ve
gone, had not Billy chanced upon a newspaper item which told of the
writer's departure to cover some revolution that was breaking out
somewhere in Mexico.

"We'll see 'm later on," Billy said, as they turned northwest, through
the vineyards and orchards of Napa Valley. "We're like that millionaire
Bert used to sing about, except it's time that we've got to burn. Any
direction is as good as any other, only west is best."

Three times in the Napa Valley Billy refused work. Past St. Helena,
Saxon hailed with joy the unmistakable redwoods they could see growing
up the small canyons that penetrated the western wall of the valley.
At Calistoga, at the end of the railroad, they saw the six-horse stages
leaving for Middletown and Lower Lake. They debated their route. That
way led to Lake County and not toward the coast, so Saxon and Billy
swung west through the mountains to the valley of the Russian River,
coming out at Healdsburg. They lingered in the hop-fields on the
rich bottoms, where Billy scorned to pick hops alongside of Indians,
Japanese, and Chinese.

"I couldn't work alongside of 'em an hour before I'd be knockin' their
blocks off," he explained. "Besides, this Russian River's some nifty.
Let's pitch camp and go swimmin'."

So they idled their way north up the broad, fertile valley, so happy
that they forgot that work was ever necessary, while the valley of the
moon was a golden dream, remote, but sure, some day of realization.
At Cloverdale, Billy fell into luck. A combination of sickness and
mischance found the stage stables short a driver. Each day the train
disgorged passengers for the Geysers, and Billy, as if accustomed to it
all his life, took the reins of six horses and drove a full load over
the mountains in stage time. The second trip he had Saxon beside him on
the high boxseat. By the end of two weeks the regular driver was back.
Billy declined a stable-job, took his wages, and continued north.

Saxon had adopted a fox terrier puppy and named him Possum, after the
dog Mrs. Hastings had told them about. So young was he that he quickly
became footsore, and she carried him until Billy perched him on top
of his pack and grumbled that Possum was chewing his back hair to a
frazzle.

They passed through the painted vineyards of Asti at the end of the
grape-picking, and entered Ukiah drenched to the skin by the first
winter rain.

"Say," Billy said, "you remember the way the Roamer just skated along.