Warlock

by Oakley Hall

  “And what have you and Ira decided, Buell?” the doctor said.

  “Well, this is a boardinghouse and she has got to make a living of it,” Buell said. “And on the other side it is poor to be on somebody’s charity. So we was just saying that those that can pay her ought to do it.”

  “All right, do it.”

  “Not a one of them’s got anything saved to do it,” Fitzsimmons said disgustedly. “They are talking gas. Mostly what they are worrying on is some way to make her feel bad because she did for Morgan.”

  “You talk too much for a young squit,” Dill said, and Fitzsimmons grinned at the doctor.

  “Yes, it is all right for her to save their lives. But not that of anyone they don’t like.”

  “That’s all right, Doc,” Dill said. “We know who she likes. I guess her long-hair gunman smells sweeter than we do.”

  “I’ll kill you, Ira!” Tittle cried, starting forward.

  “Stop it, Ben!” the doctor said; he was struck by the fury in Tittle’s face. He nodded his head toward the door, and Tittle obediently turned away. He hobbled toward the door, his clothing hanging loosely on his stick of a body.

  The doctor turned to Dill, whose eyes reluctantly met his. “I take it you are the one who can’t pay, Dill,” he said. “What do you want her to do, dun you so you can insult her?”

  Dill said nothing.

  “Others who seem to have felt the way you do have had the decency to leave here,” he went on, still staring into Dill’s ugly face. “I suggest that you do so. You are not worth her care, nor my trouble. You are not worth anyone’s trouble.”

  “Oh, I’ll be moving out,” Dill said. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “I suggest that you buy a stock of pencils from Mr. Goodpasture and sell them on the street. That way you will not be a charity case.”

  “I’d rather. Don’t think I wouldn’t.”

  The doctor took a step toward Dill, who backed away. He saw Jimmy Fitzsimmons watching him worriedly and he fought to keep his voice level. “Let me tell you something, Dill. I don’t know what you have been saying here, but if you manage to cause her any pain in your stupid spite, I will do my best to break that head I mended for you.”

  “Easy, Doc,” Fitzsimmons whispered.

  “I mean exactly what I say!” he said, and Dill retreated before him. “Did you hear me, Dill?”

  “Like Morgan busting Stacey, huh, Doc?” Dill said.

  “Exactly.”

  Dill shrugged cockily, and moved over to his own cot; he stood there glancing back out of the corners of his eyes.

  “Go on!” the doctor said. “Get out, Dill!”

  He heard Ben Tittle call him from the doorway, and he swung around. “Miss Jessie wants to see you, Doc.”

  Abruptly his rage died. Almost he could feel sorry for Dill and the others, each of whom fought his own lonely battle to maintain a semblance of pride. He walked out past Tittle and went down the hall. There were a number of miners standing inside the entryway now, worried-looking, stern-faced men in clean blue clothing, several with six-shooters stuck inside their belts. All greeted him gravely. There were some, he knew, who were responsible men, men with dignity who could act for themselves if they were shown the way. He wondered why he must always be so short with them.

  He knocked on Jessie’s door, and entered when she called to him. She stood facing him with her fists clenched at her sides, and tears showing in her round eyes. He had never seen her look so angry.

  “What is it, Jessie?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

  “That hateful little man! Oh, that hateful, jealous little man!”

  “Who?”

  “The deputy!” she said, as though he had been stupid not to know. “I don’t see why he couldn’t do it! It is just that he is so jealous. So little! He—”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Jessie. Gannon wouldn’t do what?”

  She made an effort to compose herself. The little muscles tugged at the corners of her mouth, and it was, he thought, as if those same muscles were connected to his heart. “What is it, Jessie?” he said, more gently.

  “I went to tell him that Henry, Buck, and Will had gone to Bright’s City to see that he was removed,” she said. “I told him I—that I didn’t know whether they would succeed or not. And I— Well, I thought he would leave if I asked him, David.”

  “Did you?” he said, and wondered how she could presume such a thing, and what she hoped to gain by it.

  “I thought if I asked him,” she said. The tears shone in her eyes again; she daubed at them with her handkerchief. “I thought if I made him understand—” Then she said furiously, “Do you know what he said? He said that Clay could not do it!”

  “You asked him to quit so that Blaisedell could be deputy,” he said, and, although he nodded, he knew that Gannon was right. There were many reasons why Blaisedell could not do it, but he would rather have slapped her face than try to reason with her.

  “Hateful, jealous, smug little man!” Jessie said. She put her handkerchief to her mouth in what seemed an unwarranted degree of grief.

  “What is it, Jessie?” he said again, and put an arm around her straining shoulders.

  “Oh, it is Clay,” she whispered. “Clay told him I had lied, and he was so smug. Oh, I hate him so!” She drew away from him, and threw herself down on her bed. She sobbed into the pillow. He thought he heard her say, “If he would leave no one would know!”

  He went to sit beside her, and after a time she took hold of his hand with her tight hand, and held it against her damp cheek. “Oh, David,” she whispered. “You are so kind to me, and I have been such a terrible person.”

  “You are not terrible, Jessie.”

  “I lied to him. And he found it out.”

  “Blaisedell?” he asked, for it was not clear.

  She nodded; he felt her tears warm and wet on his hand. “I lied to him about what Carl Schroeder said.”

  He said nothing, staring down at her tumbled ringlets; gently, awkwardly, he stroked his left hand over them. She sobbed again.

  “I told him I had even lied for him. That’s how he knew. But I did it for him! I thought if I could just ask the deputy to—”

  “Hush!” he said. “Not so loudly, Jessie. It will be all right.”

  “Clay hates me, he must hate me!”

  “No one could hate you, Jessie.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Doc, it’s time for the meeting.” It was Fitzsimmons’ voice.

  “Just a moment,” he called. He stroked his hand over Jessie’s hair, and said, “It will be all right, Jessie,” without even thinking what he was saying. He looked down at the brown head beneath his hand. She had done something that had been unworthy of her—for Clay Blaisedell. She had dedicated herself to him. He prayed with a sudden fury for a return of the days when there had been no Clay Blaisedell in Warlock.

  “But what am I going to do now?” Jessie said. “David, if Gannon would only leave no one would believe him!”

  He did not answer, for Fitzsimmons was knocking again. “Doc, they are starting! You had better come.”

  Jessie was sobbing quietly when he left her, and Fitzsimmons looked relieved to see him. “Come on! Daley is saving us a place!”

  There were about thirty men in the dining room. The plank tables and benches had been pushed back against the walls, and men sat on them and on two ranks of chairs at the far end of the room beyond which were Frenchy Martin and old man Heck, at Jessie’s table. There were a number of miners standing. The doctor noticed that although most of the men were from the Medusa, there was also a contingent from the Sister Fan, and, it seemed, at least one from each of the other mines. This was the skeleton of the Miners’ Union that had been set up under Lathrop’s leadership, had lapsed since, but had not been forgotten.

  Daley had saved two chairs for them in the front row. Fitzsimmons sat down stiffly, adjusting his hands before him, and th
e doctor was aware that Fitzsimmons’ habit of holding them so, was, in part, to call attention to them—like a soldier’s wounds, as some kind of proof of adulthood and initiation before the rest.

  Old man Heck waved at the rear of the dining room, and the door there was shut and latched. Heck was scowling beneath his wiry gray eyebrows as he slapped his hand on the table for order. There was a nasty bruise along the side of his head, and a scraped place on his forehead that gave him a fierce expression. Martin, beside him, had a bruised eye, and, with his long, waxed mustaches, looked equally fierce.

  Old man Heck said, “The Regulators have gone for sure. We have been up to see for ourself. There is a pack of foremen there and a barricade they put up on the road, but that’s all. Now; everybody knows what’s the question here.”

  “I’m for it,” someone said quietly, and the doctor swung around to see that it was Bigge who had spoken. He had thought better of Bill Bigge, who flushed to meet his gaze.

