In Dubious Battle (21 page)

And then—above the steam—three sharp, cracking sounds. Mac looked back at the stores. Heads and rifles were withdrawn quickly from the room windows and the windows dropped.

Joy had stopped, his eyes wide. His mouth flew open and a jet of blood rolled down his chin, and down his shirt. His eyes ranged wildly over the crowd of men. He fell on his face and clawed outward with his fingers. The guards stared unbelievingly at the squirming figure on the ground. Suddenly the steam stopped; and the quietness fell on the men like a wave of sound. The line of strikers stood still, with strange, dreaming faces. Joy lifted himself up with his arms, like a lizard, and then dropped again. A little thick river of blood ran down on the crushed rock of the roadbed.

A strange, heavy movement started among the men. London moved forward woodenly, and the men moved forward. They were stiff. The guards aimed with their guns, but the line moved on, unheeding, unseeing. The
guards stepped swiftly sideways to get out of the way, for the box-car doors were belching silent men who moved slowly in. The ends of the long line curled and circled slowly around the center of the dead man, like sheep about a nucleus.

Jim clung shivering to Mac’s arm. Mac turned and muttered, “He’s done the first real, useful thing in his life. Poor Joy. He’s done it. He’d be so glad. Look at the cops, Jim. Let go my arm. Don’t lose your nerve. Look at the cops!”

The guards were frightened, riots they could stop, fighting they could stop; but this slow, silent movement of men with the wide eyes of sleep-walkers terrified them. They held to their places, but the sheriff started his car. The motorcycle police moved imperceptibly toward their parked machines.

The strike-breakers were out of the cars by now. Some of them crept between the box-cars or under the wheels and hurried away on the other side, but most of them moved up and packed tightly about the place where Joy lay.

Mac saw Dakin standing on the outskirts of the mob, his little pale eyes for once looking straight ahead and not moving. Mac walked over to him. “We better get him in your truck and take him out to the camp.”

Dakin turned slowly. “We can’t touch him,” he said. “The cops’ll have to take him.”

Mac said sharply, “Why didn’t the cops catch those guys in the windows? Look at the cops, they’re scared to death. We’ve got to take him, I tell you. We’ve got to use him to step our guys up, to keep ’em together. This’ll stick ’em together, this’ll make ’em fight.”

Dakin grimaced. “You’re a cold-blooded bastard. Don’t you think of nothing but ‘strike’?”

Jim broke in, “Dakin, that little guy got shot trying to help us. D’you want to stop him now from doing it?”

Dakin’s eyes moved slowly from Mac to Jim, and then to Mac again. He said, “What do you know about what he was doin’? Couldn’t hear nothing but that damn steam.”

“We know him,” Mac said. “He was a pal of ours.”

Dakin’s eyes were filled with dislike. “Pal of yours, and you won’t let him rest now. You want to use him. You’re a pair of cold-blooded bastards.”

Mac cried, “What do you know about it? Joy didn’t want no rest. Joy wanted to work, and he didn’t know how.” His voice rose hysterically, “and now he’s got a chance to work, and you don’t want to let ’im.”

A number of the men had turned toward the voices, turned with a dull curiosity. Dakin peered at Mac for a moment longer. “Come on,” he said. They pushed and jabbed their way into the tight mass of men, who gave way reluctantly.

Mac shouted, “Come on, you guys, let us in. We got to get this poor fellow out o’ there.” The men opened a narrow pathway, pushing violently backward to make it.

London joined them, and helped to force a way in. Joy was quite dead. When they had cleared a little space around him, London turned him over and started to wipe the bloody dirt from Joy’s mouth. There was a foxy look in the open eyes; the mouth smiled terribly.

Mac said, “Don’t do that, London. Leave it that way, just the way it is.”

London lifted the little man in his arms. Joy looked very small against London’s big chest. A path opened for them
easily this time. London marched along, and the men arranged themselves into a crude column, and followed.

Beside Dakin’s bright green truck the sheriff stood, surrounded by his deputies. London stopped, and the following men stopped. “I want that body,” the sheriff said.

“No. You can’t have it.”

“You men shot a strike-breaker. We’ll bring the charge. I want that body for the coroner.”

London’s eyes glowed redly. He said simply, “Mister, you know the guys that killed this little man; you know who did it. You got laws and you don’t keep ’em.” The mob was silent, listening.

