The Long Valley

by John Steinbeck

  "Would you like to come down to the barn and see the stock?" he asked.

  Gitano stood up and put on his hat and prepared to follow.

  It was almost evening now. They stood near the watering trough while the horses sauntered in from the hillsides for an evening drink. Gitano rested his big twisted hands on the top rail of the fence. Five horses came down and drank, and then stood about, nibbling at the dirt or rubbing their sides against the polished wood of the fence. Long after they had finished drinking an old horse appeared over the brow of the hill and came painfully down. It had long yellow teeth; its hooves were flat and sharp as spades, and its ribs and hip-bones jutted out under its skin. It hobbled up to the trough and drank water with a loud sucking noise.

  "That's old Easter," Jody explained. "That's the first horse my father ever had. He's thirty years old." He looked up into Gitano's old eyes for some response.

  "No good any more," Gitano said.

  Jody's father and Billy Buck came out of the barn and walked over.

  "Too old to work," Gitano repeated. "Just eats and pretty soon dies."

  Carl Tiflin caught the last words. He hated his brutality toward old Gitano, and so he became brutal again.

  "It's a shame not to shoot Easter," he said. "It'd save him a lot of pains and rheumatism." He looked secretly at Gitano, to see whether he noticed the parallel, but the big bony hands did not move, nor did the dark eyes turn from the horse. "Old things ought to be put out of their misery," Jody's father went on. "One shot, a big noise, one big pain in the head maybe, and that's all. That's better than stiffness and sore teeth."

  Billy Buck broke in. "They got a right to rest after they worked all of their life. Maybe they like to just walk around."

  Carl had been looking steadily at the skinny horse. "You can't imagine now what Easter used to look like," he said softly. "High neck, deep chest, fine barrel. He could jump a five-bar gate in stride. I won a flat race on him when I was fifteen years old. I could of got two hundred dollars for him any time. You wouldn't think how pretty he was." He checked himself, for he hated softness. "But he ought to be shot now," he said.

  "He's got a right to rest," Billy Buck insisted.

  Jody's father had a humorous thought. He turned to Gitano. "If ham and eggs grew on a side-hill I'd turn you out to pasture too," he said. "But I can't afford to pasture you in my kitchen."

  He laughed to Billy Buck about it as they went on toward the house. "Be a good thing for all of us if ham and eggs grew on the side-hills."

  Jody knew how his father was probing for a place to hurt Gitano. He had been probed often. His father knew every place in the boy where a word would fester.

  "He's only talking," Jody said. "He didn't mean it about shooting Easter. He likes Easter. That was the first horse he ever owned."

  The sun sank behind the high mountains as they stood there, and the ranch was hushed. Gitano seemed to be more at home in the evening. He made a curious sharp sound with his lips and stretched one of his hands over the fence. Old Easter moved stiffly to him, and Gitano rubbed the lean neck under the mane.

  "You like him?" Jody asked softly.

  "Yes--but he's no damn good."

  The triangle sounded at the ranch house. "That's supper," Jody cried. "Come on up to supper."

  As they walked up toward the house Jody noticed again that Gitano's body was as straight as that of a young man. Only by a jerkiness in his movements and by the scuffling of his heels could it be seen that he was old.

  The turkeys were flying heavily into the lower branches of the cypress tree by the bunkhouse. A fat sleek ranch cat walked across the road carrying a rat so large that its tail dragged on the ground. The quail on the side-hills were still sounding the clear water call.

  Jody and Gitano came to the back steps and Mrs. Tiflin looked out through the screen door at them.

  "Come running, Jody. Come in to supper, Gitano."

  Carl and Billy Buck had started to eat at the long oilcloth-covered table. Jody slipped into his chair without moving it, but Gitano stood holding his hat until Carl looked up and said, "Sit down, sit down. You might as well get your belly full before you go on." Carl was afraid he might relent and let the old man stay, and so he continued to remind himself that this couldn't be.

  Gitano laid his hat on the floor and diffidently sat down. He wouldn't reach for food. Carl had to pass it to him. "Here, fill yourself up." Gitano ate very slowly, cutting tiny pieces of meat and arranging little pats of mashed potato on his plate.

