Free Big Wheat by Richard A. Thompson Page B

The man reached in his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar gold piece, which he flipped at Charlie, along with a look that would wilt mustard plants. “Now fix my goddamn machine before I kill both of you.”
    “Why, I’d be happy to,” said Charlie.
    ***
    As they were driving away, Charlie gave the gold piece to Avery.
    “You get half of that, young friend. But what was that business back there with calling me ‘boss?’”
    “Did I call you that? Seemed like the thing to do, I guess. Seemed to work okay, too, didn’t it?”
    “Yeah. I guess it did. So. You’re looking to be an apprentice machinewright?”
    “I never heard the word before today. But I’m starting to think it’s something I could like.” Did that also mean it was his vision quest? He seriously doubted it. Still, it had a strange feel of
rightness
about it.
    “Well, you certainly seem to have a knack for collecting the money, anyway.”
    “That’s kind of a new thing for me, to tell the truth. I’d really rather make my money by working than by tricking somebody.”
    “We’ll find out how you are at that, too.”
    “I won’t disappoint you, Jim.”
    “The wages are horrible and the work can be terrible hard.”
    “Well, that doesn’t make it a whole lot different from farm life, does it? Only it sounds more interesting.”
    “Well, there you are, then. Welcome aboard, Charlie Bacon. Let’s go meet the rest of the motley crew.”

Chapter 7
    The Ark
    Midmorning, they rolled into the camp by a gurgling creek with willow trees and small birch groves. Avery had a traveling caravan that resembled some kind of carnival as much as a place to get machinery fixed. At one end was a wide, low-slung enclosed wagon that had rubber tires on wide steel wheel rims. It had a flywheel on the side of one wall, with a belt than ran to a shining black and red Peerless double-complex steam traction engine.
    “What’s the engine set up to run?” said Charlie.
    “The flywheel? I’ve got a full machine shop in that wagon. Drill press, wood and metal lathes, milling machine, and band saw. Also a generator that makes juice for all the lights.”
    “Wow.”
    “Over there,” he said, pointing, “is the cook shack. The big tent in front of it is a sort of café. Folks who come here to get their machines or tools or plows fixed can buy a meal while they wait, or just a cup of coffee. There’s coffee brewing all day here. If they look like they can keep their mouths shut about it, they can also get a glass of beer and a shot of booze.”
    “Aren’t most of the counties around here dry?”
    “Very. And once the Eighteenth Amendment takes effect, every place will be. That makes this a pretty special place, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Sounds like you don’t have much time for the law.”
    “It does sound that way, doesn’t it?”
    Several smaller trailers or wagons were strung out in a ragged line behind the machine shop. A McCormick reaper-binder with a broken cutter bar, a couple of Deere plows, and a sagging sheaf wagon were scattered around the site in no particular order. Charlie assumed they were waiting to be repaired. Above it all, a simple yellow flag fluttered on a tall pole, steadied by makeshift rope stays. Charlie had noticed it several miles before he could see the actual camp.
    “What do you call this?”
    “Call what, exactly?”
    “All this.” He swept his hand around in an expository gesture. “This, um
bunch
of trailers and machines and things. It’s not exactly a carnival and it damn sure isn’t a traveling salvation show, so what is it?”
    “We call it the Ark,” he said.
    “Because…?”
    “Because it’s not the
Lusitania
. And maybe because it carries a little bit of everything. Most of the people who work in it are busy somewhere now. You’ll meet them all soon enough. They’re decent folk, mostly, but in one way or another, they are all orphans or fugitives of some kind. Fugitives from somewhere or something or