The Valley of the Moon Jack London

impervious.

  "Go on, do it some more," he urged, when she had given up,

  breathing heavily. "It feels fine, like you was ticklin' me with

  a feather."

  "All right, Mister Man," she threatened balefully. "You can talk

  about your grips and death touches and all the rest, but that's

  all man's game. I know something that will beat them all, that

  will make a strong man as helpless as a baby. Wait a minute till

  I get it. There. Shut your eyes. Ready? I won't be a second."

  He waited with closed eyes, and then, softly as rose petals

  fluttering down, he felt her lips on his mouth.

  "You win," he said in solemn ecstasy, and passed his arms around

  her.

  CHAPTER XIV

  In the morning Billy went down town to pay for Hazel and Hattie.

  It was due to Saxon's impatient desire to see them, that he

  seemed to take a remarkably long time about so simple a

  transaction. But she forgave him when he arrived with the two

  horses hitched to the camping wagon.

  "Had to borrow the harness," he said. "Pass Possum up and climb

  in, an' I'll show you the Double H Outfit, which is some outfit,

  I'm tellin' you."

  Saxon's delight was unbounded and almost speechless as they drove

  out into the country behind the dappled chestnuts with the

  cream-colored tails and manes. The seat was upholstered,

  high-backed, and comfortable; and Billy raved about the wonders

  of the efficient brake. He trotted the team along the hard county

  road to show the standard-going in them, and put them up a steep

  earthroad, almost hub-deep with mud, to prove that the light

  Belgian sire was not wanting in their make-up.

  When Saxon at last lapsed into complete silence, he studied her

  anxiously, with quick sidelong glances. She sighed and asked:

  "When do you think we'll be able to start?"

  "Maybe in two weeks . . . or, maybe in two or three months." He

  sighed with solemn deliberation. "We're like the Irishman with

  the trunk an' nothin' to put in it. Here's the wagon, here's the

  horses, an' nothin' to pull. I know a peach of a shotgun I can

  get, second-hand, eighteen dollars; but look at the bills we owe.

  Then there's a new '22 Automatic rifle I want for you. An' a

  30-30 I've had my eye on for deer. An' you want a good jointed

  pole as well as me. An' tackle costs like Sam Hill. An' harness

  like I want will cost fifty bucks cold. An' the wagon ought to be

  painted. Then there's pasture ropes, an' nose-bags, an' a harness

  punch, an' all such things. An' Hazel an' Hattie eatin' their

  heads off all the time we're waitin'. An' I 'm just itchin' to be

  started myself."

  He stopped abruptly and confusedly.

  "Now, Billy, what have you got up your sleeve?--I can see it in

  your eyes," Saxon demanded and indicted in mixed metaphors.

  "Well, Saxon, you see, it's like this. Sandow ain't satisfied.

  He's madder 'n a hatter. Never got one punch at me. Never had a

  chance to make a showin', an' he wants a return match. He's

  blattin' around town that he can lick me with one hand tied

  behind 'm, an' all that kind of hot air. Which ain't the point.

  The point is, the fight-fans is wild to see a return-match. They

  didn't get a run for their money last time. They'll fill the

  house. The managers has seen me already. That was why I was so

  long. They's three hundred more waitin' on the tree for me to

  pick two weeks from last night if you'll say the word. It's just

  the same as I told you before. He's my meat. He still thinks I 'm

  a rube, an' that it was a fluke punch."

  "But, Billy, you told me long ago that fighting took the silk out

  of you. That was why you'd quit it and stayed by teaming."

  "Not this kind of fightin'," he answered. "I got this one all

  doped out. I'll let 'm last till about the seventh. Not that

  it'll be necessary, but just to give the audience a run for its

  money. Of course, I'll get a lump or two, an' lose some skin.

  Then I'll time 'm to that glass jaw of his an' drop 'm for the

  count. An' we'll be all packed up, an' next mornin' we'll pull

  out. What d'ye say? Aw, come on."

  Saturday night, two weeks later, Saxon ran to the door when the

  gate clicked. Billy looked tired. His hair was wet, his nose

  swollen, one cheek was puffed, there was skin missing from his

  ears, and both eyes were slightly bloodshot.

