The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

"Alex, round up some men and have them haul these carcasses down to the hotel so that they can grab their belongings. Then have them loaded into a wagon and driven to the canal. Dump them there and have them watched for a while to make sure they keep going north. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and have to do this all over again."

  Willie Brado made his presence known. "I'll get the wagon and drive it, Mister Miller." He was off before anyone could comment.

  Matt's voice had been strong and his directions clear, but the Boss's Boy could feel tremors in his muscles.

  Flat out fighting was different than bare fisted box fighting. By finishing his man quickly, both he and Mickey had avoided the wrestling, biting, kicking and slugging of a common street brawl—but it was still nerve-straining work.

  Loud voices from the crowd pushing and shoving to see better caught Matt's attention. Men shouted "Good job" to him, and one complained that Matt had done what he had intended on doing.

  Matt turned to Mickey McFee. "Thanks for the help, Mick. That bozo would have nailed me sure."

  McFee was still excited by the action, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his fists clenched at waist level, and his eyes peering as if other enemies were about to pounce.

  Mickey said, "I nailed him good, Matt. One clean shot from The Hurricane's Irish Cannon, and he was down to stay." McFee brandished his right fist as if it were a club.

  China looked over and said, "Too bad you don't have a left hand to go with it, McFee. One-hand fighters do not get far—unless they are hitting men who aren't looking."

  Mickey remained pleased with himself. "If he isn't looking, that's his problem. Hit ‘em when you can is my motto."

  Matt said, "Mine, too, Mick."

  China smiled and claimed, "That's a good policy. I've used it for years."

  The crowd was long gone, but Matt, Mickey, and China were still in the office, calming themselves by talking about old fights and fighters when Wilhelm Brado returned from delivering the Organizers to the canal.

  "They went north, just like you wanted, Mister Miller." The boy sounded worried.

  Matt thanked him and asked him to put the horse and wagon away.

  "That man that Mister McFee hit was still holding his side and groaning, Mister Miller, but the other one, the one named Boleski was madder than a wet hornet.

  "His face kept bleeding from where you hit him, and . . ."

  McFee broke in. "That glove about wiped his face off, Matt. You ought to pay China for them, like I had to for mine."

  Smith said, "People punching unsuspecting men in their soft bellies don't need fighting gloves, McFee. Now stay quiet and listen to what this boy has to say."

  Brado did not have much more.

  "All I can add, Mister Miller, is that Boleski told me to tell you that you would see him again, and next time it would be you that would bleed."

  China Smith laughed, Mickey McFee shook his head and snorted. Matt smiled grimly, "There isn't much else he could say, Willy. A man that just got whipped and run out of town can't do much more than threaten, but I heard what you said, and we will take Boleski's words real serious.

  "If the Organizers come again, we will be waiting, and next time we will mark them so that they remember their visit and will never want to repeat it."

  Chapter 28

  There was a fall nip in the air, and Brado had lit a warming fire in the headquarters stove. Matt stood with his back to the blaze, heating his behind while rereading the Baron's letter.

  Deiter Haas had returned home and was again ruling his people, but he had not forgotten his American time, and his first letter had a proposal that needed answering.

  Matt handed the letter to Willy Brado who was helping Lukey Bates with the weekly payroll.

  "Read the second page, Willy. It has to do with you."

  Brado read, If Wilhelm Brado wishes to return to his fatherland, I have a place for him. His position would be within my household and much like his work with Lukey Bates. If he elects to return to Germany, I will see him through proper schooling and have him tutored in the ways of German gentlemen.

  Please inform Wilhelm that if he chooses to remain in America I will understand and wish him well. Your country, too, has much to offer.

  Matt waited expectantly, and Brado did not disappoint him. "Will you answer for me, Mister Miller, or should I write to Baron Von Haas myself?"

  "Whichever way you prefer, Willy, but before you announce your decision be aware of how fine a future you could have with Deiter. The Baron can offer a thousand comforts that you are unlikely to discover in this country."

