The Valley of the Moon Jack London

by Jack London

wabbly. I reckon they come out on my account an' not for the

  ponies. But me for the brave kid that likes the ponies. You're

  the real goods, Saxon, honest to God you are. Why, I can talk

  like a streak with you. The rest of 'em make me sick. I'm like a

  clam. They don't know nothin', an' they're that scared all the

  time--well, I guess you get me"

  "You have to be born to love horses, maybe," she answered. "Maybe

  it's because I always think of my father on his roan war-horse

  that makes me love horses. But, anyway, I do. When I was a little

  girl I was drawing horses all the time. My mother always

  encouraged me. I've a scrapbook mostly filled with horses I drew

  when I was little. Do you know, Billy, sometimes I dream I

  actually own a horse, all my own. And lots of times I dream I'm

  on a horse's back, or driving him."

  "I'll let you drive 'em, after a while, when they've worked their

  edge off. They're pullin' now.--There, put your hands in front of

  mine--take hold tight. Feel that? Sure you feel it. An' you ain't

  feelin' it all by a long shot. I don't dast slack, you bein' such

  a lightweight."

  Her eyes sparkled as she felt the apportioned pull of the mouths

  of the beautiful, live things; and he, looking at her, sparkled

  with her in her delight.

  "What's the good of a woman if she can't keep up with a man?" he

  broke out enthusiastically.

  "People that like the same things always get along best

  together," she answered, with a triteness that concealed the joy

  that was hers at being so spontaneously in touch with him.

  "Why, Saxon, I've fought battles, good ones, frazzlin' my silk

  away to beat the band before whisky-soaked, smokin' audiences of

  rotten fight-fans, that just made me sick clean through. An'

  them, that couldn't take just one stiff jolt or hook to jaw or

  stomach, a-cheerin' me an' yellin' for blood. Blood, mind you!

  An' them without the blood of a shrimp in their bodies. Why,

  honest, now, I'd sooner fight before an audience of one--you for

  instance, or anybody I liked. It'd do me proud. But them

  sickenin', sap-headed stiffs, with the grit of rabbits and the

  silk of mangy ky-yi's, a-cheerin' me--ME! Can you blame me for

  quittin' the dirty game?--Why, I'd sooner fight before broke-down

  old plugs of work-horses that's candidates for chicken-meat, than

  before them rotten bunches of stiffs with nothin' thicker'n water

  in their veins, an' Contra Costa water at that when the rains is

  heavy on the hills."

  "I . . . I didn't know prizefighting was like that," she faltered, as

  she released her hold on the lines and sank back again beside

  him.

  "It ain't the fightin', it's the fight-crowds," he defended with

  instant jealousy. "Of course, fightin' hurts a young fellow

  because it frazzles the silk outa him an' all that. But it's the

  low-lifers in the audience that gets me. Why the good things they

  say to me, the praise an' that, is insulting. Do you get me? It

  makes me cheap. Think of it--booze-guzzlin' stiffs that 'd be

  afraid to mix it with a sick cat, not fit to hold the coat of any

  decent man, think of them a-standin' up on their hind legs an'

  yellin' an' cheerin' me--ME!"

  "Ha! ha! What d'ye think of that? Ain't he a rogue?"

  A big bulldog, sliding obliquely and silently across the street,

  unconcerned with the team he was avoiding, had passed so close

  that Prince, baring his teeth like a stallion, plunged his head

  down against reins and check in an effort to seize the dog.

  "Now he's some fighter, that Prince. An' he's natural. He didn't

  make that reach just for some low-lifer to yell'm on. He just

  done it outa pure cussedness and himself. That's clean. That's

  right. Because it's natural. But them fight-fans! Honest to God,

  Saxon. . . ."

  And Saxon, glimpsing him sidewise, as he watched the horses and

  their way on the Sunday morning streets, checking them back

  suddenly and swerving to avoid two boys coasting across street on

  a toy wagon, saw in him deeps and intensities, all the magic

  connotations of temperament, the glimmer and hint of rages

  profound, bleaknesses as cold and far as the stars, savagery as

  keen as a wolf's and clean as a stallion's, wrath as implacable

  as a destroying angel's, and youth that was fire and life beyond

  time and place. She was awed and fascinated, with the hunger of

  woman bridging the vastness to him, daring to love him with arms

  and breast that ached to him, murmuring to herself and through

  all the halls of her soul, "You dear, you dear."

