The Valley of the Moon Jack London

by Jack London

black mark against Oakland. Mary was one more destroyed. They

  lived only five years, on the average, Saxon had heard somewhere.

  She looked at the coin and tossed it into the kitchen sink. When

  she cleaned the clams, she heard the coin tinkle down the vent

  pipe.

  It was the thought of Billy, next morning, that led Saxon to go

  under the sink, unscrew the cap to the catchtrap, and rescue the

  five-dollar piece. Prisoners were not well fed, she had been

  told; and the thought of placing clams and dry bread before

  Billy, after thirty days of prison fare, was too appalling for

  her to contemplate. She knew how he liked to spread his butter on

  thick, how he liked thick, rare steak fried on a dry hot pan, and

  how he liked coffee that was coffee and plenty of it.

  Not until after nine o'clock did Billy arrive, and she was

  dressed in her prettiest house gingham to meet him. She peeped on

  him as he came slowly up the front steps, and she would have run

  out to him except for a group of neighborhood children who were

  staring from across the street. The door opened before him as his

  hand reached for the knob, and, inside, he closed it by backing

  against it, for his arms were filled with Saxon. No, he had not

  had breakfast, nor did he want any now that he had her. He had

  only stopped for a shave. He had stood the barber off, and he had

  walked all the way from the City Hall because of lack of the

  nickel carfare. But he'd like a bath most mighty well, and a

  change of clothes. She mustn't come near him until he was clean.

  When all this was accomplished, he sat in the kitchen and watched

  her cook, noting the driftwood she put in the stove and asking

  about it. While she moved about, she told how she had gathered

  the wood, how she had managed to live and not be beholden to the

  union, and by the time they were seated at the table she was

  telling him about her meeting with Mary the night before. She did

  not mention the five dollars.

  Billy stopped chewing the first mouthful of steak. His expression

  frightened her. He spat the meat out on his plate.

  "You got the money to buy the meat from her," he accused slowly.

  "You had no money, no more tick with the butcher, yet here's

  meat. Am I right?"

  Saxon could only bend her head.

  The terrifying, ageless look had come into his face, the bleak

  and passionless glaze into his eyes, which she had first seen on

  the day at Weasel Park when he had fought with the three

  Irishmen.

  "What else did you buy?" he demanded--not roughly, not angrily,

  but with the fearful coldness of a rage that words could not

  express.

  To her surprise, she had grown calm. What did it matter? It was

  merely what one must expect, living in Oakland--something to be

  left behind when Oakland was a thing behind, a place started

  from.

  "The coffee," she answered. "And the butter."

  He emptied his plate of meat and her plate into the frying pan,

  likewise the roll of butter and the slice on the table, and on

  top he poured the contents of the coffee canister. All this he

  carried into the back yard and dumped in the garbage can. The

  coffee pot he emptied into the sink. "How much of the money you

  got left?" he next wanted to know.

  Saxon had already gone to her purse and taken it out.

  "Three dollars and eighty cents," she counted, handing it to him.

  "I paid forty-five cents for the steak."

  He ran his eye over the money, counted it, and went to the front

  door. She heard the door open and close, and knew that the silver

  had been flung into the street. When he came back to the kitchen,

  Saxon was already serving him fried potatoes on a clean plate.

  "Nothin's too good for the Robertses," he said; "but, by God,

  that sort of truck is too high for my stomach. It's so high it

  stinks."

  He glanced at the fried potatoes, the fresh slice of dry bread,

  and the glass of water she was placing by his plate.

  "It's all right," she smiled, as he hesitated. "There's nothing

  left that's tainted."

  He shot a swift glance at her face, as if for sarcasm, then

  sighed and sat down. Almost immediately he was up again and

  holding out his arms to her.