  Matt smiled broadly, "On the other hand, in this young nation, who can tell what opportunities may appear. In Germany, you will be what tradition and custom allow. In this country you can rise—or you can fall—as your skill, your determination, and your luck provide.

  "There is no hurry, Willy. I will not answer Deiter for at least a week, or you can write your own letter at any time."

  Brado assumed his usual position of attention and answered clearly. "I do not need time, Mister Miller. I do not wish to return to Germany," the boy pondered, "except for a visit or two when I am much older."

  Matt nodded his agreement. "I am pleased to hear that, Willy, but if you are staying with us, I have plans for you that will begin almost immediately."

  Brado appeared worried, so Matt hurried on.

  "If you are to succeed in this modern world, you must have schooling." Matt grinned openly. "When my father forced education on me I resisted as powerfully as I could manage. I was dead wrong, but I do not expect that response from you.

  "Within the month, a school year will start at the academy over in Bloomfield. I will expect you to attend and to do well. That means that you will return to us here in Duncannon only on vacations. I may drop by during the year, but your full attention must be on what the professors are teaching."

  Matt pulled his lip and added, "I may send Lukey now and then to check on your progress. He is a graduate of that academy, and you have seen how much more he knows than do the rest of us.

  "Do you agree to that course, Wilhelm?"

  Brado did with apparent pleasure. Matt reminded the boy that he would still be a Miller Man, and he would be expected to add luster to the company's reputation.

  Matt broke the conversation as the sound of stumbling hurry and heavy breathing approaching their door.

  The door burst open, and one of Matt's ancient river rats entered. Matt had stationed a number of the old timers on probable approaches from upriver. This one, Old Ben, had been living in Port Treverton for almost a month. His job was to observe everyone who came downriver. If Organizers, whether familiar or new faces, appeared, he was to beat them to Duncannon.

  Judging Ben's urgency, Matt guessed that he had figured it right. Joseph Boleski was returning—and he would have people with him.

  Old Ben had worked at getting to Matt first. He had seen the Organizers, eleven of them counting Boleski, on a packet boat heading south. He had climbed aboard and yarned with the helmsman and steered when the man needed natural relief clear to New Buffalo. There, while the ark laid over, he had rented a horse and come a'helling on down to the Miller Company headquarters.

  Matt sat him down and asked Willy to fetch a beer bucket from the hotel. While the old timer regained his limited vigor and waited for the beer, Matt gathered more information.

  "How far behind are they, Ben?"

  Ben figured. "I'd say, they won't get to Benvenue until, maybe, late this afternoon, Boss."

  He expanded his chest and set his shoulders more squarely. "I hustled more than a little getting down here, Boss. We'll need some time getting ready for them."

  Ben twisted his worn features into a fighting mask. "They've all got pick handles, Boss, and when they were drinking, they were loud about the damage they were going to do to the people that had insulted their organization and jumped their leader from behind."

  The beer
arrived, and Old Ben swallowed and lip-smacked his pleasure over his German-style stein while Matt began his preparations.

  First, Brado was set to bell ringing. The youth worked at it, and there could be no mistaking the clanging urgency. The steam whistle at the mill followed suit, and from distant places Matt heard conchs and at least one coach horn adding to the din.

  Good! Taking Boleski's parting threat seriously, he had made careful preparations. The loud warnings were step number one.

  As they arrived, Matt huddled with his foremen and a few selected Miller Men (plus Klubber Cole) chosen to directly participate in their Organizers' reception.

  Frank Pavlovic was not along, and Boleski resented his absence. True, Pavlovic still complained of pain in his liver, but he had stopped peeing blood, and Boleski believed he was fit to take part in their carefully arranged revenge.

  Boleski was want to touch the scar along his cheek where Matt Miller's blow had split his skin and possibly fractured a cheekbone. Unlike Pavlovic, who Boleski believed had given up—the head Organizer sought payback.

