"O.K., Pop, but take your time. You won't get a thing for rushing." Jim stepped clear of the ladder-top and climbed out a limb. He hung his bucket and reached for an apple. Behind him he heard a splintering crash and a sullen thump. He looked around. Old Dan lay on his back on the ground under the tree. His open eyes looked stunned. His face was blue pale under the white stubble. Two rungs were stripped out of the ladder.
Jim cried, "That was a fall! Hurt yourself, Pop?"
The old man lay still. His eyes were full of a perplexed question. His mouth writhed, and he licked his lips.
Jim shinnied down the tree and knelt beside him. "Where are you hurt, Pop?"
Dan gasped, "I don't know. I can't move. I think I've bust my hip. It don't hurt none, yet."
Men were running toward them. Jim could see men dropping from the trees all around and running toward them. The checker trotted over from his pile of boxes. The men crowded close. "Where's he hurt?"
"How'd it happen?"
"Did he bust his leg?"
"He's too old to be up a tree."
The ring of men was thrust inward by more arriving. Jim heard the checker cry, "Let me through here." The faces were dull and sullen and quiet.
Jim shouted, "Stand back, can't you. Don't crowd in." The men shifted their feet. A little growl came from the back row. A voice shouted, "Look at that ladder."
All heads went up with one movement, and all eyes looked to where the old loose rungs had splintered and torn out. Someone said, "That's what they make us work on. Look at it!"
Jim could hear the thudding of feet as more men ran up in groups. He stood up and tried to push the ring apart. "Get back, you bastards. You'll smother him."
Old Dan had closed his eyes. His face was still and white with shock. On the outskirts of the mob the men began to shout, "Look at the ladder! That's what they make us work on!" The growl of the men, and the growl of their anger arose. Their eyes were fierce. In a moment their vague unrest and anger centered and focused.
The checker still cried, "Let me through there."
Suddenly a voice shrill with hysteria shouted, "You get out of here, you son-of-a-bitch." There was a scuffle.
"Look out, Joe. Hold Joe. Don't let him. Grab his feet."
"Now, mister, scram, and go fast."
Jim stood up. "You guys clear away. We got to get this poor fellow out of here." The men seemed to awaken from a sleep. The inner ring pushed violently outward. "Get a couple of sticks. We can make a stretcher out of a pair of coats. There, put the sticks through the arms. Now, button up the fronts." Jim said, "Easy now, with him. I think his hip's busted." He looked down at Dan's quiet, white face. "I guess he's fainted. Now, easy."
They lifted Dan on to the coat stretcher. "You two guys carry him," Jim said. "Some of you clear a way."
At least a hundred men had collected by this time. The men with the stretcher stepped out. Newcomers stood looking at the broken ladder. Over and over the words, "Look what they give us to use."
Jim turned to a man who stood stupidly staring up into the tree. "What happened to the checker?"
"Huh? Oh, Joe Teague slugged him. Tried to kick his brains out. The guys held Joe. Joe went to pieces."
"Damn good thing he didn't kill him," Jim said.
The band of men moved along behind the stretcher, and more were running in from all over the orchard. As they drew near the packing-plant the rumble of the sorting belt stopped. Men and women crowded out of the loading doors. A quiet had settled on the growing mob. The men walked stiffly, as men do at a funeral.
Mac came tearing around the corner of the packing-plant. He saw Jim and ran to him. "What is it? Come over here away from the mob." The crowd of ominous, quiet people moved on after the stretcher. Newcomers were told in low tones, "The ladder. An old ladder." The body of the mob went ahead of Mac and Jim.
"Now what happened? Tell me quick. We've got to move while they're hot."
"It was old Dan. He got smart about how strong he was. Broke a couple of rungs out of a ladder and fell on his back. He thought he broke his hip."
Mac said, "Well, it's happened. I kind of expected it. It doesn't take much when the guys feel this way. They'll grab on anything. The old buzzard was worth something after all."
"Worth something?" Jim asked.
"Sure. He tipped the thing off. We can use him now." They walked quickly after the mob of men. The dust, raised by many feet, filled the air with a slow-blowing brown cloud. From the direction of the town the switch-engine crashed monotonously making up a train. On the outskirts of the mob women ran about, but the men were silent, trudging on after the stretcher, toward the bunk houses.
