Thomas pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and wiped his mouth and chin. "I
don't know how long it can go on. I don't know how you men ."
"We can while we work," Wilkie said. "It's when we don't git work."
Thomas looked at his watch. "Well, let's go out and dig some ditch. By God," he said, "I'm a-gonna tell you. You fellas live in that government camp, don't you?"
Timothy stiffened. "Yes, sir."
"And you have dances every Saturday night?"
Wilkie smiled. "We sure do."
"Well, look out next Saturday night." Suddenly Timothy straightened. He stepped close. "What you mean? I belong to the Central Committee. I got to know."
Thomas looked apprehensive. "Don't you ever tell I told."
"What is it?" Timothy demanded.
"Well, the Association don't like the government camps. Can't get a deputy in there. The people make their own laws, I hear, and you can't arrest a man without a warrant. Now if there was a big fight and maybe shooting--a bunch of deputies could go in and clean out the camp."
Timothy had changed. His shoulders were straight and his eyes cold. "What you mean?"
"Don't you ever tell where you heard," Thomas said uneasily. "There's going to be a fight in the camp Saturday night. And there's going to be deputies ready to go in."
Tom demanded, "Why, for God's sake? Those folks ain't bothering nobody."
"I'll tell you why," Thomas said. "Those folks in the camp are getting used to being treated like humans. When they go back to the squatters' camps they'll be hard to handle." He wiped his face again. "Go on out to work now. Jesus, I hope I haven't talked myself out of my farm. But I like you people."
Timothy stepped in front of him and put out a hard lean hand, and Thomas took it. "Nobody won't know who tol'. We thank you. They won't be no fight."
"Go on to work," Thomas said. "And it's twenty-five cents an hour."
"We'll take it," Wilkie said, "from you."
Thomas walked away toward the house. "I'll be out in a piece," he said. "You men get to work." The screen door slammed behind him. The three men walked out past the little white-washed barn, and along a field edge. They came to a long narrow ditch with sections of concrete pipe lying beside it.
"Here's where we're a-workin'," Wilkie said.
His father opened the barn and passed out two picks and three shovels. And he said to Tom, "Here's your beauty."
Tom hefted the pick. "Jumping Jesus! If she don't feel good!"
"Wait'll about 'leven o'clock," Wilkie suggested. "See how good she feels then."
PR
