“No,” said Casy. “Never been.”
“Don’t go away right yet,” said Tom. “Not right yet.”
“Quicker I get lookin’ for work—quicker I’m gonna find some.”
Tom studied him with half-shut eyes and he put on his cap again. “Look,” he said, “this ain’t no lan’ of milk an’ honey like the preachers say. They’s a mean thing here. The folks here is scared of us people comin’ west; an’ so they get cops out tryin’ to scare us back.”
“Yeah,” said Casy. “I know. What you ask about me bein’ in jail for?”
Tom said slowly, “When you’re in jail—you get to kinda—sensin’ stuff. Guys ain’t let to talk a hell of a lot together—two maybe, but not a crowd. An’ so you get kinda sensy. If somepin’s gonna bust—if say a fella’s goin’ stir-bugs an’ take a crack at a guard with a mop handle—why, you know it ’fore it happens. An’ if they’s gonna be a break or a riot, nobody don’t have to tell ya. You’re sensy about it. You know.”
“Yeah?”
“Stick aroun’.” said Tom. “Stick aroun’ till tomorra anyways. Somepin’s gonna come up. I was talkin’ to a kid up the road. An’ he’s bein’ jus’ as sneaky an’ wise as a dog coyote, but he’s too wise. Dog coyote a-mindin’ his own business an’ innocent an’ sweet, jus’ havin’ fun an’ no harm—well, they’s a hen roost clost by.”
Casy watched him intently, started to ask a question, and then shut his mouth tightly. He waggled his toes slowly and, releasing his knees, pushed out his foot so he could see it. “Yeah,” he said, “I won’t go right yet.”
Tom said, “When a bunch of folks, nice quiet folks, don’t know nothin’ about nothin’—somepin’s goin’ on.”