The Valley of the Moon Jack London

  "It's the biggest rough-house I ever saw," Billy confided to

  Saxon. "It sure takes the Micks to mix it. But what did that dude

  wanta do it for? That's what gets me. He wasn't a bricklayer--not

  even a workingman--just a regular sissy dude that didn't know a

  livin' soul in the grounds. But if he wanted to raise a

  rough-house he certainly done it. Look at 'em. They're fightin'

  everywhere."

  He broke into sudden laughter, so hearty that the tears came into

  his eyes.

  "What is it?" Saxon asked, anxious not to miss anything.

  "It's that dude," Billy explained between gusts. "What did he

  wanta do it for? That's what gets my goat. What'd he wanta do it

  for?"

  There was more crashing in the brush, and two women erupted upon

  the scene, one in flight, the other pursuing. Almost ere they

  could realize it, the little group found itself merged in the

  astounding conflict that covered, if not the face of creation, at

  least all the visible landscape of Weasel Park.

  The fleeing woman stumbled in rounding the end of a picnic bench,

  and would have been caught had she not seized Mary's arm to

  recover balance, and then flung Mary full into the arms of the

  woman who pursued. This woman, largely built, middle-aged, and

  too irate to comprehend, clutched Mary's hair by one hand and

  lifted the other to smack her. Before the blow could fall, Billy

  had seized both the woman's wrists.

  "Come on, old girl, cut it out," he said appeasingly. "You're in

  wrong. She ain't done nothin'."

  Then the woman did a strange thing. Making no resistance, but

  maintaining her hold on the girl's hair, she stood still and

  calmly began to scream. The scream was hideously compounded of

  fright and fear. Yet in her face was neither fright nor fear. She

  regarded Billy coolly and appraisingly, as if to see how he took

  it--her scream merely the cry to the clan for help.

  "Aw, shut up, you battleax!" Bert vociferated, trying to drag her

  off by the shoulders.

  The result was that The four rocked back and forth, while the

  woman calmly went on screaming. The scream became touched with

  triumph as more crashing was heard in the brush.

  Saxon saw Billy's slow eyes glint suddenly to the hardness of

  steel, and at the same time she saw him put pressure on his

  wrist-holds. The woman released her grip on Mary and was shoved

  back and free. Then the first man of the rescue was upon them. He

  did not pause to inquire into the merits of the affair. It was

  sufficient that he saw the woman reeling away from Billy and

  screaming with pain that was largely feigned.

  "It's all a mistake," Billy cried hurriedly. "We apologize,

  sport--"

  The Irishman swung ponderously. Billy ducked, cutting his apology

  short, and as the sledge-like fist passed over his head, he drove

  his left to the other's jaw. The big Irishman toppled over

  sidewise and sprawled on the edge of the slope. Half-scrambled

  back to his feet and out of balance, he was caught by Bert's

  fist, and this time went clawing down the slope that was slippery

  with short, dry grass. Bert was redoubtable. "That for you, old

  girl--my compliments," was his cry, as he shoved the woman over

  the edge on to the treacherous slope. Three more men were

  emerging from the brush.

  In the meantime, Billy had put Saxon in behind the protection of

  the picnic table. Mary, who was hysterical, had evinced a desire

  to cling to him, and he had sent her sliding across the top of

  the table to Saxon.

  "Come on, you flannel-mouths!" Bert yelled at the newcomers,

  himself swept away by passion, his black eyes flashing wildly,

  his dark face inflamed by the too-ready blood. "Come on, you

  cheap skates! Talk about Gettysburg. We'll show you all the

  Americans ain't dead yet!"

  "Shut your trap--we don't want a scrap with the girls here,"

  Billy growled harshly, holding his position in front of the

  table. He turned to the three rescuers, who were bewildered by

  the lack of anything visible to rescue. "Go on, sports. We don't

  want a row. You're in wrong. They ain't nothin' doin' in the

  fight line. We don't wanta fight--d'ye get me?"