"Hurry up, Jim," Mac cried. "We've got to rush."
"Where we going?"
"We've got to find London first, and tell him how to work; then we've got to go in and send a telegram; and I want to go and see Al's old man, right away. Look, there's London over there.
"Hi, London." Mac broke into a run, and Jim ran behind him. "It's busted out, London," Mac said breathlessly. "That old guy, Dan, fell out of a tree. It's wide open, now."
"Well, that's what we want, ain't it?" said London. He took off his hat and scratched his tonsure.
"The hell it is," Mac broke in. "These guys'll go nuts if we don't take charge. Look, there goes your long lean buddy. Call him over."
London cupped his hands. "Sam," he yelled.
Jim saw that it was the same man who had sat by the campfire in the jungle. Mac said, "Listen, London, and you, Sam. I'm going to tell you a lot of stuff quick, 'cause I've got to get along. These guys are just as likely to pop in a few minutes. You go over, Sam, and tell 'em they ought to hold a meeting. And then you nominate London, here, for chairman. They'll put him in all right. They'll do almost anything. That's all you got to do, Sam." Mac picked up a handful of dirt and rubbed it between his palms. His feet stirred and kicked at the ground. "Now listen, London, soon's you're chairman, you tell 'em we got to have order. You give 'em a list of guys, about ten, and tell 'em to vote for those guys as a committee to figure things out. Got that?"
"Sure. I get you."
"Now look--here's the way to do it. If you want 'em to vote for something, you say 'do you want to do it?' and if you want to vote down somethin', just say, 'you don't want to do this, do you?' and they'll vote no. Make 'em vote on everythin', everythin', see? They're all ready for it."
They looked toward the crowd at the bunk house. The men were still quiet, shifting about, never standing very long in a place, moving their arms; their faces were as relaxed as those of sleeping men.
London demanded, "Where you guys going now?"
"We're going to see about that place for the crowd to stay when the thing busts open, that little farm. Oh, one other thing, you pick out a bunch of the craziest of these guys and send 'em over to the other ranches to talk. Get the men that are doin' the most talkin'. You all set now?"
"All set," said London.
"Well, let us use your Ford, will you? We got to cover ground."
"Sure, take it, if you can run it} it's got tricks."
Mac turned to Sam. "All right, get over there. Just stand up on somethin' and yell 'Boys, we ought to hold a meetin',' and then yell, 'I move London for chairman.' Get going, Sam. Come on, Jim."
Sam trotted off toward the bunk houses, and London followed more slowly. Mac and Jim circled the buildings and went to the ancient Ford touring car. "Get in, Jim. You drive the gillopy." A roar of voices came from the other side of the bunk house. Jim turned the key and retarded the spark lever. The coils buzzed like little rattlesnakes. Mac spun the crank and primed, and spun again. A second roar from the mob came over the house. Mac threw his shoulder into the work. The engine caught and its noise drowned the shouting of the men. Mac leaped into the car, yelling, "Well, I guess London's our new chairman. Push 'er along."
Jim backed around and drove out to the highway. The road was deserted. The green, heavy-laden trees threw thei
r shadows' weight sideways under the declining sun. The car rolled along, its pistons battering in the cylinders. "First to a telegraph office, and then to the post office," Mac shouted.
They rolled into the town. Jim drove to the main street and parked in front of a Western Union office. "Post office is just a block up, see?" he said.
"Well, listen, Jim, while I send the wire, you go up and ask for mail for William Dowdy."
In a few moments Jim came back with three letters. Mac was already sitting in the car. He ripped the letters open and read them. "Hot-damn, listen. This one's from Dick. He says Joy broke jail; they don't know where he is. He was bein' taken for a hearing and he smacked a cop and beat it. I just wired for more help, and for Doc Burton to take over the sanitation. Wait, I'll crack 'er up. Let's move along to Al's lunch wagon."
When Jim drew up in front of the lunch wagon, he could see Al through the windows, leaning over his deserted counter, staring out at the sidewalk. Al recognized them as they got out. He raised a fat arm at them.
Mac pushed open the sliding door. "Hi, Al. How's business?"