  The situation would not stop worrying Carl Tiflin. "Haven't you got any relatives in this part of the country?" he asked.

  Gitano answered with some pride, "My brother-in-law is in Monterey. I have cousins there, too."

  "Well, you can go and live there, then."

  "I was born here," Gitano said in gentle rebuke.

  Jody's mother came in from the kitchen, carrying a large bowl of tapioca pudding.

  Carl chuckled to her, "Did I tell you what I said to him? I said if ham and eggs grew on the side-hills I'd put him out to pasture, like old Easter."

  Gitano stared unmoved at his plate.

  "It's too bad he can't stay," said Mrs. Tiflin.

  "Now don't you start anything," Carl said crossly.

  When they had finished eating, Carl and Billy Buck and Jody went into the living-room to sit for a while, but Gitano, without a word of farewell or thanks, walked through the kitchen and out the back door. Jody sat and secretly watched his father. He knew how mean his father felt.

  "This country's full of these old paisanos," Carl said to Billy Buck.

  "They're damn good men," Billy defended them. "They can work older than white men. I saw one of them a hundred and five years old, and he could still ride a horse. You don't see any white men as old as Gitano walking twenty or thirty miles."

  "Oh, they're tough, all right," Carl agreed. "Say, are you standing up for him too? Listen, Billy," he explained, "I'm having a hard enough time keeping this ranch out of the Bank of Italy without taking on anybody else to feed. You know that, Billy."

  "Sure, I know," said Billy. "If you was rich, it'd be different."

  "That's right, and it isn't like he didn't have relatives to go to. A brother-in-law and cousins right in Monterey. Why should I worry about him?"

  Jody sat quietly listening, and he seemed to hear Gitano's gentle voice and its unanswerable, "But I was born here." Gitano was mysterious like the mountains. There were ranges back as far as you could see, but behind the last range piled up against the sky there was a great unknown country. And Gitano was an old man, until you got to the dull dark eyes. And in behind them was some unknown thing. He didn't ever say enough to let you guess what was inside, under the eyes. Jody felt himself irresistibly drawn toward the bunkhouse. He slipped from his chair while his father was talking and he went out the door without making a sound.

  The night was very dark and far-off noises carried in clearly. The hamebells of a wood team sounded from way over the hill on the county road. Jody picked his way across the dark yard. He could see a light through the window of the little room of the bunkhouse. Because the night was secret he walked quietly up to the window and peered in. Gitano sat in the rocking-chair and his back was toward the window. His right arm moved slowly back and forth in front of him. Jody pushed the door open and walked in. Gitano jerked upright and, seizing a piece of deerskin, he tried to throw it over the thing in his lap, but the skin slipped away. Jody stood overwhelmed by the thing in Gitano's hand, a lean and lovely rapier with a golden basket hilt. The blade was like a thin ray of dark light. The hilt was pierced and intricately carved.

  "What is it?" Jody demanded.

  Gitano only looked at him with resentful eyes, and he picked up the fallen deerskin and firmly wrapped the beautiful blade in it.

  Jody put out his hand. "Can't I see it?"

  Gitano's eyes smoldered angrily and he shook his head.

  "Where'd you get it? Wh
ere'd it come from?"

  Now Gitano regarded him profoundly, as though he pondered. "I got it from my father."

  "Well, where'd he get it?"

  Gitano looked down at the long deerskin parcel in his hand. "I don' know."

  "Didn't he ever tell you?"

  "No."

  "What do you do with it?"

  Gitano looked slightly surprised. "Nothing. I just keep it."

  "Can't I see it again?"

  The old man slowly unwrapped the shining blade and let the lamplight slip along it for a moment. Then he wrapped it up again. "You go now. I want to go to bed." He blew out the lamp almost before Jody had closed the door.

  As he went back toward the house, Jody knew one thing more sharply than he had ever known anything. He must never tell anyone about the rapier. It would be a dreadful thing to tell anyone about it, for it would destroy some fragile structure of truth. It was a truth that might be shattered by division.

  On the way across the dark yard Jody passed Billy Buck. "They' re wondering where you are," Billy said.

  Jody slipped into the living-room, and his father turned to him. "Where have you been?"

  "I just went out to see if I caught any rats in my new trap."

