a game, an' missed the thousand little chances right under their
nose. Look at your pa. I've heard him tell of selling three
Market street lots in San Francisco for fifty dollars each.
They're worth five hundred thousand right now. An' look at Uncle
Will. He had ranches till the cows come home. Satisfied? No. He
wanted to be a cattle king, a regular Miller and Lux. An' when he
died he was a night watchman in Los Angeles at forty dollars a
month. There's a spirit of the times, an' the spirit of the times
has changed. It's all big business now, an' we're the small
potatoes. Why, I've heard our folks talk of livin' in the Western
Reserve. That was all around what's Ohio now. Anybody could get a
farm them days. All they had to do was yoke their oxen an' go
after it, an' the Pacific Ocean thousands of miles to the west,
an' all them thousands of miles an' millions of farms just
waitin' to be took up. A hundred an' sixty acres? Shucks. In the
early days in Oregon they talked six hundred an' forty acres.
That was the spirit of them times--free land, an' plenty of it.
But when we reached the Pacific Ocean them times was ended. Big
business begun; an' big business means big business men; an'
every big business man means thousands of little men without any
business at all except to work for the big ones. They're the
losers, don't you see? An' if they don't like it they can lump
it, but it won't do them no good. They can't yoke up their oxen
an' pull on. There's no place to pull on. China's over there, an'
in between's a mighty lot of salt water that's no good for
farmin' purposes."
"That's all clear enough," Saxon commented.
"Yes," her brother went on. "We can all see it after it's
happened, when it's too late."
"But the big men were smarter," Saxon remarked.
"They were luckier," Tom contended. "Some won, but most lost, an'
just as good men lost. It was almost like a lot of boys
scramblin' on the sidewalk for a handful of small change. Not
that some didn't have far-seein'. But just take your pa, for
example. He come of good Down East stock that's got business
instinct an' can add to what it's got. Now suppose your pa had
developed a weak heart, or got kidney disease, or caught
rheumatism, so he couldn't go gallivantin' an' rainbow chasin',
an' fightin' an' explorin' all over the West. Why, most likely
he'd a settled down in San Francisco--he'd a-had to--an' held
onto them three Market street lots, an' bought more lots, of
course, an' gone into steamboat companies, an' stock gamblin',
an' railroad buildin', an' Comstock-tunnelin'.
"Why, he'd a-become big business himself. I know 'm. He was the
most energetic man I ever saw, think quick as a wink, as cool as
an icicle an' as wild as a Comanche. Why, he'd a-cut a swath
through the free an' easy big business gamblers an' pirates of
them days; just as he cut a swath through the hearts of the
ladies when he went gallopin' past on that big horse of his,
sword clatterin', spurs jinglin', his long hair flyin', straight
as an Indian, clean-built an' graceful as a blue-eyed prince out
of a fairy book an' a Mexican caballero all rolled into one; just
as he cut a swath through the Johnny Rebs in Civil War days,
chargin' with his men all the way through an' back again, an'
yellin' like a wild Indian for more. Cady, that helped raise you,
told me about that. Cady rode with your pa.
"Why, if your pa'd only got laid up in San Francisco, he would
a-ben one of the big men of the West. An' in that case, right
now, you'd be a rich young woman, travelin' in Europe, with a
mansion on Nob Hill along with the Floods and Crockers, an'
holdin' majority stock most likely in the Fairmount Hotel an' a
few little concerns like it. An' why ain't you? Because your pa
wasn't smart? No. His mind was like a steel trap. It's because he
was filled to burstin' an' spillin' over with the spirit of the
times; because he was full of fire an' vinegar an' couldn't set
down in one place. That's all the difference between you an' the
young women right now in the Flood and Crocker families. Your
father didn't catch rheumatism at the right time, that's all."
Saxon sighed, then smiled.
"Just the same, I've got them beaten," she said. "The Miss Floods
and Miss Crockers can't marry prize-fighters, and I did."
