It was just after ten, in the dry heat of a July day six weeks later,
when four of the deputies appeared on the road at the entrance to the
miners' shack village, and started to enter. They were backed by a squad
of the new Home Guard, who had come to help out the militia, now in
process of gradual federalization.
"What d'ye want?" called out John McGue, the only committeeman at the
moment in the informal town. Pelham, Joe Mullins, the new national
organizer, and a committee were visiting the governor, to protest
against two exceptionally brutal clubbings by the restlessly inactive
guards. It was a hopeless trip, except as a protest.
"You hold things down, McGue," Mullins had told him. "It's coming, by
God! They'll consent to arbitrate before the middle of August, or the
federal government'll step in! Four new camps, man, in three weeks--they
can't get any more men, either, for love or money. We've got 'em!"
Things were looking serious for the company. The Ed Cole verdict had
reacted against it; defections from the ranks of the strike-breakers
were frequent, and the output was hardly a third of that of the summer
before the strike.
McGue wondered if the visit of the guards and militiamen had been timed
to fit in with the absence of most of the strike leaders in Jackson.
"What d'ye want?" he repeated.
"We got warrants for six men." The deputy--it was Huggins--started to
walk on in; McGue kept his place.
"Get out of the way, there," Huggins warned him shortly.
"Gimme the names; we'll git the men fer you. No need to go trampling
through people's houses and gardens, as you guards did last week."
"I'll give you nothin'."
The voices in dispute resounded down the vacant roads. Men, hungry men,
their natures warped with the long unequal struggle, massed in a
shifting background behind the rugged committeeman.
"Get out of my way, or I'll jug you too."
Silently McGue stepped aside. The crowd flattened back against the
flimsy walls. The armed guards, grinning at one another, jostling and
joking, penetrated deeper and deeper into the straggly irregularity of
the settlement.
All at once Huggins caught sight of an undergrown, misshapen boy
scowling from the back of the men and women. Pushing them aside, he
shoved to the spot, the guards close behind. His hand gripped the boy's
arm, until he winced.
"Hey--whatcher----"
"What's your name?"
"Aw, you lemme 'lone! I ain't done a thing."
"Take him, there." He shook the boy savagely. "Your name's McGuire,
ain't it? Frank McGuire--I know you."
McGue came up again, holding in his irritation. "What do you want this
boy for?"
"None of your damn' business! We got a warrant for him, see? You keep
out, or----"
Several of the deputies in the rear clicked their hammers suggestively,
snickering at the one-sided joke. A disturbed buzz wavered up and down
the massed strikers. As Huggins turned up the wider road again, it grew
in volume into a subdued stream of boohs, catcalls, hisses, low threats.
He turned incautiously, facing them.
"Don't you follow me, you gutter trash, or I'll jug the lot of you!"