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THE INDIAN SUMMEROF DRY VALLEY JOHNSON<br>Dry Valley Johnson had once beena sheepman. His real name was Hector, but he had been renamed "Dry Valley" after his ranch, so as to distinguish him from other Johnsons.<br>Many years of sheep breeding wearied Dry Valley Johnson. So he sold his ranch for eighteen thousand dollars and moved to Santa Rosa to live a quiet life. Being a silent and melancholy person of thirty-five—or perhaps thirty-eight —he soon became an elderlyish bachelor with a hobby. Someone gave him a strawberry to eat, and he was done for.<br>Dry Valley bought a small cottage in the village and a library on strawberries. Behind the cottage there was a garden of which he made a strawberry patch. In his old grey woolen shirt, his brown trousers and high boots he lay all day on a canvas cot under an oak tree at his back door and studied books on strawberries.<br>The school teacher, Miss De Witt, spoke of him as "a fine middle-aged man." But Dry Valley was not interested in women. Whenever he met them, he lifted his hat to them and then hurried back to his beloved berries.<br>When his strawberries were beginning to ripen Dry Valley bought the heaviest whip in the Santa Rosa store. For the bright eyes of Santa Rosa youth were watching the ripening berries, and Dry Valley was arming himself against their expected raids. He took much more care' of his beloved fruit than he ever did of his little lambs in his ranching days.<br>In the house next to DryValley's lived a widow with a lot of children. She was Spanish, and had been married to an Irishman, by the name of O'Brien.<br>Between the two gardens ran a fence overgrown with wild vines. Very often Dry Valley could see little heads with black hair and flashing dark eyes looking through the fence, watching the reddening berries.
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