“It’s her first,” said Ma. “Her an’ Connie sets a lot a store by it.
You done the same thing.”
“We’ll go now,” Tom said. “Pull off the road a little piece ahead.
Watch out for us ef we don’t see you.
Be off right-han’ side.”
“Al’s stayin’?”
“Yeah.
Leave Uncle John come with us. ’Night, Ma.”
They walked away through the sleeping camp.
In front of one tent a low fitful fire burned, and a woman watched a kettle that cooked early breakfast.
The smell of the cooking beans was strong and fine.
“Like to have a plate a them,” Tom said politely as they went by.
The woman smiled.
“They ain’t done or you’d be welcome,” she said. “Come aroun’ in the daybreak.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tom said.
He and Casy and Uncle John walked by the porch.
The proprietor still sat in his chair, and the lantern hissed and flared.
He turned his head as the three went by.
“Ya runnin’ outa gas,” Tom said.
“Well, time to close up anyways.”
“No more half-bucks rollin’ down the road, I guess,” Tom said.
The chair legs hit the floor.
“Don’t you go a-sassin’ me.
I ’member you.
You’re one of these here troublemakers.”
“Damn right,” said Tom. “I’m bolshevisky.”
“They’s too damn many of you kinda guys aroun’.”
Tom laughed as they went out the gate and climbed into the Dodge.
He picked up a clod and threw it at the light.
They heard it hit the house and saw the proprietor spring to his feet and peer into the darkness.
Tom started the car and pulled into the road.
And he listened closely to the motor as it turned over, listened for knocks.
The road spread dimly under the weak lights of the car.
Chapter 17
The cars of the migrant people crawled out of the side roads onto the great cross-country highway, and they took the migrant way to the West.
In the daylight they scuttled like bugs to the westward; and as the dark caught them, they clustered like bugs near to shelter and to water.
And because they were lonely and perplexed, because they had all come from a place of sadness and worry and defeat, and because they were all going to a new mysterious place, they huddled together; they talked together; they shared their lives, their food, and the things they hoped for in the new country.
Thus it might be that one family camped near a spring, and another camped for the spring and for company, and a third because two families had pioneered the place and found it good.
And when the sun went down, perhaps twenty families and twenty cars were there.
In the evening a strange thing happened: the twenty families became one family, the children were the children of all.
The loss of home became one loss, and the golden time in the West was one dream.
And it might be that a sick child threw despair into the hearts of twenty families, of a hundred people; that a birth there in a tent kept a hundred people quiet and awestruck through the night and filled a hundred people with the birth-joy in the morning.
A family which the night before had been lost and fearful might search its goods to find a present for a new baby.
In the evening, sitting about the fires, the twenty were one.
They grew to be units of the camps, units of the evenings and the nights.
A guitar unwrapped from a blanket and tuned—and the songs, which were all of the people, were sung in the nights.
Men sang the words, and women hummed the tunes.
Every night a world created, complete with furniture—friends made and enemies established; a world complete with braggarts and with cowards, with quiet men, with humble men, with kindly men.
Every night relationships that make a world, established; and every morning the world torn down like a circus.
At first the families were timid in the building and tumbling worlds, but gradually the technique of building worlds became their technique.