Red Jacket

by Joseph Heywood

  “Then you be the one got trouble,” the man said gravely.

  “The boy trouble?”

  “No, he’s just a scalawag.”

  “They live near here?”

  “Up toward Phillipsville, east side of main road, set back some. Old barn, log house. You sure you want to see this person?”

  Bapcat showed his badge.

  The man laughed. “Hope they give you gun, too. You mix much with Croatians?”

  “No.”

  “Foul mouths, yes. If Andro Kluboshar say his cunt hurts, he mean he don’t care what you are talking.”

  Andro. “Good to know,” Bapcat said, thinking, What the hell is going on here?

  Bapcat found the property, the dilapidated barn and cabin, dregs of a potato field, several chained hounds baying wildly. A man came out on the cabin porch with a two-bang shotgun, squinted at him, said nothing to the dogs dancing choke dances at the end of taut chains.

  “You aren’t inviting to here,” the man roared, and leveled the shotgun at him. “Jebe se!”

  “I want to talk to you about your son.”

  The man spit. “He is all shit, that one.”

  The man seemed unsteady on his feet, but the gun didn’t waver, and Bapcat warned himself to move slowly and deliberately for the moment. “Put down rifle,” the man ordered.

  Bapcat said, “Game warden.”

  The man sneered. “I piss on you, Game Warden.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Fuck you, Game Warden.”

  Think. Get him in close. Make him come to you.

  “Look, your boy dropped some money and I found it. I just wanted to bring it back.”

  “Give to me the money,” the man said, staring, taking a step down. “How much is there you got?”

  “Hundred dollars.”

  Kluboshar’s eyes widened and he stepped closer, the shotgun now in one hand. “Show me,” he ordered.

  Bapcat put his hand in his jacket, made a fist, and caused the pocket to bulge. “Got a lot here, afraid I’ll drop some. Spread your hands?”

  The man clamped his weapon under his arm, the barrels facing to the rear, and greedily stepped forward with his hands spread open and waiting. Bapcat could smell the alcohol wafting off of him. Before the man could react, Bapcat took his rifle and ripped the barrel across the inside of the man’s knee. The man fell into a heap. Bapcat grabbed Kluboshar’s shotgun and windmilled it into the weeds as the man recovered and bounced up, swinging wildly.

  Bapcat hit him in the cheek with his rifle butt and the man keeled over and was still. The game warden put his knee behind the man’s neck, pulled his hands behind him, and handcuffed his wrists.

  When the man began to recover he mumbled through a bloody mouth, “My boy’s money, my money. Mine!”

  “There isn’t any money,” Bapcat said. “You ever beat your son again, I’ll be back, and it won’t go this easily.”

  “My cunt hurts,” the man said spitefully with a growling sound.

  Bapcat stood, rolled the man onto his side, and drove his boot toe between the man’s legs, causing an explosive loss of breath followed by violent gagging and moaning. “Touch that boy again, I’ll use a knife next time.”

  “I calling sheriff,” the man managed.

  “My cunt hurts,” Bapcat said, and walked away, careful not to turn his back.

  Back at the hill Bapcat got the boy’s rifle and ammunition and gave them to him.

  “This is your home now, boy. Understand?”

  “You can’t keep me here.”

  Zakov said, “This is legal?”

  Bapcat’s intense glare silenced the Russian and the boy.

  78

  Eagle River

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1913

  The sheriff met Bapcat outside the county’s white building on the hill. “Most of the National Guard’s been withdrawn,” Hepting reported. “I can’t prove it, but most workers are back in the mines, all but Finns, Hungarians, and Croatians. The strike parades are shrinking, and with the army gone, the operators are about fed up.” The sheriff handed him a white button with red lettering: alliance. “Won’t nobody say so, but this is MacNaughton’s work. Bet on that.”

  Finns, Hungarians, Croatians—no doubt all unskilled workers, trammers, beasts of burden, the bottom of every mine’s pecking order. He didn’t want to think too deeply about the strike. He had enough problems to contend with.

  “You might want to have a talk with your lady friend,” Hepting said out of the blue. “About scabs.”

  Bapcat wrinkled his brow and Hepting said, “Talk to her.”

  What the hell? “John, have you ever heard about squirrel tails up by Madison Gap?”

  “Jesus, is he back?”

  “He, who?”

  “Captain Erastus Renard Webster, formerly of the Sixteenth Michigan Infantry, First Independent Sharpshooter Company.”

  “War between the States?”

  “Four years, fought pretty much the whole shebang.”

  “He the one with the squirrel tails?”

  “Got something to do with Genghis Khan and nomads, though I don’t know zackly what, and don’t much care. The man’s not right in the head. Webster moves around a lot, and he’s usually out in Arizona by the time the snow flies here. Far as I know, this is his first time up by Madison Gap. Most summers he’s south along the Gratiot River. Got him a woman, too; she’s always well-armed.”

  “What’s he do?”

  Hepting pursed his mouth. “Don’t really know. He avoids towns and stays in the woods and that’s fine by me.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Never broke laws here I know of, so I don’t really know, but he’s always struck me as desperate, and desperate usually means dangerous. Why?”