  “I am for it,” Frenchy Martin said. “They have pushed it down our throat long enough. Now we bite it off, eh?”

  Fitzsimmons got to his feet.

  “Who let him in?” someone growled.

  Fitzsimmons stood holding his burnt hands before him. He said, “I’d like to ask Doc what he thinks, if everybody is agreeable.”

  There was a burst of clapping. They called his name, apparently with good grace, although they must know what he would say to them. He rose and glanced around at Daley, Patch, and Andrews, who had asked him to come.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will say what you all know I will say. Shall I?”

  “Go ahead, Doc,” Daley said.

  “Give them hell!” Fitzsimmons whispered.

  “I will say that you had better think before you act, which you already should know. I will say that you have a much greater chance of achieving what you want by sensible means rather than by violent ones. Unless what you want is merely senseless violence, in which case you have proceeded correctly at every turn, and I congratulate you.”

  There was laughter, and catcalls mixed with it. As the noise ceased he went on more grimly. “I know the reason for this meeting, and I refuse even to discuss the subject. There has been too much lynch-mobbing and burning already, all of it stupid. I hope that whoever it was among you that took it upon himself to fire the Glass Slipper realizes by now how he has hurt you all. For what you need is friends in Warlock, who will help you with your cause. If you feel you do not need friends, you do not need me. I should like to know if this is the prevailing attitude, for if it is there is no reason for me to waste my breath further.”

  “We sure do need you, Doc!” Fitzsimmons said loudly.

  “Hear! Hear!” Patch called, from the back of the room. Martin was chewing on a thumb knuckle, and Heck wore a look of sour disapproval.

  “Very well,” the doctor said. “I will say again that you need all the friends you can get. MacDonald has made you friends by stupidly trying to bring his Regulators into Warlock. You will just as stupidly lose them by your disgraceful behavior. If I were you I would see to it that there is no more playing with fire, or hurling of rocks through store windows, and the like. In particular, you will throw away every advantage you now possess in the instant it takes to light another match—do you understand me?”

  “By God, Doc—” old man Heck cried, but a voice from the rear drowned him out: “We have to do something, Doc! We can’t just sit and wait till MacDonald starves us back.”

  “You can’t eat fire!” another broke in, and the dining room resounded with cries and argument. Old man Heck pounded for silence, and the doctor waited patiently with his arms crossed on his chest.

  Finally he said, “You will remember a thing that Brunk had to say—that people look down on you miners. I think Brunk never saw why this should be; he only resented the fact. I will tell you why. I know, for it is the reason I am out of patience with you a good part of the time myself. They look down on you because of the wild and irresponsible vandalism you have indulged in all too often. Some idiot among you might have burned this town down. Do you wonder that such things might make you unappealing to the decent citizens?

  “As I have said before, MacDonald is a stupid man. Because of his stupidity there is a certain sympathy for you now, despite your own actions. It is your business to see that in the future you are not more stupid than MacDonald, so that this sympathy for your plight may continue to grow. There is a force in public opinion that even MacDonald will have to feel. He—”

  “MacDonald wouldn’t feel a shafthead frame if it fell on him!” Bull Johnson said, and there was laughter.

  “MacDonald has already felt it. The deputies may have stopped the Regulators the first time they tried to come in, but have none of you wondered why he didn’t bring them in again? He did not because he knew this town was solidly against such a thing. The marshal—”

  There was another outcry at the word, and suddenly he was furious. He sat down. “Now, Doc!” Fitzsimmons said. “You don’t want to get mad!” Daley leaned toward him to try to get his attention. The shouting slowly died.

  “All right, Doc,” Frenchy Martin said. Old man Heck only scowled. “No offense, Doc!” a voice called. They began to chant his name in unison, and he felt a surprised exultation that he could speak to them as he had and make them accept it.

