“Easy, Ma,” Tom said. “They got it cold. Anything them drum-corpse fellas say is right if it’s against us.”
Ma peered through the ill light, and she watched Tom’s face, and particularly his lips. “You promised,” she said.
“Ma, I- maybe this fella oughta go away. If- this fella done somepin wrong, maybe he’d think, ‘O.K. Le’s get the hangin’ over. I done wrong an’ I got to take it.’ But this fella didn’ do nothin’ wrong. He don’ feel no worse’n if he killed a skunk.”
Ruthie broke in, “Ma, me an’ Winfiel’ knows. He don’ have to go this-fella’in’ for us.”
Tom chuckled. “Well, this fella don’ want no hangin’, ’cause he’d do it again. An’ same time, he don’t aim to bring trouble down on his folks. Ma- I got to go.”
Ma covered her mouth with her fingers and coughed to clear her throat. “You can’t,” she said. “They wouldn’ be no way to hide out. You couldn’ trus’ nobody. But you can trus’ us. We can hide you, an’ we can see you get to eat while your face gets well.”
“But, Ma-”
She got to her feet. “You ain’t goin’. We’re a-takin’ you. Al, you back the truck against the door. Now, I got it figgered out. We’ll put one mattress on the bottom, an’ then Tom gets quick there, an’ we take another mattress an’ sort of fold it so it makes a cave, an’ he’s in the cave; and then we sort of wall it in. He can breathe out the end, ya see. Don’t argue. That’s what we’ll do.”
Pa complained, “Seems like the man ain’t got no say no more. She’s jus’ a heller. Come time we get settled down, I’m a-gonna smack her.”
“Come that time, you can,” said Ma. “Roust up, Al. It’s dark enough.”
Al went outside to the truck. He studied the matter and backed up near the steps.
Ma said, “Quick now. Git that mattress in!”
Pa and Uncle John flung it over the end gate. “Now that one.” They tossed the second mattress up. “Now- Tom, you jump up there an’ git under. Hurry up.”
Tom climbed quickly, and dropped. He straightened one mattress and pulled the second on top of him. Pa bent it upwards, stood it sides up, so that the arch covered Tom. He could see out between the side-boards of the truck. Pa and Al and Uncle John loaded quickly, piled the blankets on top of Tom’s cave, stood the buckets against the sides, spread the last mattress behind. Pots and pans, extra clothes, went in loose, for their boxes had been burned. They were nearly finished loading when a guard moved near, carrying his shotgun across his crooked arm.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he asked.
“We’re goin’ out,” said Pa.
“What for?”
“Well- we got a job offered- good job.”
“Yeah? Where’s it at?”
“Why- down by Weedpatch.”
“Let’s have a look at you.” He turned a flashlight in Pa’s face, in Uncle John’s, and in Al’s. “Wasn’t there another fella with you?”
Al said, “You mean that hitch-hiker? Little short fella with a pale face?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s what he looked like.”
“We jus’ picked him up on the way in. He went away this mornin’ when the rate dropped.”
“What did he look like again?”
“Short fella. Pale face.”
“Was he bruised up this mornin’?”
“I didn’ see nothin’,” said Al. “Is the gas pump open?”
“Yeah, till eight.”
“Git in,” Al cried. “If we’re gonna get to Weedpatch ‘fore mornin’ we gotta ram on. Gettin’ in front, Ma?”
“No, I’ll set in back,” she said. “Pa, you set back here too. Let Rosasharn set in front with Al’ an’ Uncle John.”
“Give me the work slip, Pa,” said Al. “I’ll get gas an’ change if I can.”
The guard watched them pull along the street and turn left to the gasoline pumps.
“Put in two,” said Al.
“You ain’t goin’ far.”
“No, not far. Can I get change on this here work slip?”
“Well- I ain’t supposed to.”
“Look, mister,” Al said. “We got a good job offered if we get there tonight. If we don’t, we miss out. Be a good fella.”
“Well, O.K. You sign her over to me.”
Al got out and walked around the nose of the Hudson. “Sure I will,” he said. He unscrewed the water cap and filled the radiator.
“Two, you say?”
“Yeah, two.”
“Which way you goin’?”
“South. We got a job.”
“Yeah? Jobs is scarce- reg’lar jobs.”