“I tell you, I want that body.”

London said plaintively, “Can’t you see, mister? If you guys don’t get the hell out of here, can’t you see you’re goin’ get
killed?
Can’t you see
that,
mister? Don’t you
know
when you can’t go no further?”

From the mob there came a rustle of released breath. The sheriff said, “I’m not through with you,” but he backed away, and his deputies backed away. The mob growled, so softly that it sounded like a moan. London set Joy over the tailboard of the truck, and he climbed in and lifted the body forward, until it leaned against the back of the cab.

Dakin started his motor and backed around and rolled along the street, and the dull, menacing mob fell in behind. They made no noise. They walked with heavy, padding footsteps.

No motorcycle police lined the road. The streets and the roads were deserted on their line of march. Mac and Jim walked a little to one side of the truck. “Was it vigilantes, Mac?”

“Yep. But they overdid it this time. Everything went wrong for them. That steam—if our guys could’ve heard the shooting better, they’d probably have run away. But the steam was too loud. It was over too soon; our guys didn’t have a chance to get scared. No, they made a mistake.”

They trudged slowly along, beside the column of marching men. “Mac, who in hell are these vigilantes, anyway? What kind of guys are they?”

“Why, they’re the dirtiest guys in any town. They’re the same ones that burned the houses of old German people during the war. They’re the same ones that lynch Negroes. They like to be cruel. They like to hurt people, and they always give it a nice name, patriotism or protecting the constitution. But they’re just the old nigger torturers working. The owners use ’em, tell ’em we have to protect the people against reds. Y’see that lets ’em burn houses and torture and beat people with no danger. And that’s all they want to do, anyway. They’ve got no guts; they’ll only shoot from cover, or gang a man when they’re ten to one. I guess they’re about the worst scum in the world.” His eyes sought the body of Joy, in the truck. He said, “During the war there was a little fat German tailor in my town, and a bunch of these patriotic bastards, about fifty of ’em, started his house on fire, and beat him to a pulp. They’re great guys, these vigilantes. Not long ago they shot tracer bullets through a kerosene tank and started a fire in a bunk house. They didn’t even have the guts to do it with a match.”

The column marched on through the country, raising a great dust. The men were coming slowly out of their dream. They talked together in low voices. Their feet
scuffed heavily against the ground. “Poor Joy,” Jim said. “He was a good little fellow. He’d been beaten so much. He reminded me of my old man, always mad.”

Mac reproved him. “Don’t feel sorry for Joy. If he could know what he did, he’d be cocky. Joy always wanted to lead people, and now he’s going to do it, even if he’s in a box.”

“How about the scabs, Mac? We got a bunch of them with us.”

“Sure, a bunch came over, but a lot of ’em beat it. Some of our guys beat it, too. We got just about the same number we started with. Didn’t you see ’em crawling under the cars and running away?” Mac said, “Look at these guys. They’re waking up. It’s just as though they got a shot of gas for a while. That’s the most dangerous kind of men.”

“The cops knew it, too,” said Jim.

“Damn right they did. When a mob don’t make a noise, when it just comes on with dead-pans, that’s the time for a cop to get out of the way.”

They were nearing the Anderson place. Jim asked, “What do we do now, Mac?”

“Well, we hold the funeral, and we start picketing. It’ll settle down now. They’ll run in scabs with trucks.”

“You still think we’ll get beat, Mac?”

“I don’t know. They got this valley organized. God, how they’ve got it organized. It’s not so hard to do when a few men control everything, land, courts, banks. They can cut off loans, and they can railroad a man to jail, and they can always bribe plenty.”

Dakin’s truck pulled to the end of the line of cars and backed into place. The camp guards came streaming out,
and the column of returning men deployed among them. Groups collected to hear the story, over and over. Dr. Burton trotted over to Dakin’s truck. London stood up heavily. His wide blue shirt-front was streaked with Joy’s blood. Burton took one look at Joy. “Killed him, eh?”

“Got him,” said London.

Burton said, “Bring him to my tent. I’ll look him over.” From behind the tents a hoarse, bubbling scream broke out. All of the men turned, frozen at the sound. Burton said, “Oh, they’re killing a pig. One of the cars brought back a live pig. Bring this body to my tent.”