  "I 'm darned if that boy didn't fool me," he said, as he placed

  the roll of gold pieces in her hand and sat down with her on his

  knees. "He's some boy when he gets extended. Instead of stoppin'

  'm at the seventh, he kept me hustlin' till the fourteenth. Then

  I got 'm the way I said. It's too bad he's got a glass jaw. He's

  quicker'n I thought, an' he's got a wallop that made me mighty

  respectful from the second round--an' the prettiest little chop

  an' come-again I ever saw. But that glass jaw! He kept it in

  cotton wool till the fourteenth an' then I connected.

  "--An', say. I 'm mighty glad it did last fourteen rounds. I

  still got all my silk. I could see that easy. I wasn't breathin'

  much, an' every round was fast. An' my legs was like iron. I

  could a-fought forty rounds. You see, I never said nothin', but

  I've been suspicious all the time after that beatin' the Chicago

  Terror gave me."

  "Nonsense!--you would have known it long before now," Saxon

  cried. "Look at all your boxing, and wrestling, and running at

  Carmel."

  "Nope." Billy shook his head with the conviction of utter

  knowledge. "That's different. It don't take it outa you. You

  gotta be up against the real thing, fightin' for life, round

  after round, with a husky you know ain't lost a thread of his

  silk yet--then, if you don't blow up, if your legs is steady, an'

  your heart ain't burstin', an' you ain't wobbly at all, an' no

  signs of queer street in your head--why, then you know you still

  got all your silk. An' I got it, I got all mine, d'ye hear me,

  an' I ain't goin' to risk it on no more fights. That's straight.

  Easy money's hardest in the end. From now on it's horsebuyin' on

  commish, an' you an' me on the road till we find that valley of

  the moon."

  Next morning, early, they drove out of Ukiah. Possum sat on the

  seat between them, his rosy mouth agape with excitement. They had

  originally planned to cross over to the coast from Ukiah, but it

  was too early in the season for the soft earth-roads to be in

  shape after the winter rains; so they turned east, for Lake

  County, their route to extend north through the upper Sacramento

  Valley and across the mountains into Oregon. Then they would

  circle west to the coast, where the roads by that time would be

  in condition, and come down its length to the Golden Gate.

  All the land was green and flower-sprinkled, and each tiny

  valley, as they entered the hills, was a garden.

  "Huh!" Billy remarked scornfully to the general landscape. "They

  say a rollin' stone gathers no moss. Just the same this looks

  like some outfit we've gathered. Never had so much actua
l

  property in my life at one time--an' them was the days when I

  wasn't rollin'. Hell--even the furniture wasn't ourn. Only the

  clothes we stood up in, an' some old socks an' things."

  Saxon reached out and touched his hand, and he knew that it was a

  hand that loved his hand.

  "I've only one regret," she said. "You've earned it all yourself.

  I've had nothing to do with it."

  "Huh!--you've had everything to do with it. You're like my second

  in a fight. You keep me happy an' in condition. A man can't fight

  without a good second to take care of him. Hell, I wouldn't a-ben

  here if it wasn't for you. You made me pull up stakes an' head

  out. Why, if it hadn't been for you I'd a-drunk myself dead an'

  rotten by this time, or had my neck stretched at San Quentin over

  hittin' some scab too hard or something or other. An' look at me

  now. Look at that roll of greenbacks"--he tapped his breast--"to

  buy the Boss some horses. Why, we're takin' an unendin' vacation,

  an' makin' a good livin' at the same time. An' one more trade I

  got--horse-buyin' for Oakland. If I show I've got the savve, an'

  I have, all the Frisco firms'll be after me to buy for them. An'

  it's all your fault. You're my Tonic Kid all right, all right,

  an' if Possum wasn't lookin', I'd--well, who cares if he does

  look?"

  And Billy leaned toward her sidewise and kissed her.

  The way grew hard and rocky as they began to climb, but the

  divide was an easy one, and they soon dropped down the canyon of

  the Blue Lakes among lush fields of golden poppies. In the bottom

  of the canyon lay a wandering sheet of water of intensest blue.

  Ahead, the folds of hills interlaced the distance, with a remote

  blue mountain rising in the center of the picture.

