"Some driver, some driver," Billy muttered. "I take my hat off to 'm whoever he is, hittin' a pace like that on a road like this.--Listen to that! He's got powerful brakes.-- Zocie! That WAS a chuck-hole! Some springs, Saxon, some springs!"
Where the road zigzagged above, they glimpsed through the trees four sorrel horses trotting swiftly, and the flying wheels of a small, tan-painted trap.
At the bend of the road the leaders appeared again, swinging wide on the curve, the wheelers flashed into view, and the light two-seated rig; then the whole affair straightened out and thundered down upon them across a narrow plank-bridge. In the front seat were a man and woman; in the rear seat a Japanese was squeezed in among suit cases, rods, guns, saddles, and a typewriter case, while above him and all about him, fastened most intricately, sprouted a prodigious crop of deer- and elk-horns.
"It's Mr. and Mrs. Hastings," Saxon cried.
"Whoa!" Hastings yelled, putting on the brake and gathering his horses in to a stop alongside. Greetings flew back and forth, in which the Japanese, whom they had last seen on the Roamer at Rio Vista, gave and reeeived his share.
"Different from the Sacramento islands, eh?" Hastings said to Saxon. "Nothing but old American stock in these mountains. And they haven't changed any. As John Fox, Jr., said, they're our contemporary ancestors. Our old folks were just like them."
Mr. and Mrs. Hastings, between them, told of their long drive.
They were out two months then, and intended to continue north through Oregon and Washington to the Canadian boundary.
"Then we'll ship our horses and come home by train," concluded Hastings.
"But the way you drive you oughta be a whole lot further along than this," Billy criticized.
"But we keep stopping off everywhere," Mrs. Hastings explained.
"We went in to the Hoopa Reservation," said Mr. Elastings, " and canoed down the Trinity and Klamath Rivers to the ocean. And just now we've come out from two weeks in the real wilds of Curry County."
"You must go in," Hastings advised. "You'll get to Mountain Ranch to-night. And you can turn in from there. No roads, though.
You'll have to pack your horses. But it's full of game. I shot five mountain lions and two bear, to say nothing of deer. And there are small herds of elk, too.--No; I didn't shoot any.
They're protected. These horns I got from the old hunters. I'll tell you all about it."
And while the men talked, Saxon and Mrs. Hastings were not idle.
"Found your valley of the moon yet?" the writer's wife asked, as they were saying good-by.
Saxon shook her head.
"You will find it if you go far enough; and be sure you go as far as Sonoma Valley and our ranch. Then, if you haven't found it yet, we'll see what we can do."
Three weeks later, with a bigger record of mountain lions and bear than Hastings' to his credit, Billy emerged from Curry County and drove across the line into California. At once Saxon found herself among the redwoods. But they were redwoods unbelievable. Billy stopped the wagon, got out, and paced around one.
"Forty-five feet," he announced. "That's fifteen in diameter. And they're all like it only bigger. No; there's a runt. It's only about nine feet through. An' they're hundreds of feet tall."
"When I die, Billy, you must bury me in a redwood grove," Saxon adjured.
"I ain't goin' to let you die before I do," he assured her. "An' then we'll leave it in our wills for us both to be buried that way."
