ON SATURDAY MORNING the wash tubs were crowded. The women washed
dresses, pink ginghams and flowered cottons, and they hung them in the sun and
stretched the cloth to smooth it. When afternoon came the whole camp quickened and
the people grew excited. The children caught the fever and were more noisy than usual.
About mid-afternoon child bathing began, and as each child was caught, subdued, and
washed, the noise on the playground gradually subsided. Before five, the children were
scrubbed and warned about getting dirty again; and they walked about, stiff in clean
clothes, miserable with carefulness.
At the big open-air dance platform a committee was busy. Every bit of electric wire
had been requisitioned. The city dump had been visited for wire, every tool box had
contributed friction tape. And now the patched, spliced wire was strung out to the
dance floor, with bottle necks as insulators. This night the floor would be lighted for
the first time. By six o'clock the men were back from work or from looking for work,
and a new wave of bathing started. By seven, dinners were over, men had on their best
clothes: freshly washed overalls, clean blue shirts, sometimes the decent blacks. The
girls were ready in their print dresses, stretched and clean, their hair braided and
ribboned. The worried women watched the families and cleaned up the evening dishes.
On the platform the string band practiced, surrounded by a double wall of children.
The people were intent and excited.
In the tent of Ezra Huston, chairman, the Central Committee of five men went into
meeting. Huston, a tall spare man, wind-blackened, with eyes like little blades, spoke
to his committee, one man from each sanitary unit.
"It's goddamn lucky we got the word they was gonna try to bust up the dance!" he
said.
The tubby little representative from Unit Three spoke up. "I think we oughta squash
the hell out of em, an' show 'em."
"No," said Huston. "That's what they want. No, sir. If they can git a fight goin', then
they can run in the cops an' say we ain't orderly. They tried it before—other places."
He turned to the sad dark boy from Unit Two. "Got the fellas together to go roun' the
fences an' see nobody sneaks in?"
The sad boy nodded. "Yeah! Twelve. Tol' 'em not to hit nobody. Jes' push 'em out
ag'in."
Huston said, "Will you go out an' find Willie Eaton? He's chairman a the
entertainment, ain't he?"
"Yeah."
"Well, tell 'im we wanta see 'im."
The boy went out, and he returned in a moment with a stringy Texas man. Willie
Eaton had a long fragile jaw and dust-colored hair. His arms and legs were long and
loose, and he had the gray sunburned eyes of the Panhandle. He stood in the tent,
grinning, and his hands pivoted restlessly on his wrists.
Huston said, "You heard about tonight?"
Willie grinned. "Yeah!"
"Did anything 'bout it?"
"Yeah!"
"Tell what you done."
Willie Eaton grinned happily. "Well, sir, ordinary ent'tainment committee is five. I
got twenty more—all good strong boys. They're a-gonna be a-dancin' an' a-keepin'
their eyes open an' their ears open. First sign—any talk or argament, they close in tight.
Worked her out purty nice. Can't even see nothing. Kinda move out, an' the fella will
go out with 'em."
"Tell 'em they ain't to hurt the fellas."
Willie laughed gleefully. "I tol' 'em," he said.
"Well tell 'em so they know."
"They know. Got five men out to the gate lookin' over the folks that comes in. Try
to spot 'em 'fore they git started."
Huston stood up. His steel-colored eyes were stern. "Now you look here, Willie. We
don't want them fellas hurt. They's gonna be deputies out by the front gate. If you
blood 'em up, why—them deputies'll git you."
"Got that there figgered out," said Willie. "Take 'em out the back way, into the fiel'.
Some a the boys'll see they git on their way."
"Well, it souns' awright," Huston said worriedly. "But don't you let nothing happen,
Willie. You're responsible. Don' you hurt them fellas. Don' you use no stick nor no
knife or arn, or nothing like that."
"No, sir," said Willie. "We won't mark 'em."
Huston was suspicious. "I wisht I knowed I could trus' you, Willie. If you got to
sock 'em, sock 'em where they won't bleed."
"Yes, sir!" said Willie.
"You sure of the fellas you picked?"
"Yes, sir."
"Awright. An' if she gits outa han', I'll be in the righthan' corner, this way on the
dance floor."
Willie saluted in mockery and went out.
