One day, in camp by the Umpqua River, Billy bent over to begin skinning the first deer he had ever shot. He raised his eyes to Saxon and remarked:
“If I didn't know California, I guess Oregon'd suit me from the ground up.”
In the evening, replete with deer meat, resting on his elbow and smoking his after-supper cigarette, he said:
“Maybe they ain't no valley of the moon. An' if they ain't, what of it? We could keep on this way forever. I don't ask nothing better.”
“There is a valley of the moon,” Saxon answered soberly. “And we are going to find it. We've got to. Why Billy, it would never do, never to settle down. There would be no little Hazels and little Hatties, nor little... Billies—”
“Nor little Saxons,” Billy interjected.
“Nor little Possums,” she hurried on, nodding her head and reaching out a caressing hand to where the fox terrier was ecstatically gnawing a deer-rib. A vicious snarl and a wicked snap that barely missed her fingers were her reward.
“Possum!” she cried in sharp reproof, again extending her hand.
“Don't,” Billy warned. “He can't help it, and he's likely to get you next time.”
Even more compelling was the menacing threat that Possum growled, his jaws close-guarding the bone, eyes blazing insanely, the hair rising stiffly on his neck.