“What is it?” Timothy demanded.
“Well, the Association don’t like the government camps. Can’t get a deputy in there. The people make their own laws, I hear, and you can’t arrest a man without a warrant. Now if there was a big fight and maybe shooting—a bunch of deputies could go in and clean out the camp.”
Timothy had changed. His shoulders were straight and his eyes cold. “What you mean?”
“Don’t you ever tell where you heard,” Thomas said uneasily.
“There’s going to be a fight in the camp Saturday night. And there’s going to be deputies ready to go in.”
Tom demanded, “Why, for God’s sake? Those folks ain’t bothering nobody.”
“I’ll tell you why,” Thomas said. “Those folks in the camp are getting used to being treated like humans. When they go back to the squatters’ camps they’ll be hard to handle.” He wiped his face again. “Go on out to work now. Jesus, I hope I haven’t talked myself out of my farm. But I like you people.”
Timothy stepped in front of him and put out a hard lean hand, and Thomas took it. “Nobody won’t know who tol’. We thank you. They won’t be no fight.”
“Go on to work,” Thomas said. “And it’s twenty-five cents an hour.”
“We’ll take it,” Wilkie said, “from you.”