I. W. W.
The calf round-up was over. The Heart Bar cattle had been rebranded
with the Round Seven brand and turned onto their own range north of
the Missouri River, and Tex, with a half dozen riders who had been
retained, was out on the range gathering a train load of
three-year-old steers and turning them onto the Indian Reservation
where they would "finish off" for fall shipment to Chicago, to much
better advantage than on the open range.
Connie remained at the Round Seven home ranch where haying was in
full swing. Each day found him in the hay fields where the crews
under the direction of Tombstone and Canary were harvesting the crop
of winter feed. To the boy whose experience had been for the most
part in the far north, there was a certain fascination in seeing the
tall grass laid flat to the whine of the mowers. There was
fascination, also, in the scent of the sun-dried hay that was rolled
into long windrows by the rakes, and whipped into cocks by the forks
of the hay crew, and in watching the huge stacks grow, as load after
load was swung aloft by the big boom of the stackers.
One evening as the boy sat on the porch of the log ranch house with
his eyes on the far horizon where the square head of Sugar Loaf Butte
stood out distinctly in the afterglow, Tombstone, doleful of
countenance, slowly chewing at the end of a stalk of hay that dangled
from the corner of his mouth, ambled around the corner of the house
and seated himself on the top step. For a full minute he sat there
chewing his piece of hay, his eyes fixed sombrely upon the ground.
Connie was the first to speak:
"How are things coming, Tombstone?" he asked.
The man shoved his Stetson toward the back of his head, shifted the
straw to the opposite corner of his mouth, and spat with deliberation
and accuracy upon a sun dried chip. "Things looks bad. Tollable
bad, a man could say." He surveyed the result of his shot at the
chip with approval, and relapsed into silence.
"Why, what's the matter? Everything seemed to be going fine this
afternoon."
"We got a lot of hay down. One field of blue j'int layin' flat. A
lot of wild hay up the west coulee raked, an' that alfalfy down in
the medder, all cocked up."
"What's the matter with that?" The boy's eyes swept the sky that had
been cloudless for weeks. "You're not looking for rain, are you?"
Tombstone submitted the heavens to a minute scrutiny. "You can't
never tell," he opined, with a wag of the head, "I've saw it rain
before now, an' I've saw it not. If it hauls off an' rains things
will be worst an' worst, which they're bad enough as they be."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, some of the hands has quit."
"Quit! What did they quit for?"
"They want more money. They claim it's too hot, an' they won't work
for no forty dollars a month."
"Isn't it always hot at haying time?"
"Sure, it's hot. It ain't the hot. That there's jist a excuse fer
to have somethin' to kick about. They think they've got you where
they kin gouge five dollars more on the month out of you. This here
is a heavy hay year, an' all the outfits has hired all the men they
is, an' they figger you can't git no more if they quit."
"Have they all quit?"
"Naw. Only one gang. Them ones that's in the bunk house. They's
two or three of 'em that claims they're I.Ws., whatever that is, an'
they've talked around amongst the rest, an' made speeches nights,
ontil they've got the hull gang onsatisfied with the work an' the
wages, an' everything else. Besides which they know you're jest a
young feller. I wisht Tex was here. Mebbe me or Canary could find
him in a day's ride, or so."
"I guess we won't bother Tex," Connie replied. "He ought to be
pulling in most any time, now. But even if he should be out a few
days longer, I think we can handle this gang. I ran across the
I.W.Ws. once up in a log camp in Minnesota, and I know something of
their tricks. You stay here and I'll go down to the bunk house and
have a talk with 'em. I was looking for Tex and the boys in this
evening. If they come before I get back, tell them not to show up
around the bunk house. Wherever there are I.W.Ws, there's apt to be
trouble, and if they want to start anything, it's just as well not to
let them know how strong we are."
"I do'no," said Tombstone, doubtfully, "I don't b'lieve talkin' will
do no good. An' if you agree to give 'em a five dollar raise, the
other gang'll want it, too. An' if you don't, the heft of 'em'll
quit, an' we'll be short handed an' lose a lot of hay, or if they
don't quit they'll be wantin' another five dollar raise in a week's
time. Things looks bad, boss, I'm a-tellin'--mighty bad."
Connie laughed: "Cheer up, Tombstone! Things generally work out all
right. What we've got to do is use our heads. I'll know more about
it when I come back."
"They's a lot of times things don't work out," forboded Tombstone,
lugubriously: "Lots of hay has be'n lost 'cause outfits was
short-handed. Outfits has busted, an' men has died before now,
because things didn't work out right. If yer luck's runnin' porely,
it ain't no use to try to buck it. Even if only half them fellers
quits, we're crippled so we lose a lot of hay."
On the way to the bunk house Connie grinned to himself: "Poor
Tombstone," he muttered, "It must be awful to always look on the dark
side of things. The trouble is with him, he's never learned to live."
