“I’m sorry, Romas,” Joseph said, and then he continued, “I may be needing you to drive stock for me.” The spur lightly touched the horse and Joseph trotted off toward the ranch.
He rode slowly home along the banks of the dead river. The dusty trees, ragged from the sun’s flaying, cast very little shade on the ground. Joseph remembered how he had ridden out in a dark night and flung his hat and quirt away to save a good moment out of a tide of moments. And he remembered how thick and green the brush had been under the trees, and how the grass of the hills bowed under its weight of seed; how the hills were heavy-coated as a fox’s back. The hills were gaunt now; here was a colony from the southern desert come to try out the land for a future spreading of the desert’s empire.
The horse panted in the heat, and the sweat dripped from the cowlick in the center of its belly. It was a long trip and there was no water on the way. Joseph didn’t want to go home, for he was feeling a little guilty at the news he carried. This would break up the ranch and leave it abandoned to the sun and to the desert’s outposts. He passed a dead cow with pitifully barred sides, and with a stomach swelled to bursting with the gas of putrefaction. Joseph pulled his hat down and bent his head so that he might not see the picked carcass of the land.
It was late afternoon when he arrived. Thomas had just ridden in from the range. He walked excitedly to Joseph, his red face drawn.
“I found ten dead cows,” he said. “I don’t know what killed them. The buzzards are working on them.” He grasped Joseph’s arm and shook it fiercely. “They’re over the ridge, there. In the morning there will be only a little plot of bones.”
Joseph looked away from him in shame. “I’m failing to protect the land,” he thought sadly. “The duty of keeping life in my land is beyond my power.”
“Thomas,” he said. “I rode to town today for news of the country.”
“Is it all this way?” Thomas demanded. “The water in the well is low.”
“Yes; all this way. We’ll have to move the cows—over a hundred miles. There’s pasturage along the San Joaquin.”
“Christ, let’s get moving, then” Thomas cried. Let’s get out of this bastard valley, this double-crossing son-of-a-bitch. I don’t want to come back to it! I can’t trust it any more!”
Joseph shook his head slowly. “I keep hoping something may happen. I know there’s no chance. A heavy rain wouldn’t help now. We’ll start the cows next week.”
“Why wait for next week? Let’s get ‘em ready tomorrow!”
Joseph tried to soothe him. “This is a week of heat. It may be a little cooler next week. We’ll have to feed them up so they can make the trip. Tell the men to pitch out more hay.”
Thomas nodded. “I hadn’t thought about the hay.” Suddenly his eyes brightened. “Joseph, we’ll go over the range to the coast while the men are feeding up the cows. We’ll get a look at some water before we start riding in the dust.”
Joseph nodded. “Yes, we can do that. We can go tomorrow.”
They started in the night, to get ahead of the sun. They headed their horses toward the dark west, and let the horses find the trail. The earth still radiated heat from the day before, and the hillsides were quiet. The ringing of hoofs on the rocky trail splashed uneasy sounds in the quietness. Once, when the dawn was coming, they stopped to rest their horses, and they thought they heard a little bell, tinkling in front of them.
“Did you hear it?” Thomas asked.
“It might be a belled animal,” said Joseph. “It isn’t a cowbell. It sounds more like a sheep bell. We’ll listen for it when the daylight comes.”
The day’s heat started when the sun appeared. There was no cool dawn. A few grasshoppers rattled and snapped through the air. The cooked bay trees spiced the air and drops of sweet heavy juice boiled out of the greasewood. As the men rode up the steep slope, the trail grew more rocky and the earth more desolate. Everywhere the bones of the earth stuck through and flung the dazzling light away. A snake rattled viciously in the path ahead. Both horses stopped stiffly in their tracks and backed away. Thomas reached down and slipped a carbine from the saddle scabbard under his leg. The gun crashed and the thick snake’s body rotated slowly around its crushed head. The horses turned downhill to rest, and closed their eyes against the cutting light. A faint whining came from the earth, as though it protested against the intolerable sun.
“It makes me sad,” Joseph said. “I wish I could be less sad about it.”