  "I'm goin' to eat in a minute, but I want to talk to you first,"

  he said, sitting down and holding her closely. "Besides, that

  water ain't like coffee. Gettin' cold won't spoil it none. Now,

  listen. You're the only one I got in this world. You wasn't

  afraid of me an' what I just done, an' I'm glad of that. Now

  we'll forget all about Mary. I got charity enough. I'm just as

  sorry for her as you. I'd do anything for her. I'd wash her feet

  for her like Christ did. I'd let her eat at my table, an' sleep

  under my roof. But all that ain't no reason I should touch

  anything she's earned. Now forget her. It's you an' me, Saxon,

  only you an' me an' to hell with the rest of the world. Nothing

  else counts. You won't never have to be afraid of me again.

  Whisky an' I don't mix very well, so I'm goin' to cut whisky out.

  I've been clean off my nut, an' I ain't treated you altogether

  right. But that's all past. It won't never happen again. I'm

  goin' to start out fresh.

  "Now take this thing. I oughtn't to acted so hasty. But I did. I

  oughta talked it over. But I didn't. My damned temper got the

  best of me, an' you know I got one. If a fellow can keep his

  temper in boxin', why he can keep it in bein' married, too. Only

  this got me too sudden-like. It's something I can't stomach, that

  I never could stomach. An' you wouldn't want me to any more'n I'd

  want you to stomach something you just couldn't."

  She sat up straight on his knees and looked at him, afire with an

  idea.

  "You mean that, Billy?"

  "Sure I do."

  "Then I'll tell you something I can't stomach any more. I'll die

  if I have to."

  "Well?" he questioned, after a searching pause.

  "It's up to you," she said.

  "Then fire away."

  "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for," she warned.

  "Maybe you'd better back out before it's too late."

  He shook his head stubbornly.

  "What you don't want to stomach you ain't goin' to stomach. Let

  her go."

  "First," she commenced, "no more slugging of scabs."

  His mouth opened, but he checked the involuntary protest.

  "And, second, no more Oakland."

  "I don't get that last."

  "No more Oakland. No more living in Oakland. I'll die if I have

  to. It's pull up stakes and get out."

  He digested this slowly.

  "Where?" he asked finally.

  "Anywhere. Everywhere. Smoke a cigarette and think it over."

  He shook his head and studied her.

  "You mean that?" he asked at length.

  "I do. I want to chuck Oakland just as hard as you wanted to

  chuck the beefsteak, the coffee, and the butter."

  She could see him brace himself. She could feel him brace his

  very body ere he answered.

  "All
right then, if that's what you want. We'll quit Oakland.

  We'll quit it cold. God damn it, anyway, it never done nothin'

  for me, an' I guess I'm husky enough to scratch for us both

  anywheres. An' now that's settled, just tell me what you got it

  in for Oakland for."

  And she told him all she had thought out, marshaled all the facts

  in her indictment of Oakland, omitting nothing, not even her last

  visit to Doctor Hentley's office nor Billy's drinking. He but

  drew her closer and proclaimed his resolves anew. The time

  passed. The fried potatoes grew cold, and the stove went out.

  When a pause came, Billy stood up, still holding her. He glanced

  at the fried potatoes.

  "Stone cold," he said, then turned to her. "Come on. Put on your

  prettiest. We're goin' up town for something to eat an' to

  celebrate. I guess we got a celebration comin', seein' as we're

  going to pull up stakes an' pull our freight from the old burg.

  An' we won't have to walk. I can borrow a dime from the barber,

  an' I got enough junk to hock for a blowout."

  His junk proved to be several gold medals won in his amateur days

  at boxing tournaments. Once up town and in the pawnshop, Uncle

  Sam seemed thoroughly versed in the value of the medals, and

  Billy jingled a handful of silver in his pocket as they walked

  out.

  He was as hilarious as a boy, and she joined in his good spirits.

  When he stopped at a corner cigar store to buy a sack of Bull

  Durham, he changed his mind and bought Imperials.

  "Oh, I'm a regular devil," he laughed. "Nothing's too good

  to-day--not even tailor-made smokes. An' no chop houses nor Jap

  joints for you an' me. It's Barnum's."

  They strolled to the restaurant at Seventh and Broadway where

  they had had their wedding supper.

  "Let's make believed we're not married," Saxon suggested.

  "Sure," he agreed, "--an' take a private room so as the waiter'll

  have to knock on the door each time he comes in."

