God, with about a hundred and twenty thousand miles on it.

“You can see the camp,” Ryan said.

Nancy was still in the car, about twenty feet away. She said, “Really?”

“Come here, you can see it good. There’s the bus we rode up in.”

“Some other time,” Nancy said.

“I don’t know how that bus ever made it. It was the craziest ride I ever took. I mean, it wasn’t like a bus ride, it was like living on a bus for four days.” Ryan looked toward her, then walked over. “I’ll have one now.”

She poured Cold Duck into a glass and handed it to him. Ryan held it up, looking at the dark red color, and smiled.

“It reminds me of Billy Ruiz; he always drank rock and rye. You ever taste it? It’s awful.”

“Pop?”

“Terrible. It’s got a reddish color.” Ryan smiled again, looking at the stemmed glass. “He was always holding it up to see how much he had left. He’d be eating a lunch stick or something, take a bite, take a swallow, and then hold the bottle up and look at it, trying to make them come out even. It reminded me of that.”

“Let’s go,” Nancy said.

Ryan had turned from the car. He was looking off into the trees, in the direction of the migrant camp.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The way they live and all, they always seem to get along. They don’t really bitch about anything, they kid about it. I mean, I think of them as being pretty happy. I don’t mean simple, fun-loving folk, you know-”

“No,” Nancy said. “What do you mean?”

Ryan looked at her now. “I mean, they can take it. Maybe they take more than they should, I don’t know. But even living the way they do, they still have something not many people have.”

“I know,” Nancy said. “Dignity.”

“Forget it.”

“How about nobility?”

Ryan finished his drink, trying to do it calmly.

“Come on, I want to know.”

“Go bag your ass,” Ryan said.

She smiled and started to laugh, then put her head back and laughed louder. Ryan watched her. Something was strange and he kept watching her until he realized what it was. In the three days he had known her this was the first time he had heard her laugh.

A fellow by the name of A. J. Banks, from the Growers Association, called Bob Jr. and asked him what it would cost to have the labor camp torn down and hauled away so they could plant that whole area next season. Bob Jr. said he wasn’t a wrecking company, why ask him? And A. J. Banks said if he could build it, goddamnit, he could estimate tearing it down, couldn’t he? Bob Jr. said he’d look it over and see what he thought. That’s why he drove up to the camp and would have sworn he saw Nancy’s Mustang heading out the back road as he reached the migrant buildings. Maybe not.

But maybe it was her car. After he looked over the buildings and got an idea how many truckloads it would take to haul the lumber away, he drove out the back road. Her car wasn’t at Mr. Ritchie’s lodge. Beyond the lodge the road didn’t lead anywhere; it cut through pastureland and woods and finally reached the lakeshore about fifteen miles from Geneva Beach. Bob Jr. hadn’t been back here since spring, since they decided to sell the woods property and he put the sign up on the road. Once in a while somebody, like Mr. Majestyk, would look at the property, but usually the only ones who came by were kids looking for a place to make out. The tire tracks could be anybody’s; old ones. But then he remembered it had rained the day before yesterday.

When he saw the good clean impression of the tracks turning into their private road, he knew somebody had been back here recently. He wasn’t thinking of Nancy now. He’d decided it couldn’t have been her car he’d seen. But he was curious about the tire tracks. That’s why he shifted into first and headed the pickup truck up the private road.

The first thing Ryan did when he saw the pickup, hearing it first and knowing it right away as it came out of the trees, he placed his glass on the hood of the Mustang and looked around. He wasn’t trying to be casual about it, but he wasn’t hurrying either. He spotted a tree limb on the ground, over just a little way, and by the time Bob Jr. was out of the pickup, Ryan had snapped off a branch the size of a broom handle and stood resting on it in his spearman pose.

In the car, holding her glass, her arm resting on the doorsill, Nancy said, “Hi, Bob,” and waited to see what would happen.

Bob Jr. looked over the situation. He saw Nancy and the empty glass on the hood and out beyond the car Jack Ryan holding his staff or club or whatever the hell it was. They were both waiting for him to do something, like it was up to him to make the next move. Ryan was standing there asking for it and that part of it was simple: he’d told Ryan to leave and Ryan was still here, so he’d have to teach him a lesson. But with Nancy watching, he’d have to make it look easy, like this bird wasn’t any trouble at all. Bob Jr. took off his cowboy hat and his sunglasses and put them in the truck, through the window.

“Bob,” Nancy said, “do you want a Cold Duck?”

“Not just now,” Bob Jr. said. He glanced at her. “What’re you doing out here?” As he said it, it didn’t sound right to him.

“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “He brought me.”

“Has he bothered you any?”

“Let’s see-no, he hasn’t really bothered me.” She was having fun.

“A ball bat or a stick,” Bob Jr. said, staring at Ryan again. “You got to have something in your hand, don’t you?”

Ryan didn’t answer. He stood waiting.

“Tough guy if he’s got a club in his hand. Hey, boy, don’t you want to fight fair?”

Ryan frowned now. He said, “Fair? What is this, the goddamn Golden Gloves?”

“A man fights with his fists,” Bob Jr. said.

“Yeah, well you come at me, buddy, and I’ll hit you with the heaviest thing I can find.”

“I got a tire iron in the truck,” Bob Jr. said. “Maybe I better get it.”

“If you did,” Ryan said then, “and we started swinging at each other, tell me something, what would we be fighting about?”

“Because you think you’re a tough boy and think you can take me.”

“Did I ever tell you that?”

“You didn’t have to. I know your smart-ass type the minute I see it.”

Ryan kept studying him. “You really want to fight, uh?”

“You got something coming,” Bob Jr. said.

Ryan looked at Nancy then and said, “Tell him he doesn’t have to.”

She was watching Ryan. “It’s not up to me.”

“Tell him anyway.”

“Leave her out of it,” Bob Jr. said.

Ryan shook his head. “Boy, you must be awful dumb or something. She wants a fight, don’t you see that?”

“And you want to get out of it,” Bob Jr. said.

It was coming now and Ryan knew it. Every time he had ever been in a fight since he was little, he knew this time when his stomach tightened and he could see in the other guy’s eyes they were going to go through with it. He had thought about it a lot, this moment, and he had come to realize that the other guy must be feeling and thinking the same thing, and no matter how big the other guy was, he would probably be afraid or tightened up or nervous, because nobody could ever be a hundred percent sure. This moment, Ryan had decided, when they weren’t quite ready, was the time to hit them. Hit first and hit hard and maybe end it right there.

Bob Jr. made it easier. He took a couple of steps back just as Ryan was ready to move and half turned to reach into the pickup bed. He had to look in to locate the tire iron or a wrecking bar and as he glanced around again to check on Ryan he would never have thought a man could move so fast; Ryan was rushing him, steps away, and the goddamn staff or club or whatever it was, up in the air, was coming down on him.

Bob Jr. rolled against the side of the pickup box, getting his head behind a shoulder, and took the first blow hard and solid against his forearm as he brought it up.