In Dubious Battle

  Mac said, "I haven't seen such pointers in a long time."

  Al's father stepped up beside him. "Man, you never seen such pointers in your life." A warmth was established.

  "Do you shoot over 'em much?"

  "Every season. And I get birds, too. Lots of fools use setters. Setter's a net dog, nobody nets birds any more. Pointer's a real gun dog."

  "I like the looks of that one with the liver saddle."

  "Sure, he's good. But he can't hold up to that sweet little bitch. Name's Mary, gentle as Jesus in the pen, but she's jumping hell in the field. Never seen a dog could cover the ground the way she can."

  Mac gave the noses a rub. "I see they got holes into the barn. You let 'em run in the barn?"

  "No, their beds are tight against the wall. Warmer in there."

  "If the bitch ever whelps, I'd like to speak a pup."

  The old man snorted. "She'd have to whelp ever' day in the year to supply the people that wants her pups."

  Mac turned slowly from the pen and looked into the brown eyes. "My name's McLeod," he said, and held out his hand.

  "Anderson's mine. What you want?"

  "I want to talk straight to you."

  The sun was gone now, and the chickens had disappeared from the yard. The evening chill settled down among the trees. "Selling something, Mr. McLeod? I don't want none."

  "Sure, we're selling something, but it's a new product."

  His tone seemed to reassure Anderson. "Why'n't you come into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee?"

  "I don't mind," said Mac.

  The kitchen was like the rest of the place, painted, scrubbed, swept. The nickel trimmings on the stove shone so that it seemed wet.

  "You live here alone, Mr. Anderson?"

  "My boy Al comes out and sleeps. He's a pretty good boy." From a paper bag the old man took out a handful of carefully cut pine splinters and laid them in the stove, and on top he placed a few little scraps of pitchwood, and on top of those, three round pieces of seasoned apple wood. It was so well and deftly done that the fire flared up when he applied a match. The stove cricked, and a burst of heat came from it. He put on a coffee-pot and measured ground coffee into it. From a bag he took two egg shells and dropped them into the pot.

  Mac and Jim sat at a kitchen table covered with new yellow oilcloth. Anderson finished his work at the stove. He came over, sat primly down, put his two hands on the table; they lay still, even as good dogs do when they want to be off. "Now, what is it, McLeod?"

  A look of perplexity lay on Mac's muscular face. "Mr. Anderson," he said hesitatingly, "I haven't got a hell of a lot of cards. I ought to play 'em hard and get the value out of 'em. But I don't seem to want to. I think I'll lay 'em down. If they take the pot, O.K. If they don't, there's no more deal."

  "Well, lay 'em then, McLeod."

  "It's like this. By tomorrow a couple of thousand men will be on strike, and the apple picking will stop."

  Anderson's hands seemed to sniff, to stiffen, and then to lie still again.

  Mac went on, "The reason for the strike is this pay-cut. Now the owners'll run in scabs, and there'll be trouble. But there's a bunch of men going out, enough to picket the Valley. D'you get the picture?"

  "Part of it; but I don't know what you're driving at."

  "Well, here's the rest. Damn soon there'll be a supervisors' ordinance against gathering on a road or on any public property. The owners'll kick the strikers off their land for trespassing."

  "Well, I'm an owner. What do you want of me?"

  "Al says you've got five acres of plow land." Anderson's hands were still and tense as dogs at point. "Your five acres are private property. You can have men on it."

  Anderson said cautiously, "You're selling something; you don't say what it is."

  "If the Torgas Valley apples don't go on the market, the price'll go up, won't it?"

  "Sure it will."

  "Well, you'll get your crop picked free."

  Anderson relaxed slightly in his chair. The coffee-pot began to breathe gently on the stove. "Men like that'd litter the land up," he said.

  "No, they won't. There's a committee to keep order. There won't even be any liquor allowed. A doctor's coming down to look out for the sanitation. We'll lay out a nice neat camp, in streets."

  Anderson drew a quick breath. "Look here, young fellow, I own this place. I got to get along with my neighbors. They'd raise hell with me if I did a thing like that."

  "You say you own this place," Mac said. "Is it clear? Is there any paper on it?"

  "Well, no, it ain't clear."

  "And who are your neighbors?" Mac asked quickly. "I'll tell you who they are: Hunter, Gillray, Martin. Who holds your paper? Torgas Finance Company. Who owns Torgas Finance Company? Hunter, Gillray, Martin. Have they been squeezing you? You know God damn well they have. How long you going to last? Maybe one year; and then Torgas Finance takes your place. Is that straight? Now suppose you got a crop out with no labor charges; suppose you sold it on a rising market? Could you clear out your paper?"