Huston said, "I dunno. I jes' hope Willie's boys don't kill nobody. What the hell the
deputies want to hurt the camp for? Why can't they let us be?"
The sad boy from Unit Two said, "I lived out at Sunlan' Lan' an' Cattle Company's
place. Honest to God, they got a cop for ever' ten people. Got one water faucet for
'bout two hundred people."
The tubby man said, "Jesus, God, Jeremy. You ain't got to tell me. I was there. They
got a block of shacks—thirty-five of 'em in a row, an' fifteen deep. An' they got ten
crappers for the whole shebang. An', Christ, you could smell 'em a mile. One of them
deputies give me the lowdown. We was settin' aroun', an' he says, 'Them goddamn
gov'ment camps,' he says. 'Give people hot water, an' they gonna want hot water. Give
'em flush toilets, an' they gonna want 'em.' He says, 'You give them goddamn Okies
stuff like that an' they'll want 'em.' An' he says, 'They hol' red meetin's in them
gov'ment camps. All figgerin' how to git on relief,' he says."
Huston asked. "Didn' nobody sock him?"
"No. They was a little fella, an' he says, 'What you mean, relief?'
"'I mean relief—what us taxpayers puts in an' you goddamn Okies takes out.'
"'We pay sales tax an' gas tax an' tobacco tax,' this little guy says. An' he say,
'Farmers get four cents a cotton poun' from the gov'ment—ain't that relief?' An' he
says, 'Railroads an' shippin' companies draw subsidies—ain't that relief?'
"'They're doin' stuff got to be done,' this deputy says.
"'Well,' the little guy says, 'how'd your goddamn crops get picked if it wasn't for
us?'" The tubby man looked around.
"What'd the deputy say?" Huston asked.
"Well, the deputy got mad. An' he says, 'You goddamn reds is all the time stirrin' up
trouble,' he says. 'You better come along with me.' So he takes this little guy in, an'
they give him sixty days in jail for vagrancy."
"How'd they do that if he had a job?" asked Timothy Wallace.
The tubby man laughed. "You know better'n that," he said. "You know a vagrant is
anybody a cop don't like. An' that's why they hate this here camp. No cops can get in.
This here's United States, not California."
Huston sighed. "Wisht we could stay here. Got to be goin' 'fore long. I like this here.
Folks gits along nice; an', God Awmighty, why can't they let us do it 'stead of keepin'
us miserable an' puttin' us in jail? I swear to God they gonna push us into fightin' if
they don't quit a-worryin' us." Then he calmed his voice. "We jes' got to keep
peaceful," he reminded himself. "The committee got no right to fly off'n the handle."
The tubby man from Unit Three said, "Anybody that thinks this committee got all
cheese an' crackers ought to jes' try her. They was a fight in my unit today—women.
Got to callin' names, an' then got to throwin' garbage. Ladies' Committee couldn'
handle it, an' they come to me. Want me to bring the fight in this here committee. I tol'
'em they got to handle women trouble theirselves. This here committee ain't gonna
mess with no garbage fights."
Huston nodded. "You done good," he said.
And now the dusk was falling, and as the darkness deepened the practicing of the
string band seemed to grow louder. The lights flashed on and two men inspected the
patched wire to the dance floor. The children crowded thickly about the musicians. A
boy with a guitar sang the "Down Home Blues," chording delicately for himself, and
on his second chorus three harmonicas and a fiddle joined him. From the tents the
people streamed toward the platform, men in their clean blue denim and women in
their ginghams. They came near to the platform and then stood quietly waiting, their
faces bright and intent under the light.
Around the reservation there was a high wire fence, and along the fence, at intervals
of fifty feet, the guards sat in the grass and waited.
Now the cars of the guests began to arrive, small farmers and their families,
migrants from other camps. And as each guest came through the gate he mentioned the
name of the camper who had invited him.
The string band took a reel tune up and played loudly, for they were not practicing
any more. In front of their tents the Jesus-lovers sat and watched, their faces hard and
contemptuous. They did not speak to one another, they watched for sin, and their faces
condemned the whole proceeding.
At the Joad tent Ruthie and Winfield had bolted what little dinner they had, and
then they started for the platform. Ma called them back, held up their faces with a hand
under each chin, and looked into their nostrils, pulled their ears and looked inside, and
sent them to the sanitary unit to wash their hands once more. They dodged around the
back of the building and bolted for the platform, to stand among the children, closepacked about the band.
