Chris wandered the sweltering wastes of the Mojave, one hand up to shield his face from the harsh dry wind while the other clutched his crumpled fedora tightly to his bald head to protect him from the scorching sun glaring down from above. In spite of his prayers, the heavens refused him cloudy shade leaving him exposed to the wrath of the elements. Donner’s legs burned with fatigue from the long trek through the desert, his knees trembling with each step forward against the gritty gale.

Halting briefly to rest and teetering from exhaustion, he searched the horizon. Only the dusty wastes predominated with the occasional spire of rock jutting out, but it had not always been so. This had all been a lake once thousands of years ago; sweet blue waters bathed these sands with their cool touch. The pale, crumbling soil had been dark and rich then, thick with life. Donner didn’t know how he knew that, but he could see it; a phantom world of a lost time interposed on the miserable scene that confronted him. And then it vanished. Chris rasped a solemn sigh. All he could do was press forward into the wastes and hope for the best, his feet dragging as he continued carving a dusty trail in his wake.

Chris’ harrowing, yet humbling journey across the arid plateau of southern Nevada had started in the skies over Texas. In the days since leaving Kansas, Donner’s grasp of his powers had grown. Day by day he discovered new abilities, yet failed to notice one trait that accompanied them: hubris. He felt invulnerable, unstoppable. His every pore was bursting with limitless potential. The world could not and would not hold him back as he sought to change it. There was a thrill to bending and at times breaking immutable laws and Chris found himself intoxicated by such freedom. This rash behavior of his came to a head when he learned to fly. Forgetting those souls below and instead focusing on the Pacific, he willed himself toward the endless horizon. Streaking through the sky, he had pushed his velocity faster and faster recklessly relishing his newfound capacities until he was deafened by a sudden boom. It was as if he had angered God himself, some unseen force slamming into him with the crack of thunder. Chris blacked out under the stress of too many g-forces and arced back to earth. He crash landed in the barren lands of the Great Basin, somehow not killing himself in the process. Upon regaining consciousness he had disturbed a vulture that planned to have him for lunch, the creature insidiously lingering over him and hopping with devilish glee at his plight. Donner drove the foul beast off, the vulture cackling and flapping its black wings at him before shrieking away abandoning Chris to the wastes.

Chris was uncertain exactly where he was or which way to go, every direction looking desolately the same. He had a vague sense of north, south, east, and west which he used to guide him on the long march to the Pacific. Though many days had passed since his fall, the horizon never came any closer. Still, he marched on. Unnerved and somewhat fearful of the disorienting experience of thrashing through the firmament at Mach speed and still suffering the nauseous after effects, Donner had decided to remain grounded for the time being rather than risk his life again in the skies above. His feet swollen and aching, it was a decision Chris had come to regret regardless of the solid reassurance beneath his heels.

Despite the pain and temptation, Chris refused to use his powers to escape the dilemma he found himself in. He wanted the pain if only to know what it was to be a man again. The crash had caused him to re-evaluate the powers he possessed. He had abused his unearthly capacities and been humbled for it. But that was not all. As his abilities grew, he felt his attachment to his own humanity slipping away. Only now stopping to think of his experiences, the freedom from mortal boundaries proved terrifying. To know no limits: what madness. Only his responsibility and dedication to man served to keep him in check; their needs guided him and thus gave him purpose.

There were other reasons for his desire to cling tightly to his humanity. He had detected a change among some of the voices he heard and followed telepathically. A growing number had started to communicate directly to him via their prayers realizing that someone was listening to them. This fraction of those he saved on his journey west and others who heard of his acts had come to venerate him, but their worship and gratitude pushed him away. They did not speak to him as a man or as an equal. They beseeched him like a god imploring his favor, pleading for his help, seeking his guidance. Such subservience disgusted Chris in that he did not seek nor desire the sense of superiority these people were granting him. To accept their supplication was to acknowledge he was no longer one of them. In elevating him, Donner felt them slipping away. How long until the distance between them became too great?

Chris trudged on through the wastes, weak with hunger and thirst, the stability of reality beginning to waver. Heat waves distorted the air as he stumbled forward into the warping desert vista. A pounding migraine pummeled his senses weakening his knees and skewing his equilibrium. The world tilted crazily. Chris struggled to stay upright against the wind which howled violently in his face. Beneath his feet the hint of a tremor vibrated through the plateau, the reverberations increasing in magnitude and number until Chris swore the quaking earth would split. He could hear the crust cracking and the mantle’s myriad plates grating deep beneath the surface and beyond that the pulsing seismic heart of the planet. Everything felt so fragile and thin. The sun continued to beat down on him until Donner’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground beneath its fiery might. Looking south, Chris gasped, his senses overwhelming him. He fought to rein them in. It was like the hospital again when he lost control. His powers fired wildly as his grip on consciousness faltered. The delirium he suffered through from lack of food and water made it impossible to regain control over his powers which were manifesting themselves in odd ways. The acuity of his senses sharpened and dulled at random making him question what was real and what was not. He acquired queer sensitivities, heard voices, and swore that he saw things in the distance. Chris tasted the light and felt sound. Ghosts of past eras and dimensions not his own faded in and out all around him until his vision shifted and the whole of the world became immaterial dissolving down to the atomic level. With great effort, Donner pulled his focus together. He remained kneeling for some time, exhausted.

