Bunny wandered up the arroyo, and high on the slope he saw the goats feeding. He went up to watch them; and so he got acquainted with Ruth. She sat upon a big boulder, gazing out over the rim of the hills. She was bare-headed and bare-legged, and you saw that she was outgrowing the patched and faded calico dress which was her only covering. She was a thin child, and gave the impression she was pale, in spite of her brownness; it was an anaemic brown, without much red in it. She had the blue eyes of the family, and a round, domed forehead, with hair pulled straight back and tied with a bit of old ribbon. She sat tending the flocks and herds, as boys and girls had done two thousand years ago in Palestine, which she read about in the only book to be found in the Watkins household. One week out of three she did this, ten or twelve hours a day, taking turns with her sisters. Very seldom did anyone come near, and now she was ill at ease as the strange boy came climbing up; she did not look at him, and her toes were twisted together. But Bunny had the formula for entrance to her heart. "You are Ruth, aren't you?" he asked, and when she nodded, he said, "I know Paul." So in a flash they were friends. "Oh, where?" She clasped her hands together and gazed at him. Bunny told him how he had been at Mrs. Groarty's—saying nothing about oil, of course—and how Paul had come, and just what had happened. She drank in every word, not interrupting; Ruth never did say much, her feelings ran deep, and made no foam upon the surface. But Bunny knew that her whole soul was hanging on his story; she fairly worshiped her brother. "And you never seen him again?" she whispered. "I never really saw him at all," said Bunny; "I wouldn't know him now, if I was to meet him. You don't know where he is?" "I've had three letters. Always it's a new place, and he says he ain't stayin' there. Some day, he says, he'll come to see me—jest me. He's scairt o' Pap." "What would Pap do?" "Pap would whale him. He's terrible set agin him. He says he's a limb of Satan. Paul says he don't believe what's in the Book? Do you believe it?" Bunny hesitated, remembering Dad and his "True Word." He decided he could trust Ruth that far, so he told her he didn't think he believed quite everything. And Ruth, gazing into his eyes with intense concern, inquired: "What is it makes yearthquakes?" So Bunny told what Mr. Eaton had taught him about the earth's crust and its shrinking, and the faults in the strata, that were the first to yield to the strain. He judged by the wondering look on her face that this was the first hint of natural science that had ever come to her mind. "So you don't have to be scairt!" she said. And then Bunny saw the signs of another idea dawning in her mind. Ruth was gazing at him, more intently than ever, and she exclaimed, "Oh! It was you sent that money!" "Money?" said he, innocently. "Four times they come a letter with a five-dollar bill in it, and no writin'. Pap said it was the Holy Spirit—but it was you! Warn't it?" Thus directly attacked, Bunny nodded his confession; and Ruth colored, and began to stammer her embarrassed thanks—she didn't see how they could ever repay it—they were having such a hard time. Bunny stopped her—that was all nonsense, Dad had more money than he knew what to do with. Bunny explained that Dad was offering to buy the ranch from her parents, and pay off the mortgage, and let them live there for as long as they wanted to, for a very small rent. The tears began to run down Ruth's cheeks, and she had to turn her head away; she could not control herself, and it was embarrassing, because she had nothing with which to wipe the tears away, every bit of her dress being needed to cover her bare legs. She slid off the boulder, and had a little sobbing fit out of his sight; and Bunny sat troubled, not so much by this display of emotion, as by the ethical war going on in his soul. He told himself, it was really true that his motive in getting Dad to come here had been to help the Watkinses; the oil had been merely a pretext to persuade Dad. For that matter, Dad would have bought the ranch, just to help the family, and without any oil; it might have taken some arguing, but he would have done it! So Bunny comforted himself; but all the time he was thinking of that surgical operation going on down in the cabin, while he sat here letting Ruth think of him as a hero and a savior.
Dad had said, "What use could a poor feeble-minded old fellow like that make of oil-money?" Dad would argue the same way about Ruth, Bunny knew: she was healthy and happy, sitting out there in the sun with her bare brown legs; it was the best thing in the world for her—far better than if her legs were covered with costly silk stockings. And that was all right; but then—some little imp was starting arguments in Bunny's mind—why should other women have the silk stockings? There was Aunt Emma, at her dressing table, with not only silk stockings, but corsets imported from Paris, and a whole drug-store full of fixings; why would it not be good for Aunt Emma to sit out here in the sun with bare brown legs and tend the goats?
