ends. How he does it is beyond me, but he knows the market better

  than we commission merchants.

  "Then, again, he's patient but not stubborn. Suppose he does make

  a mistake, and gets in a crop, and then finds the market is

  wrong. In such a situation the white man gets stubborn and hangs

  on like a bulldog. But not the Chink. He's going to minimize the

  losses of that mistake. That land has got to work, and make

  money. Without a quiver or a regret, the moment he's learned his

  error, he puts his plows into that crop, turns it under, and

  plants something else. He has the savve. He can look at a sprout,

  just poked up out of the ground, and tell how it's going to turn

  out--whether it will head up or won't head up; or if it's going

  to head up good, medium, or bad. That's one end. Take the other

  end. He controls his crop. He forces it or holds it back with an

  eye on the market. And when the market is just right, there's his

  crop, ready to deliver, timed to the minute."

  The conversation with Gunston lasted hours, and the more he

  talked of the Chinese and their farming ways the more Saxon

  became aware of a growing dissatisfaction. She did not question

  the facts. The trouble was that they were not alluring. Somehow,

  she could not find place for them in her valley of the moon. It

  was not until the genial Jew left the train that Billy gave

  definite statement to what was vaguely bothering her.

  "Huh! We ain't Chinks. We're white folks. Does a Chink ever want

  to ride a horse, hell-bent for election an' havin' a good time of

  it? Did you ever see a Chink go swimmin' out through the breakers

  at Carmel?--or boxin', wrestlin', runnin' an' jumpin' for the

  sport of it? Did you ever see a Chink take a shotgun on his arm,

  tramp six miles, an' come back happy with one measly rabbit? What

  does a Chink do? Work his damned head off. That's all he's good

  for. To hell with work, if that's the whole of the game--an' I've

  done my share of work, an' I can work alongside of any of 'em.

  But what's the good? If they's one thing I've learned solid since

  you an' me hit the road, Saxon, it is that work's the least part

  of life. God!--if it was all of life I couldn't cut my throat

  quick enough to get away from it. I want shotguns an' rifles, an'

  a horse between my legs. I don't want to be so tired all the time

  I can't love my wife. Who wants to be rich an' clear two hundred

  an' forty thousand on a potato deal! Look at Rockefeller. Has to

  live on milk. I want porterhouse and a stomach that can bite

  sole-leather. An' I want you, an' plenty of time along with you,

  an' fun for both of us. What's the good of life if they ain't no

  fun?"

  "Oh, Billy!" Saxon cried. "It's just what I've been trying to get

  straightened out in my head. It's been worrying me for ever so

  long. I was afraid there was something wrong with me--that I

  wasn't made for the country after all. All the time I didn't envy

  the San Leandro Portuguese. I didn't want to be one, nor a Pajaro

  Valley Dalmatian, nor even a Mrs. Mortimer. And you didn't

  either. What we want is a valley of the moon, with not too much

  work, and all the fun we want. And we'll just keep on looking

  until we find it. And if we don't find it, we'll go on having the

  fun just as we have ever since we left Oakland. And, Billy . . .

  we're never, never going to work our damned heads off, are we?"

  "Not on your life," Billy growled in fierce affirmation.

  They walked into Black Diamond with their packs on their backs.

  It was a scattered village of shabby little cottages, with a main

  street that was a wallow of black mud from the last late spring

  rain. The sidewalks bumped up and down in uneven steps and

  landings. Everything seemed un-American. The names on the strange

  dingy shops were unspeakably foreign. The one dingy hotel was run

  by a Greek. Greeks were everywhere--swarthy men in sea-boots and

  tam-o'-shanters, hatless women in bright colors, hordes of sturdy

  children, and all speaking in outlandish voices, crying shrilly

  and vivaciously with the volubility of the Mediterranean.

  "Huh!--this ain't the United States," Billy muttered. Down on the

  water front they found a fish cannery and an asparagus cannery in

  the height of the busy season, where they looked in vain among

  the toilers for familiar American faces. Billy picked out the

  bookkeepers and foremen for Americans. All the rest were Greeks,

  Italians, and Chinese.

