She rushed back down the street and disappeared into the mercantile, seeming to take the liveliest part of the morning with her. “She’s got a job there?” I asked.

“Just a few hours on Saturdays,” Nate told me. “She’s still in high school—a senior, like I’d be if I hadn’t had to stop going. We’re twins.”

A few minutes later, a westbound train came into view. “Guess this is ours,” Nate said.

It stopped barely long enough for us to swing on board.

Chapter 6

Leaving Monroe, the train slid by grain silos and then picked up speed crossing land broken by deep-cut gullies and flat buttes. The view went on for miles, a patchwork of squared-off fields and fenced range. I saw a farmhouse next to the sod hut it must have replaced.

“Mr. Schieling was telling me about dryland farming,” I said.

“Folks irrigate where they can, but the majority have to rely on rain,” Nate said. “Or hope for it, anyway.” He pointed out the window. “You can’t quite see where I live, but it’s out that way, a couple of miles west of town.”

“You sorry to be leaving?” I asked.

“I’ll be back. This CCC stuff is just temporary for me, to bring in a little cash.”

A regretful look clouded his face, though he got rid of it quick enough. “What I’d really like to do is to go to the ag college in Bozeman and study how to run farms right. But that plan’s on hold.”

“I was aiming for radio-repair school,” I said. “It’s not going to happen anytime soon, either.”

Then we didn’t talk for a while more.

At first, looking out the window reminded me of looking out boxcar doors, when I was riding with Pa. With each mile that passed under me, though, and with each mile that took me closer to whatever was ahead, I thought less about him.

After crossing a wide swath of mountains, we pulled into Missoula in midafternoon. By then I’d walked the length of the train and spotted a few more boys who looked like CCC’ers. Still, I was surprised when, outside the Missoula train station, more than two dozen fellows gathered beside a big canvas-covered army truck where a uniformed soldier was bellowing, “CCC enrollees here! CCC, over here!”

The group mostly seemed about my age, though with a couple of older guys. And there was a younger kid, too, who I’d bet didn’t even shave yet. He made me think there must be selection agents besides Mr. Schieling who stretched regulations some.

The soldier directed us to climb into the back of the truck and take seats on the benches that ran along each side of the flatbed. Looking around while trying not to seem nosy, I saw the others were doing the same.