To a God Unknown, Page 2

  The leading driver waved his hat to Joseph and the sun flashed on his hat buckle. Joseph walked down to meet the teams and climbed to the high seat beside the first driver, a middle-aged man whose cropped coarse hair was white, whose face was brown and seamed like a tobacco leaf. The driver shifted the lines to his left hand and extended his right.

  "I thought you'd be here earlier," Joseph said. "Did you have trouble on the way?"

  "No trouble, Mr. Wayne, that you could call trouble. Juanito had a hot box and my own son Willie dropped his front wheel into a bog-hole. He was asleep, I guess. It isn't much of a road these last two miles."

  "It will be," Joseph said, "when enough teams like these go over it, it'll be a good road." He pointed a finger. "Over by that big oak we'll drop this lumber."

  To the face of the driver there came an expression of half-foreboding. "Going to build under a tree? That's not good. One of those limbs might crack off and take your roof with it, and smash you, too, some night while you're asleep."

  "It's a good strong tree," Joseph assured him. "I wouldn't like to build my house very far from a tree. Is your house away from a tree?"

  "Well no, that's why I'm telling you. The damn thing is right smack under one. I don't know how I happened to build it there. Many a night I've laid awake and listened to the wind and thought about a limb as big around as a barrel coming through the roof." He pulled up his team and wound the handful of lines around the brake. "Pull up even, here," he shouted to the other drivers.

  When the lumber lay on the ground and the horses, haltered heard-inward about the wagons, munched barley from their nose-bags, the drivers unrolled their blankets in the wagon-beds. Joseph had already built a fire and started the supper. He held his frying pan high above the flame and turned the bacon constantly. Romas, the old driver, walked up and sat beside the fire. "We'll get an early start in the morning," he said. 'We'll make good time with empty wagons."

  Joseph held his pan from the fire. "Why don't you let the horses have a little grass?"

  "When they are working? Oh, no. There's no guts in grass. Got to have something stronger to pull over a road like yours. Put your pan down in the fire and let it lay a minute if you want to cook that bacon."

  Joseph scowled. "You people don't know how to fry bacon. Slow heat and turning, that's what makes it crisp without losing it all in grease."

  "It's all food," said Romas. "Everything's food."

  Juanito and Willie walked up together. Juanito had a dark, Indian skin and blue eyes. Willie's face was twisted and white with some unknown illness under its crusting of dirt, and Willie's eyes were furtive and frightened, for no one believed in the pains which shook his body in the night and no one believed the dark dreams which tortured him when he slept. Joseph looked up and smiled at the two.

  "You are seeing my eyes," Juanito said boldly. "I am not Indian. I am Castilian. My eyes are blue. See my skin. It is dark, and that is the sun, but Castilians have blue eyes."

  "He tells everybody that," Romas broke in. "He likes to find a stranger to tell that to. Everybody in Nuestra Senora knows his mother was a squaw, and only God knows who his father was."

  Juanito glared and touched his fingers to a long knife in his belt, but Romas only laughed and turned to Joseph. "Juanito tells himself, 'Some time I'll kill somebody with this knife.' That's the way he keeps feeling proud. But he knows he won't, and that keeps him from being too proud. Sharpen a stick to eat your bacon with, Juanito," he said contemptuously, "and next time you tell about being a Castilian, be sure nobody knows you."

  Joseph set down his frying pan and looked questioningly at Romas. "Why do you tell on him?" he asked. "What good do you do by it? He does no harm being a Castilian."

  "It's a lie, Mr. Wayne. One lie is like another. If you believe that lie, he'll tell another lie. In a week he'd be the cousin of the Queen of Spain. Juanito, here, is a teamster, a damn good one. I can't let him be a prince."

  But Joseph shook his head and took up the frying pan again. Without looking up, he said, "I think he is a Castilian. His eyes are blue, and there's something else besides. I don't know how I know it, but I think he is."

  Juanito's eyes grew hard and proud. "Thank you, senor," he said. "it is true, what you say." He drew himself up dramatically. "We understand each other, senor. We are caballeros."