As the sun reached its apex, Chris’ shadow circled around and came to loom before him as if to bar any further progress on the path west. It spoke with a voice rooted within Donner’s subconscious, questioning his resolve. “What do you hope to find? Do you think paradise waits out west?” it asked.

“I don’t know what I expect to find,” Chris replied.

“You know what you expect to discover. Possibility. Why do you cling to that pamphlet so tightly? There is no hope out west nor in all the world. It is all lies. There is no refuge from the Depression. California suffers as surely as the rest of the nation. They only seek to draw you out to prey on you. So why bother searching out hope? It does not exist.”

“That is not true.”

“Then why not spirit yourself to your destination and see the truth with your own eyes? Why torture yourself with this journey? You are not a man. You are more than any mortal. You could simply take to the sky and fly to the cool coast away from this desert. Why else have you been granted these powers if not to aid you in your journey? It is a sin and a waste not to use that which has been granted to you.”

Chris’ lip quivered, his eyes downcast.

“Surely you are hungry,” the internal voice continued. “You could create food from the dust at your feet and draw water from the veins of the parched earth. Eat. Drink.”

“No,” Chris told the internal voice, closing his eyes tightly. “I will not abuse my power.”

“Then you will die here. Look at what awaits you.”

Chris opened his eyes. Endless desert stretched off before him threatening to erode his resolve. Was there no escape from Tartarus?

“It has been this way since Kansas,” the voice stated. “The core of America is dead, hollowed out by the all-consuming Dust Bowl. This is what has become of the earth. This is all that awaits you on your journey. But, should you wish it, your powers could resurrect the fertility of these barren lands. The people would worship you for such a miracle.”

Chris wearily shook his head. “I am not worthy of worship.”

“If not you, then who? God? He has been quiet far too many millennia to have any right to speak now. Or perhaps you mean Roosevelt. That charlatan offers only false hope. Always speaking of progress. What progress? You have walked half-way across this nation and seen nothing but dust and poverty. There are no jobs. No food. No change. Where was Roosevelt when the bankers came for your lands or when your crops died in the fields? Always telling America it should have hope,” the voice chided, “Yet while America starves, Roosevelt grows fat and rich in his presidential palace. His words are empty. There is no wrong in seeking to depose him.

“There is a reason these people call to you. They call to you for help because no one else can save them. In your heart this is what you seek to do. But if you are to take the responsibility for helping humanity, then you must accept the authority that comes with it. You cannot simply inspire. You must lead.”

Doubt crept into Chris’ heart. Maybe he shouldn’t have headed west. Maybe he should have headed east toward Washington instead. With his abilities, he could march on the capital. Seize power. Was this not a time of great men? Mussolini. Hitler. Men who saved their nations from chaos by imposing their will on their peoples. Old orders were collapsing. Perhaps it was time to upend America’s establishment as well. With the powers he possessed, Chris could impose his will upon America.

“It has been exhausting hasn’t it? For every soul you save, a dozen more take its place. The problem is not shrinking. It is growing just like the desert you find yourself in now.”

“How do I help them?” Chris asked the heavens. The clear skies did not answer. “Please,” he begged, precious tears filling his eyes. He had thought to save each life, but the internal voice was right; there were too many. How could he possibly answer them all? “What must I do?”

“Crush the politicians,” the internal voice ordered. “The halls of Washington are too far from the people to see their plight. The suffering you seek to alleviate is but a symptom of the true problem. These politicians must go with their greed and avarice. How many wars have they started? How much destruction have they wrought? They are to blame for what has become of this country and their failure to act condemns them.

“You have seen what has become of the world. Seen the worst of what man has to offer. You understand and have been given this power for a reason. Conquer America. Conquer the world. It is within your power. Establish a new order. Lead humanity by force for that alone is what can unite them. Break all opposition. With your strength you could end famine, poverty, and war.”

Chris wavered. “It is in my power.”

“Your voice is all that matters. Your miracles can enlist the people and draw them to you. You could make agents of many who would spread your will easing the burden off your shoulders. They will follow you and if they do not understand, you can make them understand. Draw these disparate souls to you until you are one single, shining light. Let your power be the gravity that holds all together.”

Such thoughts brought imagery of burning cities and the shrieks of dying men causing a shiver of revulsion to ripple through Chris’ spiritual core. To bring such madness back to the world…

“No,” Chris rasped.

