Early on Monday morning, three days later, Saxon and Billy took an electric car to the end of the line, and started a second time for San Juan. Puddles were standing in the road, but the sun shone from a blue sky, and everywhere, on the ground, was a faint hint of budding green. At Benson's Saxon waited while Billy went in to get his six dollars for the three days' plowing.
“Kicked like a steer because I was quittin',” he told her when he came back. “He wouldn't listen at first. Said he'd put me to drivin' in a few days, an' that there wasn't enough good four-horse men to let one go easily.”
“And what did you say?”
“Oh, I just told 'm I had to be movin' along. An' when he tried to argue I told 'm my wife was with me, an' she was blamed anxious to get along.”
“But so are you, Billy.”
“Sure, Pete; but just the same I wasn't as keen as you. Doggone it, I was gettin' to like that plowin'. I'll never be scairt to ask for a job at it again. I've got to where I savvy the burro, an' you bet I can plow against most of 'm right now.”
An hour afterward, with a good three miles to their credit, they edged to the side of the road at the sound of an automobile behind them. But the machine did not pass. Benson was alone in it, and he came to a stop alongside.
“Where are you bound?” he inquired of Billy, with a quick, measuring glance at Saxon.
“Monterey—if you're goin' that far,” Billy answered with a chuckle.
“I can give you a lift as far as Watsonville. It would take you several days on shank's mare with those loads. Climb in.” He addressed Saxon directly. “Do you want to ride in front?”