Wilson hung his head and shook it sharply. “I ain’t a-gonna do it,” he said. “You ain’t got much.”
“Got enough to get there,” said Pa. “We ain’t left it all. We’ll have work right off.”
“I ain’t a-gonna do it,” Wilson said. “I’ll git mean if you try.”
Ma took the two bills from Pa’s hand. She folded them neatly and put them on the ground and placed the pork pan over them. “That’s where they’ll be,” she said. “If you don’ get ’em, somebody else will.” Wilson, his head still down, turned and went to his tent; he stepped inside and the flaps fell behind him.
For a few moments the family waited, and then, “We got to go,” said Tom. “It’s near four, I bet.”
The family climbed on the truck, Ma on top, beside Granma. Tom and Al and Pa in the seat, and Winfield on Pa’s lap. Connie and Rose of Sharon made a nest against the cab. The preacher and Uncle John and Ruthie were in a tangle on the load.
Pa called, “Good-by, Mister and Mis’ Wilson.” There was no answer from the tent. Tom started the engine and the truck lumbered away. And as they crawled up the rough road toward Needles and the highway, Ma looked back. Wilson stood in front of his tent, staring after them, and his hat was in his hand. The sun fell full on his face. Ma waved her hand at him, but he did not respond.
Tom kept the truck in second gear over the rough road, to protect the springs. At Needles he drove into a service station, checked the worn tires for air, checked the spares tied to the back. He had the gas tank filled, and he bought two five-gallon cans of gasoline and a two-gallon can of oil. He filled the radiator, begged a map, and studied it.
The service-station boy, in his white uniform, seemed uneasy until the bill was paid. He said, “You people sure have got nerve.”
Tom looked up from the map. “What you mean?”