Highway 66 is the main migrant road. 66—the long concrete path across the country, waving gently up and down on the map, from the Mississippi to Bakersfield—over the red lands and the gray lands, twisting up into the mountains, crossing the Divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert to the mountains again, and into the rich California valleys.

66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land, from the thunder of tractors and shrinking ownership, from the desert’s slow northward invasion, from the twisting winds that howl up out of Texas, from the floods that bring no richness to the land and steal what little richness is there. From all of these the people are in flight, and they come into 66 from the tributary side roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads. 66 is the mother road, the road of flight.

Clarksville and Ozark and Van Buren and Fort Smith on 64, and there’s an end of Arkansas. And all the roads into Oklahoma City, 66 down from Tulsa, 270 up from McAlester. 81 from Wichita Falls south, from Enid north. Edmond, McLoud, Purcell. 66 out of Oklahoma City; El Reno and Clinton, going west on 66. Hydro, Elk City, and Texola; and there’s an end to Oklahoma. 66 across the Panhandle of Texas. Shamrock and McLean, Conway and Amarillo, the yellow. Wildorado and Vega and Boise, and there’s an end of Texas. Tucumcari and Santa Rosa and into the New Mexican mountains to Albuquerque, where the road comes down from Santa Fe. Then down the gorged Rio Grande to Los Lunas and west again on 66 to Gallup, and there’s the border of New Mexico.

And now the high mountains. Holbrook and Winslow and Flagstaff in the high mountains of Arizona. Then the great plateau rolling like a ground swell. Ashfork and Kingman and stone mountains again, where water must be hauled and sold. Then out of the broken sun-rotted mountains of Arizona to the Colorado, with green reeds on its banks, and that’s the end of Arizona. There’s California just over the river, and a pretty town to start it. Needles, on the river. But the river is a stranger in this place. Up from Needles and over a burned range, and there’s the desert. And 66 goes on over the terrible desert, where the distance shimmers and the black center mountains hang unbearably in the distance. At last there’s Barstow, and more desert until at last the mountains rise up again, the good mountains, and 66 winds through them. Then suddenly a pass, and below the beautiful valley, below orchards and vineyards and little houses, and in the distance a city. And, oh, my God, it’s over.

The people in flight streamed out on 66, sometimes a single car, sometimes a little caravan. All day they rolled slowly along the road, and at night they stopped near water. In the day ancient leaky radiators sent up columns of steam, loose connecting rods hammered and pounded. And the men driving the trucks and the overloaded cars listened apprehensively. How far between towns? It is a terror between towns. If something breaks—well, if something breaks we camp right here while Jim walks to town and gets a part and walks back and—how much food we got?

Listen to the motor. Listen to the wheels. Listen with your ears and with your hands on the steering wheel; listen with the palm of your hand on the gear-shift lever; listen with your feet on the floor boards. Listen to the pounding old jalopy with all your senses; for a change of tone, a variation of rhythm may mean—a week here? That rattle—that’s tappets. Don’t hurt a bit. Tappets can rattle till Jesus comes again without no harm. But that thudding as the car moves along—can’t hear that—just kind of feel it. Maybe oil isn’t gettin’ someplace. Maybe a bearing’s startin’ to go. Jesus, if it’s a bearing, what’ll we do? Money’s goin’ fast.

And why’s the son-of-a-bitch heat up so hot today? This ain’t no climb. Le’s look. God Almighty, the fan belt’s gone! Here, make a belt outa this little piece a rope. Le’s see how long—there. I’ll splice the ends. Now take her slow—slow, till we can get to a town. That rope belt won’t last long.

’F we can on’y get to California where the oranges grow before this here ol’ jug blows up. ’F we on’y can.

And the tires—two layers of fabric worn through. On’y a four-ply tire. Might get a hunderd miles more outa her if we don’t hit a rock an’ blow her. Which’ll we take—a hunderd, maybe, miles, or maybe spoil the tube? Which? A hunderd miles. Well, that’s somepin you got to think about. We got tube patches. Maybe when she goes she’ll only spring a leak. How about makin’ a boot? Might get five hunderd more miles. Le’s go on till she blows.

We got to get a tire, but, Jesus, they want a lot for a ol’ tire. They look a fella over. They know he got to go on. They know he can’t wait. And the price goes up.

Take it or leave it. I ain’t in business for my health. I’m here a-sellin’ tires. I ain’t givin’ ’em away. I can’t help what happens to you. I got to think what happens to me.

