The Valley of the Moon Jack London

  "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