“We got a frien’,” Al said. “Job’s all waitin’ for us. Well, so long.” The truck swung around and bumped over the dirt street into the road. The feeble headlight jiggled over the way, and the right headlight blinked on and off from a bad connection. At every jolt the loose pots and pans in the truck-bed jangled and crashed.
Rose of Sharon moaned softly.
“Feel bad?” Uncle John asked.
“Yeah! Feel bad all a time. Wisht I could set still in a nice place. Wisht we was home an’ never come. Connie wouldn’ a went away if we was home. He would a studied up an’ got someplace.” Neither Al nor Uncle John answered her. They were embarrassed about Connie.
At the white painted gate to the ranch a guard came to the side of the truck. “Goin’ out for good?”
“Yeah,” said Al. “Goin’ north. Got a job.”
The guard turned his flashlight on the truck, turned it up into the tent. Ma and Pa looked stonily down into the glare. “O.K.” The guard swung the gate open. The truck turned left and moved toward 101, the great north-south highway.
“Know where we’re a-goin’?” Uncle John asked.
“No,” said Al. “Jus’ goin’, an’ gettin’ goddamn sick of it.”
“I ain’t so tur’ble far from my time,” Rose of Sharon said threateningly. “They better be a nice place for me.”
The night air was cold with the first sting of frost. Beside the road the leaves were beginning to drop from the fruit trees. On the load, Ma sat with her back against the truck side, and Pa sat opposite, facing her.
Ma called, “You all right, Tom?”
His muffled voice came back, “Kinda tight in here. We all through the ranch?”
“You be careful,” said Ma. “Might git stopped.”
Tom lifted up one side of his cave. In the dimness of the truck the pots jangled. “I can pull her down quick.” he said. “‘Sides, I don’ like gettin’ trapped in here.” He rested up on his elbow. “By God, she’s gettin’ cold, ain’t she?”
“They’s clouds up,” said Pa. “Fella says it’s gonna be an early winter.”
“Squirrels a-buildin’ high, or grass seeds?” Tom asked. “By God, you can tell weather from anythin’. I bet you could find a fella could tell weather from a old pair of underdrawers.”
“I dunno,” Pa said. “Seems like it’s gittin’ on winter to me. Fella’d have to live here a long time to know.”
“Which way we a-goin’?” Tom asked.
“I dunno. Al, he turned off lef’. Seems like he’s goin’ back the way we come.”
Tom said, “I can’t figger what’s best. Seems like if we get on the main highway they’ll be more cops. With my face this-a-way, they’d pick me right up. Maybe we oughta keep to back roads.”
Ma said, “Hammer on the back. Get Al to stop.”
Tom pounded the front board with his fist; the truck pulled to a stop on the side of the road. Al got out and walked to the back. Ruthie and Winfield peeked out from under their blanket.
“What ya want?” Al demanded.
Ma said, “We got to figger what to do. Maybe we better keep on the back roads. Tom says so.”
“It’s my face,” Tom added. “Anybody’d know. Any cop’d know me.”
“Well, which way you wanta go? I figgered north. We been south.”
“Yeah,” said Tom, “but keep on back roads.”
Al asked, “How ’bout pullin’ off an’ catchin’ some sleep, goin’ on tomorra?”
Ma said quickly. “Not yet. Le’s get some distance fust.”
“O.K.” Al got back in his seat and drove on.
Ruthie and Winfield covered up their heads again. Ma called, “Is Winfiel’ all right?”
“Sure, he’s awright,” Ruthie said. “He been sleepin’.”
Ma leaned back against the truck side. “Gives ya a funny feelin’ to be hunted like. I’m gittin’ mean.”
“Ever’body’s gittin’ mean,” said Pa. “Ever’body. You seen that fight today. Fella changes. Down that gov’ment camp we wasn’ mean.”
Al turned right on a graveled road, and the yellow lights shuddered over the ground. The fruit trees were gone now, and cotton plants took their place. They drove on for twenty miles through the cotton, turning, angling on the country roads. The road paralleled a bushy creek and turned over a concrete bridge and followed the stream on the other side. And then, on the edge of the creek the lights showed a long line of red boxcars, wheelless; and a big sign on the edge of the road said, “Cotton Pickers wanted.” Al slowed down. Tom peered between the side-bars of the truck. A quarter of a mile past the boxcars Tom hammered on the car again. Al stopped beside the road and got out again.