How far’s the nex’ town?

I seen forty-two cars a you fellas go by yesterday. Where you all come from? Where all of you goin’?

Well, California’s a big State.

It ain’t that big. The whole United States ain’t that big. It ain’t that big. It ain’t big enough. There ain’t room enough for you an’ me, for your kind an’ my kind, for rich and poor together all in one country, for thieves and honest men. For hunger and fat. Whyn’t you go back where you come from?

This is a free country. Fella can go where he wants.

That’s what you think! Ever hear of the border patrol on the California line? Police from Los Angeles—stopped you bastards, turned you back. Says, if you can’t buy no real estate we don’t want you. Says, got a driver’s license? Le’s see it. Tore it up. Says you can’t come in without no driver’s license.

It’s a free country.

Well, try to get some freedom to do. Fella says you’re jus’ as free as you got jack to pay for it.

In California they got high wages. I got a han’bill here tells about it.

Baloney! I seen folks comin’ back. Somebody’s kiddin’ you. You want that tire or don’t ya?

Got to take it, but, Jesus, mister, it cuts into our money! We ain’t got much left.

Well, I ain’t no charity. Take her along.

Got to, I guess. Let’s look her over. Open her up, look a’ the casing—you son-of-a-bitch, you said the casing was good. She’s broke damn near through.

The hell she is. Well—by George! How come I didn’ see that?

You did see it, you son-of-a-bitch. You wanta charge us four bucks for a busted casing. I’d like to take a sock at you.

Now keep your shirt on. I didn’ see it, I tell you. Here—tell ya what I’ll do. I’ll give ya this one for three-fifty.

You’ll take a flying jump at the moon! We’ll try to make the nex’ town.

Think we can make it on that tire?

Got to. I’ll go on the rim before I’d give that son-of-a-bitch a dime.

What do ya think a guy in business is? Like he says, he ain’t in it for his health. That’s what business is. What’d you think it was? Fella’s got— See that sign ’longside the road there? Service Club. Luncheon Tuesday, Colmado Hotel? Welcome, brother. That’s a Service Club. Fella had a story. Went to one of them meetings an’ told the story to all them business men. Says, when I was a kid my ol’ man give me a haltered heifer an’ says take her down an’ git her serviced. An’ the fella says, I done it, an’ ever’ time since then when I hear a business man talkin’ about service, I wonder who’s gettin’ screwed. Fella in business got to lie an’ cheat, but he calls it somepin else. That’s what’s important. You go steal that tire an’ you’re a thief, but he tried to steal your four dollars for a busted tire. They call that sound business.

Danny in the back seat wants a cup a water.

Have to wait. Got no water here.

Listen—that the rear end?

Can’t tell.

Sound telegraphs through the frame.

There goes a gasket. Got to go on. Listen to her whistle. Find a nice place to camp an’ I’ll jerk the head off. But, God Almighty, the food’s gettin’ low, the money’s gettin’ low. When we can’t buy no more gas—what then?

Danny in the back seat wants a cup a water. Little fella’s thirsty.

Listen to that gasket whistle.

Chee-rist! There she went. Blowed tube an’ casing all to hell. Have to fix her. Save that casing to make boots; cut ’em out an’ stick ’em inside a weak place.

Cars pulled up beside the road, engine heads off, tires mended. Cars limping along 66 like wounded things, panting and struggling. Too hot, loose connections, loose bearings, rattling bodies.

Danny wants a cup of water.

People in flight along 66. And the concrete road shone like a mirror under the sun, and in the distance the heat made it seem that there were pools of water in the road.

Danny wants a cup a water.

He’ll have to wait, poor little fella. He’s hot. Nex’ service station. Service station, like the fella says.

Two hundred and fifty thousand people over the road. Fifty thousand old cars—wounded, steaming. Wrecks along the road, abandoned. Well, what happened to them? What happened to the folks in that car? Did they walk? Where are they? Where does the courage come from? Where does the terrible faith come from?

And here’s a story you can hardly believe, but it’s true, and it’s funny and it’s beautiful. There was a family of twelve and they were forced off the land. They had no car. They built a trailer out of junk and loaded it with their possessions. They pulled it to the side of 66 and waited. And pretty soon a sedan picked them up. Five of them rode in the sedan and seven on the trailer, and a dog on the trailer. They got to California in two jumps. The man who pulled them fed them. And that’s true. But how can such courage be, and such faith in their own species? Very few things would teach such faith.

The people in flight from the terror behind—strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever.