One

In a golden part of the Sacramento Valley, there is a place hidden from the bustle of the real world. Nature knows no boundaries here, where the hot sun only reaches the tops of the highest trees. Clear creeks of cool water trickle in small numbers through the shaded wood, winding in and out of the lush foliage. Green plants of a varying variety grow entwined throughout the small wood, stretching taller as they thrive year after year. Deep, rich soil, heavily scented of the moist crispness of most green places covers the ground, occasionally mixed with shattered leaves shed by trees through time. Stones worn smooth by the elements lay scattered about on the forest floor, and beneath the stones live lizards and bugs the likes of which are hardly to be seen outside the dark world of the undergrowth. Rabbits run free here, only in fear of the red foxes that hunt for their meals. Every evening, the lullaby of the forest carries the woods to sleep, with the bullfrogs on croaking and the crickets chirping and the little birds singing their last twittering goodnights.

The serene place is not altogether free of the human world however, for in the middle of the stretch of land covered with rows of thin birches, green and alive and in their prime, sits one proud, aged tree, gnarled and bent with time. One great oak, sprinkled sparingly with evergreen leaves, forever stretching its long arms upwards towards the heavens. And on this tree there is a broken limb, cracked in its own splintery dignity, where there was once a full branch. A full branch not a complete stranger to the sensation of a human's touch.

The slow, humid breeze danced its way through the quiet afternoon, gently rattling out across the leaves of the great oaks. The vast plains of golden grass rippled and swelled like the Pacific, gleaming like a white light on glass. Sounds of life littered the air. Squirrels chattered busily to their neighbors while they worked. Jays cawed and little birds twittered songs all their own as they flew from tree to tree. And then a new sound—the sound of solitary footsteps across brittle twigs and dirt—joined the natural symphony.

He moved with the feeling of broken clockwork, in repetitive stepping motions that were automatic in their placement. He wore loose denim trousers and a dirty cream-colored shirt with ivory buttons rolled up to the elbows. A dark hat lay on his head in crooked stance, tipped over half of his shadowed face. Over each shoulder he carried a bundle, bound up tightly with thin leather straps. The prominent features of his dark face were stained with an unnatural fatigue, a tiredness that reached through his slender body like a plague. His eyes were hidden in the shade of his hat.

Suddenly he stopped, sliding his two bindles off his arms and down onto the path. He knelt on the earth as he massaged his stiff shoulders with his hands, then angled his hat upwards on his brow with a single motion of his finger. His eyes gazed about him at the scenery, slowly surveying the picturesque landscape and at the same time not taking a single bit in. He leaned back on his calves and dropped his hands to his sides.

The wind tickled the sweat-dampened hairs on the back of his neck. He blinked once, then raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he tried to get a more thorough look at his surroundings. He wet his lips with his tongue as he did, then scowled. He could faintly make out the outskirts of a town, a ways down the dusty highway, almost looking to be out of place with its gray buildings in the golden landscape.

He swore. He knew the place couldn't be more than a mile off. Another good half hour of walking would do it, and then he would be on a bus for the new ranch. His new life.

He coughed, choking on the dust picked up by the strengthening wind. He grabbed both of his bindles at once, then slowly straightened back up into a standing position. He hiked the straps up as high onto his shoulders as he could, then steadily set off in the direction of the town.

An hour or two passed, and by the time the man did reach the place, the sun had long disappeared behind the yellow hills. He stopped only once when he got there, to pause under a lamp to check his map for directions to the bus area. Afterwards, he easily found the spot.

The bus pulled in at about a quarter 'til eleven, and opened its door shortly after. The man moved slowly towards the vehicle, in no hurry to get on.

"Evenin'," greeted the large man sitting in the driver's seat of the bus. The other gave no sign that he had heard except a faint nod of the head as he climbed onto the vehicle, and did not bother to open his mouth as he made his way into the back of the bus and sat. Silence was something he would miss leaving behind in the country.

The driver peered out through the door, checking quickly for any more potential passengers before pulling the lever to close the entry way. And then, with a pop and a jerk, the bus started, lurching forward into the dark night.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, until the driver cleared his throat. "What's your name?" he asked, addressing his only customer for the night.