Al finished his dinner and spent half an hour shaving with Tom's razor. Al had a
tight-fitting wool suit and a striped shirt, and he bathed and washed and combed his
straight hair back. And when the washroom was vacant for a moment, he smiled
engagingly at himself in the mirror, and he turned and tried to see himself in profile
when he smiled. He slipped his purple arm-bands on and put on his tight coat. And he
rubbed up his yellow shoes with a piece of toilet paper. A late bather came in, and Al
hurried out and walked recklessly toward the platform, his eye peeled for girls. Near
the dance floor he saw a pretty blond girl sitting in front of a tent. He sidled near and
threw open his coat to show his shirt.
"Gonna dance tonight?" he asked.
The girl looked away and did not answer.
"Can't a fella pass a word with you? How 'bout you an' me dancin'?" And he said
nonchalantly, "I can waltz."
The girl raised her eyes shyly, and she said, "That ain't nothin'—anybody can
waltz."
"Not like me," said Al. The music surged, and he tapped one foot in time. "Come
on," he said.
A very fat woman poked her head out of the tent and scowled at him. "You git
along," she said fiercely. "This here girl's spoke for. She's a-gonna be married, an' her
man's a-comin' for her."
Al winked rakishly at the girl, and he tripped on, striking his feet to the music and
swaying his shoulders and swinging his arms. And the girl looked after him intently.
Pa put down his plate and stood up. "Come on, John," he said; and he explained to
Ma, "We're a-gonna talk to some fellas about gettin' work." And Pa and Uncle John
walked toward the manager's house.
Tom worked a piece of store bread into the stew gravy on his plate and ate the
bread. He handed his plate to Ma, and she put it in the bucket of hot water and washed
it, and handed it to Rose of Sharon to wipe. "Ain't you goin' to the dance?" Ma asked.
"Sure," said Tom. "I'm on a committee. We're gonna entertain some fellas."
"Already on a committee?" Ma said. "I guess it's 'cause you got work."
Rose of Sharon turned to put the dish away. Tom pointed at her. "My God, she's agettin' big," he said.
Rose of Sharon blushed and took another dish from Ma. "Sure she is," Ma said.
"An' she's gettin' prettier," said Tom.
The girl blushed more deeply and hung her head. "You stop it," she said softly.
"'Course she is," said Ma. "Girl with a baby always gets prettier."
Tom laughed. "If she keeps a-swellin' like this, she gonna need a wheelbarra to
carry it."
"Now you stop," Rose of Sharon said, and she went inside the tent, out of sight.
Ma chuckled, "You shouldn' ought to worry her."
"She likes it," said Tom.
"I know she likes it, but it worries her, too. And she's a-mournin' for Connie."
"Well, she might's well give him up. He's prob'ly studyin' to be President of the
United States by now."
"Don't worry her," Ma said. "She ain't got no easy row to hoe."
Willie Eaton moved near, and he grinned and said, "You Tom Joad?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm Chairman the Entertainment Committee. We gonna need you. Fella tol'
me 'bout you."
"Sure, I'll play with you," said Tom. "This here's Ma."
"Howdy," said Willie.
"Glad to meet ya."
Willie said, "Gonna put you on the gate to start, an' then on the floor. Want ya to
look over the guys when they come in, an' try to spot 'em. You'll be with another fella.
Then later I want ya to dance an' watch."
"Yeah! I can do that awright," said Tom.
Ma said apprehensively, "They ain't no trouble?"
"No, ma'am," Willie said. "They ain't gonna be no trouble."
"None at all," said Tom. "Well, I'll come 'long. See you at the dance, Ma." The two
young men walked quickly away toward the main gate.
Ma piled the washed dishes on a box. "Come on out," she called, and when there
was no answer, "Rosasharn, you come out."
The girl stepped from the tent, and she went on with the dish-wiping.
"Tom was on'y jollyin' ya."
"I know. I didn't mind; on'y I hate to have folks look at me."
"Ain't no way to he'p that. Folks gonna look. But it makes folks happy to see a girl
in a fambly way—makes folks sort of giggly an' happy. Ain't you a-goin' to the
dance?"
