The horses, resting frequently and lathered by the work, had climbed the steep grade of the old road to Moraga Valley, and on the divide of the Contra Costa hills the way descended sharply through the green and sunny stillness of Redwood Canyon.
"Say, ain't it swell?" Billy queried, with a wave of his hand indicating the circled tree-groups, the trickle of unseen water, and the summer hum of bees.
"I love it"' Saxon affirmed. "It makes me want to live in the country, and I never have."
"Me, too, Saxon. I've never lived in the country in my life--an' all my folks was country folks."
"No cities then. Everybody lived in the country."
"I guess you're right," he nodded. "They just had to live in the country."
There was no brake on the light carriage, and Billy became absorbed in managing his team down the steep, winding road. Saxon leaned back, eyes closed, with a feeling of ineeffable rest. Time and again he shot glances at her closed eyes.
"What's the matter?" he asked finally, in mild alarm. "You ain't sick?"
"It's so beautiful I'm afraid to look," she answered. "It's so brave it hurts."
"BRAVE?--now that's funnny."
"Isn't it? But it just makes me feel that way. It's brave. Now the houses and streets and things in the city aren't brave. But this is. I don't know why. It just is."
"By golly, I think you're right," he exclaimed. "It strikes me that way, now you speak of it. They ain't no games or tricks here, no cheatin' an' no lyin'. Them trees just stand up natural an' strong an' clean like young boys their first time in the ring before they've learned its rottenness an' how to double-cross an' lay down to the bettin' odds an' the fightfans. Yep; it is brave.
Say, Saxon, you see things, don't you?" His pause was almost wistful, and he looked at her and studied her with a caressing softness that ran through her in resurgent thrills. "D'ye know, I'd just like you to see me fight some time--a real fight, with something doin' every moment. I'd be proud to death to do it for you. An' I'd sure fight some with you lookin' on an' understandin'. That'd be a fight what is, take it from me. An' that's funny, too. I never wanted to fight before a woman in my life. They squeal and screech an' don't understand. But you'd understand. It's dead open an' shut you would."
A little later, swinging along the flat of the valley, through the little clearings of the farmers and the ripe grain-stretches golden in the sunshine, Billy turned to Saxon again.
"Say, you've ben in love with fellows, lots of times. Tell me about it. What's it like?"
She shook her head slowly.
"I only thought I was in love--and not many times, either--"
"Many times!" he cried.
"Not really ever," she assured him, secretly exultant at his unconscious jealousy. "I never was really in love. If I had been I'd be married now. You see, I couldn't see anything else to it but to marry a man if I loved him."
"But suppose he didn't love you?"
"Oh, I don't know," she smiled, half with facetiousness and half with certainty and pride. "I think I could make him love me."
"I guess you sure could," Billy proclaimed enthusiastically.
"The trouble is," she went on, "the men that loved me I never cared for that way.--Oh, look!"
A cottontail rabbit had scuttled across the road, and a tiny dust cloud lingered like smoke, marking the way of his flight. At the next turn a dozen quail exploded into the air from under the noses of the horses. Billy and Saxon exclaimed in mutual delight.
"Gee," he muttered, "I almost wisht I'd ben born a farmer. Folks wasn't made to live in cities."
"Not our kind, at least," she agreed. Followed a pause and a long sigh. "It's all so beautiful. It would be a dream just to live all your life in it. I'd like to be an Indian squaw sometimes."
Several times Billy checked himself on the verge of speech.
"About those fellows you thought you was in love with," he said finally. "You ain't told me, yet."
"You want to know?" she asked. "They didn't amount to anything."
"Of course I want to know. Go ahead. Fire away."
"Well, first there was Al Stanley--"
"What did he do for a livin'?" Billy demanded, almost as with authority.
"He wss a gambler."
Billy's face abruptly stiffened, and she could see his eyes cloudy with doubt in the quick glance he flung at her.
"Oh, it was all right," she laughed. "I was only eight years old.
You see, I'm beginning at the beginning. It was after my mother died and when I was adopted by Cady. He kept a hotel and saloon.
It was down in Los Angeles. Just a small hotel. Workingmen, just common laborers, mostly, and some railroad men, stopped at it, and I guess Al Stanley got his share of their wages. He was so handsome and so quiet and soft-spoken. And he had the nicest eyes and the softest, cleanest hands. I can see them now. He played with me sometimes, in the afternoon, and gave me candy and little presents. He used to sleep most of the day. I didn't know why, then. I thought he was a fairy prince in disguise. And then he got killed, right in the bar-room, but first he killed the man that killed him. So that was the end of that love affair.
"Next was after the asylum, when I was thirteen and living with my brother--I've lived with him ever since. He was a boy that drove a bakery wagon. Almost every morning, on the way to school, I used to pass him. He would come driving down Wood Street and turn in on Twelfth. Maybe it was because he drove a horse that attracted me. Anyway, I must have loved him for a couple of months. Then he lost his job, or something, for another boy drove the wagon. And we'd never even spoken to each other.
"Then there was a bookkeeper when I was sixteen. I seem to run to bookkeepers. It was a bookkeeper at the laundry that Charley Long beat up. This other one was when I was working in Hickmeyer's Cannery. He had soft hands, too. But I quickly got all I wanted of him. He was . . . well, anyway, he had ideas like your boss.
