The bewildered eyes looked up for a moment, and then down again, and the dying firelight was reflected redly. “I don’ know. Takes so long to git stuff together.”
“You won’t have nothin’ if they burn ya out.”
“I know. You ain’t leavin’ nothin’ a fella could use?”
“Cleaned out, slick,” said Pa. The bearded man vaguely wandered away. “What’s a matter with him?” Pa demanded.
“Cop-happy,” said Tom. “Fella was sayin’—he’s bull-simple. Been beat over the head too much.”
A second little caravan drove past the camp and climbed to the road and moved away.
“Come on, Pa. Let’s go. Look here, Pa. You an’ me an’ Al ride in the seat. Ma can get on the load. No, Ma, you ride in the middle, Al”—Tom reached under the seat and brought out a monkey wrench—“Al, you get up behind. Take this here. Jus’ in case. If anybody tries to climb uplet ’im have it.”
Al took the wrench and climbed up the back board, and he settled himself cross-legged, the wrench in his hand. Tom pulled the iron jack handle from under the seat and laid it on the floor, under the brake pedal. “Awright,” he said. “Get in the middle, Ma.”
Pa said, “I ain’t got nothin’ in my han’.”
“You can reach over an’ get the jack handle,” said Tom. “I hope to Jesus you don’ need it.” He stepped on the starter and the clanking flywheel turned over, the engine caught and died, and caught again. Tom turned on the lights and moved out of the camp in low gear. The dim lights fingered the road nervously. They climbed up to the highway and turned south. Tom said, “They comes a time when a man gets mad.”