Jim Waring of Sonora-Town; Or, Tang of Life

by Henry Herbert Knibbs

  Chapter XXVII

  _Waco_

  The tramp Waco, drifting south through Prescott, fell in with a quartetof his kind camped along the railroad track. He stumbled down theembankment and "sat in" beside their night fire. He was hungry. He hadno money, and he had tramped all that day. They were eating bread andcanned peaches, and had coffee simmering in a pail. They asked noquestions until he had eaten. Then the usual talk began.

  The hobos cursed the country, its people, the railroad, work and thelack of it, the administration, and themselves. Waco did not agree witheverything they said, but he wished to tramp with them until somethingbetter offered. So he fell in with their humor, but made the mistake ofcursing the trainmen's union. A brakeman had kicked him off a freightcar just outside of Prescott.

  One of the hobos checked Waco sharply.

  "We ain't here to listen to your cussin' any union," he said. "And seem'you're so mouthy, just show your card."

  "Left it over to the White House," said Waco.

  "That don't go. You got your three letters?"

  "Sure! W.B.Y. Catch onto that?"

  "No. And this ain't no josh."

  "Why, W.B.Y. is for 'What's bitin' you?' Know the answer?"

  "If you can't show your I.W.W., you can beat it," said the tramp.

  "Tryin' to kid me?"

  "Not so as your mother would notice. Got your card?"

  Waco finally realized that they meant business. "No, I ain't got noI.W.W. card. I'm a bo, same as you fellas. What's bitin' you, anyway?"

  "Let's give him the third, fellas."

  Waco jumped to his feet and backed away. The leader of the grouphesitated wisely, because Waco had a gun in his hand.

  "So that's your game, eh? Collectin' internal revenue. Well, we're unionmen. You better sift along." And the leader sat down.

  "I've a dam' good mind to sift you," said Waco, backing toward theembankment. "Got to have a card to travel with a lousy bunch like you,eh?"

  He climbed to the top of the embankment, and, turning, ran down thetrack. Things were in a fine state when a guy couldn't roll in with abunch of willies without showing a card. Workmen often tramped thecountry looking for work. But hobos forming a union and callingthemselves workmen! Even Waco could not digest that.

  But he had learned a lesson, and the next group that he overtooktreading the cinders were more genial. One of them gave him some breadand cold meat. They tramped until nightfall. That evening Wacoindustriously "lifted" a chicken from a convenient hencoop. The hen wasold and tough and most probably a grandmother of many years' setting,but she was a welcome contribution to their evening meal. While they ateWaco asked them if they belonged to the I.W.W. They did to a man. He hadlost his card. Where could he get a renewal? From headquarters, ofcourse. But he had been given his card up in Portland; he had cooked ina lumber camp. In that case he would have to see the "boss" at Phoenix.

  There were three men in the party besides Waco. One of them claimed tobe a carpenter, another an ex-railroad man, and the third an ironmoulder. Waco, to keep up appearances, said that he was a cook; that hehad lost his job in the Northern camps on account of trouble between theindependent lumbermen and the I.W.W. It happened that there had beensome trouble of that kind recently, so his word was taken at its facevalue.

  In Phoenix, he was directed to the "headquarters," a disreputablelounging-room in an abandoned store on the outskirts of the town. Therewere papers and magazines scattered about; socialistic journals and manynewspapers printed in German, Russian, and Italian. The place smelled ofstale tobacco smoke and unwashed clothing. But the organizationevidently had money. No one seemed to want for food, tobacco, orwhiskey.

  The "boss," a sharp-featured young man, aggressive and apparentlyeducated, asked Waco some questions which the tramp answered lamely. Theboss, eager for recruits of Waco's stamp, nevertheless demurred untilWaco reiterated the statement that he could cook, was a good cook andhad earned good money.

  "I'll give you a renewal of your card. What was the number?" queried theboss.

  "Thirteen," said Waco, grinning.

  "Well, we may be able to use you. We want cooks at Sterling."

  "All right. Nothin' doin' here, anyway."

  The boss smiled to himself. He knew that Waco had never belonged to theI.W.W., but if the impending strike at the Sterling smelter became areality a good cook would do much to hold the I.W.W. camp together. Anytool that could be used was not overlooked by the boss. He was paid tohire men for a purpose.