“Sacrifices are inevitable. The deaths of thousands would save millions.”

“I will not weigh the value of one life over another. I will not,” Chris spat.

“Their lives are not as precious as you believe. They are sheep that need a shepherd to instill order. You forsake them by not fulfilling your destiny and answering their call.”

“That is not my destiny,” Chris told the voice.

“Do not squander your power!”

Unwilling to listen further, Chris rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered westward stepping over the shadow and leaving it at his rear.

Through the wastes Donner continued, willing his frail body forward. Hours passed until finally he reached a jagged wall. Looming over him was a great mountain chain that marked the western boundary of the shifting desert sands. To Chris it seemed the edge of the known world. Entering the shelter of the snow crowned Sierra Nevada, he made his way south along its craggy face until he found a mountain pass. With a final look back to the wastes he had known since Kansas, he entered the pass and crossed over into the unknown.

On the other side, Chris stopped to stare in awe down into the Tehachapi Valley. Sprawled before him were the rich lands of California rolling out in amber waves. After the barren lands of the Dust Bowl and the deserts of the American Southwest, they were the Elysian Fields.

“Will you look at that,” Chris said to himself, swiping his hat off his head and gazing reverently below. It was everything the pamphlet had said it would be and more; an oasis home to oak and pine and garlanded by the regal purple of sage which stood in stark contrast to the sun blasted, crumbling dust choked lands of the east. This was paradise glowing with life and overflowing with prosperity for all those in it. “To think the world could still spawn such beauty.”

Chris descended into the valley, his eyes shining with the vibrancy that surrounded him. Antelope squirrels peaked their heads out of their burrows to gawk at the dusty traveler passing by while a kit fox shyly peered from behind a bush letting loose a playful yelp before bounding away. The branches of various trees waved invitingly in the soft breeze of early evening drawing Chris in as the sun nestled in the bosom of the valley to the west showering the billowing saffron grass with its golden rays. It was a peaceful land, a wholesome realm that rejuvenated him. Yet as he made his way through the buckbrush, Chris noticed a gloom to the south marring the splendor where the colors of Elysium became muted and gray. Though he wished to continue on into the pleasant fields beyond, he was drawn to that cold corner. He turned toward the tainted section of the valley and entered those somber lands.

Continuing south, Chris found the highway which he followed until he came across a transient migrant camp. Tin shanties leaned unsteadily in the Asphodel Meadows, a decrepit city of squalor in a land of plenty. It was a human junkyard littered with the detritus of a failed people. Chris adjusted his tinted spectacles and pulled the brim of his fedora low before approaching. Slowly he made his way between the huts and rusted jalopies, the camp’s haunted-faced inhabitants eyeing him jadedly.

“Sure don’t look too prosperous from down here,” Chris told himself remembering his initial view of the valley.

“Where do you think you’re going, brother?” a migrant asked, leaning against the door frame of his hut while contemptuously looking Chris up and down.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You don’t have a tent on ya or a bedroll. No food neither I suspect.” The wretched man spat tobacco at Chris’ feet baring his chipped brown teeth. “This ain’t the place to come for handouts.”

“I won’t be any bother,” Chris attempted to reassure him.

“See that you’re not,” the migrant warned with a snarl. “We got enough problems round here without having to worry about freaks like you leeching what little we have.”

A gang of dirt encrusted children spied Chris from an alley between shanties as he continued through the camp. They trailed after this new stranger, the runt of the litter straggling behind the main pack. Chris paid them little mind as he picked his way through the Hooverville.

“I bet he’s one of those al-beenos,” one child speculated.

“How would you know what an albeeno is?”

“We had one who worked on the farm. Strange fella. He’d eat eggs raw. Suck the yolk right out of ‘em.”

“Ewwwww.”

“He sure is white.”

“Won’t stay white long under this sun.”

“You think he escaped from the circus or sumthin’?” the runt asked the rest, struggling to keep up while repeatedly tripping over his drooping britches.

“Why don’t you ask him and find out?” the other children dared.

“Maybe I will.”

“Yeah sure, runt.”

Flustered by their catcalls, the runt called out, “Hey mister.” The rest of the gang quickly hushed up when Donner turned around.

“Yeah kid?”

“Uh…want a guide?” the runt stammered, hiking his pants up to look semi-respectable.

Chris surveyed the camp. “Round here?”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t think there’s much to see.”

“There’s loads to see. I-” One of the gang elbowed the runt. “We’d be happy to show you the sights.”

Chris’ eyes went from the runt to the gang and back. “I take it you wouldn’t be doing this for free.”

“Nuthins’ free these days. We gotta eat.”

“I can see that.” Chris noticed the boys’ gaunt faces and their threadbare clothes hanging loosely off their thin frames. “Have you eaten today?”

“No, sir. The way things are, we gotta fend for ourselves and the pickins have been slim.”