  At the steamboat wharf, they watched the bright-painted Greek

  boats arriving, discharging their loads of glorious salmon, and

  departing. New York Cut-Off, as the slough was called, curved to

  the west and north and flowed into a vast body of water which was

  the united Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers.

  Beyond the steamboat wharf, the fishing wharves dwindled to

  stages for the drying of nets; and here, away from the noise and

  clatter of the alien town, Saxon and Billy took off their packs

  and rested. The tall, rustling tules grew out of the deep water

  close to the dilapidated boat-landing where they sat. Opposite

  the town lay a long flat island, on which a row of ragged poplars

  leaned against the sky.

  "Just like in that Dutch windmill picture Mark Hall has," Saxon

  said.

  Billy pointed out the mouth of the slough and across the broad

  reach of water to a cluster of tiny white buildings, behind

  which, like a glimmering mirage, rolled the low Montezuma Hills.

  "Those houses is Collinsville," he informed her. "The Sacramento

  river comes in there, and you go up it to Rio Vista an' Isleton,

  and Walnut Grove, and all those places Mr. Gunston was tellin' us

  about. It's all islands and sloughs, connectin' clear across an'

  back to the San Joaquin."

  "Isn't the sun good," Saxon yawned. "And how quiet it is here, so

  short a distance away from those strange foreigners. And to

  think! in the cities, right now, men are beating and killing each

  other for jobs."

  Now and again an overland passenger train rushed by in the

  distance, echoing along the background of foothills of Mt.

  Diablo, which bulked, twin-peaked, greencrinkled, against the

  sky. Then the slumbrous quiet would fall, to be broken by the far

  call of a foreign tongue or by a gasoline fishing boat chugging

  in through the mouth of the slough.

  Not a hundred feet away, anchored close in the tules, lay a

  beautiful white yacht. Despite its tininess, it looked broad and

  comfortable. Smoke was rising for'ard from its stovepipe. On its

  stern, in gold letters, they read Roamer. On top of the cabin,

  basking in the sunshine, lay a man and woman, the latter with a

  pink scarf around her head. The man was reading aloud from a

  book, while she sewed. Beside them sprawled a fox terrier.

  "Gosh! they don't have to stick around cities to be happy," Billy

  commented.

  A Japanese came on deck from the cabin, sat down for'ard, and

  began picking a chicken. The feathers floated away in a long line

  towar
d the mouth of the slough.

  "Oh! Look!" Saxon pointed in her excitement. "He's fishing! And

  the line is fast to his toe!"

  The man had dropped the book face-downward on the cabin and

  reached for the line, while the woman looked up from her sewing,

  and the terrier began to bark. In came the line, hand under hand,

  and at the end a big catfish. When this was removed, and the line

  rebaited and dropped overboard, the man took a turn around his

  toe and went on reading.

  A Japanese came down on the landing-stage beside Saxon and Billy,

  and hailed the yacht. He carried parcels of meat and vegetables;

  one coat pocket bulged with letters, the other with morning

  papers. In response to his hail, the Japanese on the yacht stood

  up with the part-plucked chicken. The man said something to him,

  put aside the book, got into the white skiff lying astern, and

  rowed to the landing. As he came alongside the stage, he pulled

  in his oars, caught hold, and said good morning genially.

  "Why, I know you," Saxon said impulsively, to Billy's amazement.

  "You are. . . ."

  Here she broke off in confusion.

  "Go on," the man said, smiling reassurance.

  "You are Jack Hastings, I 'm sure of it. I used to see your

  photograph in the papers all the time you were war correspondent

  in the Japanese-Russian War. You've written lots of books, though

  I've never read them."

  "Right you are," he ratified. "And what's your name?"

  Saxon introduced herself and Billy, and, when she noted the

  writer's observant eye on their packs, she sketched the

  pilgrimage they were on. The farm in the valley of the moon

  evidently caught his fancy, and, though the Japanese and his

  parcels were safely in the skiff, Hastings still lingered. When

  Saxon spoke of Carmel, he seemed to know everybody in Hall's

  crowd, and when he heard they were intending to go to Rio Vista,

  his invitation was immediate.