  In groups of from ten to thirty the scattered aggregation made its wayto Sterling and mingled with the workmen after hours. A sinisterrestlessness grew and spread insidiously among the smelter hands. Menlaid off before pay-day and were seen drunk in the streets. Othersappeared at the smelter in a like condition. They seemed to have moneywith which to pay for drinks and cigars. The heads of the differentdepartments of the smelter became worried. Local papers began to makemention of an impending strike when no such word had as yet come to thesmelter operators. Outside papers took it up. Surmises were many andvarious. Few of the papers dared charge the origin of the disturbancesto the I.W.W. The law had not been infringed upon, yet lawlessness waseverywhere, conniving in dark corners, boasting openly on the street,setting men's brains afire with whiskey, playing upon the ignorance ofthe foreign element, and defying the intelligence of Americans whostrove to forfend the threatened calamity.

  The straight union workmen were divided in sentiment. Some of them votedto work; others voted loudly to throw in with the I.W.W., and amongthese were many foreigners--Swedes, Hungarians, Germans, Poles,Italians; the usual and undesirable agglomeration to be found in asmelter town.

  Left to themselves, they would have continued to work. They were inreality the cheaper tools of the trouble-makers. There were fewer andkeener tools to be used, and these were selected and turned againsttheir employers by that irresistible potency, gold; gold that came fromno one knew where, and came in abundance. Finally open threats of astrike were made. Circulars were distributed throughout townover-night, cleverly misstating conditions. A grain of truth wasdissolved in the slaver of anarchy into a hundred lies.

  Waco, installed in the main I.W.W. camp just outside the town, cookedearly and late, and received a good wage for his services. More menappeared, coming casually from nowhere and taking up their abode withthe disturbers.

  A week before the strike began, a committee from the union met with acommittee of townsmen and representatives of the smelter interests. Theargument was long and inconclusive. Aside from this, a special committeeof townsmen, headed by the mayor, interviewed the I.W.W. leaders.

  Arriving at no definite understanding, the citizens finally threatenedto deport the trouble-makers in a body. The I.W.W. members laughed atthem. Socialism, in which many of the better class of workmen believedsincerely, began to take on the red tinge of anarchy. A notable advocateof arbitration, a foreman in the smelter, was found one morning beateninto unconsciousness. And no union man had done this thing, for theforeman was popular with the union, to a man. The mayor received ananonymous letter threatening his life. A similar letter was received bythe chief of police. And some few politicians who had won to prominencethrough questionable methods were threatened with exposure if they didnot side with the strikers.

  Conditions became deplorable. The papers dared not print everythingthey knew for fear of political enmity. And they were not able to printmany things transpiring in that festering underworld for lack ofdefinite knowledge, even had they dared.

  Noon of an August day the strikers walked out. Mob rule threatenedSterling. Women dared no longer send their children to school or to thegrocery stores for food. They hardly dared go themselves. A striker wasshot by a companion in a saloon brawl. The killing was immediatelycharged to a corporation detective, and our noble press made much of theincident before it found out the truth.

  Shortly after this a number of citizens representing the businessbackbone of the town met quietly an
d drafted a letter to a score ofcitizens whom they thought might be trusted. That was Saturday evening.On Sunday night there were nearly a hundred men in town who had beenreached by the citizens' committee. They elected a sub-committee oftwelve, with the sheriff as chairman. Driven to desperation byintolerable conditions, they decided to administer swift and conclusivejustice themselves. To send for troops would be an admission that thetown of Sterling could not handle her own community.

  It became whispered among the I.W.W. that "The Hundred" had organized.Leaders of the strikers laughed at these rumors, telling the men thatthe day of the vigilante was past.

  On the following Wednesday a rabid leader of the disturbers, not aunion man, but a man who had never done a day's work in his life,mounted a table on a street corner and addressed the crowd which quicklyswelled to a mob. Members of "The Hundred," sprinkled thinly throughoutthe mob, listened until the speaker had finished. Among other things, hehad made a statement about the National Government which should haveturned the mob to a tribunal of prompt justice and hanged him. But manyof the men were drunk, and all were inflamed with the poison of thehour. When the man on the table continued to slander the Government, andfinally named a name, there was silence. A few of the better class ofworkmen edged out of the crowd. The scattered members of "The Hundred"stayed on to the last word.

  Next morning this speaker was found dead, hanging from a bridge a littleway out of town. Not a few of the strikers were startled to a sense ofbroad justice in his death, and yet such a hanging was an outrage to anycommunity. One sin did not blot out another. And the loyal "Hundred"realized too late that they had put a potent weapon in the hands oftheir enemies.

