How ’bout the kids?”
Ma looked at them, huddled against the wall.
“Go wash ya face.”
“No,” Tom said. “They got to hear.
They got to know.
They might blab if they don’ know.”
“What the hell is this?” Pa demanded.
“I’m a-gonna tell.
Las’ night I went out to see what all the yellin’ was about.
An’ I come on Casy.”
“The preacher?”
“Yeah, Pa.
The preacher, on’y he was a-leadin’ the strike.
They come for him.”
Pa demanded,
“Who come for him?”
“I dunno.
Same kinda guys that turned us back on the road that night.
Had pick handles.” He paused. “They killed ’im.
Busted his head.
I was standin’ there. I went nuts.
Grabbed the pick handle.” He looked bleakly back at the night, the darkness, the flashlights, as he spoke. “I—I clubbed a guy.”
Ma’s breath caught in her throat.
Pa stiffened.
“Kill ’im?” he asked softly.
“I—don’t know. I was nuts.
Tried to.”
Ma asked,
“Was you saw?”
“I dunno.
I dunno.
I guess so.
They had the lights on us.”
For a moment Ma stared into his eyes.
“Pa,” she said, “break up some boxes.
We got to get breakfas’.
You got to go to work.
Ruthie, Winfiel’.
If anybody asts you—Tom is sick—you hear?
If you tell—he’ll—get sent to jail.
You hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Keep your eye on ’em, John. Don’ let ’em talk to nobody.” She built the fire as Pa broke the boxes that had held the goods. She made her dough, put a pot of coffee to boil.
The light wood caught and roared its flame in the chimney.
Pa finished breaking the boxes.
He came near to Tom.
“Casy—he was a good man.
What’d he wanta mess with that stuff for?”
Tom said dully,
“They come to work for fi’ cents a box.”