Coot made a face.

“I’m serious,” said Blake. “Back before Chaplain was famous, they traveled together, did revivals together.”

“E. P. knew J. Wilbur Chaplain?”

“You better believe it.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, long before the world fell apart and turned into dust.”

“Was E. P. famous?”

“No, but neither was J. Wilbur. They were just two farm boys, screaming hellfire and brimstone for Jesus.”

Blake crushed more pills with his jackknife. Then he pointed the knife at Coot. “Why, when J. Wilbur rolls into Kansas City, Little Rock, Saint Louie, or wherever he is, he don’t even use tents like we do. He makes people build wood buildings, big tall ones, so they don’t get blowed down by the wind or rain.”

“Wood buildings?”

“More like wood tents, and he has his own train car, servants, and fancy food, people who iron his britches and everything. Probably uses a golden toilet and has a hired fella who sings to him while he does his business.”

“Wood tents?”

“They build them things bigger than a baseball diamond.”

“You seen ’em?”

“Shoot, several times. And when J. Wilbur leaves town, they just tear ’em down and reuse the wood.”

Coot could hardly wrap his mind around this, but he tried. He closed his eyes and imagined a big building made of wood, with millions of people inside.

“Peons like us gotta set up our own dadgum cotton tents like everyone else,” said Blake. “And instead of thousands, we get handfuls of dirt farmers.”

“Do you think E. P. would really fight you?”

“I know he would.” Blake thought about this for a moment. “We come to blows a few times before.”

“Who won?”

“Sometimes he wins, on account of his size.” Blake tapped his temple with his finger. “But sometimes I win, on account of experience.”

“Can’t we just leave?”

Blake chuckled. “Nope. I’m too old to fight, and you’re too scrawny.” He held the peanut butter to the light. “This is the best way.”

Blake jerked his head up at the sound of a car.

Coot almost choked on his beans when he heard E. P.’s footsteps in the dirt.

Blake and Coot peeked through the canvas flaps of the wagon. They could see E. P. lighting a cigarette, walking inside his tent, and reading a newspaper all at the same time. They heard a radio next. The radio was blaring hothouse music. Tinny trumpets filled the night air.

Blake spoke in a quiet voice, outlining their plan one more time. When he was sure Coot understood what to do, he reached beneath the cot and handed something to Coot. It was a long box wrapped in newspaper and twine.

“I got something for you,” said Blake.

“What’s this?” asked Coot.