Tom looked at her, taken aback for the moment, with admiration,
slowly at first, growing in his face.
"Well, all I got to say," he enunciated solemnly, "is that
Billy's so lucky he don't know how lucky he is."
Not until Doctor Hentley gave the word did the splints come off
Billy's arms, and Saxon insisted upon an additional two weeks'
delay so that no risk would be run. These two weeks would
wait payment for the last two months until Billy was on his feet
again.
Salinger's awaited the day set by Saxon for taking back their
furniture. Also, they had returned to Billy seventy-five dollars.
"The rest you've paid will be rent," the collector told Saxon.
"And the furniture's second hand now, too. The deal will be a
loss to Salinger's' and they didn't have to do it, either; you
know that. So just remember they've been pretty square with you,
and if you start over again don't forget them."
Out of this sum, and out of what was realized from Saxon's
pretties, they were able to pay all their small bills and yet
have a few dollars remaining in pocket.
"I hate owin' things worse 'n poison," Billy said to Saxon. "An'
now we don't owe a soul in this world except the landlord an' Doc
Hentley."
"And neither of them can afford to wait longer than they have
to," she said.
"And they won't," Billy answered quietly.
She smiled her approval, for she shared with Billy his horror of
debt, just as both shared it with that early tide of pioneers
with a Puritan ethic, which had settled the West.
Saxon timed her opportunity when Billy was out of the house to
pack the chest of drawers which had crossed the Atlantic by
sailing ship and the Plains by ox team. She kissed the bullet
hole in it, made in the fight at Little Meadow, as she kissed her
father's sword, the while she visioned him, as she always did,
astride his roan warhorse. With the old religious awe, she pored
over her mother's poems in the scrap-book, and clasped her
mother's red satin Spanish girdle about her in a farewell
embrace. She unpacked the scrap-book in order to gaze a last time
at the wood engraving of the Vikings, sword in hand, leaping upon
the English sands. Again she identified Billy as one of the
Vikings, and pondered for a space on the strange wanderings of
the seed from which she sprang. Always had her race been
land-hungry, and she took delight in believing she had bred true;
for had not she, despite her life passed in a city, found this
same land-hunger in her? And was she not go
ing forth to satisfy
that hunger, just as her people of old time had done, as her
father and mother before her? She remembered her mother's tale of
how the promised land looked to them as their battered wagons and
weary oxen dropped down through the early winter snows of the
Sierras to the vast and flowering sun-land of California: In
fancy, herself a child of nine, she looked down from the snowy
heights as her mother must have looked down. She recalled and
repeated aloud one of her mother's stanzas:
"'Sweet as a wind-lute's airy strains
Your gentle muse has learned to sing
And California's boundless plains
Prolong the soft notes echoing.'"
She sighed happily and dried her eyes. Perhaps the hard times
were past. Perhaps they had constituted HER Plains, and she and
Billy had won safely across and were even then climbing the
Sierras ere they dropped down into the pleasant valley land.
Salinger's wagon was at the house, taking out the furniture, the
morning they left. The landlord, standing at the gate, received
the keys, shook hands with them, and wished them luck. "You're
goin' at it right," he congratulated them. "Sure an' wasn't it
under me roll of blankets I tramped into Oakland meself forty
year ago! Buy land, like me, when it's cheap. It'll keep you from
the poorhouse in your old age. There's plenty of new towns
springin' up. Get in on the ground floor. The work of your
hands'll keep you in food an' under a roof, an' the lend 'll make
you well to do. An' you know me address. When you can spare send
me along that small bit of rent. An' good luck. An' don't mind
what people think. 'Tis them that looks that finds."
Curious neighbors peeped from behind the blinds as Billy and
Saxon strode up the street, while the children gazed at them in
gaping astonishment. On Billy's back, inside a painted canvas
tarpaulin, was slung the roll of bedding. Inside the roll were
changes of underclothing and odds and ends of necessaries.