Just looking at their starving faces knotted up Chris’ stomach. He reached into his pocket to check for change. “I don’t have much.”

“We ain’t askin’ for much, sir,” the runt quickly replied, rubbing his hands together.

Chris pulled two bits from his pocket and put it in the runt’s small hand. The other children gathered around him. “Go get yourselves some food. No candy, mind you. And don’t go fighting over it,” he called after the gang of children as they rushed off hooting and hollering.

“You done a good thing there, brother.” Donner turned to see a smirking fellow of moderate height clad in a wrinkled cotton shirt, denim overalls, and wearing a flat cap with black hair curling out from beneath it. The young man nodded in the direction the children had vanished. “Don’t see charity like that much anymore, ‘specially not round about here.”

Chris bashfully adjusted his spectacles. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“Why’d you do it, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“They look like they needed it more than I did.” Chris’ stomach growled in disagreement embarrassing him.

The young man chuckled. “Is that a fact?”

Chris tilted his hat good manneredly. “I’d best be going.”

“Say, why don’t you stay awhile and join me and my family for dinner? You look mighty thin and about to keel over. Least I could do to reward a Samaritan. Christian thing and all. We ain’t got much, but we got enough to share.”

“I don’t want to burden you.”

“Brother, it ain’t no burden. We got to stick together. No other way we’ll make it through. By the by, name’s Mort Weisinger.” Mort extended his calloused hand.

Chris accepted the extended cordiality and shook. “I’m Chris. Chris Donner.”

“Mighty fine to meet ya, Chris. Lookin’ at ya, I bet you have stories to tell.”

Chris couldn’t help grinning. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“I’d be most interested in hearing a few. Now come on. Dinner’s waitin.”

***

The heavens darkened with the early approach of eldritch evening, the shadows of the valley lengthening until they washed over the camp. The cratered moon soon emerged in the autumnal night sky wreathed by gauzy mauve clouds and a vast tinsel of stars. Beneath that celestial canopy, the scattered migrant families of the camp came together for supper. The sounds of sizzling skillets hissed throughout the grounds mingling with the smell of fried dough and cooked ham hocks in the crisp, cold air. Lights streamed through the cracks of the tin shanties that littered the Hooverville, those pale beams occasionally broken by the shades of Okies moving within. Outside, many gathered around campfires finding solace in the company of friends over a simple meal of beans and coffee. Somewhere in the heart of the camp a harmonica crooned mournfully for days long lost while cheerful songs to boost spirits boomed from the fringes.

Next to the Weisinger’s weathered truck, Chris sat in a semi-circle ringing a crackling fire sharing dinner with Mort; his two younger brothers, Julius and Forrest; and Mort’s aged mother.

Forrest in particular had captured Chris’ attention from the start due to his mass of contradictions. Though a gangly boy of fifteen with an uncombed mess of red hair, a beak of a nose, and at times a quick temper that made his freckled face twitch; the young firebrand’s steady eyes belied an early maturity. He was a quiet, withdrawn lad but when he spoke his words ran like a passionate torrent overcoming the listener and easily carrying them away with his fervor. All it took was finding the right catalyst of dialogue to release the gates and Donner had stumbled onto it rather quickly.

While helping Forrest gather wood for the campfire, the boy had innocuously asked where Chris was headed in a clumsy attempt at small talk. He told the boy of his plans to travel to Los Angeles.

“Why would you want to go there?” Forrest had asked, his face wrinkled with disgust at the prospect.

Taken aback by the boy’s response, Chris innocently asked, “Why wouldn’t I?”

That ignited the powder keg. A self-described rural socialist, Forrest soon launched into a rabid spiel readily condemning what he saw as the decadence of urban life with its immorality, consumerism, and facelessness. To him, every metropolis was a ghetto as well as a malignant tumor in the body of the nation that threatened to destroy the pristine wilds of a bygone age. Above all, he possessed a deep seated, apoplectic rage for those elites he believed had destroyed America with their insatiable greed that threatened to consume everything and who sought to turn the whole of America’s citizens into indentured slaves. Forrest would thrash at the air crimson faced as he berated their phantom presence.

“The cities an’ industrialization are to blame for the Depression and proof of their fallibility,” the boy had said.

It was rural life with its community, work ethic, and its sacred ties to nature that humanity needed. The country renewed. The cities corrupted. Chris let the boy ramble, readily listening to Forrest rail and lash out in futility until the juvenile demagogue dripped with sweat and his fatigue reined him in. The boy was angry. But then, who wasn’t these days?

“I’m sorry,” Forrest meekly offered, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

“Why?”

“You don’t want to hear all this.”

“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have stuck around.”

Forrest shyly nodded.

“People don’t listen to you that much, do they.”