VIII
There was Dad's voice, calling Bunny; so he said good-bye, and ran down the arroyo. Dad was sitting in the car. "We're a-goin' in to Paradise," he said. "But first, change them oil shoes." Bunny did so, and put the shoes away in the back of the car. He hopped in, and they drove down the lane, and Dad remarked, with a cheerful smile, "Well, son, we own the ranch." Dad was amused by the game he had just played, and told Bunny about it, overlooking the possibility of complications in Bunny's feelings. Dad had tactfully begun talking to Mr. and Mrs. Watkins about the family's lack of bread, and that had started Mr. Watkins telling the whole situation. There was a sixteen hundred dollar mortgage against the ranch, with nearly three hundred dollars interest overdue, and they had got a final notice from the bank, that foreclosure proceedings would begin next week. So Dad had explained that he wanted a place for summer camping, where his boy could have an outdoor life, and he would buy the ranch at a fair price. Poor Mrs. Watkins began to cry—she had been born on this place, it seemed, it was her homestead. Dad said she didn't need to worry, they might stay right on, and have all the farming rights of the place, he would lease it to them for ninety-nine years at ten dollars a year. The old man caught Dad's hand; he had known the Lord would save them, he said. Dad decided that was a good lead, so he explained that the Lord had sent him, according to the revelation of the True Word; after which Mr. Watkins had done just whatever the Lord had told Dad to tell him to do! And J. Arnold Ross had put the affairs of that family in order, you bet—there would be no more nonsense of giving away their money to missionaries! The Lord had told Dad to tell Mr. Watkins that he was to use his money to feed and clothe and educate his children. The Lord had furthermore told him that the equity in his land was not to be paid in cash, but was to consist of certificates of deposit in a trust-company, which would pay them a small income, about fifteen dollars a month—a lot better than having to pay the bank nearly ten dollars a month interest on a mortgage! Moreover, the Lord had directed that this money was to be held in trust for the children; and Bunny's friend Paul could thank Dad for having saved him a share. Mr. Watkins had said that one of his sons was a black sheep, and unworthy of the Lord's care, but Dad had stated it as a revelation of the True Word that there was no sheep so black but that the Lord would wash it white in His own good time; and Mr. Watkins had joyfully accepted this revelation, and he and his wife had put their names to a contract of sale which Dad had drawn up. The purchase price was thirty-seven hundred dollars, which had been Mr. Watkins' own figure—he had said that this hill land was worth five dollars an acre, and he figured his improvements at five hundred. They weren't really worth that, they were a lot of ruins, Dad said, but he took the old man's valuation of them. The contract provided that Mr. Watkins was to have water sufficient to irrigate two acres of land, which was just about all he had under cultivation now; of course, Dad would give him more, if he could use it, but Dad wouldn't take no chance of disputes about water-rights. In the morning Mr. and Mrs. Watkins would drive out to Paradise, and Dad would hire a four-passenger car there, and drive them to some other town, where they could put the matter into escrow without too much talk. In the meantime, Dad was on his way to Paradise, to set the town's one real estate agent to work buying more land for him. "Why don't you send for Ben Skutt?" asked Bunny; but Dad answered that Ben was a rascal—he had caught him trying to collect a commission from the other party. And anyhow, a local man could do it better—Dad would buy him with an extra commission, let Bunny watch and see how it was worked. Fortunately, Dad had taken the precaution to bring along a cashier's check for three thousand dollars. "I didn't know just how long we might camp," he said, with his sly humor. So they came to an office labelled, "J. H. Hardacre, Real Estate, Insurance and Loans." Mr. Hardacre sat with his feet on his desk and a cigar in his mouth, waiting for his prey; he was a lean, hungry-looking spider, and was not fooled for an instant by Dad's old khaki hunting-clothes—he knew that here was money, and he swung his feet to the floor and sat right up. Dad took a chair, and remarked on the weather, and asked about the earthquake, and finally said that he had a relative who wanted to live in the open for his health, and.Dad had just bought the Abel Watkins place, and he just thought he'd like to raise goats on a bigger scale, and could he get some land adjoining? Mr. Hardacre answered right away, there was a pile of that hill-stuff to be