Thomas threw a leg around his saddle horn. “You know what the whole damn country looks like?” he asked. “It looks like a smoking heap of ashes with cinders sticking out.” They heard the faint tinkling of the bell again. “Let’s see what it is,” Thomas said. They turned the horses back uphill. The slope was strewn with great boulders, ruins of perfect mountains that once were, and the trail twisted about among the rocks. “I think I heard that bell go by the house in the night,” Thomas said “I thought it was a dream then, but I remember it now that I hear it again. We’re nearly to the top now.”
The trail went into a pass of shattered granite, and the next moment the two men looked down on a new fresh world. The downward slope was covered with tremendous redwood trees, and among the great columned trunks there grew a wild tangle of berry vines, of gooseberry, of sword ferns as tall as a man. The hill slipped quickly down, and the sea rose up level with the hilltops. The two men stopped their horses and stared hungrily at the green underbrush. The hills stirred with life. Quail skittered and rabbits hopped away from the path. While the men looked, a little deer walked into an open place, caught their scent and bounced away. Thomas wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “All the game from our side is here,” he said. “I wish we could bring our cattle over, but there isn’t a flat place for a cow to stand.” He turned about to face his brother. “Joseph, wouldn’t you like to crawl under the brush, into a damp cool hollow there, and curl up and go to sleep?”
Joseph had been staring at the up-ended sea. “I wonder where the moisture comes from.” He pointed to the long barren sweeps that dropped to the ocean far below. “No grass is there, but here in the creases it’s as green as a jungle.” And he said, “I’ve seen the fog heads looking over into our valley. Every night the cool grey fog must lie in these creases in the mountains and leave some of its moisture. And in the daytime it goes back to the sea, and at night it comes again, so that this forest is never kept waiting, never. Our land is dry, and there’s no help for it. But here—I resent this place, Thomas.”
“I want to get down to the water,” Thomas said. “Come on, let’s move.” They started down the steep slope on the trail that wound among the columns of the redwoods, and the brambles scratched at their faces. Part of the way down, they came to a clearing, and in it two packed burros stood with drooped heads, and an old, white-bearded man sat on the ground in front of them. His hat was in his lap and his damp white hair lay plastered against his bead. He looked up at the two with sharp shiny black eyes. He held one nostril shut and blew out of the other, and then reversed and blew again.
“I heard you coming a long way back,” he said. And he laughed without making a sound. “I guess you heard my burro bell. It’s a real silver bell my burro wears. Sometimes I let one wear it, and sometimes the other.” He put on his hat with dignity and lifted his beaked nose like a sparrow. “Where are you going, down the hill?”
Thomas had to answer, for Joseph was staring at the little man in curious recognition. “We’re going to camp on the coast,” Thomas explained. “We’ll catch some fish, and we’ll swim if the sea is calm.”
“We heard your bell a long way back,” said Joseph. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.” He stopped suddenly in embarrassment, for he knew he had never really seen the old man before at all.
“I live over to the right, on a flat,” the old man said. “My house is five hundred feet above the beach.” He nodded at them impressively. “You shall come to stay with me. You will see how high it is.” He paused, and a secret hesitant mist settled over his eyes. He looked at Thomas, and then looked long at Joseph. “I guess I can tell you,” be said. “Do you know why I live out there on the cliff? I’ve only told the reason to a few. I’ll tell you, because you’re coming to stay with me.” He stood up, the better to deliver his secret. “I am the last man in the western world to see the sun. After it is gone to everyone else, I see it for a little while. I’ve seen it every night for twenty years. Except when the fog was in or the rain was falling, I’ve seen the sun set.” He looked from one to the other, smiling proudly. “Sometimes,” he went on, “I go to town for salt and pepper and thyme and tobacco. I go fast. I start after the sun has set, and I’m back before it sets again. You shall see tonight how it is.” He looked anxiously at the sky. “It’s time to be going. You follow after me. Why, I’ll kill a little pig, and we’ll roast it for dinner. Come, follow after me.” He started at a half run down the trail, and the burros trotted after him, and the silver bell jingled sharply.