Ruthie said pertly, “It ain’t no crazier’n a lot of things.”
Al walked on. He said to Tom, “Ruthie’s workin’ up a kick in the pants. She been workin’ it up a long time. ’Bout due for it.”
Ruthie mushed her face at his back, pulled out her mouth with her forefinger, slobbered her tongue at him, outraged him in every way she knew, but Al did not turn back to look at her. She looked at Winfield again to start the game, but it had been spoiled. They both knew it.
“Le’s go down the water an’ duck our heads,” Winfield suggested. They walked down through the willows, and they were angry at Al.
Al and Tom went quietly in the dusk. Tom said, “Casy shouldn’ of did it. I might of knew, though. He was talkin’ how he ain’t done nothin’ for us. He’s a funny fella, Al. All the time thinkin’.”
“Comes from bein’ a preacher,” Al said. “They get all messed up with stuff.”
“Where ya s’pose Connie was a-goin’?”
“Goin’ to take a crap, I guess.”
“Well, he was goin’ a hell of a long way.”
They walked among the tents, keeping close to the walls. At Floyd’s tent a soft hail stopped them. They came near to the tent flap and squatted down. Floyd raised the canvas a little. “You gettin’ out?”