Part 78 (1/2)

”Gee!” Billy said, when he had driven on out of hearing; ”that's too rich for our digestion.”

And Saxon said, ”I don't know about apples in the valley of the moon, but I do know that the yield is ten thousand per cent. of happiness on a valuation of one Billy, one Saxon, a Hazel, a Hattie, and a Possum.”

Through Siskiyou County and across high mountains, they came to Ashland and Medford and camped beside the wild Rogue River.

”This is wonderful and glorious,” p.r.o.nounced Saxon; ”but it is not the valley of the moon.”

”Nope, it ain't the valley of the moon,” agreed Billy, and he said it on the evening of the day he hooked a monster steelhead, standing to his neck in the ice-cold water of the Rogue and fighting for forty minutes, with screaming reel, ere he drew his finny prize to the bank and with the scalp-yell of a Comanche jumped and clutched it by the gills.

”'Them that looks finds,'” predicted Saxon, as they drew north out of Grant's Pa.s.s, and held north across the mountains and fruitful Oregon valleys.

One day, in camp by the Umpqua River, Billy bent over to begin skinning the first deer he had ever shot. He raised his eyes to Saxon and remarked:

”If I didn't know California, I guess Oregon'd suit me from the ground up.”

In the evening, replete with deer meat, resting on his elbow and smoking his after-supper cigarette, he said:

”Maybe they ain't no valley of the moon. An' if they ain't, what of it?

We could keep on this way forever. I don't ask nothing better.”

”There is a valley of the moon,” Saxon answered soberly. ”And we are going to find it. We've got to. Why Billy, it would never do, never to settle down. There would be no little Hazels and little Hatties, nor little... Billies--”

”Nor little Saxons,” Billy interjected.

”Nor little Possums,” she hurried on, nodding her head and reaching out a caressing hand to where the fox terrier was ecstatically gnawing a deer-rib. A vicious snarl and a wicked snap that barely missed her fingers were her reward.

”Possum!” she cried in sharp reproof, again extending her hand.

”Don't,” Billy warned. ”He can't help it, and he's likely to get you next time.”

Even more compelling was the menacing threat that Possum growled, his jaws close-guarding the bone, eyes blazing insanely, the hair rising stiffly on his neck.

”It's a good dog that sticks up for its bone,” Billy championed. ”I wouldn't care to own one that didn't.”

”But it's my Possum,” Saxon protested. ”And he loves me. Besides, he must love me more than an old bone. And he must mind me.--Here, you, Possum, give me that bone! Give me that bone, sir!”

Her hand went out gingerly, and the growl rose in volume and key till it culminated in a snap.

”I tell you it's instinct,” Billy repeated. ”He does love you, but he just can't help doin' it.”

”He's got a right to defend his bones from strangers but not from his mother,” Saxon argued. ”I shall make him give up that bone to me.”

”Fox terriers is awful highstrung, Saxon. You'll likely get him hysterical.”

But she was obstinately set in her purpose. She picked up a short stick of firewood.

”Now, sir, give me that bone.”

She threatened with the stick, and the dog's growling became ferocious.

Again he snapped, then crouched back over his bone. Saxon raised the stick as if to strike him, and he suddenly abandoned the bone, rolled over on his back at her feet, four legs in the air, his ears lying meekly back, his eyes swimming and eloquent with submission and appeal.

”My G.o.d!” Billy breathed in solemn awe. ”Look at it!--presenting his solar plexus to you, his vitals an' his life, all defense down, as much as sayin': 'Here I am. Stamp on me. Kick the life outa me.' I love you, I am your slave, but I just can't help defendin' my bone. My instinct's stronger'n me. Kill me, but I can't help it.”