Al's eyes were bright with interest. "Been just fine," he said. "Whole flock of guys from the orchards come in last night."
"I been tellin' 'em what a swell steak you put out," said Mac.
"Nice of you. Like a bite yourself?"
"Sure," said Mac. "We could even pay for it. Imagine us guys payin' for anything."
"Aw, this is just your cut," said Al. "Kind of a commission for sending the guys in town." He opened his icebox and patted out two hamburger steaks and slapped them down on the stove-top; and he arranged a wreath of chopped onions about each one. "How's things coming out your way?" he asked.
Mac leaned confidentially over the counter. "Listen, Al. I know you're a guy I can trust. We got you on the books. You been swell to us."
Al blushed with pleasure at the praise. "Well, I'd be out with you guys if I didn't have a business to keep up. A man sees the way conditions is, and injustice, and things--and if he's got any brains he comes to it."
"Sure," said Mac hurriedly. "A guy with brains don't have to be taught. He sees things for himself."
Al turned away to hide his pleasure. He flipped the steaks and pressed them down with his spatula and gathered up the wilting onions and forced them into the meat. He scraped the grease into the little trough on the side of the stove-top. When he had forced his face back to a proper gravity, he turned around again. "Sure you guys can trust me," he said. "You ought to know it. What you got on?" He filled two cups with coffee and slid them along the counter.
Mac tapped delicately on the counter with a knife-blade. "There may be bulls askin' about me and Jim."
"Sure. I don't know nothin' about you," said Al.
"That's right. Now here's the dope, Al. This valley's about to bust wide open. Already has over on the place where we been working. The others'll probably crack tonight."
Al said softly, "You know, the way the guys was talkin' in here, I thought it wasn't far off. What d'you want me to do?"
"Better take up that meat." Al held two plates fan-wise in one hand, put a steak on each, mashed potatoes, carrots and turnips, loaded the plates.
"Gravy, gents?"
"Smear it," said Mac.
Al ladled gravy over the whole pile of food and set the plates before them. "Now go on," he said.
Mac filled his mouth. His speech was muffled and spaced with chewing. "You said your old man had a little ranch."
"He has. Want to hide out there?"
"No." Mac pointed his fork at Al. "There won't be an apple picked in this valley."
"Well, say--mister----"
"Wait. Listen. Any plow land on your old man's place?"
"Yeah, about five acres. Had it in hay. Hay's all out now."
"Here it is," said Mac. "We're goin' to have a thousand or two men with no place to go. They'll kick 'em off the ranches and won't let 'em on the road. Now if they could camp on that five acres, they'd be safe."
Al's face sagged with fear and doubt. "Aw, no, mister. I don't think my old man'd do it."
Mac broke in, "He'd get his apples picked, picked quick, and picked for nothing. Price'll be high with the rest of 'em shut off."
"Well, wouldn't the town guys raise hell with him afterwards?"
"Who?" Mac asked.
"Why, the Legion, and guys like that. They'd sneak out and beat him up."
"No, I don't think they would. He's got a right to have men on his place. I'll have a doctor lay out the camp and see it's kept clean, and your old man'll get his crop picked for nothing."
Al shook his head. "I don't know."
"Well, we can easy find out," said Mac. "Let's go talk to your old man."
"I got to keep this place open. I can't go away."
Jim suddenly saw his neglected food and began to eat. Mac's squinted eyes never left Al's face. He sat and chewed and looked. Al began to get nervous. "You think I'm scared," he began.
"I don't think anything before I see it," said Mac. "I just wondered why a guy can't close up his own joint for an hour, if he wants to."
"Well, the guys that eat early"ll be here in an hour."
"You could get back in an hour."
Al fidgeted. "I don't think my old man'll do it. He's got to look out for himself, don't he?"
"Well, he ain't been jumped yet. How do you know what'll happen?" A chill was creeping into Mac's voice, a vague hostility.
Al picked up a rag and mopped around on the counter. His nervous eyes came to Mac's and darted away and came back. At last he stepped close. "I'll do it," he said. "I'll just pin a little card to the door. I don't think my old man'll do it, but I'll take you out there."