  The Organizers marched eleven men strong. Armed with pick handles, they intended to do physical damage to anyone between them and Miller, who led the company. After they had thoroughly pounded Miller and whoever else was handy, they might burn a few buildings or even a boat or two before they left town.

  Smashing the Miller Company would send warning up and down the rivers and through the coalfields that the worker organizations were powerful with long arms. Other laborers would gain courage to stand and resist. Uncooperative companies would think again.

  Few beyond the men in Boleski's group would know that Joseph Boleski had spent personal money hiring his ten thugs—none of whom worked regularly at any employment.

  Boleski had planned a withdrawal march up the Susquehanna's east side where they would be out of Perry County jurisdiction and pursuit would be unlikely.

  He, of course, would not walk the many miserable miles back to the mines. If Frank Pavlovic was unwilling to fight, he could still be useful. Pavlovic would even now be riding south with an extra horse in tow. When he met the victorious Organizers, he would turn an animal over to Boleski, and they would ride the rest of the way.

  When their packet touched the wharf at the Duncan‘s Island lock, Boleski organized his men and immediately set off on the short march to Duncannon. Surprise could be as valuable as the strengths of his men because the Miller Company had already demonstrated its ability to rally a crowd of sympathizers.

  Boleski would not wish to encounter the mob of Miller Men present at the voting. Boleski sneered to himself. Those Miller people would not be as admiring when their boss lay broken with their headquarters burned to the ground. That thought reminded Boleski to check that each of his men had his heavy scarf about his neck so that it could be pulled across its owner's face disguising features and making positive identification improbable.

  Boleski judged the time of day and believed he had chosen well. There would be daylight for their vengeance. Miller's laborers would still be scattered at their work, and by the time Miller Men could rally, the Organizers would be gone and dark would be descending. Men who had already worked a full day would not be anxious to chase a strong enemy through the night.

  Boleski almost wished some Miller Men would attempt to run them down. His thugs would hammer those unfortunates into the dirt—just as they were about to batter and pound Matt Miller himself.

  He had considered sending a scout into town to make sure Miller was there, but Duncannon was a small community, and if detected, their plan would be ruined, and they might have to run like frightened children. Not this time! Boleski's fingers touched his scarred cheek.

  A half-dozen loggers bearing their axes and adzes had boarded Boleski's packet a pair of miles earlier at Amity Hall, but they had purchased transport to Harry McKee's hotel across the Susquehanna. Boleski gave them little thought. As soon as its river pilot boarded, the boat would resume its passage. His attention was focused on what lay to the south, not across the river.

  Joseph Boleski believed the Gods smiled on him. His group of sluggers had barely broken through low growth that had replaced trees once covering flat ground all along the river to enter a decent-sized clearing where a number of men were clustered around a large iron kettle held above a fire. With astonished pleasure, Boleski recognized Matt Miller and the fighter who had, with a single punch, taken the heart out of Frank Pavlovic. The other three men Boleski did not know and were of little interest.

  Here, delivered unto him were the men he most wanted—the devils he had come to repay. Boleski's satisfaction could not have glowed brighter.

  Boleski immediately fanned his men in an arc around the Miller Men who seemed to ignore their presence. He had them pinned against their fire, and none of the Millers would escape. His men flipped their scarves across their faces disguising their features. Boleski did not. He wished to be known.

  Matt Miller finally looked his way, and Boleski was astonished by the calm acceptance of what must surely seem like impending disaster. Miller's fighter moved to his side, as he had before, but the three others at the fire stood relaxed and outwardly unworried.

  It might be that they did not know what was about to happen. Boleski spared no sympathy. These hapless fools were probably among those who had voted against him the last time he had passed this way. His bruisers would punish them as well.

  Because he was silently enjoying his sluggers' supremacy and their forthcoming beating of Miller into mush, Boleski had not spoken. Matt Miller did.

  Miller said, "I warned you not to return, Boleski. You have made a serious error."

