“They won’t,” said Tom. “They’re a-gettin’ five, an’ they don’ give a damn about nothin’ else.”
“But jus’ the minute they ain’t strikebreakin’ they won’t get no five.”
“I don’ think they’ll swalla that. Five they’re a-gettin’. Tha’s all they care about.”
“Well, tell ’em anyways.”
“Pa wouldn’ do it,” Tom said. “I know ‘im. He’d say it wasn’t none of his business.”
“Yes,” Casy said disconsolately. “I guess that’s right. Have to take a beatin’ fore he’ll know.”
“We was outa food,” Tom said. “Tonight we had meat. Not much, but we had it. Think Pa’s gonna give up his meat on account a other fellas? An’ Rosasharn oughta get milk. Think Ma’s gonna wanta starve that baby jus’ ’cause a bunch a fellas is yellin’ outside a gate?”
Casy said sadly, “I wisht they could see it. I wisht they could see the on’y way they can depen’ on their meat- Oh, the hell! Get tar’d sometimes. God-awful tar’d. I knowed a fella. Brang ‘im in while I was in the jail house. Been tryin’ to start a union. Got one started. An’ then them vigilantes bust it up. An’ know what? Them very folks he been tryin’ to help tossed him out. Wouldn’ have nothin’ to do with ‘im. Scared they’d get saw in his comp’ny. Say, ‘Git out. You’re a danger on us.’ Well, sir, it hurt his feelin’s purty bad. But then he says, ‘It ain’t so bad if you know.’ He says, ‘French Revolution- all them fellas that figgered her out got their heads chopped off. Always that way,’ he says. ‘Jus’ as natural as rain. You didn’ do it for fun no way. Doin’ it ’cause you have to. ‘Cause it’s you. Look a Washington,’ he says. ‘Fit the Revolution, an’ after, them sons-a-bitches turned on him. An’ Lincoln the same. Same folks yellin’ to kill ’em. Natural as rain.'”
“Don’t soun’ like no fun,” said Tom.
“No, it don’t. This fella in jail, he says, ‘Anyways, you do what you can. An’,’ he says, ‘the on’y thing you got to look at is that ever’ time they’s a little step fo’ward, she may slip back a little, but she never slips clear back. You can prove that,’ he says, ‘an’ that makes the whole thing right. An’ that means they wasn’t no waste even if it seemed like they was.'”
“Talkin’,” said Tom. “Always talkin’. Take my brother Al. He’s out lookin’ for a girl. He don’t care ’bout nothin’ else. Couple days he’ll get him a girl. Think about it all day an’ do it all night. He don’t give a damn ’bout steps up or down or sideways.”
“Sure,” said Casy. “Sure. He’s jus’ doin’ what he’s got to do. All of us like that.”
The man seated outside pulled the tent flap wide. “Goddamn it, I don’ like it,” he said.
Casy looked out at him. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’ know. I jus’ itch all over. Nervous as a cat.”
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“I don’ know. Seems like I hear somepin, an’ then I listen an’ they ain’t nothin’ to hear.”
“You’re jus’ jumpy,” the wizened man said. He got up and went outside. And in a second he looked into the tent. “They’s a great big ol’ black cloud a-sailin’ over. Bet she’s got thunder. That’s what’s itchin’ him- ‘lectricity.” He ducked out again. The other two men stood up from the ground and went outside.
Casy said softly, “All of ’em’s itchy. Them cops been sayin’ how they’re gonna beat the hell outa us an’ run us outa the county. They figger I’m a leader ’cause I talk so much.”
The wizened face looked in again. “Casy, turn out that lantern an’ come outside. They’s somepin.”
Casy turned the screw. The flame drew down into the slots and popped and went out. Casy groped outside and Tom followed him. “What is it?” Casy asked softly.
“I dunno. Listen!”
There was a wall of frog sounds that merged with silence. A high, shrill whistle of crickets. But through this background came other sounds- faint footsteps from the road, a crunch of clods up on the bank, a little swish of brush down the stream.