Mac smiled broadly. "Good guy. We won't forget it. Next time I see any stiff with a quarter, I'll send him in to get one of your steaks."
"I give a nice dinner for the money," said Al. He took off his tall cook's hat and rolled down his shirt sleeves, and turned the gas off under the cooking plate.
Mac finished his food. "That was good."
Jim had to bolt his dinner not to be late.
"I got a little car in the lot behind here," said Al. "Maybe you guys could just follow me; then I don't get into no trouble and I'm still some good to you."
Mac drained his cup. "That's right, Al. Don't you get into no bad company."
"You know what I mean."
"Sure, I know. Come on, Jim, let's go."
Al wrote a sign and pinned it inside the door, facing out through the glass. He struggled his chubby arms into his coat and held the door open for Mac and Jim.
Mac cranked the Ford and jumped in, and Jim idled the motor until Al came bumping out of the lot in an old Dodge roadster. Jim followed him down the street to the east, across the concrete bridge over the river and out into the pleasant country. The sun was nearly down by now, red and warm with autumn dust. The massed apple trees along the road were grey with dust.
Mac turned in the seat and looked down the rows as they passed. "I don't see anybody working," he cried to Jim. "I wonder if he took hold already. There's boxes, but nobody working."
The paved road gave way to a dirt road. The Ford leaped and shuddered on the rough road. About a mile further Al's dust-cloud swung off into a yard. Jim followed and came to a stop beside the Dodge. A white tank-house rose into the air, and on its top a windmill thrashed and glittered in the sun, and the pump bonged with a deep, throaty voice. It was a pleasant place. The apple trees grew in close to a small white ranch house. Tame mallards nuzzled the mud in the overflow under the tank. In a wire-bounded kennel against a big barn two rubbery English pointers stood against the screen and yearned out at the men with little yelps. The house itself was surrounded by a low picket fence, behind which geraniums grew big and red, and a Virginia creeper, dropping its red leaves, hung over the porch. Big square Plymouth Rock chickens strolled about, cawing contentedly and cocking their heads at the newcomers.
Al got out of t
he car. "Look a' them dogs," he said. "Best pointers in the Valley. My old man loves them better'n me."
Mac asked, "Where's the five acres, Al?"
"Down that way, behind the trees, on the other road."
"Good. Let's find your old man. You say he likes his dogs?"
Al laughed shortly. "Just make a pass at one o' them dogs an' see. He'll eat you."
Jim stared at the house, and at the newly whitewashed barn. "This is nice," he said. "Makes a man want to live in a place like this."
Al shook his head. "Takes an awful lot of work to keep it up. My old man works from dawn till after dark, and then he don't keep up with the work."
Mac insisted, "Where is your old man? Let's find him."
"Look," Al said. "That's him coming in from the orchard."
Mac glanced up for a moment, and then he moved back to the kennel. The squirming pointers flung themselves at the wire, moaning with love. Mac stuck his fingers through the mesh and rubbed their muzzles.
Jim said, "Do you like dogs, Mac?"
Mac retorted irritably, "I like anything."
Al's father came walking up. He was totally unlike Al, small and quick as a terrier. The energy seemed to pour out of some inner reservoir into his arms and legs, and into his fingers so that all of him was on the move all of the time. His white hair was coarse, and his eyebrows and mustache bristled. His brown eyes flitted about as restlessly as bees. Because his fingers had nothing else to do while he walked, they snapped at his sides with little rhythmic reports. When he spoke, his words were like the rest of him, quick, nervous, sharp. "What's the matter with your business?" he demanded of Al.
Al went heavily on the defensive. "Well, you see--I thought----"
"You wanted to get off the ranch, wanted to go into town, start a business, town boy, wanted to lounge around. Didn't like to whitewash, never did. What's the matter with your business?" His eyes hovered on each of the men, on their shoes and on their faces.
Mac still looked into the kennel and rubbed the dogs' noses. Al explained, "Well, you see, I brang these guys out, they wanted to see you."
The old man eliminated Al. "Well, they're here. You can get back to your business now."
Al looked at his little father with the hurt eyes of a dog about to be bathed, and then reluctantly he climbed into his car and drove disconsolately away.
In Dubious Battle Page 11