London bent over wearily and lifted Joy in his arms again. A crowd of men followed him, and stood clustered about the big troop tent. Mac and Jim followed Dr. Burton inside the tent. They watched silently while he unbuttoned the stiff, bloody shirt and disclosed a wound in the chest. “Well, that’s it. That’d do it.”

“Recognize him, Doc?”

Burton looked closely at the distorted face. “I’ve seen him before.”

“Sure you have. It’s Joy. You’ve set damn near every bone in his body.”

“Well, he’s through this time. Tough little man. You’ll have to send his body to town. The coroner’ll have to have it.”

London said, “If we do that, they’ll bury him, hide him.”

Mac said, “We can send some guys in to see that he gets back here. Let ’em picket the morgue till they get the body back. Those damn vigilantes made a mistake; an’ they know it by now.”

Dakin lifted the flap and stepped into the big tent.

“They’re fryin’ pork,” he said. “They sure cut up that pig quick.”

Mac said, “Dakin, can you have the guys build a kind of a platform? We’ll want some place for the coffin to set. Y’ought to have a place to talk from, too.”

“Want to make a show of it, do you?”

“You’re damn right! You got me kinda wrong, Dakin. What we got to fight with? Rocks, sticks. Even Indians had bows an’ arrows. But let us get one little gun to protect ourselves, an’ they call out the troops to stop the revolution. We got damn few things to fight with. We got to use what we can. This little guy was my friend. Y’can take it from me he’d want to get used any way we can use him. We
got
to use him.” He paused. “Dakin, can’t you see? We’ll get a hell of a lot of people on our side if we put on a public funeral. We got to get public opinion.”

London was nodding his head slowly up and down. “The guy’s right, Dakin.”

“O.K., if you want it too, London. I s’pose somebody’s got to make a speech, but I ain’t goin’ to do it.”

“Well, I will if I have to,” London cried. “I seen the little guy start over to us. I seen him get it. I’ll make the speech if you won’t.”

“Sounds like Cock Robin,” Burton said.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I was just talking. Better get the body taken in now, and turn it over to the coroner.”

London said, “I’m going to send a flock of my own guys to stay with him.”

Jim’s voice came from outside the tent. “Oh, Mac, come on out. Anderson wants to see you.”

Mac walked quickly outside. Anderson was standing with Jim. He looked tired and old. “You just played hell,” he began fiercely.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Anderson?”

“Said you’d protect us, didn’t you?”

“Sure I did. The guys here’ll take care of you. What’s the matter?”

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter. Bunch of men burned up Al’s lunch wagon last night. They jumped on Al’ an’ broke his arm an’ six ribs. They burned his lunch wagon right down.”

“Jesus!” Mac said. “I didn’t think they’d do that.”

“You didn’t think, but they did it just the same.”

“Where’s Al now, Mr. Anderson?”

“He’s over to the house. I had to bring him out from the hospital.”

“I’ll get the doctor. We’ll go over and see him.”

“Eighteen hundred dollars!” the old man cried. “He got some of it together, and I loaned him some, and then along you come. Now he hasn’t got a thing.”

“I’m awful sorry,” Mac said.

“Sure, you’re sorry. That don’t unburn Al’s wagon. That don’t mend his arm and his ribs. And what you doing to protect me? They’ll burn my house next.”

“We’ll put a guard around your house.”

“Guard, hell. What good’s this bunch of bums? I wish I never let you on the place. You’ll ruin me.” His voice had risen to a high squeak. His old eyes were watering. “You just played hell, that’s what you did. That’s what we get for mixing up with a bunch of damn radicals.”

Mac tried to soothe him. “Let’s go over and see Al,” he suggested. “Al’s a swell guy. I want to see him.”

“Well, he’s all busted up. They kicked ’im in the head, too.”

Mac edged him slowly away, for the men were beginning to move in, toward the shrill voice. “What you blaming us for?” he said. “We didn’t do it. It was those nice neighbors of yours.”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t of happened if we didn’t get mixed up with you.”

Mac turned angrily on him. “Listen, mister, we know you got a sock in the teeth; little guys like you and me get it all the time. We’re tryin’ to make it so guys like you won’t get it.”

“That wagon cost eighteen hundred dollars. Why, man, I can’t go in town without the kids throw rocks at me. You ruined us, that’s what you did.”

Mac asked, “How’s Al feel about it?”

“I think Al’s red as hell himself. Only people he’s sore at are the men that did it.”