Down there, right through the cotton.”
Joad looked where Casy’s finger pointed.
“Comin’ afoot,” he said. “Can’t see ’im for the dust he raises.
Who the hell’s comin’ here?” They watched the figure approaching in the evening light, and the dust it raised was reddened by the setting sun. “Man,” said Joad.
The man drew closer, and as he walked past the barn, Joad said,
“Why, I know him.
You know him—that’s Muley Graves.” And he called, “Hey, Muley!
How ya?”
The approaching man stopped, startled by the call, and then he came on quickly.
He was a lean man, rather short.
His movements were jerky and quick.
He carried a gunny sack in his hand.
His blue jeans were pale at knee and seat, and he wore an old black suit coat, stained and spotted, the sleeves torn loose from the shoulders in back, and ragged holes worn through at the elbows.
His black hat was as stained as his coat, and the band, torn half free, flopped up and down as he walked.
Muley’s face was smooth and unwrinkled, but it wore the truculent look of a bad child’s, the mouth held tight and small, the little eyes half scowling, half petulant.
“You remember Muley,” Joad said softly to the preacher.
“Who’s that?” the advancing man called.
Joad did not answer.
Muley came close, very close, before he made out the faces. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s Tommy Joad.
When’d you get out, Tommy?”
“Two days ago,” said Joad. “Took a little time to hitchhike home. An’ look here what I find. Where’s my folks, Muley? What’s the house all smashed up for, an’ cotton planted in the dooryard?” “By God, it’s lucky I come by!” said Muley. “’Cause ol’ Tom worried himself.
When they was fixin’ to move I was settin’ in the kitchen there.
I jus’ tol’ Tom I wan’t gonna move, by God.
I tol’ him that, an’ Tom says,
‘I’m worryin’ myself about Tommy.
S’pose he comes home an’ they ain’t nobody here.
What’ll he think?’
I says,
‘Whyn’t you write down a letter?’
An’ Tom says,
‘Maybe I will.
I’ll think about her.
But if I don’t, you keep your eye out for Tommy if you’re still aroun’.’‘I’ll be aroun’,’ I says.
‘I’ll be aroun’ till hell freezes over.
There ain’t nobody can run a guy name of Graves outa this country.’
An’ they ain’t done it, neither.”
Joad said impatiently,
“Where’s my folks?
Tell about you standin’ up to ’em later, but where’s my folks?”
“Well, they was gonna stick her out when the bank come to tractorin’ off the place.
Your grampa stood out here with a rifle, an’ he blowed the headlights off that cat’, but she come on just the same.
Your grampa didn’t wanta kill the guy drivin’ that cat’, an’ that was Willy Feeley, an’ Willy knowed it, so he jus’ come on, an’ bumped the hell outa the house, an’ give her a shake like a dog shakes a rat.
Well, it took somepin outa Tom. Kinda got into ’im.
He ain’t been the same ever since.”
“Where is my folks?” Joad spoke angrily.
“What I’m tellin’ you.
Took three trips with your Uncle John’s wagon.
Took the stove an’ the pump an’ the beds.
You should a seen them beds go out with all them kids an’ your granma an’ grampa settin’ up against the headboard, an’ your brother Noah settin’ there smokin’ a cigareet, an’ spittin’ la-de-da over the side of the wagon.” Joad opened his mouth to speak. “They’re all at your Uncle John’s,” Muley said quickly.
“Oh! All at John’s.