“My brothers think I’m young an’ naïve. I understand more than they think I do.” With that, Forrest ended their conversation. But that wasn’t the end. Even now hours later there was an intensity to the kid that made him shine like white hot steel to Donner’s alien eyes. The boy did not much like Chris’ unearthly gaze, fidgeting and finally turning partly away to avoid looking at the stranger. Realizing how uncomfortable he made Forrest feel, Chris readjusted his shaded spectacles and turned his attention to the others.

The Weisingers chowed down hungrily on pinto beans and corn bread, their spoons scraping noisily along the bottoms of their tin plates with every pass. It was a wonder they didn’t choke the way they shoveled their food into their maws and slurped it down. Chris ate slowly, swallowing his meal a mouthful at a time savoring what little he had while cautiously watching the others devour their dinner. He had taken a small helping of the meager bounty offered, guilt preventing him from asking for more than several spoonfuls. In spite of his slow effort, he still finished his meal before the others.

“Go on,” Mort prodded when he noticed Chris’ empty plate. “Have some more.”

“Thank you for the hospitality, but I’m full.” The Weisingers’ doubting, plump cheeked stares made Chris blurt, “I swear.”

“You’re as skinny as a tomcat and pale as a ghost,” old mother Weisinger croaked. “With how little you eat, it’s no wonder you lost all your hair.”

“Ma,” Mort scolded.

“Oh hush up, Morty. The man is the most anemic thing I’ve ever seen. A slice of bread is thicker than the poor fella. If he were any thinner I’d be able to see through him.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” Julius agreed with a chuckle. “He looks positively starved. Heck, he’s so thin you can see his spirit through his flesh.”

“Alright, leave him be,” Mort kindly ordered. “He’s a guest. Show some manners.”

Julius snorted before swallowing another bite. “How’d you end up out here anyway Chris? You ride in with someone?”

“No. I walked.”

Julius nearly spit out his food. “Walked? Across the Mojave?”

“That’s right.”

“Pardon me, but are you plum crazy? Wandering around out in the desert is a surefire way to get you killed. Heck, we barely made it in that heap of ours.” Julius thumbed back at their battered truck.

“Not all of us made it,” Forrest grumbled, eyes downcast as he poked at his beans with his spoon.

Mort ignored his brothers and once more offered Chris seconds. “Go on, have some more-”

“He said he doesn’t want any,” Forrest barked in annoyance, his head jerking up to reveal a scowl. “So stop trying to waste our food. These are hard times. We can’t afford to go throwin’ food away.”

“That’s ironic. A selfish socialist,” Julius ribbed.

“A hungry socialist,” Mort replied, a finger to the side of his nose.

Julius laughed before adding, “Is there any other kind?”

Old mother Weisinger clucked her tongue at her boys. “Hard times or no, I ain’t sending no man out into the world hungry. That’s just bad manners. Now you get a second helping.” Chris hesitated. “Go on now,” the old woman repeated, raising her spoon as if to rap Chris’ reluctant knuckles.

“You’d better do it,” Julius mumbled to Chris with a mouthful of beans. “Otherwise she’s likely to force it down your throat. You’ll enjoy it better if you just volunteer.”

Chris extended his plate and Mort heaped two big spoonfuls of beans onto it to Forrest’s dismay, the boy once more turning away from the group. “Thank you,” Chris said, accepting the offering.

“So whereabouts you from, Chris?” Mort asked, chewing on some cornbread.

“Kansas, just outside Ulysses,” Chris replied, stirring his beans.

“Gawd, things must be worse than I thought if they’re coming from Kansas now,” Julius drawled.

“You have a farm out there?”

Chris nodded remembering the old Donner homestead, a pang of sorrow drawing the edges of his mouth down into a frown. “Ten acres. Rich with memories. Not much else. Dust Bowl took it.”

Mort tilted his head and lightly jabbed his spoon at Chris. “You say that like it was your fault.”

Donner shrugged. “I feel like it sometimes.”

“Brother, if there is anyone to blame, it’s nature. Man can do his best but if nature wants something, you sure as hell ain’t keepin’ it.”

“Watch your language Mort or I’ll thump you,” old mother Weisinger warned, once more raising her spoon.

“Sorry ma, caught up in the moment. But as I was sayin’, your story ain’t exactly original. We’re from Cimarron County in Oklahoma. You wanna see desert, you just pay that place a visit. Lot of good families lost their livelihood when the plains went dry. But we ain’t exactly unique either. Look around. We got Arkies, Okies, and even a few stragglers from Texas. These are bad times, but things are sure to change. Each end is really just a new beginnin’. That’s what this place is. A new start. Lot of possibility out here.”

“So you say,” Forrest cut in, dropping his empty plate on the ground in front of the fire.

Chris turned to Forrest. “What do you mean by that?”

“There ain’t near enough jobs here for all the meat.”

“Meat?”

“All the Okies. The agents roundabouts take advantage of us. Give us just enough to survive but not enough to move on. Break our backs for peanuts.”

“It’s still something,” Mort retorted.

