Tires squealed on the highway and an open car came swiftly into the camp.
Four men, armed with rifles, piled out.
Casy stood up and walked to them.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
Casy said,
“I knocked out your man there.”
One of the armed men went to the deputy.
He was conscious now, trying weakly to sit up.
“Now what happened here?”
“Well,” Casy said, “he got tough an’ I hit ’im, and he started shootin’—hit a woman down the line.
So I hit ’im again.”
“Well, what’d you do in the first place?”
“I talked back,” said Casy.
“Get in that car.”
“Sure,” said Casy, and he climbed into the back seat and sat down.
Two men helped the hurt deputy to his feet.
He felt his neck gingerly.
Casy said,
“They’s a woman down the row like to bleed to death from his bad shootin’.”
“We’ll see about that later.
Mike is this the fella that hit you?”
The dazed man stared sickly at Casy.
“Don’t look like him.”
“It was me, all right,” Casy said. “You got smart with the wrong fella.”
Mike shook his head slowly.
“You don’t look like the right fella to me.
By God, I’m gonna be sick!”
Casy said,
“I’ll go ’thout no trouble.
You better see how bad that woman’s hurt.”
“Where’s she?”
“That tent over there.”
The leader of the deputies walked to the tent, rifle in hand.
He spoke through the tent walls, and then went inside.
In a moment he came out and walked back. And he said, a little proudly,
“Jesus, what a mess a . 45 does make!
They got a tourniquet on.
We’ll send a doctor out.” Two deputies sat on either side of Casy. The leader sounded his horn. There was no movement in the camp. The flaps were down tight, and the people in their tents. The engine started and the car swung around and pulled out of the camp.
Between his guards Casy sat proudly, his head up and the stringy muscles of his neck prominent.
On his lips there was a faint smile and on his face a curious look of conquest.
When the deputies had gone, the people came out of the tents.
The sun was down now, and the gentle blue evening light was in the camp.
To the east the mountains were still yellow with sunlight.
The women went back to the fires that had died.
The men collected to squat together and to talk softly.
Al crawled from under the Joad tarpaulin and walked toward the willows to whistle for Tom.
Ma came out and built her little fire of twigs.
“Pa,” she said, “we ain’t goin’ to have much.
We et so late.”
Pa and Uncle John stuck close to the camp, watching Ma peeling potatoes and slicing them raw into a frying pan of deep grease.