  “Saw the tails in the tree, wondered.”

  “What were you doing way up there?”

  “Looking around. Zakov showed me the ratting grounds.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Long story. You ever cross paths with a man by the name of Kluboshar?”

  “Good God,” Hepting said. “You bump heads with that sonuvabitch?”

  “He’s got a son.”

  “You mean had one. His boy ran off years ago.”

  “His name is Jordy, and he’s still here.”

  “The way that man beats on him, and he’s still around?”

  “He was, but now he’s with Zakov and me.”

  “Kluboshar beat his wife to death, though we couldn’t get enough evidence to prove the case. This was five years back. Whaddya mean, the boy’s with you two?”

  “His father beat on him so I went to see the old man.”

  “He come out fighting?”

  “With a shotgun.” Hepting snorted contemptuously. “Threaten to call the sheriff?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Won’t happen. He knows I want him for his wife’s death, and he won’t go to Cruse because Cruse hates the man. He’s a lush and a WFM man, one of those natural loudmouths that weaker men are drawn to because they talk big.”

  “Strike leader?”

  “Hell no, just a drunken agitator. If Cruse goes after him, it will only be under the banner of crushing the strike; otherwise the Fat Man don’t like to personally get into potentially lethal confrontations. What other good news have you got?”

  “We want the boy to stay with us—at least until we can find kin.”

  “None here; they’re all back in Croatia.”

  “He can’t live with his father.”

  “Then you fellas hang on to him. I’ll tell the JP and the judge.”

  “I thrashed his father
pretty good.”

  “Pardon me if I shed no tears.”

  “What about Jaquelle?” Bapcat asked.

  “None of my business, but word’s going ’round that she’s sponsoring scabs.”

  “What the hell does ‘sponsoring’ mean?”

  “I don’t know the details. Ask her.”

  “Then you don’t actually know anything.”

  “No need for that tone, Lute.”

  “John, you’re pro-union.”

  “Officially, I’m neutral, but I’m also an honorary member of the WFM.”

  “It can’t be that all operators are bad.”

  “Never said they were, but some want only money, and they don’t much give a damn where it comes from, how they get it, or the costs others have to pay for their wealth.”

  “Meaning Jaquelle Frei?”

  “Dammit, it’s just something I heard, Lute. Don’t take it so damn personal.”

  Switch directions. “What about Ulrick Moriarty?”

  Hepting loosed a nervous laugh. “Shit, Lute. Kluboshar, Webster, and Moriarty; now there’s a threesome.”

  “Star House,” Bapcat said.

  “Your proverbial den of iniquity: gambling, draggletails, the usual low-life menu.”

  “Some say he’s hiding Pinnochi.”

  “That Mick protecting a Dago?” Hepting said with a snarl. “Not very likely.”

  “Tell me about Moriarty.”

  “Well, as I hear it, he’s threatening to kill the next lawman who steps over his threshold.”

  “And he’s still free?”

  “All talk so far, and last I checked, the Constitution protects talk. You going up to Helltown?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “You decide to go, take an army.”

  “Including you?”

  “Well, if you’re that set on it—otherwise, I opt to leave that SOB right where he is.”

  79

  Copper Harbor

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1913

  Frei Dry Goods and Outfitters sat on the town’s extreme eastern perimeter and overlooked the harbor, the last commercial enterprise before Old Fort Wilkins and the wilds that stretched out to Keweenaw Point, land’s end of the seventy-mile-long peninsula.

  Bapcat noticed that there was a door open to Frei’s icehouse, a substantial structure added to the west side of the main building by Jaquelle’s late husband. Seven or eight men were gathered on the front steps of the establishment, their haircuts and clothes identifying them at first glance as foreigners.

  The game warden looked down at Jordy Kluboshar, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “Your weapon unloaded?”

  “How many times you gonna ask that?”

  “As many times as I need to in order to feel satisfied that the rifle is safe.”

  “It ain’t loaded.”

  “Good. Wait out here on the porch,” Bapcat said, and went inside. A bell attached to the door sounded his arrival. Jaquelle was talking to two women about a bolt of yellow cloth, but used her eyes to direct him to the tiny room she called her office.

  “Good God and hallelujah, Mohammed’s surely come to the mountain!” she exclaimed dramatically but quietly. She smiled seductively and looked him over. “Thought maybe you forgot how to get here.”

  “Helltown,” he said.

  “Good God, Lute. We women need foreplay, the music of language, songs of the heart, not just spitting out requests for information,” she said, her voice on edge.

  “Ulrick Moriarty?”

  “What about him?”

  “You were to get information for me.”

  “I have. Pinnochi’s not with Moriarty and not in Wyoming,” she said. “Your informant was wrong.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I believe I told you that I know Moriarty. I talked to him.”

  “There or here?”

  “What difference does that make?” she demanded.

  Her jaw was clenched, back straight, chest heaving, chin out, fists balled, ready to argue, and he had no inkling why. “Who’re those men out front?”