“It ain’t enough to survive,” Forrest bit back. “Rather go back to Sturgis an’ choke on some dust than be a slave. Damn bastards.”

“Forrest!” old mother Weisinger yelled before slapping her youngest son in the back of the head.

“Well that’s what they are!” Forrest vehemently shouted, smarting from the blow. “Using us like cattle. Pa died getting’ us out here an’ for what? He wouldn’t want this for us.

“You see that sign just outside the camp, ‘bout a mile west of here? City Limits. That’s as close as they’ll allow our kind to prosperity. Ain’t enough for the ones that are already here an’ more come every day. What a load of bunk this place proved to be.”

The conversation was interrupted by a coupe carrying two men pulling off the main road. Rolling down the dirt boulevard, the buzz of the camp went silent as the migrants watched the newcomers apprehensively. The car came to a stop in the middle of the Hooverville. Only one of the two men inside climbed out.

“Who’s he?” Chris asked.

“Labor agent,” Mort replied.

The men of the camp approached slowly, their wives and daughters watching anxiously behind them. Chris, Mort, Julius, and Forrest rose and joined the group gradually gathering around the agent.

“You men want to work?” the agent asked the throng.

“Sure we want to work,” Mort curtly replied over the heads of those in front of him. “Where’s it at?”

“Kern County,” the agent replied, scrutinizing the group. “Fruit’s opening up. Need a lot of pickers.”

“You doin’ the hirin’?” Forrest asked.

“Well, I’m contracting the land,” the agent said offhand, partially ignoring the boy.

“What you payin’?” one of the migrants inquired.

“Well, can’t tell exactly, yet. ‘Bout thirty cents, I guess.”

“Why can’t you tell? You took the contrac’, didn’t you?”

“That’s true,” the agent said with a nod, “But it’s keyed to the price. Might be a little more, might be a little less. You men up for it?”

The migrants murmured to one another about the proposition the agent offered. It had been the first chance at employment in days and many wouldn’t think of passing it up. The chance at wages meant an opportunity of getting out of the camp. Maybe enough to continue west in search of that hope the pamphlets spoke of. But not everyone saw the situation the same way.

Seeing the men seriously considering the agent’s offer, Forrest became agitated. He pushed his way through the migrants to make his way toward the agent. “Hey, mister, I’ll go,” he offered when he made it to the front.

“A smart decision. The rest of you could learn from this kid,” the agent declared to the others.

Forrest smiled falsely up at the agent. “Just one thing.”

“What’s that, sonny?”

“You show your license to contract, an’ then you make out an order. Where an’ when an’ how much you’re gonna pay. All that. Do that an’ sign it an’ I’ll go.”

The agent’s eyes narrowed and his friendly demeanor vanished. “You trying to tell me how to run my own business?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

“If we’re workin’ for you, it’s our business too.”

“What are you? A red or something? You want a workers’ paradise, you are in the wrong place.”

“Paradise? I just want an honest day’s wages for an honest day’s work.”

“And you’ll get it.”

“Will I? The pamphlets spoke of good jobs an’ good pay out here, but I ain’t seen any.”

“I ain’t got nothing to do with no pamphlets,” the agent replied defensively. “I’m just looking for workers.”

“You ain’t the only one.” Forrest pulled out a pamphlet and shook it threateningly at the agent. “How do we know you ain’t one of the guys that sent these things out? These pamphlets also offered us jobs. All they delivered was a whole lot of nuthin’.”

The agent leaned forward, his voice becoming dangerously low so that only Forrest could hear him. “Listen smart guy, I’ll run my business my own way. I got work. If you want to take it, okay. If not, just sit here,” he scathingly stated, pointing down at the dirt with disdain. “But don’t get in the way of my business or I’ll put you under.” The agent returned his attention to the rest of the migrants, his carnivorous smile spreading from cheek to cheek. “So, who wants a job?”

The gathered men stared expressionlessly. They were unsure what to believe, many having been taken advantage of before by the locals.

Forrest turned to the undecided Okies. “Yeah, who wants a job? Maybe he needs a thousan’ men. So he gets five thousan’ there, an’ he’ll pay fifteen cents an hour. An’ you guys’ll have to take it ‘cause you’ll be hungry.” Forrest confronted the agent making the man take a step back. “If he wants to hire men, let him write it out an’ say what he’s gonna pay.” The men grumbled in agreement with what Forrest said. Emboldened, the young man pressed the agent further. “Ask to see his license. He ain’t allowed to contract men without a license.”

“Yeah,” a chorus of men replied.

“Put it in writin’!” someone shouted.

Fearing the crowd was beginning to turn hostile, the agent turned to his comrade in the coupe to his rear. “Joe!”

Joe Sizemore emerged from the labor agent’s car wearing a pistol and cartridge belt, a tin sheriff’s badge pinned to his left breast. He smiled thinly, shifting the pistol holster as he approached the gathering.

