A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool. On one side of the river the golden foothill slopes curve up to the strong and rocky Gabilan Mountains, but on the valley side the water is lined with trees—willows fresh and green with every spring, carrying in their lower leaf junctures the debris of the winter’s flooding; and sycamores with mottled, white, recumbent limbs and branches that arch over the pool. On the sandy bank under the trees the leaves lie deep and so crisp that a lizard makes a great skittering if he runs among them. Rabbits come out of the brush to sit on the sand in the evening, and the damp flats are covered with the night tracks of ‘coons, and with the spread pads of dogs from the ranches, and with the split-wedge tracks of
deer that come to drink in the dark.
There is a path through the willows and among the sycamores, a path beaten
hard by boys coming down from the ranches to swim in the deep pool, and beaten hard by tramps who come wearily down from the highway in the evening to jungle-up near water. In front of the low horizontal limb of a giant sycamore there is an ash pile made by many fires; the limb is worn smooth by men who have sat on it.
Evening of a hot day started the little wind to moving among the leaves. The shade climbed up the hills toward the top. On the sand banks the rabbits sat as quietly as little gray sculptured stones. And then from the direction of the state highway came the sound of footsteps on crisp sycamore leaves. The rabbits hurried noiselessly for cover. A stilted heron labored up into the air and pounded down river. For a moment the place was lifeless, and then two men
emerged from the path and came into the opening by the green pool.
They had walked in single file down the path, and even in the open one stayed behind the other. Both were dressed in denim trousers and in denim coats with brass buttons. Both wore black, shapeless hats and both carried tight blanket rolls slung over their shoulders. The first man was small and quick, dark of face, with restless eyes and sharp, strong features. Every part of him was defined: small, strong hands, slender arms, a thin and bony nose. Behind him
walked his opposite, a huge man, shapeless of face, with large, pale eyes, and wide, sloping shoulders; and he walked heavily, dragging his feet a little, the way a bear drags his paws. His arms did not swing at his sides, but hung loosely. The first man stopped short in the clearing, and the
follower nearly ran over him. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat-band with his forefinger and snapped the moisture off. His huge companion dropped his blankets and flung himself down and drank from the surface of the green pool; drank with long gulps, snorting into the water like a horse. The small man stepped nervously beside him.
“Lennie!” he said sharply. “Lennie, for God’ sakes don’t drink so much.”
Lennie continued to snort into the pool. The small man leaned over and shook
him by the shoulder. “Lennie. You gonna be sick like you was last night.”
bank and his hat dripped down on his blue coat and ran down his back. “That’s
good,” he said. “You drink some, George. You take a good big drink.” He
George unslung his bindle and dropped it gently on the bank. “I ain’t sure it’s
good water,” he said. “Looks kinda scummy.”
Lennie dabbled his big paw in the water and wiggled his fingers so the water arose in little splashes; rings widened across the pool to the other side and came back again. Lennie watched them go. “Look, George. Look what I done.”
George knelt beside the pool and drank from his hand with quick scoops.
“Tastes all right,” he admitted. “Don’t really seem to be running, though. You never oughta drink water when it ain’t running, Lennie,” he said hopelessly.
“You’d drink out of a gutter if you was thirsty.” He threw a scoop of water into his face and rubbed it about with his hand, under his chin and around the back of his neck. Then he replaced his hat, pushed himself back from the river, drew up his knees and embraced them. Lennie, who had been watching, imitated George exactly. He pushed himself back, drew up his knees, embraced them, looked over to George to see whether he had it just right. He pulled his hat
down a little more over his eyes, the way George’s hat was.
George stared morosely at the water. The rims of his eyes were red with sun glare. He said angrily, “We could just as well of rode clear to the ranch if that bastard bus driver knew what he was talkin’ about. ‘Jes’ a little stretch down the highway,’ he says. ‘Jes’ a little stretch.’ God damn near four miles, that’s what it was! Didn’t wanta stop at the ranch gate, that’s what. Too God damn lazy to pull up. Wonder he isn’t too damn good to stop in Soledad at all. Kicks us out
and says ‘Jes’ a little stretch down the road.’ I bet it was more than four miles.