  Joseph put the bacon on tin plates and poured the coffee. He was smiling gently. "My father thinks he is almost a god. And he is."

  "You don't know what you're doing," Romas protested. "I won't be able to stand this caballero. He won't work now. He'll walk around admiring himself."

  Joseph blew wrinkles in his coffee. "When he gets too proud, I can use a Castilian here," he said.

  "But God damn it, he's a good skinner."

  "I know it," Joseph said quietly. "Gentlemen usually are. They don't have to be made to work."

  Juanito got up hastily and walked off into the growing darkness, but Willie explained for him. "A horse has got its foot over a halter-rope."

  The western range was still edged with the silver of the after-glow, but the valley of Our Lady was filled to the mountain-rims with darkness. The cast stars in the steel-grey fabric of the sky seemed to struggle and wink against the night. The four men sat about the coals of the fire, their faces strong with shadows. Joseph caressed his beard and his eyes were brooding and remote. Romas clasped his knees with both his aims. His cigarette gleamed red and then disappeared behind its ash. Juanito held his head straight and his neck stiff, but his eyes, behind crossed lashes, did not leave Joseph. Willie's pale face seemed to hang in the air unconnected to a body; the mouth contracted to a nervous grimace now and then. His nose was pinched and bony and his mouth came to a curved point like a parrot's beak. When the firelight had died down so that only the faces of the men were visible, Willie put out his lean hand and Juanito took it and clasped the fingers strongly, for Juanito knew how frightened Willie was of the darkness. Joseph threw a twig into the fire and started a little blaze. "Romas," he said, "the grass is good here, the soil is rich and free. It needs only lifting with a plow. Why was it left, Romas? Why didn't anyone take it before this?"

  Romas spat his cigarette stump at the fire. "I don't know. People are coming slowly to this country. It's off the main road. This would have been taken, I guess, but for the dry years. They set the country back a long time."

  "Dry years? When were the dry years?"

  "Oh, between eighty and ninety. Why, all the land dried up and the wells went dry and the cattle died." He chuckled. "It was dry enough, I tell you. Half the people who lived here then had to move away. Those who could, drove the cattle inland to the San Joaquin, where there was grass along the river. The cows died along the road, too. I was younger then, but I remember the dead cows with swelled-up guts. We shot at them and they went down like punctured balloons, and the stink would knock you down."

  "But the rain came again," Joseph said quickly. "The ground is full of water now."

  "Oh, yes, the rain came after ten years. Floods of it came. Then the grass came up again and the trees were green. We were glad then, I still remember it. The people down in Nuestra Senora had a fiesta in the rain, only a little roof over the guitar players to keep the strings dry. And the people were drunk and dancing in the mud. They got drunk on the water. Not only Mexicans, either. Father Angelo came upon them, and he made them stop."

  "What for?" Joseph demanded.

  'Well, you don't know what the people were doing there in the mud. Father Angelo was pretty mad. He said we'd let the devil in. He drove out the devil and made the people wash themselves and stop rolling in the wallows. He put penances on everybody. Father Angelo was pretty mad. He stayed right there until the rain stopped."

  "The people were drunk, you say?'

  "Yes, they were drunk for a week, and they did bad things--took off their clothes."

  Juanito interrupted him. "They were happy. The wells were dry before, senor. The hills were wh
ite like ashes. It made the people happy when the rain came. They couldn't bear it to be so happy, and they did bad things. People always do bad things when they are too happy.

  "I hope it never comes again,' Joseph said.

  "Well, Father Angelo said it was a judgment, but the Indians said it had been before, twice in the memory of old men."

  Joseph stood up nervously. "I don't like to think about it. It won't come again, surely. Feel how tall the grass is already."

  Romas was stretching his arms. "Maybe not. But don't depend on that. It's time to go to bed. We'll be starting at daylight."

  The night was cold with the dawning when Joseph awakened. He seemed to have heard a shrill cry while he slept. It must have been an owl," he thought. "Sometimes the sound is warped and magnified by a dream." But he listened tensely and heard a choked sobbing outside his tent. He slipped on his jeans and boots and crept out between the tent flaps. The soft crying came from one of the wagons. Juanito was leaning over the side of the wagon in which Willie slept.