“You see?” Forrest asked angrily. “If this guy was on the level, would he bring a cop along?”

The sheriff pushed his way into the crowd to stand protectively in front of the agent. “What’s the trouble?”

The agent pointed at Forrest. “Ever see this guy before?”

“What’d he do?”

“He’s agitatin’. Probably a damn red.”

“Hmmm.” Joe looked Forrest over. “He looks familiar. Seems like I seen him hangin’ around that used car lot that was busted into. Yep, I’d swear it’s the same fella.” He took a step toward Forrest. “Get in that car,” Joe sharply ordered.

“You got nuthin’ on him,” Mort shot back defending his brother.

“Open your trap again and you’ll go too,” the sheriff warned, shoving a migrant back afterwards for being too close.

“You fellas don’t want to listen to troublemakers,” the agent advised. “You better pack up and come to Kern County. Otherwise things could get real difficult for you ‘round here.”

No one said anything.

“Might be a good idea to do what he says,” Joe told them. “Too many of you Okies aroun’ here already. Folks beginnin’ to figger it ain’t maybe safe. Might start an epidemic or sumthin’.” The sheriff paused to gaze across the crowd of faces. “Wouldn’t like a bunch of guys down here with pick handles tonight, would you?” That threat cowed the migrants, many dropping their eyes to the ground in submission. With the migrants neutralized, Joe started toward Forrest. “Now you.” As the sheriff grabbed Forrest’s arm, the boy quickly swung and punched Joe in the face stunning him. Staggering back, Julius stuck out a foot and tripped the lawman. Dazed and defensive, the sheriff pulled his pistol and fired blindly from the ground, the bullets zinging through the crowd. The men took cover immediately as did their wives and children in the frenzy that followed.

“Everyone alright?” Mort asked, looking up from the dirt when the shooting stopped.

“Morty,” old mother Weisinger weakly called out to her son. She crumpled to the ground, blood staining her dress. Mort ran to her knocking anyone aside who got in his way.

“They shot her.”

The crowd began to rumble, enraged by the sheriff’s actions. They advanced on Joe as he staggered to his feet.

“Now you all just back up,” the sheriff ordered, keeping his gun up to ward off the approaching migrants.

Horrified at the situation he found himself in, the agent jumped into his coupe and drove off in the commotion abandoning the sheriff.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Joe shouted at the fleeing man. “Yellow bastard!”

“Run kid!” Julius yelled at Forrest.

The sheriff’s head jerked back to see the young boy attempting to flee. Joe took careful aim at Forrest’s back lining up his shot. His finger squeezed the trigger when Chris jumped forward and knocked the shot astray.

“God damnit!” the sheriff cursed.

“What is wrong with you?” Chris demanded. “He’s just a kid. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Don’t you speak that way to me. You show me some respect, Okie. I’m the law here and that boy is a public threat. You see the riot he created?”

“He’s not the one shooting blindly into a crowd.”

Joe shifted his jaw and got up in Chris’ face. “Oh, I take it you’re one of his friends. Well, you just bought yourself a night in jail. And that goes for the rest of ya if you don’t keep to your own business,” he threatened the rest of the migrants.

A carload of deputies descended onto the camp led by the agent’s coupe minutes later.

“Well here comes the cavalry,” Joe sarcastically declared before returning his attention to Donner.

“You all right, Joe?” Dwight Schultz asked as he and the other deputies piled out of their car. There were five of them total, all carrying rifles. “Who’s this?” he asked when he saw Chris.

“Agitator,” the sheriff answered without taking his eyes off Donner. “Just like the others.”

“Please,” Mort called out. “Get a doctor. My ma has been shot.”

“Sounds like a good start to me,” Ken Barker, another of the deputies, coldly remarked bringing depraved snickers from his partners.

“Who shot her?” Dwight asked.

“The sheriff here,” Chris reported.

“I shot in self-defense. They assaulted me,” Joe declared.

“That’s not surprisin’,” Ken interjected. “All these Okies ever do is cause problems. Take our jobs. Stealin’. Don’t give nothin’ back. Nothin’ but parasites.”

“We ought to burn this place to the ground,” Ken’s friend, Val Uecker, asserted.

“Yeah to the damn ground.” A shrill cry of agreement traveled among the rifle toting deputies, some shooting into the air scaring the migrants’ wives who quickly hustled their children to whatever safety they could find. Rather than defend themselves, the men of the camp stood frozen in terror.

“What are you lookin’ at?” Val snapped at the nearest Okie before striking him in the head with the butt of his rifle knocking him to the dirt. When the migrant’s friends went to defend him, the deputy raised his rifle and aimed it at them. His fellow lawmen quickly followed suit. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why do you people even come out our way?” Ken demanded from the migrants.

“We’re just lookin’ for jobs. That’s all,” someone replied.