Damn hot day.”
Lennie looked timidly over to him. “George?”
“Yeah, what ya want?”
“Where we goin’, George?”
The little man jerked down the brim of his hat and scowled over at Lennie.
“So you forgot that awready, did you? I gotta tell you again, do I? Jesus Christ,
you’re a crazy bastard!”
“I forgot,” Lennie said softly. “I tried not to forget. Honest to God I did, George.”
“O.K—O.K. I’ll tell ya again. I ain’t got nothing to do. Might jus’ as well spen’ all my time tellin’ you things and then you forget ‘em, and I tell you again.”
“Tried and tried,” said Lennie, “but it didn’t do no good. I remember about
the rabbits, George.”
“The hell with the rabbits. That’s all you ever can remember is them rabbits.
O.K.! Now you listen and this time you got to remember so we don’t get in no
trouble. You remember settin’ in that gutter on Howard Street and watchin’ that
Lennie’s face broke into a delighted smile. “Why sure, George. I remember
that . . . . but . . . . what’d we do then? I remember some girls come by and you
says . . . . you says . . . .”
“The hell with what I says. You remember about us goin’ in to Murray and
Ready’s, and they give us work cards and bus tickets?”
“Oh, sure, George. I remember that now.” His hands went quickly into his
side coat pockets. He said gently, “George . . . . I ain’t got mine. I musta lost it.”
He looked down at the ground in despair.
“You never had none, you crazy bastard. I got both of ‘em here. Think I’d let
you carry your own work card?”
Lennie grinned with relief. “I . . . . I thought I put it in my side pocket.” His
hand went into the pocket again.
George looked sharply at him. “What’d you take outa that pocket?”
“Ain’t a thing in my pocket,” Lennie said cleverly.
“I know there ain’t. You got it in your hand. What you got in your hand—
“I ain’t got nothin’, George. Honest.”
“Come on, give it here.”
Lennie held his closed hand away from George’s direction. “It’s on’y a
“A mouse? A live mouse?”
“Uh-uh. Jus’ a dead mouse, George. I didn’t kill it. Honest! I found it. I
found it dead.”
“Give it here!” said George.
“Aw, leave me have it, George.”
“Give it here!”
Lennie’s closed hand slowly obeyed. George took the mouse and threw it across the pool to the other side, among the brush. “What you want of a dead mouse, anyways?”
“I could pet it with my thumb while we walked along,” said Lennie.
“Well, you ain’t petting no mice while you walk with me. You remember where we’re goin’ now?”
Lennie looked startled and then in embarrassment hid his face against his knees. “I forgot again.”
“Jesus Christ,” George said resignedly. “Well—look, we’re gonna work on a ranch like the one we come from up north.”
“Oh, sure. I remember. In Weed.”
“That ranch we’re goin’ to is right down there about a quarter mile. We’re
gonna go in an’ see the boss. Now, look—I’ll give him the work tickets, but you
ain’t gonna say a word. You jus’ stand there and don’t say nothing. If he finds
out what a crazy bastard you are, we won’t get no job, but if he sees ya work
before he hears ya talk, we’re set. Ya got that?”
“Sure, George. Sure I got it.”
“O.K. Now when we go in to see the boss, what you gonna do?”
“I . . . . I . . . .” Lennie thought. His face grew tight with thought. “I . . . . ain’t
gonna say nothin’. Jus’ gonna stan’ there.”
“Good boy. That’s swell. You say that over two, three times so you sure
won’t forget it.”
Lennie droned to himself softly, “I ain’t gonna say nothin’ . . . . I ain’t gonna say nothin’ . . . . I ain’t gonna say nothin’.”
“O.K.,” said George. “An’ you ain’t gonna do no bad things like you done in Weed, neither.”
Lennie looked puzzled. “Like I done in Weed?”
“Oh, so ya forgot that too, did ya? Well, I ain’t gonna remind ya, fear ya do it again.”
A light of understanding broke on Lennie’s face. “They run us outa Weed,” he exploded triumphantly.
“Run us out, hell,” said George disgustedly. “We run. They was lookin’ for us, but they didn’t catch us.”
Lennie giggled happily. “I didn’t forget that, you bet.”