  They still hesitated, and Billy might have succeeded in avoiding

  trouble had not the man who had gone down the bank chosen that

  unfortunate moment to reappear, crawling groggily on hands and

  knees and showing a bleeding face. Again Bert reached him and

  sent him downslope, and the other three, with wild yells, sprang

  in on Billy, who punched, shifted position, ducked and punched,

  and shifted again ere he struck the third time. His blows were

  clean end hard, scientifically delivered, with the weight of his

  body behind.

  Saxon, looking on, saw his eyes and learned more about him. She

  was frightened, but clear-seeing, and she was startled by the

  disappearance of all depth of light and shadow in his eyes. They

  showed surface only--a hard, bright surface, almost glazed,

  devoid of all expression save deadly seriousness. Bert's eyes

  showed madness. The eyes of the Irishmen were angry and serious,

  and yet not all serious. There was a wayward gleam in them, as if

  they enjoyed the fracas. But in Billy's eyes was no enjoyment. It

  was as if he had certain work to do and had doggedly settled down

  to do it.

  Scarcely more expression did she note in the face, though there

  was nothing in common between it and the one she had seen all

  day. The boyishness had vanished. This face was mature in a

  terrifying, ageless way. There was no anger in it, nor was it

  even pitiless. It seemed to have glazed as hard and passionlessly

  as his eyes. Something came to her of her wonderful mother's

  tales of the ancient Saxons, and he seemed to her one of those

  Saxons, and she caught a glimpse, on the well of her

  consciousness, of a long, dark boat, with a prow like the beak of

  a bird of prey, and of huge, half-naked men, wing-helmeted, and

  one of their faces, it seemed to her, was his face. She did not

  reason this. She felt it, and visioned it as by an unthinkable

  clairvoyance, and gasped, for the flurry of war was over. It had

  lasted only seconds, Bert was dancing on the edge of the slippery

  slope and mocking the vanquished who had slid impotently to the

  bottom. But Billy took charge.

  "Come on, you girls," he commanded. "Get onto yourself, Bert. We

  got to get onta this. We can't fight an army."

  He led the retreat, holding Saxon's arm, and Bert, giggling and

  jubilant, brought up the rear with an indignant Mary who

  protested vainly in his unheeding ears.

  For a hundred yards they ran and twisted through the trees, and

  then, no signs of pursuit appearing, they slowed down to a

  dignified saunter. Bert, the trouble-seeker, pricked his ears to

  the muffled sound of blows and sobs, and stepped aside to

  investigate.

  "Oh! look what I've found!" he called.

  They joined him on the edge of a dry ditch and looked
down. In

  the bottom were two men, strays from the fight, grappled together

  and still fighting. They were weeping out of sheer fatigue and

  helplessness, and the blows they only occasionally struck were

  open-handed and ineffectual.

  "Hey, you, sport--throw sand in his eyes," Bert counseled.

  "That's it, blind him an' he's your'n."

  "Stop that!" Billy shouted at the man, who was following

  instructions, "Or I'll come down there an' beat you up myself.

  It's all over--d'ye get me? It's all over an' everybody's

  friends. Shake an' make up. The drinks are on both of you. That's

  right--here, gimme your hand an' I'll pull you out."

  They left them shaking hands and brushing each other's clothes.

  "It soon will be over," Billy grinned to Saxon. "I know 'em.

  Fight's fun with them. An' this big scrap's made the days howlin'

  success. What did I tell you!--look over at that table there."

  A group of disheveled men and women, still breathing heavily,

  were shaking hands all around.

  "Come on, let's dance," Mary pleaded, urging them in the

  direction of the pavilion.

  All over the park the warring bricklayers were shaking hands and

  making up, while the open-air bars were crowded with the

  drinkers.

  Saxon walked very close to Billy. She was proud of him. He could

  fight, and he could avoid trouble. In all that had occurred he

  had striven to avoid trouble. And, also, consideration for her

  and Mary had been uppermost in his mind.

  "You are brave," she said to him.

  "It's like takin' candy from a baby," he disclaimed. "They only

  rough-house. They don't know boxin'. They're wide open, an' all

  you gotta do is hit 'em. It ain't real fightin', you know." With

  a troubled, boyish look in his eyes, he stared at his bruised

  knuckles. "An' I'll have to drive team to-morrow with 'em," he

  lamented. "Which ain't fun, I'm tellin' you, when they stiffen

  up."

