Dear Son, she’d written, I hope you are keeping well. I wished I could say we are but I am having a time making ends meet. We only did get money once from the WPA job I told you yr pa was on and then no more. I do not know if he is hurt or killed or taken off again without a say-so to anybody. If it is that he ought to be ashamed. Except for what you send, I would be at wits end caring for your brothers and sisters. But I don’t complain, being just thankful the Lord gave me a good son. Yr loving mother, Bertha Trawnley.

That hadn’t left me any choice. Maybe I could have found a way to hang on in Muddy Springs myself, but there was no way I’d have gotten something that paid enough so that I could send Ma the help she needed.

The hobo in the corner swore at me again, but I ignored him. The car reeked, so I wasn’t about to close the door on anything less than another dust storm.

I’d lay money my father wasn’t hurt or killed. He just wasn’t doing his duty to his family like he ought. Just like he hadn’t done it for a time now. Not since walking away from us two years ago. Not since before that, come down to it.

That last night in Muddy Springs I’d thought carefully about where my own duty lay and come up with a clear answer.

First I needed to mail my radio-school savings to Ma.

Then I needed to go find my pa at his WPA job in Montana and see he was all right. And if he was, then remind him he had a family to take care of. If I presented it careful, he’d realize he needed to send his wages home regular.

I wasn’t sure what would come then. Maybe I could find some kind of job for myself up there, for the time being. Maybe I could even find some way to help him.

I’d packed my suitcase quickly—I didn’t have much to put in it besides a few clothes, the letter from the radio school, and a picture of Beatty in front of an airplane. I left the next morning.

And now here I was, hundreds of miles from Texas. Well, one thing was for sure. I was more than ready to get to Montana and be done riding freight cars forever.

Chapter 2

My arrival into Miles City, on the state’s eastern side, didn’t go so good.

I went into the crowded train depot to ask directions to the Fort Peck Dam project, where Pa was working.

“There’s a map on the wall,” the ticket agent told me. “You’re welcome to look, but make it snappy. I’m not supposed to allow loiterers.”