The elderly Mexican eyed the orchard owner for a moment. Then, wrapping his serape tightly about him, he started to climb into the cab of the truck.
Carl Wingate seized him by the shoulder.
“Listen, you!” he said furiously. “A storm is coming up. If we’re to save the unpicked fruit, it must be harvested tonight. We need pickers—now!”
The Mexican leader remained unmoved. “Senor should have thought of that before,” he shrugged. “It is too late now.”
He gave the signal for the trucks to move out of the camp.
“Wait!” requested Pa Hooper. “I’m sure the orchard owners want to be fair. If you will pick my trees tonight before the storm breaks, I will pay a half cent more. I can’t afford it, but I will do it rather than lose my fruit.”
“We do not ask more money, Senor. Only better treatment.”
“You’ll get it at my orchard,” Pa Hooper assured the Mexican leader.
Juan’s father hesitated, and it seemed for a moment that he might change his mind. Then he shook his head.
“It is no use, Senor,” he said. “We have made up our minds. We leave now.”