"I was—but I don' know. I wisht Connie was here." Her voice rose. "Ma, I wisht he
was here. I can't hardly stan' it."
Ma looked closely at her. "I know," she said. "But, Rosasharn—don' shame your
folks."
"I don' aim to, Ma."
"Well, don' you shame us. We got too much on us now, without no shame."
The girl's lip quivered. "I—I ain' goin' to the dance. I couldn'—Ma—he'p me!" She
sat down and buried her head in her hands.
Ma wiped her hands on the dish towel and she squatted down in front of her
daughter, and she put her two hands on Rose of Sharon's hair. "You're a good girl," she
said. "You always was a good girl. I'll take care a you. Don't you fret." She put an
interest in her tone. "Know what you an' me's gonna do? We're a-goin' to that dance,
an' we're a-gonna set there an watch. If anybody says to come dance—why, I'll say you
ain't strong enough. I'll say you're poorly. An' you can hear the music an' all like that."
Rose of Sharon raised her head. "You won't let me dance?"
"No, I won't."
"An' don' let nobody touch me."
"No, I won't."
The girl sighed. She said desperately, "I don' know what I'm a-gonna do, Ma. I jus'
don' know. I don' know."
Ma patted her knee. "Look," she said. "Look here at me. I'm a-gonna tell ya. In a
little while it ain't gonna be so bad. In a little while. An' that's true. Now come on.
We'll go get washed up, an' we'll put on our nice dress an' we'll set by the dance." She
led Rose of Sharon toward the sanitary unit.
Pa and Uncle John squatted with a group of men by the porch of the office. "We
nearly got work today," Pa said. "We was jus' a few minutes late. They awready got
two fellas. An', well, sir, it was a funny thing. They's a straw boss there, an' he says,
'We jus' got some two-bit men. 'Course we could use twenty-cent men. We can use a
lot of twenty-cent men. You go to your camp an' say we'll put a lot a fellas on for
twenty cents.'"
The squatting men moved nervously. A broad-shouldered man, his face completely
in the shadow of a black hat, spatted his knee with his palm. "I know it, goddamn it!"
he cried. "An' they'll git men. They'll git hungry men. You can't feed your fam'ly on
twenty cents an hour, but you'll take anything. They got you goin' an' comin'. They jes'
auction a job off. Jesus Christ, pretty soon they're gonna make us pay to work."
"We would of took her," Pa said. "We ain't had no job. We sure would a took her,
but they was them guys in there, an' the way they looked, we was scairt to take her."
Black Hat said, "Get crazy thinkin'! I been workin' for a fella, an' he can't pick his
crop. Cost more jes' to pick her than he can git for her, an' he don' know what to do."
"Seems to me—" Pa stopped. The circle was silent for him. "Well—I jus' thought, if
a fella had an acre. Well, my woman she could raise a little truck an' a couple pigs an'
some chickens. An' us men could get out an' find work, an' then go back. Kids could
maybe go to school. Never seen sech schools as out here."
"Our kids ain't happy in them schools," Black Hat said.
"Why not? They're pretty nice, them schools."
"Well, a raggedy kid with no shoes, an' them other kids with socks on, an' nice
pants, an' them a-yellin' 'Okie.' My boy went to school. Had a fight ever' day. Done
good, too. Tough little bastard. Ever' day he got to fight. Come home with his clothes
tore an' his nose bloody. An' his ma'd whale him. Made her stop that. No need
ever'body beatin' the hell outa him, poor little fella. Jesus! He give some a them kids a
goin'-over, though—them nice-pants sons-a-bitches. I dunno. I dunno."
Pa demanded, "Well, what the hell am I gonna do? We're outa money. One of my
boys got a short job, but that won't feed us. I'm a-gonna go an' take twenty cents. I got
to."
Black Hat raised his head, and his bristled chin showed in the light, and his stringy
neck where the whiskers lay flat like fur. "Yeah!" he said bitterly. "You'll do that. An'
I'm a two-bit man. You'll take my job for twenty cents. An' then I'll git hungry an' I'll
take my job back for fifteen. Yeah! You go right on an' do her."
"Well, what the hell can I do?" Pa demanded. "I can't starve so's you can get two
bits."
