There was no moon, and they held hands like a group of schoolchildren. Michael hadn’t been surprised to see Dusty among the volunteers; he recognized a number of men from the On to Ottawa trek, men like himself who were simply drifting, and ended up, finally, in Spain. Some shared Bethune’s idealism; others followed the desperate herd. In Canada they would be living in shanties in northern Ontario laying track or following the harvest, or simply starving. It happened. Men without families who expired in alleyways or on roadsides. “You think it’s true what they say?” Dusty asked. “What do they say?” “Those fascists see us coming, they’ll turn tail.” Michael looked at the weary, hatchet-faced men, arranged in a line, snaking through the Spanish mountains. All of them were over thirty, quite a few over forty. “I wouldn’t count on it.” “We put the scare into them Regina cops. We got Bennett voted out of office. I’ll tell you one thing, those Spanish women, they got a treat coming.”