  They asked questions of a handsome, black-eyed man with curly

  gray hair, who talked to them in a German accent, while a

  cheery-faced woman smiled down at them out of a trellised high

  window of the Swiss cottage perched on the bank. Billy watered

  the horses at a pretty hotel farther on, where the proprietor

  came out and talked and told him he had built it himself,

  according to the plans of the black-eyed man with the curly gray

  hair, who was a San Francisco architect.

  "Goin' up, goin' up," Billy chortled, as they drove on through

  the winding hills past another lake of intensest blue. "D'ye

  notice the difference in our treatment already between ridin' an'

  walkin' with packs on our backs? With Hazel an' Hattie an' Saxon

  an' Possum, an' yours truly, an' this high-toned wagon, folks

  most likely take us for millionaires out on a lark."

  The way widened. Broad, oak-studded pastures with grazing

  livestock lay on either hand. Then Clear Lake opened before them

  like an inland sea, flecked with little squalls and flaws of wind

  from the high mountains on the northern slopes of which still

  glistened white snow patches.

  "I've heard Mrs. Hazard rave about Lake Geneva," Saxon recalled;

  "but I wonder if it is more beautiful than this."

  "That architect fellow called this the California Alps, you

  remember," Billy confirmed. "An' if I don't mistake, that's

  Lakeport showin' up ahead. An' all wild country, an' no

  railroads."

  "And no moon valleys here," Saxon criticized. "But it is

  beautiful, oh, so beautiful."

  "Hotter'n hell in the dead of summer, I'll bet," was Billy's

  opinion. "Nope, the country we're lookin' for lies nearer the

  coast. Just the same it is beautiful . . . like a picture on the

  wall. What d'ye say we stop off an' go for a swim this

  afternoon?"

  Ten days later they drove into Williams, in Colusa County, and

  for the first time again encountered a railroad. Billy was

  looking for it, for the reason that at the rear of the wagon

  walked two magnificent work-horses which he had picked up for

  shipment to Oakland.

  "Too hot," was Saxon's verdict, as she gazed across the

  shimmering level of the vast Sacramento Valley. "No redwoods. No

  hills. No forests. No manzanita. No madronos. Lonely, and sad--"

  "An' like the river islands," Billy interpolated. "Richer in

  hell, but looks too much like hard work. It'll do for those

  that's stuck on hard work--God knows, they's nothin' here to

  induce a fellow to knock off ever for a bit of play. No fishin',

  no huntin', nothin' but work. I'd work myself, if I had to live

  here."

  North they drove, through days of heat and dust, across the

  California plains, and everywhere was manifest the "new"

  farming--great irrigation ditches, dug and being dug, the land

  threaded by power-lines from the mountains, and many new

  farmhouses on small holdings newly fenced. The bonanza farms were

  being broken up. However, many of the great estates remained,

  five to ten thousand acres in extent, running from the Sacramento

  bank to the horizon dancing in the heat waves, and studded with

  great valley oaks.

  "It takes rich soil to make trees like those," a ten-acre farmer

  told them.

  They had driven off the road a hundred feet to his tiny barn in

  order to water Hazel and Hattie. A sturdy young orchard covered

  most of his ten acres, though a goodly portion was devoted to

  whitewashed henhouses and wired runways wherein hundreds of

  chickens were to be seen. He had just begun work on a small frame

  dwelling.

  "I took a vacation when I bought," he explained, "and planted the

  trees. Then I went back to work an' stayed with it till the place

  was cleared. Now I 'm here for keeps, an' soon as the house is

  finished I'll send for the wife. She's not very well, and it will

  do her good. We've been planning and working for years to get

  away from the city." He stopped in order to give a happy sigh.

  "And now we're free."

  The water in the trough was warm from the sun.

  "Hold on," the man said. "Don't let them drink that. I'll give it

  to them cool."

  Stepping into a small shed, he turned an electric switch, and a

  motor the size of a fruit box hummed into action. A five-inch

  stream of sparkling water splashed into the shallow main ditch of

  his irrigation system and flowed away across the orchard through

  many laterals.