Black Hat dipped his head again, and his chin went into the shadow. "I dunno," he
said. "I jes' dunno. It's bad enough to work twelve hours a day an' come out jes' a little
bit hungry, but we got to figure all a time, too. My kid ain't gettin' enough to eat. I can't
think all the time, goddamn it! It drives a man crazy." The circle of men shifted their
feet nervously.
TOM STOOD at the gate and watched the people coming in to the dance. A
floodlight shone down into their faces. Willie Eaton said, "Jes' keep your eyes open.
I'm sendin' Jule Vitela over. He's half Cherokee. Nice fella. Keep your eyes open. An'
see if you can pick out the ones."
"O.K.," said Tom. He watched the farm families come in, the girls with braided hair
and the boys polished for the dance. Jule came and stood beside him.
"I'm with you," he said.
Tom looked at the hawk nose and the high brown cheek bones and the slender
receding chin. "They says you're half Injun. You look all Injun to me."
"No," said Jule. "Jes' half. Wisht I was a full-blood. I'd have my lan' on the
reservation. Them full-bloods got it pretty nice, some of 'em."
"Look a them people," Tom said.
The guests were moving in through the gateway, families from the farms, migrants
from the ditch camps. Children straining to be free and quiet parents holding them
back.
Jule said, "These here dances done funny things. Our people got nothing, but jes'
because they can ast their frien's to come here to the dance, sets 'em up an' makes 'em
proud. An' the folks respects 'em 'count of these here dances. Fella got a little place
where I was a-workin'. He come to a dance here. I ast him myself, an' he come. Says
we got the only decent dance in the county, where a man can take his girls an' his wife.
Hey! Look."
Three young men were coming through the gate—young working men in jeans.
They walked close together. The guard at the gate questioned them, and they answered
and passed through.
"Look at 'em careful," Jule said. He moved to the guard. "Who ast them three?" he
asked.
"Fella named Jackson, Unit Four."
Jule came back to Tom. "I think them's our fellas."
"How ya know?"
"I dunno how. Jes' got a feelin'. They're kinda scared. Foller 'em an' tell Willie to
look 'em over, an' tell Willie to check with Jackson, Unit Four. Get him to see if they're
all right. I'll stay here."
Tom strolled after the three young men. They moved toward the dance floor and
took their positions quietly on the edge of the crowd. Tom saw Willie near the band
and signaled him.
"What cha want?" Willie asked.
"Them three—see—there?"
"Yeah."
"They say a fella name' Jackson, Unit Four, ast 'em."
Willie craned his neck and saw Huston and called him over. "Them three fellas," he
said. "We better get Jackson, Unit Four, an' see if he ast 'em."
Huston turned on his heel and walked away; and in a few moments he was back
with a lean and bony Kansan. "This here's Jackson," Huston said. "Look, Jackson see
them three young fellas—?"
"Yeah."
"Well, did you ast 'em?"
"No."
"Ever see 'em before?"
Jackson peered at them. "Sure. Worked at Gregorio's with 'em."
"So they knowed your name."
"Sure. I worked right beside 'em."
"Awright," Huston said. "Don't you go near 'em. We ain't gonna th'ow 'em out if
they're nice. Thanks, Mr. Jackson."
"Good work," he said to Tom. "I guess them's the fellas."
"Jule picked 'em out," said Tom.
"Hell, no wonder," said Willie. "His Injun blood smelled 'em. Well, I'll point 'em
out to the boys."
A sixteen-year-old boy came running through the crowd. He stopped, panting, in
front of Huston. "Mista Huston," he said. "I been like you said. They's a car with six
men parked down by the euc'lyptus trees, an' they's one with four men up that northside road. I ast 'em for a match. They got guns. I seen 'em."
Huston's eyes grew hard and cruel. "Willie," he said, "you sure you got ever'thing
ready?"
Willie grinned happily. "Sure. have, Mr. Huston. Ain't gonna be no trouble."
"Well, don't hurt 'em. 'Member now. If you kin, quiet an' nice, I kinda like to see
'em. Be in my tent."
"I'll see what we kin do," said Willie.
Dancing had not formally started, but now Willie climbed onto the platform.
"Choose up your squares," he called. The music stopped. Boys and girls, young men
and women, ran about until eight squares were ready on the big floor, ready and
waiting. The girls held their hands in front of them and squirmed their fingers. The
boys tapped their feet restlessly. Around the floor the old folks sat, smiling slightly,
holding the children back from the floor. And in the distance the Jesus-lovers sat with
hard condemning faces and watched the sin.
