In Dubious Battle (23 page)

The men looked at one another. Jim said, “I only saw one guy hit.”

“O.K. He’ll be all right, maybe. Got him in the chest.” He looked more closely at Jim. “What’s the matter with you, kid? You’re bleedin’.”

“Where?”

“All down your back.”

“I ran into a limb, I guess.”

“Limb, hell.” Sam pulled the blue denim coat down from Jim’s shoulder. “You got bored with a high-power. Can you move your arm?”

“Sure. It just feels numb.”

“I guess it didn’t get a bone. Shoulder muscle. Must of been a steel-jacket. You ain’t even bleedin’ much. Come on, guys, let’s get back. There’s goin’ be cops thick as maggots around here.”

They hurried along the road. Sam said, “If you get feelin’ weak, I’ll he’p you, kid.”

“I’m all right. We couldn’t take it, Sam.”

Sam said bitterly, “We done noble when we was five to one; we made messes of them scabs.”

Jim asked, “Did we kill any of ’em?”

“I don’t think so. Some of ’em ain’t ever goin’ be the same again.”

Jim said, “Jesus, it was pretty awful, wasn’t it. Did you see that guy with his lip torn?”

“Hell, they’ll sew his lip back on. We got to do it, kid. We just got to. If they won’t come over, we just got to scare ’em.”

“Oh. I know it,” said Jim. “I’m not worrying about ’em.”

Far ahead they heard a siren. Sam cried, “Jump for the ditch, you guys. Lie down in the ditch. Here comes the cops.” He saw that they were all flat in a deep irrigation ditch along the road. The motorcycles roared by, and crossed the intersection, and an ambulance clanged after them. The men did not raise their heads until the motors had disappeared across the intersection. Sam jumped up. “Come on, now. We got to beat it fast.”

They dog-trotted along the road. The sun was going down by now, and the road was in a blue evening shadow. A heavy cloud sailed like a ship toward the sun, and its dark edge reddened as it drew near. The men jumped for the ditch again when the ambulance came back. The
motorcycles went by more slowly this time, the policemen looking down the rows as they went, but they did not search the ditch.

As the evening fell the pickets came back to the camp. Jim’s legs were wobbling under him. His shoulder stung deeply, for the nerves were awakening after being stunned by the high-powered bullet. The men dispersed into the camp.

Mac walked over toward Jim, and when he saw how white Jim was, he broke into a trot. “What’s the matter with you, Jim? Did you get hurt?”

“No, not much. Sam says I’m shot in the shoulder. I can’t see it. It doesn’t hurt much.”

Mac’s face turned red. “By God, I knew I shouldn’t let you go.”

“Why not? I’m no pansy.”

“Maybe you aren’t one, but you’ll be pushing ’em up pretty soon, if I don’t watch you. Come on, let Doc look at you. He was right here a minute ago. There he goes. Hi, Doc!” They took Jim into a white tent. “This one just came in. Doc’s going to use it for a hospital,” said Mac.

The autumn darkness was falling quickly, and the evening was hastened by the big black cloud, which spread out over the western sky. Mac held a lantern while Burton pulled Jim’s shirt free of his shoulder. He washed the wound carefully, with hot, sterile water. “Lucky boy,” he said. “A lead slug would have smashed your shoulder to pieces. You’ve just got a little auger-hole through the muscle. It’ll be stiff for a while. Bullet went right on through.” His deft hands cleansed the wound with a probe, applied a dressing and taped it on. “You’ll be all right,”
he said. “Take it easy for a couple of days. Mac, I’m going over to see Al Anderson later. Want to come?”

“Sure, I’ll be with you. I want to get Jim a cup of coffee.” He shoved a tin can of black, ugly coffee in Jim’s hand. “Come on, sit down,” he said. He shoved a box out and sat Jim down on it, and reclined on the ground beside him. “What happened, Jim?”

“We went in after some scabs. Mac, our guys just kicked hell out of ’em. Kicked ’em in the heads.”

Mac said softly, “I know, Jim. It’s terrible, but it’s the only thing to do if they won’t come over. We’ve got to do it. It’s not nice to see a sheep killed, either, but we’ve got to have mutton. What happened then?”

“Well, five men came running and shooting. Our guys ran like rabbits. They couldn’t take it.”

“Well, why should they, Jim, with nothing to fight with but their bare hands?”

“I hardly knew it when I got hit. One of our guys went down. I don’t know whether he was killed or not.”

“Nice party,” Mac said. “The other crowds brought in about thirty scabs. They didn’t have any trouble; just called ’em out, and they came along.” He reached up and touched Jim’s leg for a moment. “How’s the shoulder feel now?”

