He broke off, stared all about, studying the configuration of the meadow, crossed it to the redwood trees beyond, then came back.
“It's no good as it is,” he said. “But it's the best ever if it's handled right. All it needs is a little common sense an' a lot of drainage. This meadow's a natural basin not yet filled level. They's a sharp slope through the redwoods to the creek. Come on, I'll show you.”
They went through the redwoods and came out on Sonoma Creek. At this spot was no singing. The stream poured into a quiet pool. The willows on their side brushed the water. The opposite side was a steep bank. Billy measured the height of the bank with his eye, the depth of the water with a driftwood pole.
“Fifteen feet,” he announced. “That allows all kinds of high-divin' from the bank. An' it's a hundred yards of a swim up an' down.”
They followed down the pool. It emptied in a riffle, across exposed bedrock, into another pool. As they looked, a trout flashed into the air and back, leaving a widening ripple on the quiet surface.
“I guess we won't winter in Carmel,” Billy said. “This place was specially manufactured for us. In the morning I'll find out who owns it.”
Half an hour later, feeding the horses, he called Saxon's attention to a locomotive whistle.
“You've got your railroad,” he said. “That's a train pulling into Glen Ellen, an' it's only a mile from here.”
Saxon was dozing off to sleep under the blankets when Billy aroused her.
“Suppose the guy that owns it won't sell?”