  A secret meeting was called by "The Hundred." Wires were commandeeredand messages sent to several towns in the northern part of the State tomen known personally by members of "The Hundred" as fearless and loyalto American institutions. Already the mob had begun rioting, but,meeting with no resistance, it contented itself with insulting thosewhom they knew were not sympathizers. Stores were closed, and werestraightway broken into and looted. Drunkenness and street fights wereso common as to evoke no comment.

  Two days later a small band of cowboys rode into town. They werefollowed throughout the day by other riders, singly and in small groups.It became noised about the I.W.W. camp that professional gunmen werebeing hired by the authorities; were coming in on horseback and on thetrains. That night the roadbed of the railroad was dynamited on bothsides of town. "The Hundred" immediately dispatched automobiles witharmed guards to meet the trains.

  Later, strangers were seen in town; quiet men who carried themselvescoolly, said nothing, and paid no attention to catcalls and insults. Itwas rumored that troops had been sent for. Meanwhile, the town seethedwith anarchy and drunkenness. But, as must ever be the case, anarchy wasslowly weaving a rope with which to hang itself.

  Up in the second story of the court-house a broad-shouldered,heavy-jawed man sat at a flat-topped desk with a clerk beside him. Theclerk wrote names in a book. In front of the clerk was a cigar-boxfilled with numbered brass checks. The rows of chairs from the desk tothe front windows were pretty well filled with men, lean, hard-muscledmen of the ranges in the majority. The room was quiet save for anoccasional word from the big man at the desk. The clerk drew a checkfrom the cigar-box. A man stepped up to the desk, gave his name, age,occupation, and address, received the numbered check, and went to hisseat. The clerk drew another check.

  A fat, broad-shouldered man waddled up, smiling.

  "Why, hello, Bud!" said the heavy-jawed man, rising and shaking hands."I didn't expect to see you. Wired you thinking you might send one ortwo men from your county."

  "I got 'em with me," said Bud.

  "Number thirty-seven," said the clerk.

  Bud stuffed the check in his vest pocket. He would receive ten dollars aday while in the employ of "The Hundred." He would be known andaddressed while on duty as number thirty-seven. "The Hundred" were notadvertising the names of their supporters for future use by the I.W.W.

  Bud's name and address were entered in a notebook. He waddled back tohis seat.

  "Cow-punch," said someone behind him.

  Bud turned and grinned. "You seen my laigs," he retorted.

  "Number thirty-eight."

  Lorry came forward and received his check.

  "You're pretty young," said the man at the desk. Lorry flushed, but madeno answer.

  "Number thirty-nine."

  The giant sheepman of the high country strode up, nodded, and took hischeck.

  "Stacey County is well represented," said the man at the desk.

  When the clerk had finished entering the names, there were forty-eightnumbers in his book. The man at the desk rose.

  "Men," he said grimly, "you know what you are here for. If you haven'tgot guns, you will be outfitted downstairs. Some folks think that thistrouble is only local. It isn't. It is national. Providence seems tohave passed the buck to us to stop it. We are here to prove that we can.Last night our flag--our country's flag--was torn from the halyardsabove this building and trampled in the dust of the street. Sit stilland don't make a noise. We're not doing business that way. If there areany married men here, they had better take their horses and ride home.This community does not assume responsibility for any man's life. Youare volunteers. There are four ex-Rangers among you. They will tell youwhat to do. But I'm going to tell you one thing first; don't shoot highor low when you have to shoot. Draw plumb center, and don't quit as longas you can feel to pull a trigger. For any man that isn't outfittedthere's a rifle and fifty rounds of soft-nosed ammunition downstairs."

  The heavy-shouldered man sat down and pulled the notebook toward him.The men rose and filed quietly downstairs.

  As they gathered in the street and gazed up at the naked halyards, ashot dropped one of them in his tracks. An eagle-faced cowman whippedout his gun. With the report came the tinkle of breaking glass from awindow diagonally opposite. Feet clattered down the stairs of thebuilding, and a woman ran into the street, screaming and calling outthat a man had been murdered.

  "Reckon I got him," said the cowman. "Boys, I guess she's started."

  The men ran for their horses. As they mounted and assembled, theheavy-shouldered man appeared astride a big bay horse.

  "We're going to clean house," he stated. "And we start right here."