  "Why, we're going that way ourselves, inside an hour, as soon as

  slack water comes," he exclaimed. "It's just the thing. Come on

  on board. We'll be there by four this afternoon if there's any

  wind at all. Come on. My wife's on board, and Mrs. Hall is one of

  her best chums. We've been away to South America--just got back;

  or you'd have seen us in Carmel. Hal wrote to us about the pair

  of you."

  It was the second time in her life that Saxon had been in a small

  boat, and the Roamer was the first yacht she had ever been on

  board. The writer's wife, whom he called Clara, welcomed them

  heartily, and Saxon lost no time in falling in love with her and

  in being fallen in love with in return. So strikingly did they

  resemble each other, that Hastings was not many minutes in

  calling attention to it. He made them stand side by side, studied

  their eyes and mouths and ears, compared their hands, their hair,

  their ankles, and swore that his fondest dream was shattered--

  namely, that when Clara had been made the mold was broken.

  On Clara's suggestion that it might have been pretty much the

  same mold, they compared histories. Both were of the pioneer

  stock. Clara's mother, like Saxon's, had crossed the Plains with

  ox-teams, and, like Saxon's, had wintered in Salt Intake City--in

  fact, had, with her sisters, opened the first Gentile school in

  that Mormon stronghold. And, if Saxon's father had helped raise

  the Bear Flag rebellion at Sonoma, it was at Sonoma that Clara's

  father had mustered in for the War of the Rebellion and ridden as

  far east with his troop as Salt Lake City, of which place he had

  been provost marshal when the Mormon trouble flared up. To

  complete it all, Clara fetched from the cabin an ukulele of boa

  wood that was the twin to Saxon's, and together they sang

  "Honolulu Tomboy."

  Hastings decided to eat dinner--he called the midday meal by its

  old-fashioned name--before sailing; and down below Saxon was

  surprised and delighted by the measure of comfort in so tiny a

  cabin. There was just room for Billy to stand upright. A

  centerboard-case divided the room in half longitudinally, and to

  this was attached the hinged table from which they ate. Low bunks

  that ran the full cabin length, upholstered in cheerful green,

  served as seats. A curtain, easily attached by hooks between the

  centerboard-case and the roof, at night screened Mrs. Hastings'

  sleeping quarters. On the opposite side the two Japanese bunked,

  while for'ard, under the deck, was the galley. So small was it

  that there was just room beside it for the cook, who was

  compelled by the low deck to squat on his hands. The other

  Japanese, who had brought the parcels on board, waited on the

  table.

  "They are looking for a ranch in the valley of the moon,"

  Hastings concluded his explanation of the pilgrimage to Clara.

  "Oh!--don't you know--" she cried; but was silenced by her

  husband.

  "Hush," he said peremptorily, then turned to their guests.

  "Listen. There's something in that valley of the moon idea, but I

  won't tell you what. It is a secret. Now we've a ranch in Sonoma

  Valley about eight miles from the very town of Sonoma where you

  two girls' fathers took up soldiering; and if you ever come to

  our ranch you'll learn the secret. Oh, believe me, it's connected

  with your valley of the moon.--Isn't it, Mate?"

  This last was the mutual name he and Clara had for each other.

  She smiled and laughed and nodded her head.

  "You might find our valley the very one you are looking for," she

  said.

  But Hastings shook his head at her to check further speech. She

  turned to the fox terrier and made it speak for a piece of meat.

  "Her name's Peggy," she told Saxon. "We had two Irish terriers

  down in the South Seas, brother and sister, but they died. We

  called them Peggy and Possum. So she's named after the original

  Peggy."

  Billy was impressed by the ease with which the Roamer was

  operated. While they lingered at table, at a word from Hastings

  the two Japanese had gone on deck. Billy could hear them throwing

  down the halyards, casting off gaskets, and heaving the anchor

  short on the tiny winch. In several minutes one called down that

  everything was ready, and all went on deck. Hoisting mainsail and

  jigger was a matter of minutes. Then the cook and cabin-boy broke

  out anchor, and, while one hove it up, the other hoisted the jib.