  "What's the matter?" Joseph demanded. In the faint light he saw that Juanito was holding Willie's arm.

  "He dreams," Juanito explained softly. "Sometimes he cannot awaken unless I help him. And sometimes when he wakes up he thinks that is the dream and the other true.

  Come, Willie," Juanito said. "See, you are awake now. He dreams terrible things, senor, and then I pinch him. He is afraid, you see."

  Romas spoke from the wagon where he lay, "Willie eats too much," he said. "He's just had a nightmare. He always did have them. Go back to bed, Mr. Wayne."

  But Joseph bent down and saw the terror on Willie's race. "There's nothing in the night to hurt you, Willie," he said. "You can come and sleep in my tent if you want to."

  "He dreams he is in a bright place that is dry and dead, and people come out of holes and pull off his arms and legs, senor. Nearly every night he dreams it. See, Willie, I will stay with you now. See, the horses are here all around you, looking at you, Willie. Sometimes, senor, the horses help him in the dream. He likes to sleep with them around him. He goes to the dry dead place, but he's safe from the people when the horses are near. Go to bed, senor, I will hold him for a while."

  Joseph laid his hand on Willie's forehead and found that it was cold as stone. "I'll build up a fire and get him warm," he said.

  "No use, senor; he is always cold. He cannot be warm."

  "You are a good boy, Juanito."

  Juanito turned away from him. "He calls to me, senor."

  Joseph drew his hand under the warm flank of a horse, and walked back to his tent. The pine grove of the eastern ridge made a jagged line across the faint light of the morning. The grass stirred restively in the awakening breeze.

  4

  THE frame of the house was standing, waiting for its skin, a square house crossed by inner walls to make four equal rooms. The great lone oak tree stretched a protecting arm over its roof. The venerable tree was tufted with new, shiny leaves, glittering and yellow-green in the morning sunshine. Joseph fried his bacon over the campfire, turning the slices endlessly. Then, before he ate his breakfast, he went to his new buckboard, in which a barrel of water stood. He ladled out a basinful, and filling his cupped hands, flung water on his hair and beard and wiped the beads of sleep from his eyes. He scraped the water off with his hands and went to his breakfast with his face all shining with moisture. The grass was damp with dew, sprinkled with fire. Three meadowlarks with yellow vests and light grey coats hopped near the tent stretching their beaks, friendly and curious. Now and then they puffed their chests and raised their heads like straining prima donnas and burst into a rising ecstasy of song, then cocked their heads at Joseph to see whether he noticed or approved. Joseph raised his tin cup and swallowed the last of his coffee and flung the grounds into the fire. He stood up and stretched his body in the strong sunlight before he walked to his house frame and threw back the canvas that covered his tools, and the three larks scurried behind him, stopping to sing despairingly for his attention. Two hobbled horses hopped in from their pasturage and raised their noses and snorted in a friendly manner. Joseph picked up a hammer and an apron full of nails, then turned with irritation on the larks.

  "Go out and dig worms," he said. "Stop your noise. You'll make me want to dig worms, too. Get along now." The three larks raised their heads in mild surprise and then sang in unison. Joseph took his black slouch hat from the pile of lumber and pulled it down over his eyes. "Go and dig worms," he growled. The horses snorted again and one of them nickered shrilly. Instantly Joseph dropped his hammer in relief. "Hello! Who's coming?" He heard an answering nicker from the trees far down the road, and while he watched, a horseman issued into sight, his beast traveling at a tired trot. Joseph walked quickly to the dying fire and built it to a flame again and put the coffee pot back. He smiled happily. "I didn't want to work today," he told the larks. "Go and dig worms, I won't have time for you now." And then Juanito rode up. He stepped gracefully down, with two movements slipped off the saddle and bridle, and then took off his sombrero and stood smiling, expectant of his welcome.

  Juanito! I am glad to see you! You haven't had breakfast, have you? I'll fry you some breakfast."

  And Juanito's expectant smile broke wide with gladness. I have been riding all night, senor. I have come to be your vaquero."