  "It's time you went to bed," his father said.

  Jody was first at the breakfast table in the morning. Then his father came in, and last, Billy Buck. Mrs. Tiflin looked in from the kitchen.

  "Where's the old man, Billy?" she asked.

  "I guess he's out walking," Billy said. "I looked in his room and he wasn't there."

  "Maybe he started early to Monterey," said Carl. "It's a long walk."

  "No," Billy explained. "His sack is in the little room."

  After breakfast Jody walked down to the bunkhouse. Flies were flashing about in the sunshine. The ranch seemed especially quiet this morning. When he was sure no one was watching him, Jody went into the little room, and looked into Gitano's sack. An extra pair of long cotton underwear was there, an extra pair of jeans and three pairs of worn socks. Nothing else was in the sack. A sharp loneliness fell on Jody. He walked slowly back toward the house. His father stood on the porch talking to Mrs. Tiflin.

  "I guess old Easter's dead at last," he said. "I didn't see him come down to water with the other horses."

  In the middle of the morning Jess Taylor from the ridge ranch rode down.

  "You didn't sell that old gray crowbait of yours, did you, Carl?"

  "No, of course not. Why?"

  "Well," Jess said. "I was out this morning early, and I saw a funny thing. I saw an old man on an old horse, no saddle, only a piece of rope for a bridle. He wasn't on the road at all. He was cutting right up straight through the brush. I think he had a gun. At least I saw something shine in his hand."

  "That's old Gitano," Carl Tiflin said. "I'll see if any of my guns are missing." He stepped into the house for a second. "Nope, all here. Which way was he heading, Jess?"

  "Well, that's the funny thing. He was heading straight back into the mountains."

  Carl laughed. "They never get too old to steal," he said. "I guess he just stole old Easter."

  "Want to go after him, Carl?"

  "Hell no, just save me burying that horse. I wonder where he got the gun. I wonder what he wants back there."

  Jody walked up through the vegetable patch, toward the brush line. He looked searchingly at the towering mountains--ridge after ridge after ridge until at last there was the ocean. For a moment he thought he could see a black speck crawling up the farthest ridge. Jody thought of the rapier and of Gitano. And he thought of the great mountains. A longing caressed him, and it was so sharp that he wanted to cry to get it out of his breast. He lay down in the green grass near the round tub at the brush line. He covered his eyes with his crossed arms and lay there a long time, and he was full of a nameless sorrow.

  III. THE PROMISE

  In a mid-afternoon of spring, the little boy Jody walked martially along the brushlined road toward his home ranch. Banging his knee against the golden lard bucket he used for school lunch, he contrived a good bass drum, while his tongue fluttered sharply against his teeth to fill in snare drums and occasional trumpets. Some time back the other members of the squad that walked so smartly from the school had turned into the various little canyons and taken the wagon roads to their own home ranches. Now Jody marched seemingly alone, with highlifted knees and pounding feet; but behind him there was a phantom army with great flags and swords, silent but deadly.

  The afternoon was green and gold with spring. Underneath the spread branches of the oaks the plants grew pale and tall, and on the hills the feed was smooth and thick. The sagebrushes shone with new silver leaves and the oaks wore hoods of golden green. Over the hills there hung such a green odor that the horses on the flats galloped madly, and then stopped, wondering; lambs, and even old sheep jumped in the air unexpectedly and landed on stiff legs, and went on eating; young clumsy calves butted their heads together and drew back and butted again.

  As the gray and silent army marched past, led by Jody, the animals stopped their feeding and their play and watched it go by.

  Suddenly Jody stopped. The grey army halted, bewildered and nervous. Jody went down on his knees. The army stood in long uneasy ranks for a moment, and then, with a soft sigh of sorrow, rose up in a faint grey mist and disappeared. Jody had seen the thorny crown of a horny-toad moving under the dust of the road. His grimy hand went out and grasped the spiked halo and held firmly while the little beast struggled. Then Jody turned the horny-toad over, exposing its pale gold stomach. With a gentle forefinger he stroked the throat and chest until the horny-toad relaxed, until its eyes closed and it lay languorous and asleep.