“Hurts a little, not much.”

“Oh say, Jim. Looks like we’re goin’ to have a new boss.”

“Kicked Dakin out, you mean?”

“No, but he’s out, all right. Dick sent word he had a load of blankets. Well, Dakin took six men and went in with his shiny truck. One of the six guys got away and came back and told how it was. They got their load and
started back. A little way this side of town they ran over a bunch of nails, stopped to change a tire. Well, then a dozen men with guns jumped out and held them up. Well, six of them stand the guys up while they wreck Dakin’s truck, smash the crank-case and set it on fire. Dakin stands there with a gun on him. He turns white, and then he turns blue. Then he lets out a howl like a coyote and starts for ’em. They shoot him in the leg, but that don’t stop him. When he can’t run any more, he crawls for ’em, slavering around the mouth like a mad dog—just nuts, he just went
nuts!
I guess he loved that truck better’n anything in the world. The guy that came back said it was just awful, the way he crawled for ’em. Tried to bite ’em. He was snarling—like a mad dog. Well, then, some traffic cops come along, and the vigilante boys fade. The cops pick Dakin up and take him in. The guy that came in and told about it was up a gum tree watching. He says Dakin bit a cop on the hand, and they had to stick a screw-driver back in his teeth to pry ’im loose. And that’s the guy I said wouldn’t lose his temper. He’s in the can now. I guess the guys’ll elect London in his place.”

Jim said, “Well he sure looked cool enough to me. I’m glad I didn’t lay a finger on his truck.”

Mac heaped a little pile of dirt on the floor with his hand, and moulded it round, and patted a little flat top on it. “I’m kind of worried, Jim. Dick hasn’t sent any food today. We haven’t heard anything from him except those blankets. They’re cooking up all the rest of the beans with pork bones, but that’s all there is, except some mush. That’s all there is for tomorrow.”

“Do you suppose they knocked Dick off?”

Mac patted his mound flatter. “Dick’s clever as a weasel. I don’t think they could catch him. I don’t know what’s the matter. We’ve got to get food in. The minute the guys get hungry, they’re through, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe he didn’t collect anything. He sent that pig this morning.”

“Sure, and the pig’s in the beans now. Dick knows how much it takes to feed these guys. Dick must have organized the sympathizers by now.”

Jim asked, “How do the guys feel now?”

“Oh, they’re better. They got a shot of life, this afternoon. I know it’s quick, but we got to have that funeral tomorrow. That ought to steam ’em up for a while.” He looked out the tent entrance. “God, look at that cloud!” He stepped outside and looked overhead. The sky was nearly dark with the thick black cloud. A skirmishing wind sprang up, blowing the dust along, blowing the smoke from the fires, flapping the canvases, whisking the apple trees that surrounded the camp. “That looks like a rain cloud,” Mac said. “Lord, I hope it doesn’t rain. It’ll drown this bunch like rats.”

Jim said, “You worry too much about what might happen, Mac. All the time you’re worrying. These guys are used to the open. A little rain won’t hurt ’em. You fidget all the time.”

Mac sat down on the floor again. “Maybe that’s right, Jim. I get so scared the strike’ll crack, maybe I imagine things. I’ve been in so many strikes that got busted, Jim.”

“Yeah, but what do you care if it’s busted? It solidifies the unrest, you said so yourself.”

“Sure, I know. I s’pose it wouldn’t matter if the strike broke right now. The guys won’t ever forget how Joy
got killed; and they won’t ever forget about Dakin’s truck.”

“You’re getting just like an old woman, Mac.”

“Well, it’s my strike—I mean, I feel like it’s mine. I don’t want to see it go under now.”

“Well, it won’t, Mac.”

“Huh? What do you know about it?”

“Well, I was thinkin’ this morning. Ever read much history, Mac?”

“A little, in school. Why?”

“Well, you remember how the Greeks won the battle of Salamis?”

“Maybe I knew. I don’t remember.”

“Well, here’s the Greeks with some ships, all boxed in a harbor. They want to run away to beat hell. And here’s a whole slough of Persian ships out in front. Well, the Greek admiral knows his guys are going to run away, so he sends word to the enemy to box ’em in tight. Next morning the Greeks see they can’t run away; they’ve got to fight to get away, and they win. They beat hell out of the Persian fleet.” Jim fell silent.

Men began moving past, toward the stoves. Mac patted the ground hard with his open hand. “I see what you mean, Jim,” he said. “We don’t need it now, but if we do, by God, it’s an idea, Jim,” he said plaintively. “I bring you out here to teach you things, and right away you start teaching me things.”