  Hastings, at the wheel, trimmed the sheet. The Roamer paid off,

  filled her sails, slightly heeling, and slid across the smooth

  water and out the mouth of New York Slough. The Japanese coiled

  the halyards and went below for their own dinner.

  "The flood is just beginning to make," said Hastings, pointing to

  a striped spar-buoy that was slightly tipping up-stream on the

  edge of the channel.

  The tiny white houses of Collinsville, which they were nearing,

  disappeared behind a low island, though the Montezuma Hills, with

  their long, low, restful lines, slumbered on the horizon

&nb
sp; apparently as far away as ever.

  As the Roamer passed the mouth of Montezuma Slough and entered

  the Sacramento, they came upon Collinsville close at hand. Saxon

  clapped her hands.

  "It's like a lot of toy houses," she said, "cut out of cardboard.

  And those hilly fields are just painted up behind."

  They passed many arks and houseboats of fishermen moored among

  the tules, and the women and children, like the men in the boats,

  were dark-skinned, black-eyed, foreign. As they proceeded up the

  river, they began to encounter dredges at work, biting out

  mouthfuls of the sandy river bottom and heaping it on top of the

  huge levees. Great mats of willow brush, hundreds of yards in

  length, were laid on top of the river-slope of the levees and

  held in place by steel cables and thousands of cubes of cement.

  The willows soon sprouted, Hastings told them, and by the time

  the mats were rotted away the sand was held in place by the roots

  of the trees.

  "It must cost like Sam Hill," Billy observed.

  "But the land is worth it," Hastings explained. "This island land

  is the most productive in the world. This section of California

  is like Holland. You wouldn't think it, but this water we're

  sailing on is higher than the surface of the islands. They're

  like leaky boats--calking, patching, pumping, night and day and

  all the time. But it pays. It pays."

  Except for the dredgers, the fresh-piled sand, the dense willow

  thickets, and always Mt. Diablo to the south, nothing was to be

  seen. Occasionally a river steamboat passed, and blue herons flew

  into the trees.

  "It must be very lonely," Saxon remarked.

  Hastings laughed and told her she would change her mind later.

  Much he related to them of the river lands, and after a while he

  got on the subject of tenant farming. Saxon had started him by

  speaking of the land-hungry Anglo-Saxons.

  "Land-hogs," he snapped. "That's our record in this country. As

  one old Reuben told a professor of an agricultural experiment

  station: 'They ain't no sense in tryin' to teach me farmin'. I

  know all about it. Ain't I worked out three farms?' It was his

  kind that destroyed New England. Back there great sections are

  relapsing to wilderness. In one state, at least, the deer have

  increased until they are a nuisance. There are abandoned farms by

  the tens of thousands. I've gone over the lists of them--farms in

  New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Connecticut. Offered for

  sale on easy payment. The prices asked wouldn't pay for the

  improvements, while the land, of course, is thrown in for

  nothing.

  "And the same thing is going on, in one way or another, the same

  land-robbing and hogging, over the rest of the country--down in

  Texas, in Missouri, and Kansas, out here in California. Take

  tenant farming. I know a ranch in my county where the land was

  worth a hundred and twenty-five an acre. And it gave its return

  at that valuation. When the old man died, the son leased it to a

  Portuguese and went to live in the city. In five years the

  Portuguese skimmed the cream and dried up the udder. The second

  lease, with another Portuguese for three years, gave one-quarter

  the former return. No third Portuguese appeared to offer to lease

  it. There wasn't anything left. That ranch was worth fifty

  thousand when the old man died. In the end the son got eleven

  thousand for it. Why, I've seen land that paid twelve per cent.,

  that, after the skimming of a five-years' lease, paid only one

  and a quarter per cent."

  "It's the same in our valley," Mrs. Hastings supplemented. "All

  the old farms are dropping into ruin. Take the Ebell Place,

  Mate." Her husband nodded emphatic indorsement. "When we used to

  know it, it was a perfect paradise of a farm. There were dams and

  lakes, beautiful meadows, lush hayfields, red hills of

  grape-lands, hundreds of acres of good pasture, heavenly groves

  of pines and oaks, a stone winery, stone barns, grounds--oh, I

  couldn't describe it in hours. When Mrs. Bell died, the family