  “Men who want honest labor.”

  “Scabs?”

  “I detest labels,” she said. “They demean.”

  “They’re foreigners,” he said.

  Which drew a snicker. “Good God, Bapcat, who in the Keweenaw ain’t?”

  “The operators have trouble getting strikers back to work, so they import workers? How many of them fellas even know they’re walking into a strike?”

  “What business is this of yours, Trapper?”

  “Technically none, but a lot of my work has been directly because of the strike, and I guess that’s made it my business.”

  “Mine are all here legally,” Frei said.

  “I didn’t say they weren’t.”

  “John Hepting made that same accusation to my attorney.”

  “I’m sure John’s just doing his job the way he sees it.”

  “WFM people are watching trains from the East Coast, and when immigrants are recruited by personnel bureaus out east, strikers talk them out of coming. Some are threatened, and get off the train along the way. Others get to Houghton or Red Jacket and go straight to the WFM office to sign up as soon as they leave the station. It seemed to me there could be a more efficient way to handle the shortage. The mine operators asked me to look into alternatives.”

  “The men out front.”

  “My second group of ten. The first group’s already working. The men come up the St. Lawrence to Montreal by ship, then by train to Soo, Ontario. They take a ferry to the Michigan side where Immigration checks them in and our people pick them up and bring them by boat to Copper Harbor. The WFM and their sympathizers are all looking south and back to the East. I’m bringing them in from the north—behind the lines. I also heard more are coming down from Minnesota.”

  “Got your own little military operation,” he said.

  “I suppose,” she said, smiling.

  He wasn’t sure why he said what he said next. It just sort of came out, pushed by something deep and heavy inside him. “What’s Moriarty’s role in your little scheme?”

  Frei was smart and seldom caught short, but he saw momentary panic in her eyes. “Why would you ask such an entirely ludicrous question?”

  “I’m not sure,” he confessed, “but whatever it is, it’s also telling me to talk to Moriarty face-to-face.”

  “You are an unrepentant, willfully stubborn man, Bapcat. I say again: Pinnochi’s not there and never has been.”

  He thought he detected a hitch in her voice. “Why’re you trying to block me?”

  “Not block—preempt,” she corrected him. “Perhaps I’m trying to protect you, Deputy. Has that ever occurred to you?”

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  “Ordinarily I might accept your contention as true on a theoretical level, but in this case I do not. I contracted Moriarty to provide security for our new immigrants, and he’s employed a number of crusty fellows.”

  “You mean thugs?”

  “I mean, men who do difficult, often-unwanted jobs for fair pay,” she said.

  He thought for a moment. “Men with criminal records?”

  “I prefer to think of them as individuals who deliver what they are contracted to deliver.”

  Thugs and criminals. “Did the operators come to you, or did you go to them?”

  “That, I believe, is none of your business, Deputy.”

  “Jaquelle, I understand your interest in making money, and I know you’re good at it.”

  She showed a sliver of a smile. “Then you will surely understand that I make such money by rendering wants into
needs, and satisfying said needs.”

  Some things were still gnawing at him. “Your crusty fellows wouldn’t include strike-breakers, would they?”

  “My contract is limited to security and escort duties for newly hired miners.”

  Her contract? How many contracts were there, and between whom? “For twenty men so far.”

  “Yes, so far. I think of it as a pipeline, which is now built and ready for me to turn on the flow to match demand.”

  “Moriarty hires security men for you?”

  “That’s the arrangement.”

  “And you don’t want me to visit Helltown.”

  “The place is a veritable hornet’s nest, Lute. Why disturb the hive if it’s isolated and not bothering anyone?”

  “I take your point, Jaquelle. Let me show you something.”

  Frei followed him to the front door, which he opened. “Boy, get in here.”

  “I got a name,” the boy grumbled as he stepped inside.

  “Jordy Kluboshar, meet Mrs. Frei,” Bapcat said.

  “Widow Frei,” Jaquelle corrected him gently.

  Bapcat said, “What do you say, Jordy?”

  “Pleasedtameetcha,” the boy mumbled.

  “Thank you for saying so, even if it’s not how you really feel,” the widow told the boy.

  Bapcat said, “Go back outside, Jordy.”

  “Are we leaving soon?” the boy asked.

  Bapcat pointed at the door and the boy stepped out. To Frei: “Zakov and I have taken him in. He’s been living nearly wild. Mother’s dead, father’s a drunk who beats him. The boy’s got good instincts and he’s got courage.”

  “And you and that obnoxious Russian have taken a notion you can save this boy’s lost soul?”

  “We don’t care about his soul, just his life,” Bapcat said. “He stays with his father, sooner or later he’ll turn up dead. I need your help.”

  He saw she was surprised. “I don’t like kids, Lute. And they don’t like me.”

  “This will help both of you.”

  “This? He’s carrying a ruck and a rifle. Are you intending to leave him here, sir? Here?”

  “Add it to my debt, and make sure he gets to school.”

  “This will cost you substantially, dearest.”

  “Everything with you costs me dearly.”