George lay back on the sand and crossed his hands under his head, and Lennie imitated him, raising his head to see whether he was doing it right.
“God, you’re a lot of trouble,” said George. “I could get along so easy and so
nice if I didn’t have you on my tail. I could live so easy and maybe have a girl.”
For a moment Lennie lay quiet, and then he said hopefully, “We gonna work on a ranch, George.”
“Awright. You got that. But we’re gonna sleep here because I got a reason.”
The day was going fast now. Only the tops of the Gabilan Mountains flamed with the light of the sun that had gone from the valley. A water snake slipped along on the pool, its head held up like a little periscope. The reeds jerked slightly in the current. Far off toward the highway a man shouted something, and another man shouted back. The sycamore limbs rustled under a little wind that died immediately.
“George—why ain’t we goin’ on to the ranch and get some supper? They got supper at the ranch.”
George rolled on his side. “No reason at all for you. I like it here. Tomorra we’re gonna go to work. I seen thrashin’ machines on the way down. That means we’ll be buckin’ grain bags, bustin’ a gut. Tonight I’m gonna lay right here and look up. I like it.”
Lennie got up on his knees and looked down at George. “Ain’t we gonna have no supper?”
“Sure we are, if you gather up some dead willow sticks. I got three cans of beans in my bindle. You get a fire ready. I’ll give you a match when you get the sticks together. Then we’ll heat the beans and have supper.”
Lennie said, “I like beans with ketchup.”
“Well, we ain’t got no ketchup. You go get wood. An’ don’t you fool around. It’ll be dark before long.”
Lennie lumbered to his feet and disappeared in the brush. George lay where he was and whistled softly to himself. There were sounds of splashings down the river in the direction Lennie had taken. George stopped whistling and listened. “Poor bastard,” he said softly, and then went on whistling again.
In a moment Lennie came crashing back through the brush. He carried one
small willow stick in his hand. George sat up. “Awright,” he said brusquely.
“Gi’me that mouse!”
But Lennie made an elaborate pantomime of innocence. “What mouse,
George? I ain’t got no mouse.”
George held out his hand. “Come on. Give it to me. You ain’t puttin’ nothing
Lennie hesitated, backed away, looked wildly at the brush line as though he
contemplated running for his freedom. George said coldly, “You gonna give me
that mouse or do I have to sock you?”
“Give you what, George?”
“You know God damn well what. I want that mouse.”
Lennie reluctantly reached into his pocket. His voice broke a little. “I don’t
know why I can’t keep it. It ain’t nobody’s mouse. I didn’t steal it. I found it
lyin’ right beside the road.”
George’s hand remained outstretched imperiously. Slowly, like a terrier who
doesn’t want to bring a ball to its master, Lennie approached, drew back,
approached again. George snapped his fingers sharply, and at the sound Lennie
laid the mouse in his hand.
“I wasn’t doin’ nothing bad with it, George. Jus’ strokin’ it.”
George stood up and threw the mouse as far as he could into the darkening
brush, and then he stepped to the pool and washed his hands. “You crazy fool.
Don’t you think I could see your feet was wet where you went acrost the river to
get it?” He heard Lennie’s whimpering cry and wheeled about. “Blubberin’ like
a baby! Jesus Christ! A big guy like you.” Lennie’s lip quivered and tears
started in his eyes. “Aw, Lennie!” George put his hand on Lennie’s shoulder. “I
ain’t takin’ it away jus’ for meanness. That mouse ain’t fresh, Lennie; and
besides, you’ve broke it pettin’ it. You get another mouse that’s fresh and I’ll let
you keep it a little while.”
Lennie sat down on the ground and hung his head dejectedly. “I don’t know
where there is no other mouse. I remember a lady used to give ‘em to me—ever’
one she got. But that lady ain’t here.”
George scoffed. “Lady, huh? Don’t even remember who that lady was. That
was your own Aunt Clara. An’ she stopped givin’ ‘em to ya. You always killed
Lennie looked sadly up at him. “They was so little,” he said, apologetically.
“I’d pet ‘em, and pretty soon they bit my fingers and I pinched their heads a
little and then they was dead—because they was so little.