Oh, our smart Yankees! Why, those first ragged Slavs in their
first little deals with us only made something like two and three
thousand per cent. profits. And now they're satisfied to make a
hundred per cent. It's a calamity if their profits sink to
twenty-five or fifty per cent."
"It's like San Leandro," Saxon said. "The original owners of the
land are about all gone already. It's intensive cultivation." She
liked that phrase. "It isn't a case of having a lot of acres, but
of how much they can get out of one acre."
"Yes, and more than that," Benson answered, nodding his head
emphatically. "Lots of them, like Luke Scurich, are in it on a
large scale. Several of them are worth a quarter of a million
already. I know ten of them who will average one hundred and
fifty thousand each. They have a WAY with apples. It's almost a
gift. They KNOW trees in much the same way your husband knows
horses. Each tree is just as much an individual to them as a
horse is to me. They know each tree, its whole history,
everything that ever happened to it, its every idiosyncrasy. They
have their fingers on its pulse. They can tell if it's feeling as
well to-day as it felt yesterday. And if it isn't, they know why
and proceed to remedy matters for it. They can look at a tree in
bloom and tell how many boxes of apples it will pack, and not
only that--they'll know what the quality and grades of those
apples are going to be. Why, they know each individual apple, and
they pick it tenderly, with love, never hurting it, and pack it
and ship it tenderly and with love, and when it arrives at
market, it isn't bruised nor rotten, and it fetches top price.
"Yes, it's more than intensive. These Adriatic Slavs are
long-headed in business. Not only can they grow apples, but they
can sell apples. No market? What does it matter? Make a market.
That's their way, while our kind let the crops rot knee-deep
under the trees. Look at Peter Mengol. Every year he goes to
England, and he takes a hundred carloads of yellow Newton pippins
with him. Why, those Dalmatians are showing Pajaro apples on the
South African market right now, and coining money out of it hand
over fist."
"What do they do with all the money?" Saxon queried.
"Buy the Americans of Pajaro Valley out, of course, as they are
already doing."
"And then?" she questioned.
Benson looked at her quickly.
"Then they'll start buying the Americans out of some other
valley. And the Americans will spend the money and by the second
generation start rotting in the cities, as you and your husband
would have rotted if you hadn't got out."
Saxon could not repress a shudder.--As Mary had rotted, she
thought; as Bert and all the rest had rotted; as Tom and all the
rest were rotting.
"Oh, it's a great country," Benson was continuing. "But we're not
a great people. Kipling is right. We're crowded out and sitting
on the stoop. And the worst of it is there's no reason we