  Saxon demurred at that.

  "It will be too expensive, Billy. You'll have to tip him for the

  knocking. We'll take the regular dining room."

  "Order anything you want," Billy said largely, when they were

  seated. "Here's family porterhouse, a dollar an' a half. What

  d'ye say?"

  "And hash-browned," she abetted, "and coffee extra special, and

  some oysters first--I want to compare them with the rock

  oysters."

  Billy nodded, and looked up from the bill of fare.

  "Here's mussels bordelay. Try an order of them, too, an' see if

  they beat your Rock Wall ones."

  "Why not?" Saxon cried, her eyes dancing. "The world is ours.

  We're just travelers through this town."

  "Yep, that's the stuff," Billy muttered absently. He was looking

  at the theater column. He lifted his eyes from the paper.

  "Matinee at Bell's. We can get reserved seats for a

  quarter.--Doggone the luck anyway!"

  His exclamation was so aggrieved and violent that it brought

  alarm into her eyes.

  "If I'd only thought," he regretted, "we could a-gone to the

  Forum for grub. That's the swell joint where fellows like Roy

  Blanchard hangs out, blowin' the money we sweat for them."

  They bought reserved tickets at Bell's Theater; but it was too

  early for the performance, and they went down Broadway and into

  the Electric Theater to while away the time on a moving picture

  show. A cowboy film was run off, and a French comic; then came a

  rural drama situated somewhere in the Middle West. It began with

  a farm yard scene. The sun blazed down on a corner of a barn and

  on a rail fence where the ground lay in the mottled shade of

  large trees overhead. There were chickens, ducks, and turkeys,

  scratching, waddling, moving about. A big sow, followed by a

  roly-poly litter of seven little ones, marched majestically

  through the chickens, rooting them out of the way. The hens, in

  turn, took it out on the little porkers, pecking them when they

  strayed too far from their mother. And over the top rail a horse

  looked drowsily on, ever and anon, at mathematically precise

  intervals, switching a lazy tail that flashed high lights in the

  sunshine.

  "It's a warm day and there are flies--can't you just feel it?"

  Saxon whispered.

  "Sure. An' that horse's tail! It's the most natural ever. Gee! I

  bet he knows the trick of clampin' it down over the reins. I

  wouldn't wonder if his name was Iron Tail."

  A dog ran upon the scene. The mother pig turned tail and with

  short ludicrous jumps, followed by her progeny and pursued by the

  dog, fled out of the film. A young girl came on, a sunbonnet

  hanging down her back, her apron caught up in front and filled

  with grain which she threw to the buttering fowls. Pigeons flew

  down from the top of the film and joined in the scrambling feast.

  The dog returned, wading scarcely noticed among the feathered

  creatures, to wag his tail and laugh up at the girl. And, behind,

  the horse nodded over the rail and switched on. A young man

  entered, his errand immediately known to an audience educated in

  moving pictures. But Saxon had no eyes for the love-making, the

  pleading forcefulness, the shy reluctance, of man and maid. Ever

  her gaze wandered back to the chickens, to the mottled shade

  under the trees, to the warm wall of the barn, to the sleepy

  horse with its ever recurrent whisk of tail.

  She drew closer to Billy, and her hand, passed around his arm,

  sought his hand.

  "Oh, Billy," she sighed. "I'd just die of happiness in a place

  like that." And, when the film was ended. "We got lots of time

  for Bell's. Let's stay and see that one over again."

  They sat through a repetition of the performance, and when the

  farm yard scene appeared, the longer Saxon looked at it the more

  it affected her. And this time she took in further details. She

  saw fields beyond, rolling hills in the background, and a

  cloud-flecked sky. She identified some of the chickens,

  especially an obstreperous old hen who resented the thrust of the

  sow's muzzle, particularly pecked at the little pigs, and laid

  about her with a vengeance when the grain fell. Saxon looked back

  across the fields to the hills and sky, breathing the

  spaciousness of it, the freedom, the content. Tears welled into

  her eyes and she wept silently, happily.

  "I know a trick that'd fix that old horse if he ever clamped his

  tail down on me," Billy whispered.