  CHAPTER V

  At eight o'clock the Al Vista band played "Home, Sweet Home,"

  and, following the hurried rush through the twilight to the

  picnic train, the four managed to get double seats facing each

  other. When the aisles and platforms were packed by the hilarious

  crowd, the train pulled out for the short run from the suburbs

  into Oakland. All the car was singing a score of songs at once,

  and Bert, his head pillowed on Mary's breast with her arms around

  him, started "On the Banks of the Wabash." And he sang the song

  through, undeterred by the bedlam of two general fights, one on

  the adjacent platform, the other at the opposite end of the car,

  both of which were finally subdued by special policemen to the

  screams of women and the crash of glass.

  Billy sang a lugubrious song of many stanzas about a cowboy, the

  refrain of which was, "Bury me out on the lone pr-rairie."

  "That's one you never heard before; my father used to sing it,"

  he told Saxon, who was glad that it was ended.

  She had discovered the first flaw in him. He was tonedeaf. Not

  once had he been on the key.

  "I don't sing often," he added.

  "You bet your sweet life he don't," Bert exclaimed. "His

  friends'd kill him if he did."

  "They all make fun of my singin'," he complained to Saxon.

  "Honest, now, do you find it as rotten as all that?"

  "It's . . . it's maybe flat a bit," she admitted reluctantly.

  "It don't sound flat to me," he protested. "It's a regular josh

  on me. I'll bet Bert put you up to it. You sing something now,

  Saxon. I bet you sing good. I can tell it from lookin' at you."

  She began "When the Harvest Days Are Over." Bert and Mary joined

  in; but when Billy attempted to add his voice he was dissuaded by

  a shin-kick from Bert. Saxon sang in a clear, true soprano, thin

  but sweet, and she was aware that she was singing to Billy.

  "Now THAT is singing what is," he proclaimed, when she had

  finished. "Sing it again. Aw, go on. You do it just right. It's

  great."

  His hand slipped to hers and gathered it in, and as she sang

  again she felt the tide of his strength flood warmingly through

  her.

  "Look at 'em holdin' hands," Bert jeered. "Just a-holdin' hands

  like they was afraid. Look at Mary an' me. Come on an' kick in,

  you cold-feets. Get together. If you don't, it'll look

  suspicious. I got my suspicions already. You're framin' somethin'

  up."

  There was no mistaking his innuendo, and Saxon felt her cheeks

  flaming.

  "Get onto yourself, Bert," Billy reproved.

  "Shut up!" Mary added the weight of her indignation. "You're

  awfully raw, Bert Wanhope, an' I won't have anything more to do

  with you--there!"

  She withdrew her arms and shoved him away, only to receive him

  forgivingly half a dozen seconds afterward.

  "Come on, the four of us," Bert went on irrepressibly. "The

  night's young. Let's make a time of it--Pabst's Cafe first, and

  then some. What you say, Bill? What you say, Saxon? Mary's game."

  Saxon waited and wondered, half sick with apprehension of this

  man beside her whom she had known so short a time.

  "Nope," he said slowly. "I gotta get up to a hard day's work

  to-morrow, and I guess the girls has got to, too."

  Saxon forgave him his tone-deafness. Here was the kind of man she

  always had known existed. It was for some such man that she had

  waited. She was twenty-two, and her first marriage offer had come

  when she was sixteen. The last had occurred only the month

  before, from the foreman of the washing-room, and he had been

  good and kind, but not young. But this one beside her--he was

  strong and kind and good, and YOUNG. She was too young herself

  not to desire youth. There would have been rest from fancy starch

  with the foreman, but there would have been no warmth. But this

  man beside her. . . . She caught herself on the verge involuntarily

  of pressing his hand that held hers.

  "No, Bert, don't tease he's right," Mary was saying. "We've got

  to get some sleep. It's fancy starch to-morrow, and all day on

  our feet."