  "Honest to God, Saxon," he took up the broken thread, "they's

  times when I've hated them, when I wanted to jump over the ropes

  and wade into them, knock-down and drag-out, an' show'm what

  fightin' was. Take that night with Billy Murphy. Billy

  Murphy!--if you only knew him. My friend. As clean an' game a boy

  as ever jumped inside the ropes to take the decision. Him! We

  went to the Durant School together. We grew up chums. His fight

  was my fight. My trouble was his trouble. We both took to the

  fightin' game. They matched us. Not the first time. Twice we'd

  fought draws. Once the decision was his; once it was mine. The

  fifth fight of two lovin' men that just loved each other. He's

  three years older'n me. He's a wife and two or three kids, an' I

  know them, too. And he's my friend. Get it?

  "I'm ten pounds heavier--but with heavyweights that 'a all right.

  He can't time an' distance as good as me, an' I can keep set

  better, too. But he's cleverer an' quicker. I never was quick

  like him. We both can take punishment, an' we're both two-handed,

  a wallop in all our fists. I know the kick of his, an' he knows

  my kick, an' we're both real respectful. And we're even-matched.

  Two draws, and a decision to each. Honest, I ain't any kind of a

  hunch who's gain' to win, we're that even.

  "Now, the fight.--You ain't squeamish, are you?"

  "No, no," she cried. "I'd just love to hear--you are so

  wonderful."

  He took the praise with a clear, unwavering look, and without

  hint of acknowledgment.

  "We go along--six rounds--seven rounds--eight rounds; an' honors

  even. I've been timin' his rushes an' straight-leftin' him, an'

  meetin' his duck with a wicked little right upper-cut, an' he's

  shaken me on the jaw an' walloped my ears till my head's all

  singin' an' buzzin'. An' everything lovely with both of us, with

  a noise like a draw decision in sight. Twenty rounds is the

  distance, you know.

  "An' then his bad luck comes. We're just mixin' into a clinch

  that ain't arrived yet, when he shoots a short hook to my

  head--his left, an' a real hay-maker if it reaches my jaw. I make

  a forward duck, not quick enough, an' he lands bingo on the side

  of my head. Honest to God, Saxon, it's that heavy I see some

  stars. But it don't hurt an' ain't serious, that high up where

  the bone's thick. An' right there he finishes himself, for his

  bad thumb, which I've known since he
first got it as a kid

  fightin' in the sandlot at Watts Tract--he smashes that thumb

  right there, on my hard head, back into the socket with an

  out-twist, an' all the old cords that'd never got strong gets

  theirs again. I didn't mean it. A dirty trick, fair in the game,

  though, to make a guy smash his hand on your head. But not

  between friends. I couldn't a-done that to Bill Murphy for a

  million dollars. It was a accident, just because I was slow,

  because I was born slow.

  "The hurt of it! Honest, Saxon, you don't know what hurt is till

  you've got a old hurt like that hurt again. What can Billy Murphy

  do but slow down? He's got to. He ain't fightin' two-handed any

  more. He knows it; I know it; The referee knows it; but nobody

  else. He goes on a-moving that left of his like it's all right.

  But it ain't. It's hurtin' him like a knife dug into him. He

  don't dast strike a real blow with that left of his. But it

  hurts, anyway. Just to move it or not move it hurts, an' every

  little dab-feint that I'm too wise to guard, knowin' there's no

  weight behind, why them little dab-touches on that poor thumb

  goes right to the heart of him, an' hurts worse than a thousand

  boils or a thousand knockouts--just hurts all over again, an'

  worse, each time an' touch.

  "Now suppose he an' me was boxin' for fun, out in the back yard,

  an' he hurts his thumb that way, why we'd have the gloves off in

  a jiffy an' I'd be putting cold compresses on that poor thumb of

  his an' bandagin' it that tight to keep the inflammation down.

  But no. This is a fight for fight-fans that's paid their

  admission for blood, an' blood they're goin' to get. They ain't

  men. They're wolves.

  "He has to go easy, now, an' I ain't a-forcin' him none. I'm all

  shot to pieces. I don't know what to do. So I slow down, an' the

  fans get hep to it. 'Why don't you fight?' they begin to yell;

  'Fake! Fake!' 'Why don't you kiss'm?' 'Lovin' cup for yours, Bill

  Roberts!' an' that sort of bunk.