had; there was the Bandy tract, right alongside—and Mr. Hardacre got out a big map and began to show Dad with his pencil, there was close to a thousand acres of that, but it was mostly back in the hills, and all rocks. Dad asked what it could be bought for, and Mr. Hardacre said all that hill-stuff was held at five or six dollars an acre. He began to show other tracts, and Dad said wait now, and he got a paper and pencil and began to jot down the names and the acreage and the price. Apparently everything around here could be bought— whenever the man failed to include any tract, Dad would ask "And what about that?" and Mr. Hardacre would say, "That's the old Rascum tract—yes, I reckon that could be got." And Dad said, "Let's list them all," and a queer look began to come over Mr. Hardacre's face—it was dawning upon him that this was the great hour of his life. "Now, Mr. Hardacre," said Dad, "let's you and me talk turkey. I want to buy some land, if it can be got reasonable. Of course as soon as people find you want it, they begin to boost the price; so let's get that clear, I want it just enough to pay a fair price, and I don't want it no more than that, and if anybody starts a-boostin' you just tell 'em to forget it, and I'll forget it, too. But all the land you can buy reasonable, you buy for me, and collect your commission from the seller in the regular way, and besides that, you'll get a five percent commission from me. That means, I want you to be my man, and do everything you can to get me the land at the lowest prices. I don't need to point out to you that my one idea is to buy quick and quiet, so people won't have time to decide there's a boom on. You get me?" "Yes," said Mr. Hardacre. "But I'm not sure how quietly it can be done; this is a pretty small place, there's lots of talk, and it takes time to put through a deal." "It won't take no time at all if you just handle it my way and use good sense. You don't mention me, you do the buyin' for an unknown client, and you buy options for cash—that means, if the people are hereabouts, you close the deals right off." "But that'll take quite a bunch of money," said Mr. Hardacre, a little frightened. "I got a little change in my pocket," said Dad, "and I brought a cashier's check for three thousand, that I can turn into cash in the mornin'. You see, Mr. Hardacre, I happen to be just crazy about quail shootin', and I had the idea that if I found plenty of quail, I'd get a little land to shoot over. But get this clear, I can shoot quail on one hill just as good as on the next—and I don't let nobody mistake me for a quail!" Dad took out of his card-case a letter from the president of a big bank in Angel City, advising whomever it might concern that Mr. James Ross was a man of large resources and the highest integrity. Dad had two such letters, as Bunny knew—one in the name of James Ross and the other in the name of J. Arnold Ross; the former was the one he used when he bought oil lands, and no one had ever yet got onto his identity in time! Dad's proposition was this: He would make a contract with Mr. Hardacre, whereby Mr. Hardacre was authorized to buy ten-day options upon a long list of tracts, of specified acreage and at specified prices, paying five percent upon the purchase price for each option, and Dad agreeing to take up all these options within three days, and to pay Mr. Hardacre five percent on all purchases. Mr. Hardacre, torn between anxiety and acquisitiveness, finally said he guessed he'd take a chance on it, and if Dad threw him down, it would be easy for him to go into bankruptcy! He sat at his rusty typewriter and made two copies of the agreement, with a long list of tracts that were to cost Dad something over sixty thousand dollars. They read that over twice, and Dad signed it, and Mr. Hardacre signed it with a rather shaky hand, and Dad said fine, and counted out ten one hundred dollar bills on the desk, and said for Mr. Hardacre to get to work right away. He would do well to have his options all ready for the other party to sign, and Dad thought he had some blanks in the car—he wasn't just sure, but he'd see. He went out, and Mr. Hardacre said to Bunny, quite casual and friendly-like, "What is your father's business, little man?" And Bunny, smiling to himself, answered, "Oh, Dad's in all kinds of business, he buys land, and lots of things." "What other things?" And Bunny said, "Well, he has a general store, and then sometimes he buys machinery, and he lends money." And then Dad came back; through a stroke of good fortune he happened to have a bunch of option blanks in his car—and Bunny smiled to himself again, for he never yet had seen the time when Dad did not happen to have exactly the right document, or the right tool, or the right grub, or the right antiseptic and surgical tape, stowed away somewhere in that car!