  It came to Saxon with a chill pang that she was surely older than

  Billy. She stole glances at the smoothness of his face, and the

  essential boyishness of him, so much desired, shocked her. Of

  course he would marry some girl years younger than himself, than

  herself. How old was he? Could it be that he was too young for

  her? As he seemed to grow inaccessible, she was drawn toward him

  more compellingly. He was so strong, so gentle. She lived over

  the events of the day. There was no flaw there. He had considered

  her and Mary, always. And he had torn the program up and danced

  only with her. Surely he had liked her, or he would not have done

  it.

  She slightly moved her hand in his and felt the harsh contact of

  his teamster callouses. The sensation was exquisite. He, too,

  moved his hand, to accommodate the shift of hers, and she waited

  fearfully. She did not want him to prove like other men, and she

  could
have hated him had he dared to take advantage of that

  slight movement of her fingers and put his arm around her. He did

  not, and she flamed toward him. There was fineness in him. He was

  neither rattle-brained, like Bert, nor coarse like other men she

  had encountered. For she had had experiences, not nice, and she

  had been made to suffer by the lack of what was termed chivalry,

  though she, in turn, lacked that word to describe what she

  divined and desired.

  And he was a prizefighter. The thought of it almost made her

  gasp. Yet he answered not at all to her conception of a

  prizefighter. But, then, he wasn't a prizefighter. He had said he

  was not. She resolved to ask him about it some time if . . . if

  he took her out again. Yet there was little doubt of that, for

  when a man danced with one girl a whole day he did not drop her

  immediately. Almost she hoped that he was a prizefighter. There

  was a delicious tickle of wickedness about it. Prizefighters were

  such terrible and mysterious men. In so far as they were out of

  the ordinary and were not mere common workingmen such as

  carpenters and laundrymen, they represented romance. Power also

  they represented. They did not work for bosses, but spectacularly

  and magnificently, with their own might, grappled with the great

  world and wrung splendid living from its reluctant hands. Some of

  them even owned automobiles and traveled with a retinue of

  trainers and servants. Perhaps it had been only Billy's modesty

  that made him say he had quit fighting. And yet, there were the

  callouses on his hands. That showed he had quit.

  CHAPTER VI

  They said good-bye at the gate. Billy betrayed awkwardness that

  was sweet to Saxon. He was not one of the take-it-for-granted

  young men. There was a pause, while she feigned desire to go into

  the house, yet waited in secret eagerness for the words she

  wanted him to say.

  "When am I goin' to see you again?" he asked, holding her hand in

  his.

  She laughed consentingly.

  "I live 'way up in East Oakland," he explained. "You know there's

  where the stable is, an' most of our teaming is done in that

  section, so I don't knock around down this way much. But, say--"

  His hand tightened on hers. "We just gotta dance together some

  more. I'll tell you, the Orindore Club has its dance Wednesday.

  If you haven't a date--have you?"

  "No," she said.

  "Then Wednesday. What time'll I come for you?"

  And when they had arranged the details, and he had agreed that

  she should dance some of the dances with the other fellows, and

  said good night again, his hand closed more tightly on hers and

  drew her toward him. She resisted slightly, but honestly. It was

  the custom, but she felt she ought not for fear he might

  misunderstand. And yet she wanted to kiss him as she had never

  wanted to kiss a man. When it came, her face upturned to his, she

  realized that on his part it was an honest kiss. There hinted

  nothing behind it. Rugged and kind as himself, it was virginal

  almost, and betrayed no long practice in the art of saying

  good-bye. All men were not brutes after all, was her thought.

  "Good night," she murmured; the gate screeched under her hand;

  and she hurried along the narrow walk that led around to the

  corner of the house.

  "Wednesday," he celled softly.

  "Wednesday," she answered.

  But in the shadow of the narrow alley between the two houses she

  stood still and pleasured in the ring of his foot falls down the

  cement sidewalk. Not until they had quite died away did she go

  on. She crept up the back stairs and across the kitchen to her

  room, registering her thanksgiving that Sarah was asleep.

  She lighted the gas, and, as she removed the little velvet hat,

  she felt her lips still tingling with the kiss. Yet it had meant

  nothing. It was the way of the young men. They all did it. But