  "'Fight!' says The referee to me, low an' savage. 'Fight, or I'll

  disqualify you--you, Bill, I mean you.' An' this to me, with a

  touch on the shoulder 'so they's no mistakin'.

  "It ain't pretty. It ain't right. D'ye know what we was fightin'

  for? A hundred bucks. Think of it! An' the game is we got to do

  our best to put our man down for the count because of the fans

  has bet on us. Sweet, ain't it? Well, that's my last fight. It

  finishes me deado. Never again for yours truly.

  "'Quit,' I says to Billy Murphy in a clinch; 'for the love of

  God, Bill, quit.' An' he says back, in a whisper, 'I can't,

  Bill--you know that.'

  "An' then the referee drags us apart, an' a lot of the fans

  begins to hoot an' boo.

  "'Now kick in, damn you, Bill Roberts, an' finish'm' the referee

  says to me, an' I tell'm to go to hell as Bill an' me flop into

  the next clinch, not hittin', an' Bill touches his thumb again,

  an' I see the pain shoot across his face. Game? That good boy's

  the limit. An' to look into the eyes of a brave man that's sick

  with pain, an' love 'm, an' see love in them eyes of his, an'

  then have to go on givin' 'm pain--call that sport? I can't see

  it. But the crowd's got its money on us. We don't count. We've

  sold ourselves for a hundred bucks, an' we gotta deliver the

  goods.

  "Let me tell you, Saxon, honest to God, that was one of the times

  I wanted to go through the ropes an' drop them fans a-yellin' for

  blood an' show 'em what blood is.

  "'For God's sake finish me, Bill,' Bill says to me in that

  clinch; 'put her over an' I'll fall for it, but I can't lay

  down.'

  "D'ye want to know? I cry there, right in the ring, in that

  clinch. The weeps for me. 'I can't do it, Bill,' I whisper back,

  hangin' onto'm like a brother an' the referee ragin' an' draggin'

  at us to get us apart, an' all the wolves in the house snarlin'.

  "'You got 'm!' the audience is yellin'. 'Go in an' finish 'm!'

  'The hay for him, Bill; put her across to the jaw an' see 'm

  fall!'

  "'You got to, Bill, or you're a dog,' Bill says, lookin' love at

  me in his eyes as the referee's grip untangles us clear.

  "An' them wolves of fans yellin': 'Fake! Fake! Fake!' like that,

  an' keepin' it up.

  "Well, I done it. They's only that way out. I done it. By God, I

  done it. I had to. I feint for 'm, draw his left, duck to the

  right past it, takin' it across my shoulder, an come up with my

  right to his jaw. An' he knows the trick. He's hep. He's beaten

  me to it an' blocked it with his shoulder a thousan' times. But

  this time he don't. He keeps himself wide open on purpose. Blim!

  It lands. He's dead in the air, an' he goes down sideways,

  strikin' his face first on the rosin-canvas an' then layin' dead,

  his head twisted under 'm till you'd a-thought his neck was

  broke. ME--I did that for a hundred bucks an' a bunch of stiffs

  I'd be ashamed to wipe my feet on. An' then I pick Bill up in my

  arms an' carry'm to his corner, an' help bring'm around. Well,

  they ain't no kick comin'. They pay their money an' they get

  their blood, an' a knockout. An' a better man than them, that I

  love, layin' there dead to the world with a skinned face on the

  mat."

  For a moment he was still, gazing straight before him at the

  horses, his face hard and angry. He sighed, looked at Saxon, and

  smiled.

  "An' I quit the game right there. An' Billy Murphy's laughed at

  me for it. He still follows it. A side-line, you know, because he

  works at a good trade. But once in a while, when the house needs

  paintin', or the doctor bills are up, or his oldest kid wants a

  bicycle, he jumps out an' makes fifty or a hundred bucks before

  some of the clubs. I want you to meet him when it comes handy.

  He's some boy I'm tellin' you. But it did make me sick that

  night."

  Again the harshness and anger were in his face, and Saxon amazed

  herself by doing unconsciously what women higher in the social

  scale have done with deliberate sincerity. Her hand went out

  impulsively to his holding the lines, resting on top of it for a

  moment with quick, firm pressure. Her reward was a smile from

  lips and eyes, as his face turned toward her.

  "Gee!" he exclaimed. "I never talk a streak like this to anybody.

  I just hold my hush an' keep my thinks to myself. But, somehow, I

  guess it's funny, I kind of have a feelin' I want to make good

  with you. An' that's why I'm tellin' you my thinks. Anybody can

  dance."

  The way led uptown, past the City Hall and the Fourteenth Street

  skyscrapers, and out Broadway to Mountain View. Turning to the

  right at the cemetery, they climbed the Piedmont Heights to Blair

  Park and plunged into the green coolness of Jack Hayes Canyon.

  Saxon could not suppress her surprise and joy at the quickness

  with which they covered the ground.

  "They are beautiful," she said. "I never dreamed I'd ever ride

  behind horses like the
m. I'm afraid I'll wake up now and find

  it's a dream. You know, I dream horses all the time. I'd give

  anything to own one some time."

  "It's funny, ain't it?" Billy answered. "I like horses that way.

  The boss says I'm a wooz at horses. An' I know he's a dub. He

  don't know the first thing. An' yet he owns two hundred big heavy

  draughts besides this light drivin' pair, an' I don't own one."

  "Yet God makes the horses," Saxon said.

  "It's a sure thing the boss don't. Then how does he have so

  many?--two hundred of 'em, I'm tellin' you. He thinks he likes

  horses. Honest to God, Saxon, he don't like all his horses as

  much as I like the last hair on the last tail of the scrubbiest

  of the bunch. Yet they're his. Wouldn't it jar you?"

  "Wouldn't it?" Saxon laughed appreciatively. "I just love fancy

  shirtwaists, an' I spent my life ironing some of the

  beautifullest I've ever seen. It's funny, an' it isn't fair."

  Billy gritted his teeth in another of his rages.

  "An' the way some of them women gets their shirtwaists. It makes

  me sick, thinkin' of you ironin' 'em. You know what I mean,

  Saxon. They ain't no use wastin' words over it. You know. I know.

  Everybody knows. An' it's a hell of a world if men an' women

  sometimes can't talk to each other about such things." His manner

  was almost apologetic yet it was defiantly and assertively right.

  "I never talk this way to other girls. They'd think I'm workin up

  to designs on 'em. They make me sick the way they're always

  lookin' for them designs. But you're different I can talk to you

  that way. I know I've got to. It's the square thing. You're like

  Billy Murphy, or any other man a man can talk to."

  She sighed with a great happiness, and looked at him with

  unconscious, love-shining eyes.

  "It's the same way with me," she said. "The fellows I've run with

  I've never dared let talk about such things, because I knew

  they'd take advantage of it. Why, all the time, with them, I've a

  feeling that we're cheating and lying to each other, playing a

  game like at a masquerade ball." She paused for a moment,

  hesitant and debating, then went on in a queer low voice. "I

  haven't been asleep. I've seen . . . and heard. I've had my chances,

  when I was that tired of the laundry I'd have done almost

  anything. I could have got those fancy shirtwaists . . . an' all the

  rest . . . and maybe a horse to ride. There was a bank cashier . . .

  married, too, if you please. He talked to me straight out. I

  didn't count, you know. I wasn't a girl, with a girl's feelings,

  or anything. I was nobody. It was just like a business talk. I

  learned about men from him. He told me what he'd do. He . . ."

  Her voice died away in sadness, and in the silence she could hear

  Billy grit his teeth.

  "You can't tell me," he cried. "I know. It's a dirty world--an

  unfair, lousy world. I can't make it out. They's no squareness in

  it.--Women, with the best that's in 'em, bought an' sold like

  horses. I don't understand women that way. I don't understand men

  that way. I can't see how a man gets anything but cheated when he

  buys such things. It's funny, ain't it? Take my boss an' his

  horses. He owns women, too. He might a-owned you, just because

  he's got the price. An', Saxon, you was made for fancy

  shirtwaists an' all that, but, honest to God, I can't see you

  payin' for them that way. It'd be a crime--"

  He broke off abruptly and reined in the horses. Around a sharp

  turn, speeding down the grade upon them, had appeared an

  automobile. With slamming of brakes it was brought to a stop,

  while the faces of the occupants took new lease of interest of

  life and stared at the young man and woman in the light rig that

  barred the way. Billy held up his hand.

  "Take the outside, sport," he said to the chauffeur.

  "Nothin' doin', kiddo," came the answer, as the chauffeur

  measured with hard, wise eyes the crumbling edge of the road and

  the downfall of the outside bank.

  "Then we camp," Billy announced cheerfully. "I know the rules of