  Boleski was prepared to laugh, but apparently on signal, a row of a dozen men armed with tool handles stepped from the brush along the road to Duncannon. Boleksi felt his men freeze in place and his own nerves twanged with instant recognition that it was he who had stepped into a trap.

  From the way Boleski had come, the six loggers who had boarded the packet at Amity Hall stepped into view blocking the only route back to the canal. The loggers had knocked off their metal tool heads and were also armed with the ash ax and adz handles. Boleski felt sweat pop, and he could sense fear beginning to challenge his hired toughs.

  Boleski's shifty mind went to work, and he forced a crooked smile. He intended to explain that he was only passing through and that he had no bad intentions, but Miller was not yet finished, and from the brush beyond the fire, more men emerged. The man Pavlovic had claimed was a famous bare fist fighter named Smith led them. Poleski did not bother to count. They were more than a dozen, and their faces were as ungiving as the tool handles they gripped in work-hardened fists.

  Boleski feared his panic showed. One of his men swore, and the sluggers milled uncertainly in the face of overwhelming odds.

  Again Miller spoke before Boleski could reorganize his thoughts.

  Miller spoke to Boleski's lumpers. "You men were hired to attempt an impossible task. You have two choices. The first, and wisest, is to lay down your clubs and march yourselves back to the canal. If your boat is there, board and leave this place. If there is no boat, begin walking north or across the bridge. Do not turn back, or you will regret it forever.

  "Your second choice is to stand and fight beside Boleski, who will not be going with you. He will not win, and you will not either. That decision you will certainly regret as long as you have memory."

  Miller's voice was iron hard. "Choose now. Fight or depart."

  Tool handles struck the ground. There was no hesitation, and no blustering in the face of overwhelming force. No sluggers asked what was going to happen to their leader. En masse, they dropped their clubs, turned on their heels and strode back the way they had come. Matt's six blockers stepped aside to let the intimidated bruisers pass.

  Boleski, too, tried to depart, but one of the fire tenders stepped into his path. Boleski recognized him from the voting meeting. He, too, was a former fighter, an
d his features had been bashed and reformed many times. Boleski felt his soul wither. His was not going to be an easy departure. Neither his clever words nor his experience in brawling would help him a lick. Matt Miller would do as he wished, and Joseph Boleski had no hope that his treatment would be mild.

  The mass of Miller Men closed around their captive, and Boleski saw no sympathy in any eyes. He said, "Now, Mister Miller, there is no need for fisticuffs here," but he got no further.

  The face-battered old fighter gripped Boleski's right wrist, and another man stepped forward to secure his left arm in the same grip. They were powerful men, and Boleski stood helpless to make more than token motions.

  Matt's cold voice said, "Coming downriver you and your men boasted about how they were going to smash the Miller Company."

  Boleski's soul writhed, God, they had been watched all the way.

  "You, Boleski, described how you would beat me to a helpless pulp and break a few bones so that I would remember your visit. Those were your words, Organizer."

  Boleski knew his voice whined, but he was beyond caring. "That was just talk, Miller, we had no such intentions."

  "You said you might burn buildings and leave these men out of work, Boleski. Miller Men take such threats to heart."

  Boleski had no more explanations to offer. He stood mutely while Miller studied him.

  Matt surprised him. "There will be no fisticuffs, Boleski. We have a better way to deal with trash like you."

  Boleski's hope rose a hair. He did not believe Miller would kill him in front of so many witnesses, and . . .

  As if sensing his thoughts, Miller said, "You will probably survive this time, Boleski, but if you are found south of Clark's Ferry again, your bones will rot on the bottom of the Susquehanna.

  "I warn you once more, but for the last time. Do not come this way again." Miller turned away as if uncaring, but Boleski's hopes vanished as the grips on his wrists tightened, and men stepped forward brandishing sharp knives. He heard himself whimper, but the men ignored his sounds. They slashed his clothing and cut everything above his waist away until the rags hung below his belt, His hat had been knocked away, and he stood naked to the waist.