Ma and Rose of Sharon sat on a bench and watched. And as each boy asked Rose of
Sharon as partner, Ma said, "No, she ain't well." And Rose of Sharon blushed and her
eyes were bright.
The caller stepped to the middle of the floor and held up his hands. "All ready?
Then let her go!"
The music snarled out "Chicken Reel," shrill and clear, fiddle skirling, harmonicas
nasal and sharp, and the guitars booming on the bass strings. The caller named the
turns, the squares moved. And they danced forward and back, hands 'round, swing
your lady. The caller, in a frenzy, tapped his feet, strutted back and forth, went through
the figures as he called them.
"Swing your ladies an' a dol ce do. Join hans' roun' an' away we go." The music rose
and fell, and the moving shoes beating in time on the platform sounded like drums.
"Swing to the right an a swing to lef'; break, now—break—back to—back," the caller
sang the high vibrant monotone. Now the girls' hair lost the careful combing. Now
perspiration stood out on the foreheads of the boys. Now the experts showed the tricky
inter-steps. And the old people on the edge of the floor took up the rhythm, patted their
hands softly, and tapped their feet; and they smiled gently and then caught one
another's eyes and nodded.
Ma leaned her head close to Rose of Sharon's ear. "Maybe you wouldn' think it, but
your Pa was as nice a dancer as I ever seen, when he was young." And Ma smiled.
"Makes me think of ol' times," she said. And on the faces of the watchers the smiles
were of old times.
"Up near Muskogee twenty years ago, they was a blin' man with a fiddle—"
"I seen a fella oncet could slap his heels four times in one jump."
"Swedes up in Dakota—know what they do sometimes? Put pepper on the floor.
Gits up the ladies' skirts an' makes 'em purty lively—lively as a filly in season. Swedes
do that sometimes."
In the distance the Jesus-lovers watched their restive children. "Look on sin," they
said. "Them folks is ridin' to hell on a poker. It's a shame the godly got to see it." And
their children were silent and nervous.
"One more roun' an' then a little res'," the caller chanted. "Hit her hard, 'cause we're
gonna stop soon." And the girls were damp and flushed, and they danced with open
mouths and serious reverent faces, and the boys flung back their long hair and pranced,
pointed their toes, and clicked their heels. In and out the squares moved, crossing,
backing, whirling, and the music shrilled.
Then suddenly it stopped. The dancers stood still, panting with fatigue. And the
children broke from restraint, dashed on the floor, chased one another madly, ran, slid,
stole caps, and pulled hair. The dancers sat down, fanning themselves with their hands.
The members of the band got up and stretched themselves and sat down again. And the
guitar players worked softly over their strings.
Now Willie called, "Choose again for another square, if you can." The dancers
scrambled to their feet and new dancers plunged forward for partners. Tom stood near
the three young men. He saw them force their way through, out on the floor, toward
one of the forming squares. He waved his hand at Willie, and Willie spoke to the
fiddler. The fiddler squawked his bow across the strings. Twenty young men lounged
slowly across the floor. The three reached the square. And one of them said, "I'll dance
with this here."
A blond boy looked up in astonishment. "She's my partner."
"Listen, you little son-of-a-bitch—"
Off in the darkness a shrill whistle sounded. The three were walled in now. And
each one felt the grip of hands. And then the wall of men moved slowly off the
platform.
Willie yelped, "Le's go!" The music shrilled out, the caller intoned the figures, the
feet thudded on the platform.
A touring car drove to the entrance. The driver called, "Open up. We hear you got a
riot."
The guard kept his position. "We got no riot. Listen to that music. Who are you?"
"Deputy sheriffs."
"Got a warrant?"
"We don't need a warrant if there's a riot."
"Well, we got no riots here," said the gate guard.
The men in the car listened to the music and the sound of the caller, and then the car
pulled away and parked in a crossroad and waited.
In the moving squad each of the three young men was pinioned, and a hand was
over each mouth. When they reached the darkness the group opened up.
Tom said, "That sure was did nice." He held both arms of his victim from behind.
Willie ran over to them from the dance floor. "Nice work," he said. "On'y need six
now. Huston wants to see these here fellers."