Twilight was deepening, and as the boy approached the bunk house he
could see by the yellow glow of the bracket lamps that the men had
sought shelter from the mosquitoes behind the closed screens. The
sound of a voice reached his ears. Evidently one of their number was
haranguing them in a sort of set speech. Fragments of the man's
remarks reached his ears as he drew near the door: "Capital grinds
labor in under its heel. Bosses an' slaves--that's what this
country's made up of. Us pore fellers toilin' an' sweatin' out there
in the sun all day is the slaves, an' the ranch owners is the bosses.
An' what do we git out of it? Forty stinkin' dollars a month! The
price of one steer! Or two ton of hay! An' how many steers has this
outfit got? An' how many ton of hay? Thousands of 'em! But, the
time's comin' when things will be changed. Labor's got to organize.
Capital can't exist without us. We've got the bosses by the throat,
an' we don't know enough to squeeze down an' choke 'em. Right now,
we've got the chanct to squeeze down an' git a little of what's
comin' to us--" Connie opened the door and entered the bunk house.
A sharp featured man, with narrow shoulders, and a blue cotton shirt
open at the throat, stood at one end of the room. Two others were
seated beside him, and the rest of the men lounged on chairs and
bunks. Connie seated himself in a chair and deliberately tilted its
back against the wall. The narrow shouldered man stared at him for a
moment, shuffled uneasily upon his feet, glanced over the faces of
the others, and sat down abruptly between his two companions, where
he mopped his sweat-beaded forehead with the sleeve of his blue
cotton shirt.
"Go on," urged Connie, smiling toward the man. "Don't mind me. Go
on with your speech. I'd like to hear it."
The man scowled, wriggled, and shot an appealing look toward the man
on his left, a large, low-browed man with a month's growth of beard.
The big man answered the boy's invitation without rising from his
chair: "What we got to say, ain't fer you to listen to. All you've
got to know is that you've got to pay us five dollars more on the
month, or we'll quit."
"Why should I pay five dollars more a month? You agreed to work for
forty dollars, didn't you? None of the other outfits are paying more
than forty."
"That don't make no difference one way or another. The p'int is,
we've got you where you'll pay the five, or you'll lose more hay than
what the raise would come to. We use our head, we do. You're up
agin organization, young feller, an' organized labor is goin' to show
the bosses where to head in at. Time ain't so fur off when the
I.W.W.'ll make the prices, an' you bosses'll pay 'em, same as you're
goin' to come acrost, now."
"Are you all I.W.Ws?" asked the boy glancing about the room. He
noted that the eyes of most of the men lowered before his glance, and
the man with the stubby beard answered. "No--only us three here is
I.W.Ws., now--but the rest of 'em will be when they see how easy it
is to git their rights."
"There are a few points I'd like to talk over," replied the boy.
"You say that the fact that you agreed to work for forty dollars
don't make any difference. You expect these men to join your
organization, and the first thing you show them is that the
organization welches on a bargain." The boy turned to the others who
had remained silent listeners: "How do you boys feel about it?" he
asked, abruptly. "You've all worked in the hay fields before.
What's the trouble?" he paused for a moment, but no one answered, and
he continued: "Don't your sleeping quarters suit you? Or, is it the
grub? Or the hours? I want to find out where the trouble is.
Tombstone told me someone said it was the hot weather. But, if you
did quit, it would be just as hot the next place you worked, and the
wages would be the same." Once more the boy paused and ignoring the
three I.W.Ws., allowed his glance to travel over the faces of the
others. No one volunteered an answer and he pointed his finger at a
large, roll-sleeved man whose arms were tanned to the color of old
leather. "You, there--with the pipe--you tell me what the trouble
is, and we'll talk it over."
The eyes of all centered upon the man, who finding himself singled
out, hunched forward in his chair and removed the pipe from his
mouth: "Talkin' about me, personal, they ain't no trouble. I've be'n
hayin' fer fifteen year, not only around here, but in other places,
an' other states, an' they ain't be'n a onct that I was better set
than what I be right here. The bunk house is better'n most places
they sleep you, an' the grub's jest as good as any I ever et, an' a
heap better'n the general run, an' the hours is the shortest I ever
seen called a day in hayin' time. I've worked fer outfits that
figgered a day started in the grey of the mornin' an' quit when it
was too dark to see, an' most outfits call a day from sunrise till
sundown, which this time of year is plenty long, but with this here
outfit the sun's shinin' when we go to the fields, an' it's still
shinin' when we come out of 'em. When a boss or a coffee-cooler
comes out like a man an' wants to know where the trouble is, the way
I figger it, he's got a right to be told. The trouble with this here
gang is settin' right over there in them three chairs." He indicated
with his pipe stem the three I.W.Ws., and settling back in his chair,
replaced the pipe in his mouth and spoke slowly between puffs.