The first man's grip on his belongings tightened nervously. He hadn't spoken to another person for at least three days. He was silent for a moment, and when he did open his mouth to answer, his voice cracked. "George. George Milton."

"Well, George, if you don't mind me askin', where is it you're headin' off to in the middle of the night?" As the man spoke, his eyes did not leave the road.

George hesitated, then replied. "To work. On Skylark ranch."

"Ah," said the driver, nodding his head. "What you plan to do there?"

"Buck barley, I guess."

"Buck barley…" the large man scratched the back of his head, then went on in a louder voice. "Stan Stewart—guy who runs the place—nice fella."

"Yeah?" George leaned back into the torn leather seat, turning his head right to gaze out the window. "Never seen him before. What's he like?"

"My cousin Morty—he works there—says the guy is so damn nice he goes and gives everyone of his workers a break whenever they ask for one. Always makin' sure there's good food for the guys to eat, from what I hear. Real nice fella."

"That's good to hear."

"Yeah, and he's always givin' them little extra bits of money in their pay if he thinks they're doing a real good job. Bunk houses are never wet inside when it rains—he checks every month or so for any holes. Says he don't like to see his boys pointlessly sick when there's work to be done. Generous man, my cousin says."

"Got any family?" George asked.

"Yeah. Wife died a while back, though. Bad accident from what I hear. Don't like to talk about it much, Morty says. He's got a daughter. I never met her though."

George was silent for a moment. "How long ago she die?"

"Eighteen years, at least. Daughter weren't no more than a baby hardly, and she's all grown up now."

"And he never married again?"

"Nope. Just too brokenhearted, I guess. Hell of a nice fella, though. Throws one mean party, I hear."

A look of pain crossed George's sharp features, then was gone as quickly as it had come. He turned away from the window, faced forward and closed his eyes. He dozed as he let the bus driver continue to talk, drifting in and out of consciousness to once every few minutes hear the occasional fact about his new boss. And so it went on like that for a while, he didn't know how long it was exactly, but sooner than he'd expected the driver stopped the bus.

"This is where you get off." The driver explained, shoving the lever that controlled the door over to open the exit. The clunking sound of the metal bar woke George, and he quickly gathered his belongings. He sidestepped through the aisle and towards open door, nodding his head to the driver as he moved out onto the dirt path. The door slammed shut behind him, and the bus lurched forward with a pop, then quickly vanished into the night.

Skylark Ranch. George looked around at his surroundings. In the dark it was hard to make out exactly what was there, but it was obvious that the place was big. He would have to get a closer look in the morning, when there was more light.

George heaved his two bindles higher up onto his shoulders. In front of him higher up on the hill sat a large house, looming even blacker than the night sky. None of its windows were lit, and no sounds of life were to be heard coming from within. Shrugging a bit, he crossed the dimly lit dirt path to the porch. With quiet steps he climbed up the stairs to the door. He raised a hand to knock.

"What're you doing?"

George faltered, startled, and dropped his hand to his side. After a moment, he slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. "Lookin' for Mr. Stewart."

"I'm Mr. Stewart," the voice spoke back, swiftly and suspiciously. "What you want with me in the middle of the night?"

"I come to buck barley." He paused, then added, "Got my work slip right here if you need to see it."

"Come here."

George watched as the owner of the voice stepped under one of the lamp posts. He was a straight, proud looking man, with proportioned features and a strong face. He had on a pair of black slacks, held up by dark suspenders over a white collared shirt with grayish buttons. He wore no hat over his clean, half bald head. His arms were crossed over his chest.

As soon as George could see where to go, he stepped over to Stewart, holding his work slip out before him to the other man. Stewart took it quickly and checked it over. "Strange time to be showing up to work, in the middle of the night."

"I don't have to start 'til tomorrow," said George. "But I ain't got no place to stay, neither."

Stewart regarded these words with careful thought, then nodded slowly. "Alright, but don't let me catch you up here again. We don't use this house. It's off limits."

"Sorry."

"It's O.K. You didn't know." Stewart was silent for a moment, then he turned and began to walk down the hill. He motioned for George to follow, and when they had reached the bottom and were on the dirt path, he began to speak again. "Bunk house is this way. The guys there can tell you how things run around here. Unless for some reason they've had a change of habit, they should still be awake. Me, I gotta get some sleep."