Huston himself emerged from the darkness. "These the ones?"
"Sure," said Jule. "Went right up an' started it. But they didn' even swing once."
"Let's look at 'em." The prisoners were swung around to face them. Their heads
were down. Huston put a flashlight beam in each sullen face. "What did you wanta do
it for?" he asked. There was no answer. "Who the hell tol' you to do it?"
"Goddarn it, we didn' do nothing. We was jes' gonna dance."
"No, you wasn't," Jule said. "You was gonna sock that kid."
Tom said, "Mr. Huston, jus' when these here fellas moved in, somebody give a
whistle."
"Yeah, I know! The cops come right to the gate." He turned back. "We ain't gonna
hurt you. Now who tol' you to come bus' up our dance?" He waited for a reply. "You're
our own folks," Huston said sadly. "You belong with us. How'd you happen to come?
We know all about it," he added.
"Well, goddamn it, a fella got to eat."
"Well, who sent you? Who paid you to come?"
"We ain't been paid."
"An' you ain't gonna be. No fight, no pay. Ain't that right?"
One of the pinioned men said, "Do what you want. We ain't gonna tell nothing."
Huston's head sank down for a moment, and then he said softly, "O.K. Don't tell.
But looka here. Don't knife your own folks. We're tryin' to get along, havin' fun an'
keepin' order. Don't tear all that down. Jes' think about it. You're jes' harmin' yourself.
"Awright, boys, put 'em over the back fence. An' don't hurt 'em. They don't know
what they're doin'."
The squad moved slowly toward the rear of the camp, and Huston looked after
them.
Jule said, "Le's jes' take one good kick at 'em."
"No, you don't!" Willie cried. "I said we wouldn'."
"Jes' one nice little kick," Jule pleaded. "Jes' loft 'em over the fence."
"No, sir," Willie insisted.
"Listen you," he said, "we're lettin' you off this time. But you take back the word.
If'n ever this here happens again, we'll jes' natcherally kick the hell outa whoever
comes; we'll bust ever' bone in their body. Now you tell your boys that. Huston says
you're our kinda folks—maybe. I'd hate to think of it."
They neared the fence. Two of the seated guards stood up and moved over. "Got
some fellas goin' home early," said Willie. The three men climbed over the fence and
disappeared into the darkness.
And the squad moved quickly back toward the dance floor. And the music of "Ol'
Dan Tucker" skirled and whined from the string band.
Over near the office the men still squatted and talked, and the shrill music came to
them.
Pa said, "They's change a-comin'. I don' know what. Maybe we won't live to see
her. But she's a-comin'. They's a res'less feelin'. Fella can't figger nothin' out, he's so
nervous."
And Black Hat lifted his head up again, and the light fell on his bristly whiskers. He
gathered some little rocks from the ground and shot them like marbles, with his thumb.
"I don' know. She's a-comin' awright, like you say. Fella tol' me what happened in
Akron, Ohio. Rubber companies. They got mountain people in 'cause they'd work
cheap. An' these here mountain people up an' joined the union. Well, sir, hell jes'
popped. All them storekeepers and legioners an' people like that, they get drillin' an'
yellin', 'Red!' An' they gonna run the union right outa Akron. Preachers git a-preachin'
about it, an' papers a-yowlin', an' they's pick handles put out by the rubber companies,
an' they're a-buyin' gas. Jesus, you'd think them mountain boys was reg'lar devils!" He
stopped and found some more rocks to shoot. "Well, sir—it was las' March, an' one
Sunday five thousan' of them mountain men had a turkey shoot outside a town. Five
thousan' of 'em jes' marched through town with their rifles. An' they had their turkey
shoot, an' then they marched back. An' that's all they done. Well, sir, they ain't been no
trouble sence then. These here citizens committees give back the pick handles, an' the
storekeepers keep their stores, an' nobody been clubbed nor tarred an' feathered an'
nobody been killed." There was a long silence, and then Black Hat said, "They're
gettin' purty mean out here. Burned that camp an' beat up folks. I been thinkin'. All our
folks got guns. I been thinkin' maybe we ought to get up a turkey shootin' club an' have
meetin's ever' Sunday."
The men looked up at him, and then down at the ground, and their feet moved
restlessly and they shifted their weight from one leg to the other.