"Talkin' about me, I'm goin' to stay where I'm at. Personal, I'm an
American, an' I don't need no Roosian Kike, er Dago, er whatever them
birds is, to tell me when I'm settin' purty. I've set an' listened
to their bluffin', an' their talk about their lodge er whatever it
is, till it looks to me like if Congress would go to work an' turn
everyone loose that's locked up in every jail an' pen in America, an'
fill up the jails an' the pens with these here I.W.Ws., the general
average of folks runnin' loose would be consid'able better'n what it
is now."
Hardly were the words out of the man's mouth than, with a snarl of
hate, the big, low browed man who had acted as spokesman for the
I.W.Ws., leaped to his feet, and with chair swung aloft rushed at the
man with the pipe, who had no time to defend himself, or even to rise
from his chair. Quick as a flash, Connie, who was seated between the
two, and a little to one side, thrust out his foot, and the next
instant both he and the big ruffian crashed to the floor.
Pandemonium broke loose in the bunk house. Before the big I.W.W.
could regain his feet, the man with the pipe was upon him. Connie
scrambled to his hands and knees only to be knocked flat the next
moment by a chair wielded by the narrow shouldered I.W.W. The rungs
of the chair struck the boy fairly upon the back of the head, and for
a moment the room turned black. Sounds were all about him; the quick
breathing of men, the thud of blows, and the hoarse grunts that
followed the thuds. Again he scrambled to his hands and knees. The
floor seemed to be swaying and rocking beneath him, and a wave of
nausea and dizziness swept over him. Two men, grip-locked in each
other's arms tripped over him, and as Connie squirmed and wriggled
from beneath them he saw the narrow shouldered man snatch up the leg
of a broken chair and sneak forward, his eyes fixed upon the head of
the man with the pipe whose back was toward him, and who was
exchanging blow for blow with the big man who had started the row.
Unarmed as he was, Connie did not hesitate a second. His brain
cleared, and struggling to his feet he launched himself upon the back
of the narrow shouldered man just as he raised his club to strike.
Connie's right arm shot over the man's right shoulder, and instantly
his fore-arm tightened with a vise-like grip under the man's chin, at
the same moment his right knee bored into the small of the man's
back. With a startled gurgle the man gave backward, the chair-leg
flew out of his hand and knocked the chimney from one of the bracket
lamps causing it to flare smokily. The two crashed to the floor with
Connie on top. A mighty surge of rage seized the boy as he realized
that beneath him lay the man who had dealt him the cowardly blow from
behind, and who was stopped in the act of dealing another cowardly
blow from behind. The man's hand closed on another chair leg as
Connie's fingers gripped his throat, and he flattened himself against
the man's body as the weapon swept harmlessly above him. Putting
every ounce of strength into his grip, the boy squeezed the man's
wind pipe, and a wild sense of elation swept over him as he felt the
yielding flesh give beneath his fingers. The man struggled
furiously, and doggedly Connie maintained his grip, pumping up and
down with all his strength, so that the back of the man's head
audibly battered the floor. The man's legs and arms thrashed and
writhed as he vainly sought to break the vice-like grip at his
throat. Finally his struggles grew weaker, and suddenly ceased, as
did the gurgling sounds that had been forced from between his lips.
The boy relaxed his grip as he glanced into the face of the man whose
mouth had sagged open, and whose eyes had rolled back until only the
whites were visible, showing in startling contrast to the fast
purpling skin of his cheeks and forehead.
The sounds of struggle dwindled and ceased. Connie regained his feet
with the aid of the overturned table, and glanced about him. Three
men sat astride of three others upon the floor. The big ruffian who
had started the fight cowered upon his knees, with his face buried in
the blankets of a bunk, and his arms protecting his head, while the
man with the pipe stood over him with doubled fists. The
narrow-shouldered man's chest began to heave, and his lips writhed,
as his breathing apparatus began to function once more. The third
I.W.W. lay peacefully slumbering a few feet distant, with a big blue
lump on his forehead where a chair leg had met him head-on.
The man with the pipe turned his gaze on the boy. One deeply purpled
eye had swelled shut, but the man's swollen lips grinned, and his
good eye winked as he indicated the three men who were held to the
floor: "Say, boss, looks like this here lodge had nishiated three new
members, but they's six of us that they didn't nishiate--not what
you'd notice. Which it means that when it come to a show-down
Ameriky's still on top."
Connie laughed: "You bet she's still on top!" he agreed. "And now,
if you boys will stay here and keep an eye on these fellows till I
come back we'll give 'em their time and get them off the ranch."
"Leave 'em to us, boss," replied the man, searching about the floor
for his pipe. "They won't start nothin' we can't stop."