IX
They drove back to camp, and it was coming on to sunset again, and the quail were calling all over the hills. They passed the horseman bringing in the cattle, and he stopped and had a chat about the earthquake, and then he rode on, his saddle and stirrup-straps going "Squnch, squnch." And Dad said, "We'll maybe buy that fellow out before night, and you can ride his horse." And they went on, and presently came another fellow, this time on foot. He was a young chap, tall and lanky, but stooped as if he had hold of plow-handles; he was wearing country clothes and a straw hat, and he strode rapidly by them, staring hard at both of them, barely nodding in answer to Dad's friendly "Good evening." Dad remarked, "Queer-looking chap, that," and Bunny retained an impression of a face, very serious, with a large prominent nose, and a broad mouth drooping at the corners. They went on, and came to their camp, and built a fire, and got themselves a gorgeous supper, with a panful of quail and bacon, and hot cocoa, and toast made of the bread which Meelie and Sadie had brought in, and some canned peaches which Bunny had bought. And after supper Bunny saw Ruth down by the goat-pen, and he strolled over to meet her; she gazed about timidly, to make certain no one else was near, and then she whispered, "Paul was here!" Bunny started, amazed. "Paul?" And then suddenly the truth flashed over him. "That was Paul we passed on the road!" He described the figure to Ruth, and she said yes, that had been Paul; he had taken a "hitch-hike" to see her, as he had promised, and he had brought her fifteen dollars saved from his earnings. "I told him we didn't have no need for it now; but he left it." Then Bunny cried: "Oh, why didn't he stop and talk to Dad and me? He barely nodded to us!" Ruth was evidently embarrassed; it was hard to get her to talk about Paul any more. But Bunny persisted, he was so anxious to know Paul, he said, and it seemed as if Paul didn't like him. Only then was Ruth moved to tell him what Paul had said. "He was mad because Pap had sold the ranch. He says we hadn't ought to done it." "But what else could you do?" "He says we'd ought to sell the goats, and pay the bank, and raise strawberries, like some o' the folks is doin' here. We could git along and be independent—" "Paul is so proud!" cried Bunny. "He's so afraid of charity!" "No, it ain't exactly that," said Ruth. "What is it then?" "Well—it ain't very polite to talk about—" Ruth was embarrassed again. "What is it, Ruth? I want to try to understand Paul." "Well, he says your Pap is a big oil man, and he says there's oil on this ranch, and you know it, for he told you so." There was a silence. "Is your Pap an oil man?" Bunny forced himself to answer. "Dad's a business man; he buys land, and all kinds of things. He has a general store, and he buys machinery, and lends money." That was what Dad had ordered him to say, and it was strictly the truth, as we know; and yet Bunny considered himself a liar while he said it. He was misleading Ruth—gentle, innocent, trusting Ruth, with the wide, candid eyes and the kind, sweet features; Ruth, who was incapable of a hateful thought or a selfish impulse, whose whole life was to be one long immolation in the cause of the brother she loved! Oh, why did it happen that he had to practice deception upon Ruth? They talked about Paul some more. He had sat up in the hills most of the afternoon and told his sister about himself. He was getting along all right, he said; he had got a job with an old lawyer who didn't mind his having run away from home, but would help him to keep hidden. This lawyer was what was called a freethinker—he said you had a right to believe whatever you chose, and Paul was his gardener and handy man, and the old lawyer gave him books to read, and Paul was getting educated. It sounded wonderful, and terrible at the same time—Paul had read a book about the Bible, that showed it was nothing but old Hebrew history and fairy-tales, and full of contradictions and bloody murders and fornications, and things that there was no sense calling God's word. And Paul wanted Ruth to read it, and Ruth was in an agony of concern—but Bunny noticed it was Paul's soul she was afraid for, and not her own! Then Bunny went back to Dad, and told him that was Paul they had passed on the road; and Dad said "Indeed?" and repeated that he was a "queer-looking chap." Dad wasn't interested, he had no slightest inkling of Bunny's distress of soul; his thoughts were all on the great discovery, and the deals he was putting through. He lay on his back, with a pillow under his head, gazing up at the stars. "There's one thing sure, son"—and there was laughter in his voice; "either you and me move up to front row seats in the oil game, or else, by golly, we'll be the goat and sheep kings of California!"