Outside, from the lashings, depended a frying pan and cooking
pail. In his hand he carried the coffee pot. Saxon carried a
small telescope basket protected by black oilcloth, and across
her back was the tiny ukulele case.
"We must look like holy frights," Billy grumbled, shrinking from
every gaze that was bent upon him.
"Only we're not."
"But they don't know that," she continued. "It's only you know
that, and what you think they're thinking isn't what they're
thinking at all. Most probably they think we're going camping.
And the best of it is we are going camping. We are! We are!"
At this Billy cheered up, though he muttered his firm intention
to knock the block off of any guy that got fresh. He stole a
glance at Saxon. Her cheeks were red, her eyes glowing.
"Say," he said suddenly. "I seen an opera once, where fellows
wandered over the country with guitars slung on their backs just
like you with that strummy-strum. You made me think of them. They
was always singin' songs."
"That's what I brought it along for," Saxon answered.
"And when we go down country roads we'll sing as we go along, and
we'll sing by the campfires, too. We're going camping, that's
all. Taking a vacation and seeing the country. So why shouldn't
we have a good time? Why, we don't even know where we're going to
sleep to-night, or any night. Think of the fun!"
"It's a sporting proposition all right, all right," Billy
considered. "But, just the same, let's turn off an' go around the
block. There's some fellows I know, standin' up there on the next
corner, an' I don't want to knock THEIR blocks off."
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
The car ran as far as Hayward's, but at Saxon's suggestion they
got off at San Leandro.
"It doesn't matter where we start walking," she said, "for start
to walk somewhere we must. And as we're looking for land and
finding out about land, the quicker we begin to investigate the
better. Besides, we want to know all about all kinds of land,
close to the big cities as well as back in the mountains."
"Gee!--this must be the Porchugeeze headquarters," was Billy's
reiterated comment, as they walked through San Leandro.
"It looks as though they'd crowd our kind out," Saxon adjudged.
"Some tall crowdin', I guess," Billy grumbled. "It looks like the
free-born American ain't got no room left in his own land."
"Then it's his own fault," Saxon said, with vague asperity,
resenting conditions she was just beginning to grasp.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I reckon the American could do what
the Porchugeeze do if he wanted to. Only he don't want to, thank
God. He ain't much given to livin' like a pig often leavin's."
"Not in the country, maybe," Saxon controverted. "But I've seen
an awful lot of Americans living like pigs in the cities."
Billy grunted unwilling assent. "I guess they quit the farms an'
go to the city for something better, an' get it in the neck."
"Look at all the children!" Saxon cried. "School's letting out.
And nearly all are Portuguese, Billy, NOT Porchugeeze. Mercedes
taught me the right way."
"They never wore glad rags like them in the old country," Billy
sneered. "They had to come over here to get decent clothes and
decent grub. They're as fat as butterballs."
Saxon nodded affirmation, and a great light seemed suddenly to
kindle in her understanding.
"That's the very point, Billy. They're doing it--doing it
farming, too. Strikes don't bother THEM."
"You don't call that dinky gardening farming," he objected,
pointing to a piece of land barely the size of an acre, which
they were passing.
"Oh, your ideas are still big," she laughed. "You're like Uncle
Will, who owned thousands of acres and wanted to own a million,
and who wound up as night watchman. That's what was the trouble
with all us Americans. Everything large scale. Anything less than
one hundred and sixty acres was small scale."
"Just the same," Billy held stubbornly, "large scale's a whole
lot better'n small scale like all these dinky gardens."
Saxon sighed. "I don't know which is the dinkier," she observed
finally, "--owning a few little acres and the team you're
driving, or not owning any acres and driving a team somebody else
owns for wages."
Billy winced.
