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Chapter 17
Hewasharrowin’onedayan’hewentuptoclearhislines.Well,arattlesnakebuzzedan’themhorsesboltedan’theharrowwentoverCharley,an’thepointsdugintohisgutsan’hisstomach,an’theypulledhisfaceoffan’—GodAlmighty!
Theyspokeofthefuture:Wonderwhatit’slikeoutthere?
Well,thepitcherssuredolooknice.Iseenonewhereit’shotan’fine,an’walnuttreesan’berries;an’rightbehind,closeasamule’sasstohiswithers,they’satallupmountaincoveredwithsnow.Thatwasaprettythingtosee.
Ifwecangetworkit’llbefine.Won’thavenocoldinthewinter.Kidswon’tfreezeonthewaytoschool.I’mgonnatakecaremykidsdon’tmissnomoreschool.Icanreadgood,butitain’tnopleasuretomelikewithafellathat’susedtoit.
Andperhapsamanbroughtouthisguitartothefrontofhistent.Andhesatonaboxtoplay,andeveryoneinthecampmovedslowlyintowardhim,drawnintowardhim.Manymencanchordaguitar,butperhapsthismanwasapicker.Thereyouhavesomething—thedeepchordsbeating,beating,whilethemelodyrunsonthestringslikelittlefootsteps.Heavyhardfingersmarchingonthefrets.Themanplayedandthepeoplemovedslowlyinonhimuntilthecirclewasclosedandtight,andthenhesang"Ten-CentCottonandForty-CentMeat."Andthecirclesangsoftlywithhim.Andhesang"WhyDoYouCutYourHair,Girls?"Andthecirclesang.