“Oh we got jobs for ya, alright. You know, I think I saw myself a mighty fine Okie girl in that shanty over yonder.” Ken motioned toward one of the shabby structures. “Wonder if she’s in the mood for a job.”

“Offer these people a nickel and they’ll sell you their firstborn,” Val declared.

“You’d be wasting your money.”

Ken got real close to an Okie. “What do ya say, pops? Borrow your daughter for a nickel?”

“You watch your mouth!” the man yelled back, striking the deputy in the mouth only to take a rifle stock to the back of the head.

“God damn trash!” Ken growled, wiping blood from his split lip. “He attacked a lawman. You saw it.”

“Criminal offense.”

“I say we line ‘em up and just shoot the lot of them. Set an example. What do ya say, sheriff?”

“Yeah,” Joe crowed. “I’m damn tired of this gutter trash in our community.”

“Kill ‘em all!”

“You heard the man!” Dwight shouted, shoving a mass of migrants back on their heels. Other deputies came forward to herd the Okies together, yelling and kicking at those men who fell. “Line up. We’re gonna solve this problem once and for all.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Chris countered interjecting himself between the deputies and the migrants.

“Well, will you look at this,” Joe remarked to his men before confronting Chris. “We got ourselves a hero. Guess what, freak. There’s just one of you and there’s more of us. You ain’t gonna stop us from giving this place what it deserves.”

“If you think I’m going to let you harm these people, you’re going to have to kill me first.”

A wicked smile twisted Joe’s features. “It’s like that is it?”

“It’s like that,” Chris adamantly replied.

The sheriff aimed his pistol at Chris’ forehead from point blank range and cocked back the hammer. “Still feelin’ like the hero?”

“Blow his friggin’ brains out!”

Fearlessly, Chris continued to stare into the sheriff’s eyes as he pulled the trigger. Joe blinked when all he heard was a click. “Misfire,” he cursed. The sheriff pulled the hammer back again and pulled the trigger. Once more, misfire. “What the hell?”

“Let me help you out, Joe!” Val shouted, pointing his rifle at Chris. Donner turned in the man’s direction and, with a short flash, the rifle exploded in the deputy’s hands throwing him back.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the sheriff sputtered in shock, backing up at a slow trot before making a break for the highway.

“Drop your weapons,” Chris ordered. When the deputies did not immediately comply, he telepathically wrenched the rifles from their hands and then thrust them back with a kinetic wave that knocked them dazed to the ground. “Watch them,” Chris commanded the migrants who stood agape at what they had just seen.

Donner made his way to Mort’s side and knelt down beside him and his frail mother whom he cradled in his arms. The woman was pallid and breathing shallowly, her eyes glassed over. “She’s bleedin’ pretty bad,” Mort hoarsely told him. “We got to get her to a doctor.”

“There’s no time. Let me help her.” Chris tenderly put his hand on the old woman’s chest making her wince.

“Don’t-”

“Trust me,” Chris gently pleaded. The compassionate expression on Donner’s face made Mort relent. Closing his eyes, a glow emanated from Chris’ skin and light flickered beneath his palm. Old mother Weisinger grit her teeth as her wound burned with a purifying fire. The blush of life steadily colored her pale cheeks while her gasping deepened into full breaths. Soon enough her pain diminished and then was gone. Chris removed his hand to reveal her wound was healed.

“How…?” Mort asked dumbfounded.

Chris rose and turned toward the deputies who were surrounded by Okies.

“What do we do with them?” someone asked concerning the lawmen.

“I say we lynch ‘em right now,” one of the Okies ardently asserted to a chorus of agreement. Panic was evident on the faces of the deputies, some readily pleading for their lives while others blubbered incoherently.

“You will do no such thing,” Chris ordered the crowd. “Have you learned nothing tonight?” Ashamed, the Okies became quiet. Chris then spoke to the deputies. “These people are to be left alone. If any harm comes to them, I will find you. You do not want to draw my wrath.”

“We were only doin’ our job,” Ken sputtered.

Chris eyed the men with disgust. “Get out of here and don’t come back.”

The deputies promptly rose and retreated to their car dragging Val’s unconscious body behind them.

“Has it always been this bad?” Chris asked as the deputies sped off down the highway.

“Yeah.”

“Then things need to change.” Chris went to leave.

“Wait.” Mort took a hesitant step toward Donner. “Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. If you’ll excuse me,” Donner tilted his hat, “I gotta get going.”

“Ain’t you gonna stay?” The camp watched Chris expectantly for his reply.

“You will be safe,” Donner promised them. “Don’t worry.”

“But why can’t you stay?” they implored.

“There are others who need me.”

“We need you.”

“No,” Chris told them. “I have done all I can here. The rest is up to you. Have faith. Things will change.” He passed through the gathering of men and into the shadowy night to continue west toward the great metropolis of Los Angeles.

Next Chapter: Chapter 17