  Anderson's eyes were bright and beady. Two little spots of anger were on his cheeks. His hands crept under the edge of the table and hid. For a moment he seemed not to breathe. At last he said softly, "You didn't lay 'em down, fellow, you played 'em. If I could get clear--if I could get a knife in----"

  "We'll give you two regiments of men to get your knife in."

  "Yeah, but my neighbors'd run me out."

  "Oh no they won't. If they touch you or your place we won't leave a barn standing in the Valley."

  Anderson's lean old jaw was set hard. "What you getting out of it?"

  Mac grinned. "I could tell you the other stuff straight. I don't know whether you'd believe the answer to that one or not. Me an' Jim here get a sock in the puss now and then. We get sixty days for vagrancy pretty often."

  "You're one of those reds?"

  "You win; we're reds, as you call them."

  "And what do you figure to do with your strike?"

  "Don't get us wrong, Mr. Anderson. We didn't start it. Gillray, Martin and Hunter started it. They told you what to pay the men, didn't they?"

  "Well, the Growers' Association did. Torgas Finance Company runs that."

  "O.K. We didn't start it. But once it's started, we want to help it win. We want to keep the men from running to hell, teach 'em to work together. You come in with us, and you'll never have labor trouble as long as you live."

  Anderson complained, "I don't know whether I can trust a red."

  "You never tried; but you've tried trusting Torgas Finance."

  Anderson smiled coldly. His hands came up on the table, and played together like puppies. "It'll probably break me, and put me on the road. Christ knows I'm headed for it anyway. Might as well have some fun. I'd give a hell of a lot to stick Chris Hunter." The coffee boiled over and fizzed fiercely on the stove, and the smell of burning coffee filled the air. The electric light glistened on Anderson's white eyebrows, and on his stiff hair. He lifted the coffee-pot and wiped the stove carefully with a newspaper. "I'll pour you out some coffee, Mr. Red."

  But Mac sprang to his feet. "Thanks, but we've got to get along. We'll see you get a square deal out of this. Right now we got a million things to do. Be seeing you tomorrow." They left the old man standing holding the coffee-pot in his hand. Mac forced a trot across the yard. He muttered, "Jesus, that was ticklish. I was scared I'd slip any minute. What a tough old baby he is. I knew a hunting man'd be tough."

  "I like him," said Jim.

  "Don't you go liking people, Jim. We can't waste time liking people."

  "Where'd you get that dope on him about the Finance Company, Mac?"

  "Came in the mail tonight. But thank God for those dogs! Jump in, Jim. I'll turn her over."

  They rattled through the clear night. The little flaring headlamps flickered dizzily along the road. Jim looked up at the sky for a moment. "Lord, I'm excited. Look at the stars, Mac. Millions of 'em."
br />   "You look at the road," Mac growled. "Listen, Jim, I just happened to think. That guy this noon means they've got us spotted. From now on you be careful, and don't go away from the crowd very far. If you want to go someplace, see you take about a dozen men with you."

  "You mean they'll try to get us?"

  "You're damn right! They'll figure they can stop the ruckus with us out of it."

  "Well, when're you going to give me something to do, Mac? I'm just following you around like a little dog."

  "You're learning plenty, kid. When there's some use for you, I'll get it out, don't you worry. You can take out a flock of pickets in a day or so. Turn off to the left, Jim. We won't be wanting to go through town much from now on."

  Jim bumped the car along rutty side-roads. It was an hour before he came finally to the ranch and turned into the dark road among the apple trees. He throttled down the Ford until it was barely able to fire. The headlights jerked and shivered. Without warning a blinding light cut out through the darkness and fell on the men's faces. At the same moment two men, muffled in overcoats, stepped into the road ahead. Jim ground the Ford to a stop.

  A voice behind the light called, "These are the guys." One of the overcoated men lounged around the car and leaned on the door. The motor idled unevenly. Because of the light beam, the man leaning on the door was almost invisible. He said, "We want you two out of the Torgas Valley by daylight tomorrow, get it? Out."

  Mac's foot crept over and pressed Jim's leg. His voice became a sweet whine. "Wha's the matter 'th us, mister? We never done nothing."

  The man answered angrily, "Lay off, buddy. We know who you are, and what you are. We want you out."

  Mac whined, "If you're the law, we're citizens. We got a right to stand trial. I pay taxes back home."

