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Octopus: A California Story
Just
after
passing
Caraher
’
s
saloon
,
on
the
County
Road
that
ran
south
from
Bonneville
,
and
that
divided
the
Broderson
ranch
from
that
of
Los
Muertos
,
Presley
was
suddenly
aware
of
the
faint
and
prolonged
blowing
of
a
steam
whistle
that
he
knew
must
come
from
the
railroad
shops
near
the
depot
at
Bonneville
.
In
starting
out
from
the
ranch
house
that
morning
,
he
had
forgotten
his
watch
,
and
was
now
perplexed
to
know
whether
the
whistle
was
blowing
for
twelve
or
for
one
o
’
clock
.
He
hoped
the
former
.
Early
that
morning
he
had
decided
to
make
a
long
excursion
through
the
neighbouring
country
,
partly
on
foot
and
partly
on
his
bicycle
,
and
now
noon
was
come
already
,
and
as
yet
he
had
hardly
started
.
As
he
was
leaving
the
house
after
breakfast
,
Mrs
.
Derrick
had
asked
him
to
go
for
the
mail
at
Bonneville
,
and
he
had
not
been
able
to
refuse
.
He
took
a
firmer
hold
of
the
cork
grips
of
his
handlebars
—
the
road
being
in
a
wretched
condition
after
the
recent
hauling
of
the
crop
—
and
quickened
his
pace
.
He
told
himself
that
,
no
matter
what
the
time
was
,
he
would
not
stop
for
luncheon
at
the
ranch
house
,
but
would
push
on
to
Guadalajara
and
have
a
Spanish
dinner
at
Solotari
’
s
,
as
he
had
originally
planned
.
There
had
not
been
much
of
a
crop
to
haul
that
year
.
Half
of
the
wheat
on
the
Broderson
ranch
had
failed
entirely
,
and
Derrick
himself
had
hardly
raised
more
than
enough
to
supply
seed
for
the
winter
’
s
sowing
.
But
such
little
hauling
as
there
had
been
had
reduced
the
roads
thereabouts
to
a
lamentable
condition
,
and
,
during
the
dry
season
of
the
past
few
months
,
the
layer
of
dust
had
deepened
and
thickened
to
such
an
extent
that
more
than
once
Presley
was
obliged
to
dismount
and
trudge
along
on
foot
,
pushing
his
bicycle
in
front
of
him
.
It
was
the
last
half
of
September
,
the
very
end
of
the
dry
season
,
and
all
Tulare
County
,
all
the
vast
reaches
of
the
San
Joaquin
Valley
—
in
fact
all
South
Central
California
,
was
bone
dry
,
parched
,
and
baked
and
crisped
after
four
months
of
cloudless
weather
,
when
the
day
seemed
always
at
noon
,
and
the
sun
blazed
white
hot
over
the
valley
from
the
Coast
Range
in
the
west
to
the
foothills
of
the
Sierras
in
the
east
.
As
Presley
drew
near
to
the
point
where
what
was
known
as
the
Lower
Road
struck
off
through
the
Rancho
de
Los
Muertos
,
leading
on
to
Guadalajara
,
he
came
upon
one
of
the
county
watering
-
tanks
,
a
great
,
iron
-
hooped
tower
of
wood
,
straddling
clumsily
on
its
four
uprights
by
the
roadside
.
Since
the
day
of
its
completion
,
the
storekeepers
and
retailers
of
Bonneville
had
painted
their
advertisements
upon
it
.
It
was
a
landmark
.
In
that
reach
of
level
fields
,
the
white
letters
upon
it
could
be
read
for
miles
.
A
watering
-
trough
stood
near
by
,
and
,
as
he
was
very
thirsty
,
Presley
resolved
to
stop
for
a
moment
to
get
a
drink
.
He
drew
abreast
of
the
tank
and
halted
there
,
leaning
his
bicycle
against
the
fence
.
A
couple
of
men
in
white
overalls
were
repainting
the
surface
of
the
tank
,
seated
on
swinging
platforms
that
hung
by
hooks
from
the
roof
.
They
were
painting
a
sign
—
an
advertisement
.
It
was
all
but
finished
and
read
,
“
S
.
Behrman
,
Real
Estate
,
Mortgages
,
Main
Street
,
Bonneville
,
Opposite
the
Post
Office
.
”
On
the
horse
-
trough
that
stood
in
the
shadow
of
the
tank
was
another
freshly
painted
inscription
:
“
S
.
Behrman
Has
Something
To
Say
To
You
.
”
As
Presley
straightened
up
after
drinking
from
the
faucet
at
one
end
of
the
horse
-
trough
,
the
watering
-
cart
itself
laboured
into
view
around
the
turn
of
the
Lower
Road
.
Two
mules
and
two
horses
,
white
with
dust
,
strained
leisurely
in
the
traces
,
moving
at
a
snail
’
s
pace
,
their
limp
ears
marking
the
time
;
while
perched
high
upon
the
seat
,
under
a
yellow
cotton
wagon
umbrella
,
Presley
recognised
Hooven
,
one
of
Derrick
’
s
tenants
,
a
German
,
whom
every
one
called
“
Bismarck
,
”
an
excitable
little
man
with
a
perpetual
grievance
and
an
endless
flow
of
broken
English
.
