The box was as long as a man’s leg and heavy. Coot could only stare at it, for he’d never received a gift that was any bigger than a pack of baseball cards.

“Go on,” said Blake. “It’ll rot in your lap if you just look at it.”

Coot tore the paper. Inside was a long cylinder of white hickory—fat on one end, skinny on the other. The words Louisville Slugger were burned onto the fat part.

Hot tears were building in his eyes. He’d never touched a bat before. He’d only used pine branches to hit balls during community games in strange towns with kids who didn’t even know how to play. Coot was overcome.

Blake put his arm around Coot. “Don’t get too choked up, Old Hoss. That bat ain’t for pleasure. It’s for when E. P. catches me and tries to rip my face off. I expect you to rescue me.”

“I love you, Blake,” said Coot.

“Well, you got terrible taste in friends.”

Eleven
Cotton Men

Paul had never seen harder times than these. Every full-grown man in America was on the verge of begging. They were all wandering. Without aim. Roofers, masons, carpenters, sharecroppers, fieldmen, and cotton men. Anyone who had at least one mouth to feed. But nobody had just one mouth. There was always a chain of mouths in the back seat of every rusted car.

Always searching. Never finding. An honest day’s work had become a myth.

For Paul and Vern, gravel highways were how they spent the waking hours. Sometimes, if they’d earned enough, Vern would go into town and buy a hog. Then they’d spend a day cleaning the carcass, building a rock pit, and gathering wood. Vern would cook the hog over the pit and sell food to migrants passing by. They earned decent money doing this—as long as local lawmen didn’t run them out of town.

But lawmen usually did run them out of town.

Because the world had become less trusting than it used to be. People behaved uglier toward each other than they used to. When Paul and Vern rode into the rural car camps outside bigger towns, they felt the distrust floating in the air. Nobody knew what to think of the little Model A truck with a white man and a black man sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Paul handed Vern a wad of cash. “There, that’s your cut.”

Vern pretended to count the handful of money, then slid it into his chest pocket. He couldn’t count and Paul knew this, but Vern pretended just the same.

“We all square?” Paul said.

“Oh, sure.”

“You sure? I coulda cheated you outta a few bucks, you know.”

Vern took the wad of cash back out of his pocket and weighed the money in his hand. “No, it’s all here. I feel it.”