  Jody opened his lunch pail and deposited the first game inside. He moved on now, his knees bent slightly, his shoulders crouched; his bare feet were wise and silent. In his right hand there was a long grey rifle. The brush along the road stirred restively under a new and unexpected population of grey tigers and grey bears. The hunting was very good, for by the time Jody reached the fork of the road where the mail box stood on a post, he had captured two more horny-toads, four little grass lizards, a blue snake, sixteen yellow-winged grasshoppers and a brown damp newt from under a rock. This assortment scrabbled unhappily against the tin of the lunch bucket.

  At the road fork the rifle evaporated and the tigers and bears melted from the hillsides. Even the moist and uncomfortable creatures in the lunch pail ceased to exist, for the little red metal flag was up on the mail box, signifying that some postal matter was inside. Jody set his pail on the ground and opened the letter box. There was a Montgomery Ward catalog and a copy of the Salinas Weekly Journal. He slammed the box, picked up his lunch pail and trotted over the ridge and down into the cup of the ranch. Past the barn he ran, and past the used-up haystack and the bunkhouse and the cypress tree. He banged through the front screen door of the ranch house calling, "Ma'am, ma'am, there's a catalog."

  Mrs. Tiflin was in the kitchen spooning clabbered milk into a cotton bag. She put down her work and rinsed her hands under the tap. "Here in the kitchen, Jody. Here I am."

  He ran in and clattered his lunch pail on the sink. "Here it is. Can I open the catalog, ma'am?"

  Mrs. Tiflin took up the spoon again and went back to her cottage cheese. "Don't lose it, Jody. Your father will want to see it." She scraped the last of the milk into the bag. "Oh, Jody, your father wants to see you before you go to your chores." She waved a cruising fly from the cheese bag.

  Jody closed the new catalog in alarm. "Ma'am?"

  "Why don't you ever listen? I say your father wants to see you."

  The boy laid the catalog gently on the sink board. "Do you--is it something I did?"

  Mrs. Tiflin laughed. "Always a bad conscience. What did you do?"

  "Nothing, ma'am," he said lamely. But he couldn't remember, and besides it was impossible to know what action might later be construed as a crime.

  His mother h
ung the full bag on a nail where it could drip into the sink. "He just said he wanted to see you when you got home. He's somewhere down by the barn."

  Jody turned and went out the back door. Hearing his mother open the lunch pail and then gasp with rage, a memory stabbed him and he trotted away toward the barn, conscientiously not hearing the angry voice that called him from the house.

  Carl Tiflin and Billy Buck, the ranch hand, stood against the lower pasture fence. Each man rested one foot on the lowest bar and both elbows on the top bar. They were talking slowly and aimlessly. In the pasture half a dozen horses nibbled contentedly at the sweet grass. The mare, Nellie, stood backed up against the gate, rubbing her buttocks on the heavy post.

  Jody sidled uneasily near. He dragged one foot to give an impression of great innocence and nonchalance. When he arrived beside the men he put one foot on the lowest fence rail, rested his elbows on the second bar and looked into the pasture too. The two men glanced sideways at him.

  "I wanted to see you," Carl said in the stem tone he reserved for children and animals.

  "Yes, sir," said Jody guiltily.

  "Billy, here, says you took good care of the pony before it died."

  No punishment was in the air. Jody grew bolder. "Yes, sir, I did."

  "Billy says you have a good patient hand with horses."

  Jody felt a sudden warm friendliness for the ranch hand.

  Billy put in, "He trained that pony as good as anybody I ever seen."

  Then Carl Tiflin came gradually to the point. "If you could have another horse would you work for it?"

  Jody shivered. "Yes, sir."

  "Well, look here, then. Billy says the best way for you to be a good hand with horses is to raise a colt."

  "It's the only good way," Billy interrupted.

  "Now, look here, Jody," continued Carl. "Jess Taylor, up to the ridge ranch, has a fair stallion, but it'll cost five dollars. I'll put up the money, you'll have to work it out all summer. Will you do that?"

  Jody felt that his insides were shriveling. "Yes, sir," he said softly.

  "And no complaining? And no forgetting when you're told to do something?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, all right, then. Tomorrow morning you take Nellie up to the ridge ranch and get her bred. You'll have to take care of her, too, till she throws the colt."