They was two fellas hangin’ around that lot.”
“I wasn’t even in the State las’ week,” Tom said.
“Well, maybe you’re wanted someplace else.
You keep your trap shut.”
The contractor turned back to the men.
“You fellas don’t want ta listen to these goddamn reds.
Troublemakers—they’ll get you in trouble.
Now I can use all of you in Tulare County.”
The men didn’t answer.
The deputy turned back to them.
“Might be a good idear to go,” he said. The thin smile was back on his face. “Board of Health says we got to clean out this camp.
An’ if it gets around that you got reds out here—why, somebody might git hurt.
Be a good idear if all you fellas moved on to Tulare.
They isn’t a thing to do aroun’ here.
That’s jus’ a friendly way a telling you.
Be a bunch a guys down here, maybe with pick handles, if you ain’t gone.”
The contractor said,
“I told you I need men.
If you don’t want to work—well, that’s your business.”
The deputy smiled.
“If they don’t want to work, they ain’t a place for ’em in this county.
We’ll float ’em quick.”
Floyd stood stiffly beside the deputy, and Floyd’s thumbs were hooked over his belt.
Tom stole a look at him, and then stared at the ground.
“That’s all,” the contractor said. “There’s men needed in Tulare County; plenty of work.”
Tom looked slowly up at Floyd’s hands, and he saw the strings at the wrists standing out under the skin.
Tom’s own hands came up, and his thumbs hooked over his belt.
“Yeah, that’s all.
I don’t want one of you here by tomorra morning.”
The contractor stepped into the Chevrolet.
“Now, you,” the deputy said to Floyd, “you get in that car.” He reached a large hand up and took hold of Floyd’s left arm.
Floyd spun and swung with one movement.
His fist splashed into the large face, and in the same motion he was away, dodging down the line of tents.
The deputy staggered and Tom put out his foot for him to trip over.
The deputy fell heavily and rolled, reaching for his gun.
Floyd dodged in and out of sight down the line.
The deputy fired from the ground.
A woman in front of a tent screamed and then looked at a hand which had no knuckles.
The fingers hung on strings against her palm, and the torn flesh was white and bloodless.
Far down the line Floyd came in sight, sprinting for the willows.
The deputy, sitting on the ground, raised his gun again and then, suddenly, from the group of men, the Reverend Casy stepped.
He kicked the deputy in the neck and then stood back as the heavy man crumpled into unconsciousness.
The motor of the Chevrolet roared and it streaked away, churning the dust.
It mounted to the highway and shot away.
In front of her tent, the woman still looked at her shattered hand.
Little droplets of blood began to ooze from the wound.
And a chuckling hysteria began in her throat, a whining laugh that grew louder and higher with each breath.
The deputy lay on his side, his mouth open against the dust.
Tom picked up his automatic, pulled out the magazine and threw it into the brush, and he ejected the live shell from the chamber.
“Fella like that ain’t got no right to a gun,” he said; and he dropped the automatic to the ground.