Last year ‘long the Republican River, there in Nebraska. I was jungled there, an’ was in awful bad shape. My ankles was busted up on account of a guy run over ‘em with a tractor. I’d been sleepin’ ‘longside this farmer’s field in these high weeds, an’ the farmer come ‘long in his tractor an’ run over both my ankles. Got ‘em both with jus’ the one wheel. He took me to the hospital, but they wouldn’t let me stay. They fixed me up, but they gimme the story: no pay, no stay.  But they took every bit of my hundred an’ fifty-five dollars, all the money I had. An’ hell, that farmer didn’t have no money. His crops was all parched an’ dryin’ up under the sun. I b’lieve he was in as bad a shape as me.

Got me a ride ta the next division, an’ set down by the river an’ whittled myself a pair of crutches. I was hobblin’ ‘roun’ down by the water, gittin’ camp set up, an’ tryin’ ta figger out how I’m gonna make it with these two swol’ ankles, an’ who comes walkin’ inta camp but an old buddy I knowed good.  He sees my crutches, an’ he sez, “Don’t look like ye’ll be catchin’ it on the fly fer awhile.” An’ he jungled there ‘long with me. I didn’t ask fer no help, but he give it on his own. He made the food runs an’ water runs, an’ stayed there till it got ta where I could put a little weight on my feet.

85.