“Can’t really tell if you hear it. Fools you. Get nervous,” Casy reassured them. “We’re all nervous. Can’t really tell. You hear it, Tom?”
“I hear it,” said Tom. “Yeah, I hear it. I think they’s guys comin’ from ever’ which way. We better get outa here.”
The wizened man whispered, “Under the bridge span- out that way. Hate to leave my tent.”
“Le’s go,” said Casy.
They moved quietly along the edge of the stream. The black span was a cave before them. Casy bent over and moved through. Tom behind. Their feet slipped into the water. Thirty feet they moved, and their breathing echoed from the curved ceiling. Then they came out on the other side and straightened up.
A sharp call, “There they are!” Two flashlight beams fell on the men, caught them, blinded them. “Stand where you are.” The voices came out of the darkness. “That’s him. That shiny bastard. That’s him.”
Casy stared blindly at the light. He breathed heavily. “Listen,” he said. “You fellas don’ know what you’re doin’. You’re helpin’ to starve kids.”
“Shut up, you red son-of-a-bitch.”
A short heavy man stepped into the light. He carried a new white pick handle.
Casy went on, “You don’ know what you’re a-doin’.”
The heavy man swung with the pick handle. Casy dodged down into the swing. The heavy club crashed into the side of his head with a dull crunch of bone, and Casy fell sideways out of the light.
“Jesus, George. I think you killed him.”
“Put the light on him,” said George. “Serve the son-of-a-bitch right.” The flashlight beam dropped, searched and found Casy’s crushed head.
Tom looked down at the preacher. The light crossed the heavy man’s legs and the white new pick handle. Tom leaped silently. He wrenched the club free. The first time he knew he had missed and struck a shoulder, but the second time his crushing blow found the head, and as the heavy man sank down, three more blows found his head. The lights danced about. There were shouts, the sound of running feet, crashing through brush. Tom stood over the prostrate man. And then a club reached his head, a glancing blow. He felt the stroke like an electric shock. And then he was running along the stream, bending low. He heard the splash of footsteps following him. Suddenly he turned and squirmed up into the brush, deep into a poison-oak thicket. And he lay still. The footsteps came near, the light beams glanced along the stream bottom. Tom wriggled up through the thicket to the top. He emerged in an orchard. And still he could hear the calls, the pursuit in the stream bottom. He bent low and ran over the cultivated earth; the clods slipped and rolled under his feet. Ahead he saw the bushes that bounded the field, bushes along the edges of an irrigation ditch. He slipped through the fence, edged in among vines and blackberry bushes. And then he lay still, panting hoarsely. He felt his numb face and nose. The nose was crushed, and a trickle of blood dripped from his chin. He lay still on his stomach until his mind came back. And then he crawled slowly over the edge of the ditch. He bathed his face in the cool water, tore off the tail of his blue shirt and dipped it and held it against his torn cheek and nose. The water stung and burned.
The black cloud had crossed the sky, a blob of dark against the stars. The night was quiet again.
Tom stepped into the water and felt the bottom drop from under his feet. He threshed the two strokes across the ditch and pulled himself heavily up the other bank. His clothes clung to him. He moved and made a slopping noise; his shoes squished. Then he sat down, took off his shoes and emptied them. He wrung the bottoms of his trousers, took off his coat and squeezed the water from it.
Along the highway he saw the dancing beams of the flashlights, searching the ditches. Tom put on his shoes and moved cautiously across the stubble field. The squishing noise no longer came from his shoes. He went by instinct toward the other side of the stubble field, and at last he came to the road. Very cautiously he approached the square of houses.
Once a guard, thinking he heard a noise, called, “Who’s there?”
Tom dropped and froze to the ground, and the flashlight beam passed over him. He crept silently to the door of the Joad house. The door squalled on its hinges. And Ma’s voice, calm and steady and wide awake:
“What’s that?”
“Me, Tom.”
“Well, you better get some sleep. Al ain’t in yet.”