  "Isn' tit beautiful, eh?--beautiful! beautiful!" the man chanted

  in an ecstasy. "It's bud and fruit. It's blood and life. Look at

  it! It makes a gold mine laughable, and a saloon a nightmare. I

  know. I . . . I used to be a barkeeper. In fact, I've been a

  barkeeper most of my life. That's how I paid for this place. And

  I've hated the business all the time. I was a farm boy, and all

  my life I've been wanting to get back to it. And here I am at

  last."

  He wiped his glasses the better to behold his beloved water, then

  seized a hoe and strode down the main ditch to open more

  laterals.

  "He's the funniest barkeeper I ever seen," Billy commented. "I

  took him for a business man of some sort. Must a-ben in some kind

  of a quiet ho
tel."

  "Don't drive on right away," Saxon requested. "I want to talk

  with him."

  He came back, polishing his glasses, his face beaming, watching

  the water as if fascinated by it. It required no more exertion on

  Saxon's part to start him than had been required on his part to

  start the motor.

  "The pioneers settled all this in the early fifties," he said.

  "The Mexicans never got this far, so it was government land.

  Everybody got a hundred and sixty acres. And such acres! The

  stories they tell about how much wheat they got to the acre are

  almost unbelievable. Then several things happened. The sharpest

  and steadiest of the pioneers held what they had and added to it

  from the other fellows. It takes a great many quarter sections to

  make a bonanza farm. It wasn't long before it was 'most all

  bonanza farms."

  "They were the successful gamblers," Saxon put in, remembering

  Mark Hall's words.

  The man nodded appreciatively and continued.

  "The old folks schemed and gathered and added the land into the

  big holdings, and built the great barns and mansions, and planted

  the house orchards and flower gardens. The young folks were

  spoiled by so much wealth and went away to the cities to spend

  it. And old folks and young united in one thing: in impoverishing

  the soil. Year after year they scratched it and took out bonanza

  crops. They put nothing back. All they left was plow-sole and

  exhausted land. Why, there's big sections they exhausted and left

  almost desert.

  "The bonanza farmers are all gone now, thank the Lord, and here's

  where we small farmers come into our own. It won't be many years

  before the whole valley will be farmed in patches like mine. Look

  at what we're doing! Worked-out land that had ceased to grow

  wheat, and we turn the water on, treat the soil decently, and see

  our orchards!

  "We've got the water--from the mountains, and from under the

  ground. I was reading an account the other day. All life depends

  on food. All food depends on water. It takes a thousand pounds of

  water to produce one pound of food; ten thousand pounds to

  produce one pound of meat. How much water do you drink in a year?

  About a ton. But you eat about two hundred pounds of vegetables

  and two hundred pounds of meat a year--which means you consume

  one hundred tons of water in the vegetables and one thousand tons

  in the meat--which means that it takes eleven hundred and one

  tons of water each year to keep a small woman like you going."

  "Gee!" was all Billy could say.

  "You see how population depends upon water," the ax-barkeeper

  went on. "Well, we've got the water, immense subterranean

  supplies, and in not many years this valley will be populated as

  thick as Belgium."

  Fascinated by the five-inch stream, sluiced out of the earth and

  back to the earth by the droning motor, he forgot his discourse

  and stood and gazed, rapt and unheeding, while his visitors drove

  on.

  "An' him a drink-slinger!" Billy marveled. "He can sure sling the

  temperance dope if anybody should ask you."

  "It's lovely to think about--all that water, and all the happy

  people that will come here to live--"

  "But it ain't the valley of the moon!" Billy laughed.

  "No," she responded. "They don't have to irrigate in the valley

  of the moon, unless for alfalfa and such crops. What we want is

  the water bubbling naturally from the ground, and crossing the

  farm in little brooks, and on the boundary a fine big creek--"

  "With trout in it!" Billy took her up. "An' willows and trees of

  all kinds growing along the edges, and here a riffle where you

  can flip out trout, and there a deep pool where you can swim and

  high-dive. An' kingfishers, an' rabbits comin' down to drink,

  an', maybe, a deer."

  "And meadowlarks in the pasture," Saxon added. "And mourning

  doves in the trees. We must have mourning doves--and the big,

  gray tree-squirrels."