"Go on, Robinson Crusoe," he growled good naturedly. "Rub it in
good an' plenty. An' the worst of it is it's correct. A hell of a
free-born American I've been, adrivin' other folkses' teams for a
livin', a-strikin' and a-sluggin' scabs, an' not bein' able to
keep up with the installments for a few sticks of furniture. Just
the same I was sorry for one thing. I hated worse in Sam Hill to
see that Morris chair go back--you liked it so. We did a lot of
honeymoonin' in that chair."
They were well out of San Leandro, walking through a region o
f
tiny holdings--"farmlets," Billy called them; and Saxon got out
her ukulele to cheer him with a song.
First, it was "Treat my daughter kind-i-ly," and then she swung
into old-fashioned darky camp-meeting hymns, beginning with:
"Oh! de Judgmen' Day am rollin' roan',
Rollin', yes, a-rollin',
I hear the trumpets' awful soun',
Rollin', yes, a-rollin'."
A big touring car, dashing past, threw a dusty pause in her
singing, and Saxon delivered herself of her latest wisdom.
"Now, Billy, remember we're not going to take up with the first
piece of land we see. We've got to go into this with our eyes
open--"
"An' they ain't open yet," he agreed.
"And we've got to get them open. ''Tis them that looks that
finds.' There's lots of time to learn things. We don't care if it
takes months and months. We're footloose. A good start is better
than a dozen bad ones. We've got to talk and find out. We'll talk
with everybody we meet. Ask questions. Ask everybody. It's the
only way to find out."
"I ain't much of a hand at askin' questions," Billy demurred.
"Then I'll ask," she cried. "We've got to win out at this game,
and the way is to know. Look at all these Portuguese. Where are
all the Americans? They owned the land first, after the Mexicans.
What made the Americans clear out? How do the Portuguese make it
go? Don't you see? We've got to ask millions of questions."
She strummed a few chords, and then her clear sweet voice rang
out gaily:
"I's g'wine back to Dixie,
I's g'wine back to Dixie,
I's g'wine where de orange blossoms grow,
For I hear de chillun callin',
I see de sad tears fallin'--
My heart's turned back to Dixie,
An' I mus'go."
She broke off to exclaim: "Oh! What a lovely place! See that
arbor--just covered with grapes!"
Again and again she was attracted by the small places they
passed. Now it was: "Look at the flowers!" or: "My! those
vegetables!" or: "See! They've got a cow!"
Men--Americans--driving along in buggies or runabouts looked at
Saxon and Billy curiously. This Saxon could brook far easier than
could Billy, who would mutter and grumble deep in his throat.
Beside the road they came upon a lineman eating his lunch.
"Stop and talk," Saxon whispered.
"Aw, what's the good? He's a lineman. What'd he know about
farmin'?"
"You never can tell. He's our kind. Go ahead, Billy. You just
speak to him. He isn't working now anyway, and he'll be more
likely to talk. See that tree in there, just inside the gate, and
the way the branches are grown together. It's a curiosity. Ask
him about it. That's a good way to get started."
Billy stopped, when they were alongside.
"How do you do," he said gruffly.
The lineman, a young fellow, paused in the cracking of a
hard-boiled egg to stare up at the couple.
"How do you do," he said.
Billy swung his pack from his shoulders to the ground, and Saxon
rested her telescope basket.
"Peddlin'?" the young man asked, too discreet to put his question
directly to Saxon, yet dividing it between her and Billy, and
cocking his eye at the covered basket.
"No," she spoke up quickly. "We're looking for land. Do you know
of any around here?"
Again he desisted from the egg, studying them with sharp eyes as
if to fathom their financial status.
"Do you know what land sells for around here?" he asked.
"No," Saxon answered. "Do you?"
"I guess I ought to. I was born here. And land like this all
around you runs at from two to three hundred to four an' five
hundred dollars an acre."
"Whew!" Billy whistled. "I guess we don't want none of it."
"But what makes it that high? Town lots?" Saxon wanted to know.