Far ahead the road was blocked with cars, and a line of white motorcycles was drawn up along the roadside. “Mus’ be a wreck,” Tom said.
As they drew near, a State policeman, in boots and Sam Browne belt, stepped around the last parked car. He held up his hand and Al pulled to a stop. The policeman leaned confidentially on the side of the car. “Where you going?”
Al said, “Fella said they was work pickin’ peaches up this way.”
“Want to work, do you?”
“Damn right,” said Tom. “O.K. Wait here a minute.” He moved to the side of the road and called ahead. “One more. That’s six cars ready. Better take this batch through.” Tom called, “Hey! What’s the matter?” The patrol man lounged back. “Got a little trouble up ahead. Don’t you worry. You’ll get through. Just follow the line.”
There came the splattering blast of motorcycles starting. The line of cars moved on, with the Joad truck last. Two motorcycles led the way, and two followed.
Tom said uneasily, “I wonder what’s a matter.”
“Maybe the road’s out,” Al suggested. “Don’ need four cops to lead us. I don’ like it.” The motorcycles ahead speeded up. The line of old cars speeded up.
Al hurried to keep in back of the last car. “These here is our own people, all of ’em,” Tom said. “I don’ like this.”
Suddenly the leading policemen turned off the road into a wide graveled entrance. The old cars whipped after them. The motorcycles roared their motors. Tom saw a line of men standing in the ditch beside the road, saw their mouths open as though they were yelling, saw their shaking fists and their furious faces. A stout woman ran toward the cars, but a roaring motorcycle stood in her way. A high wire gate swung open. The six old cars moved through and the gate closed behind them. The four motorcycles turned and sped back in the direction from which they had come. And now that the motors were gone, the distant yelling of the men in the ditch could be heard. Two men stood beside the graveled road. Each one carried a shotgun.