  "Now I know where we're going when we leave Oakland," she

  informed him.

  "Where?"

  "There."

  He looked at her, and followed her gaze to the screen. "Oh," he

  said, and cogitated. "An' why shouldn't we?" he added.

  "Oh, Billy, will you?"

  Her lips trembled in her eagerness, and her whisper broke and was

  almost inaudible "Sure," he said. It was his day of royal

  largess.

  "What you want is yourn, an' I'll scratch my fingers off for it.

  An' I've always had a hankerin' for the country myself. Say! I've


  known horses like that to sell for half the price, an' I can sure

  cure 'em of the habit."

  CHAPTER XVIII

  It was early evening when they got off the car at Seventh and

  Pine on their way home from Bell's Theater. Billy and Saxon did

  their little marketing together, then separated at the corner,

  Saxon to go on to the house and prepare supper, Billy to go and

  see the boys--the teamsters who had fought on in the strike

  during his month of retirement.

  "Take care of yourself, Billy," she called, as he started off.

  "Sure," he answered, turning his face to her over his shoulder.

  Her heart leaped at the smile. It was his old, unsullied

  love-smile which she wanted always to see on his face--for which,

  armed with her own wisdom and the wisdom of Mercedes, she would

  wage the utmost woman's war to possess. A thought of this flashed

  brightly through her brain, and it was with a proud little smile

  that she remembered all her pretty equipment stored at home in

  the bureau and the chest of drawers.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, supper ready, all but the

  putting on of the lamb chops at the sound of his step, Saxon

  waited. She heard the gate click, but instead of his step she

  heard a curious and confused scraping of many steps. She flew to

  open the door. Billy stood there, but a different Billy from the

  one she had parted from so short a time before. A small boy,

  beside him, held his hat. His face had been fresh-washed, or,

  rather, drenched, for his shirt and shoulders were wet. His pale

  hair lay damp and plastered against his forehead, and was

  darkened by oozing blood. Both arms hung limply by his side. But

  his face was composed, and he even grinned.

  "It's all right," he reassured Saxon. "The joke's on me. Somewhat

  damaged but still in the ring." He stepped gingerly across the

  threshold. "--Come on in, you fellows. We're all mutts together."

  He was followed in by the boy with his hat, by Bud Strothers and

  another teamster she knew, and by two strangers. The latter were

  big, hard-featured, sheepish-faced men, who stared at Saxon as if

  afraid of her.

  "It's all right, Saxon," Billy began, but was interrupted by Bud.

  "First thing is to get him on the bed an' cut his clothes off

  him. Both arms is broke, and here are the ginks that done it."

  He indicated the two strangers, who shuffled their feet with

  embarrassment and looked more sheepish than ever.

  Billy sat down on the bed, and while Saxon held the lamp, Bud and

  the strangers proceeded to cut coat, shirt, and undershirt from

  him.

  "He wouldn't go to the receivin' hospital," Bud said to Saxon.

  "Not on your life," Billy concurred. "I had 'em send for Doc

  Hentley. He'll be here any minute. Them two arms is all I got.

  They've done pretty well by me, an' I gotta do the same by

  them.--No medical students a-learnin' their trade on me."

  "But how did it happens" Saxon demanded, looking from Billy to

  the two strangers, puzzled by the amity that so evidently existed

  among them all.

  "Oh, they're all right," Billy dashed in. "They done it through

  mistake. They're Frisco teamsters, an' they come over to help

  us--a lot of 'em."

  The two teamsters seemed to cheer up at this, and nodded their

  heads.

  "Yes, missus," one of them rumbled hoarsely. "It's all a mistake,

  an' . . . well, the joke's on us."

  "The drinks, anyway," Billy grinned.

  Not only was Saxon not excited, but she was scarcely perturbed.

  What had happened was only to be expected.

  It was in line with all that Oakland had already done to her and

  hers, and, besides, Billy was not dangerously hurt. Broken arms

  and a sore head would heal. She brought chairs and seated

  everybody.

  "Now tell me what happened," she begged. "I'm all at sea, what of