  Joseph extended his hand. "But I haven't a single cow for you to ride herd on, Juanito."

  "You will have, senor. I can do anything, and I am a good vaquero."

  "Can you help to build a house?"

  "Surely, senor."

  "And your pay, Juanito--how much pay do you get?"

  Juanito's lids drew down solemnly over his bright eyes. Before now, senor, I have been a vaquero, a good one. Those men paid me thirty dollars every month, and they said I was Indio. I wish to be your friend, senor, and have no pay."

  Joseph was puzzled for a moment. "I think I see what you mean, Juanito, but you'll want money to have a drink when you go to town. You'll need money to see a girl now and then."

  "You shall give me a present when I go to town, senor. A present is not pay." The smile was back again. Joseph poured out a cup of coffee for him.

  "You're a good friend, Juanito. Thank you."

  Juanito reached into the peak of his sombrero and drew out a letter. "Since I was coming, I brought you this, senor."

  Joseph took the letter and walked slowly away. He knew what it was. He had been expecting it for some time. And the land seemed to know what it was, too, for a bush bad fallen over the grass flats, the meadowlarks had gone away, and even the linnets in the oak tree had stopped their twittering. Joseph sat down on a lumber pile under the oak and slowly tore open the envelope. It was from Burton.

  "Thomas and Benjy have asked me to write to you," it said. "The thing we knew must happen has happened. Death shocks us even when we know it must come. Father passed to the Kingdom three days ago. We were all with him at the last, all except you. You should have waited.

  "His mind was not clear at the last. He said some very peculiar things. He did not talk about you so much as he talked to you. He said he could live as long as he wanted, but be wished to see your new land. He was obsessed with this new land. Of course his mind was not clear. He said, 'I don't know whether Joseph can pick good land. I don't know whether he's competent. I'll have to go out there and see.' Then he talked a great deal about floating over the country, and he thought he was doing it. At last he seemed to go to sleep. Benjy and Thomas went out of the room then. Father was delirious. I really should shut up his words and never tell them, for he was not himself. He talked about the mating of animals. He said the whole earth was a--no, I can't see any reason for saying it. I tried to get him to pray with me, but he was too nearly gone. It has troubled me that his last words were not Christian words. I haven't told the other boys because his last words were to you, as though he talked to you."

  The letter continued with a detailed description of the funera
l. It ended--"Thomas and Benjy think we could all move to the West if there's still land to be taken. We shall want to hear from you before we make any move."

  Joseph dropped the letter on the ground and put his forehead down in his hands. His mind was inert and numb, but there was no sadness in him. He wondered why he was not sad. Burton would reproach him if he knew that a feeling of joy and of welcome was growing up in him. He heard the sounds come back to the land. The meadowlarks built little crystal towers of melody, a ground squirrel chattered shrilly, sitting upright in the doorway of his hole, the wind whispered a moment in the grass and then grew strong and beady, bringing the sharp odors of the grass and of the damp earth, and the great tree stirred to life under the wind. Joseph raised his head and looked at its old, wrinkled limbs. His eyes lighted with recognition and welcome, for his father's strong and simple being, which had dwelt in his youth like a cloud of peace, had entered the tree.

  Joseph raised his hand in greeting. He said very softly, "I'm glad you've come, sir. I didn't know until now how lonely I've been for you." The tree stirred slightly. "It is good land, you see," Joseph went on softly. "You'll like to be staying, sir." He shook his head to clear out the last of the numbness, and he laughed at himself, partly in shame for the good thoughts, and partly in wonder at his sudden feeling of kinship with the tree. "I suppose being alone is doing it. Juanito will stop that, and I'll have the boys come out to live. I am talking to myself already." Suddenly he felt guilty of treason. He stood up, walked to the old tree and kissed its bark. Then he remembered that Juanito must be watching him, and he turned defiantly to face the boy. But Juanito was staring steadily at the ground. Joseph strode over to him. "You must have seen--" he began angrily.

  Juanito continued to stare downward. "I did not see, senor."

  Joseph sat down beside him. "My father is dead, Juanito."