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 Señora 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, señor. The hills were white 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, señor, 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, señor. 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, señor, 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, señor, 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, señor; he is always cold. He cannot be warm.”
“You are a good boy, Juanito.”
Juanito turned away from him. “He calls to me, señor.”
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, señor. 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, señor. I can do anything, and I am a good vaquero.”
“Can you help to build a house?”
“Surely, señor.”
“And your pay, Juanito—how much pay do you get?”
Juanito’s lids drew down solemnly over his bright eyes. Before now, señor, 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, señor, 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.”