  But when he rose again he looked from face to face with contempt. “Why should I take no offense? You yourselves are quick enough to take it, it seems. Anything done in this town that is not exactly what you wish, you feel is traitorous. If you are going to turn on Miss Jessie like sulky boys, or on the marshal or poor Schroeder who defended you as well as Morgan in defending the law—”

  There was a louder outcry; the names were shouted—Blaisedell, Morgan, Brunk, Benny Connors, Schroeder, Curley Burne. This time he shouted back at them until he made himself heard. “You contemptible fools! What is the use of trying to help you? Who cares for your piddling dollar a day? I do not. I hoped there might be some decency and common sense somewhere among you, but I see there is none. Have your damned violence and arson and see where it will get you. You will burn that stope and cut off all your noses to spite one face you hate!”

  He sat down again, and again they pleaded with him to go on, but he did not rise. He thought that he could sway them in the end, he was not even particularly angry, but he thought it best to let them whistle for his advice for a while. They would covet it the more if he withheld it.

  Fitzsimmons rose, to be met with catcalls. He cried in return, cheerfully, “Cut away, boys! Cut those noses!” He held his burned hands out before him and waited for silence.

  “You can laugh at me because I am younger than you,” Fitzsimmons went on. “But I am more a miner than three-quarters of the ragtag and bobtail around here. I’ve been underground since I was twelve, and I know some things about a strike it looks like you don’t know. I know when there is a strike the mine don’t produce and the miners don’t eat. But a mine can go a long time without producing.”

  Fitzsimmons seemed a little surprised that he had not been shouted down yet, and, watching the boy, the doctor was aware again of the iron in him, and more and more, too, he was aware that Fitzsimmons was as patient, calculating, and ruthless as any gambler.

  “And I know another thing it looks like you don’t,” Fitzsimmons went on. “I know if a stope gets burnt it stays burnt a long time, and you don’t eat during that time either. Or after.”

  “There are other mines, boy,” old man Heck said. “There is other camps besides Warlock.”

  “Not for those that burnt a stope, there isn’t!”

  “The kid is right on that, old man!”

  Again everyone began to talk at once. Fitzsimmons tried to make himself heard, but the others quieted only when Bull Johnson got to his feet, grinning and waving his arms.

  “I say we can bust Mister Mac,” Johnson said, in his great, deep voice. “Him and the Haggins a
nd Morgan and Blaisedell and the Citizens’ Committee and any other sons of bitches in league with him. I say we have got stronger arms than they got, and all we have to do is get guns and—”

  “Dig silver ourself then?” Patch broke in. “Do you think Peach wouldn’t be down here with the cavalry?”

  “Ah, you couldn’t get Peach out of Bright’s City with a pry-bar.”

  “Better Peach than a bunch of hardcase Regulators!”

  Old man Heck pounded on the table. Fitzsimmons shook his head despairingly and dropped into his chair.

  “Doc!” They began chanting his name again. As soon as he got to his feet again they fell respectfully silent.

  “I understand your fear.” He spoke quietly now, so they would have to be silent in order to hear him. “Now that you have begun this strike, you must get something for your efforts or look like fools. I would hate to see MacDonald’s satisfaction, if you were able to gain nothing, as much as any of you. But what do you want in the end? Your wages raised, or the Miners’ Union established?”

  He looked from face to worried face, and no one answered him. “I think you will get neither of those things,” he said. “Lathrop made the Miners’ Union too much of a bugbear here for MacDonald even to tolerate the notion, and MacDonald has put himself into a position where to save his face he cannot put wages back to where they were. They were due to come down in any case, and I am sure he was ordered by the company to lower them, though possibly not so much as he did.

  “My advice to you is to accept these two facts. Make no issue of the Miners’ Union as yet, and let MacDonald have his way about the wages. Then what can you hope for? I know you must save your own faces, and I think you must try to save your lives as well—by which I mean the timbering in the stopes.

  “I think you should prepare a series of demands to present to MacDonald. He will refuse them, and then you should submit slightly different ones. If he goes on refusing them, he will come to look more and more unreasonable to everyone—including the Porphyrion and Western Mining Company. I think that is the way you can beat him.”