“Nuts,” said Jim.

“O.K., then, nuts. I wonder how men know when food’s ready. Kind of mind reading, I guess. Or maybe they’ve got that same kind of a sense that vultures have. Look, there they go. Come on, Jim. Let’s eat.”

THEY had beans, swimming in pork fat to eat. Mac and Jim brought their cans from the tent and stood in line until some of the mess was dumped into each of their cans. They walked away. Jim took a little wooden paddle from his pocket and tasted the beans. “Mac,” he said, “I can’t eat it.”

“Used to better things, huh? You’ve got to eat it.” He tasted his own, and immediately dumped the can on the ground. “Don’t eat it, Jim. It’ll make you sick, beans and grease! The guys’ll raise hell about this.”

They looked at the men sitting in front of the tents, trying to eat their food. The storm cloud spread over the sky and swallowed the new stars. Mac said, “Somebody’ll try to kill the cooks, I guess. Let’s go over to London’s tent.”

“I don’t see Dakin’s tent, Mac.”

“No, Mrs. Dakin took it down. She went into town and took it along with her. Funny guy, Dakin; he’ll have money before he’s through. Let’s find London.”

They walked down the line to the grey tent of London. A light shone through the canvas. Mac raised the flap. Inside, London sat on a box, holding an open can of sardines in his hand. The dark girl, Lisa, crouched on the floor mattress nursing the baby. She drew a piece of blanket about the baby and the exposed breast as the men
entered. She smiled quickly at them, and then looked down at the baby again.

“Just in time for dinner!” Mac said.

London looked embarrassed. “I had a little stuff left over.”

“You tasted that mess out there?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I hope the other guys got some stuff left over. We got to do better than that, or them guys’ll run out on us.”

“Food kind of stopped comin’ in,” said London. “I got another can of sardines. You guys like to have it?”

“Damn right.” Mac took the proffered can greedily, and twisted the key to open it. “Get out your knife, Jim. We’ll split this.”

“How’s your arm?” London asked.

“Getting stiff,” said Jim.

Outside the tent a voice said, “That’s the place, that one with the light.” The flap raised and Dick entered. His hair was combed neatly. He held a grey cap in his hand. His grey suit was clean, but unpressed. Only his dusty, unpolished shoes showed that he had been walking through the country. He stood in the tent entrance, looking about. “Hi, Mac. Hello, Jim,” and to the girl, “Hi ya, baby?” Her eyes brightened. A spot of red came into her cheeks. She drew the piece of blanket coquettishly down around her shoulders.

Mac waved his hand. “This here’s London—this here’s Dick.” Dick made a half salute. “H’ya?” he said. “Look, Mac, these babies in town have been taking lessons.”

“What you mean? What you doin’ out here anyways?”

Dick took a newspaper from his outside pocket and
handed it over. Mac opened it and London and Jim looked over his shoulder. “Come out before noon,” said Dick.

Mac exclaimed, “Son-of-a-bitch!” The paper carried a headline, “Supervisors vote to feed strikers. At a public meeting last night the Board of Supervisors voted unanimously to feed the men now striking against the apple growers.”

“They sure took lessons,” Mac said. “Did it start work-in’, yet, Dick?”

“Hell, yes.”

London broke in, “I don’t see no reason to kick. If they want to send out ham and eggs, it’s O.K. by me.”

“Sure,” Mac said sarcastically,
“if
they want to. This paper don’t tell about the other meeting right afterwards when they repealed the vote.”

“What’s the gag?” London demanded. “What the hell’s it all about?”

“Listen, London,” Mac said. “This here’s an old one, but it works. Here’s Dick got the sympathizers lined up. We got food and blankets and money comin’. Well, then
this
comes out. Dick goes the round. The sympathizers say, ‘What the hell? The county’s feeding ’em.’ ‘Th’ hell it is,’ says Dick. And the guy says, ’I seen it in the paper. It says they’re sendin’ food to you. What you gettin’ out of this?’ That’s how it works, London. Did you see any county food come in today?”

“No——”

“Well, Dick couldn’t get a rise either. Now you know. They figure to starve us out. And by God they can do it, too, if we don’t get help.” He turned to Dick. “You was goin’ good.”

“Sure,” Dick agreed. “It was a push-over. Take me some time to work it all up again. I want a paper from this guy here saying you aren’t getting any food. I want it signed by the strike chairman.”

“O.K.,” said London.

“Lots of sympathizers in Torgas,” Dick went on.” ’Course the joint’s organized by the Growers’ Association, so the whole bunch is underground like a flock o’ gophers. But the stuff is there, if I can get to it.”