  "Well, go home and pay 'em. This isn't the law: this is a citizens' committee. If you think you God-damned reds can come in here and raise hell, you're crazy. You get out of here in your tin can or you'll go out in a box. Get it?"

  Jim felt Mac's foot creep under his legs and find the gear pedal of the Ford. Jim tapped the foot with his toe to show he understood. The old engine staggered around and around. Sometimes one cylinder missed fire, sometimes two. Mac said, "You got us wrong, mister. We're just workin' stiffs. We don't want no trouble."

  "I said 'out.'"

  "Well, leave us get our stuff."

  "Listen, you're turning right around and getting out."

  Mac cried, "You're yellow, that's what you are. You put twenty men hiding along the road. You're yellow as hell."

  "Who's yellow? There's just three of us. But if you're not out of the Valley by morning, there'll be fifty."

  "Step on it, Jim!"

  The engine roared. The Ford bucked ahead like a horse. The man on the side spun off into the darkness, and the man in front jumped for his life. The rattling car leaped over the road with a noise of falling andirons.

  Mac looked over his shoulder. "The flashlight's gone," he shouted.

  Jim ran the car behind the long building. They jumped out and sprinted around the end of the bunk house.

  The space in front of the doorways was dense with men standing in groups, talking in low tones. On the doorsteps the women sat, hugging their skirts down around their knees. A droning, monotonous hum of talk came from the groups. At least five hundred men were there, men from other ranches. The tough kid Jim had spoken to stalked near. "Didn't believe me, huh? Well, how's this look to you?"

  Mac asked him, "Seen London?"

  "Sure I seen him. We elected him chairman. He's in his room now with the committee. Thought I was nuts, didn't you?" he said to Jim. "I told you I was on the in."

  Mac and Jim edged their way among the crowded men and into the hum of voices. London's door was closed, and his window was closed. A press of men stood on tiptoe and looked through the glass into the lighted room. Mac started up the steps. Two men threw themselves in his way. "What the hell do you want?"

  "We want to see London."

  "Yeah? Does London want to see you?"

  "Ask him, why don't you?"

  "What's your name?"

  "Tell London Doc and Jim want to see him."

  "You're the guy that helped the girl have a kid?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, I'll ask." The man opened the door and stepped inside. A second later he emerged and held the door open. "Go right on in, boys, London's waitin' for you."

  London's room had been hurriedly made into an office by bringing in boxes for seats. London sat on his bed, his tonsured head forward. A committee of seven men stood, sat on boxes, smoked cigarettes. They turned their heads when Jim and Mac entered. London looked glad. "Hello, Doc. Hello, Jim. Glad to see you. Heard the news?"

  Mac flopped down on a box. "Heard nothing," he said. "Me and Jim been covering ground. What happened?"

  "Well, it seems to be all right. Dakin's crowd went out. There's a guy named Burke, chairman on the Gillray place. There's a meetin' of everybody called for tomorrow."

  "Fine," said Mac. "Workin' out fine. But we can't do much till we get an executive committee and a general chairman."

  London asked, "How'd you come out on that thing you went for? I didn't tell the boys, case it didn't come off."

  "Got it." Mac turned to the seven men. "Listen," he said. "A guy's loaned us five acres for the guys to camp on. It's private property, so nobody but the health people can kick us off. We got a doctor coming down to take care of that." The committeemen set up straight, grinning with enthusiasm. Mac continued, "Now I've promised this farmer that the men'd pick his crop for nothing. It won't take 'em long. There's plenty of water. It's a good central location, too."

  One of the men stood up excitedly. "Can I go tell the guys outside, London?"

  "Sure, go ahead. Where is this place, Doc? We can have our big meetin' there tomorrow."

  "It's Anderson's orchard, a little way out of town." Three of the committeemen broke for the door, to tell the news. Outside there was first a silence, and then a roll of voices, not shouting, but talking excitedly; and the roll spread out and grew louder, until the air was full of it.

  Jim asked, "What happened to old Dan?"

  London raised his head. "They wanted to take him to a hospital. He wouldn't do no good in a hospital. We got a doctor to set his hip. He's down the row a little. Couple of good women takin' care of the poor old bum. He's havin' a fine time. Couldn't get 'im out of here now. He just gives everybody hell, women and all."

  Mac asked, "Have you heard from the owners yet?"

  "Yeah, 'super' came in. Asked if we was goin' back to work. We says 'no.' He says, 'Get the hell off the place by morning.' Says he'll have a trainload of stiffs in here by mornin'."

  "He won't," Mac interrupted. "He can't get 'em in before day after tomorrow. It takes some time to hand-pick a bunch of scabs. And day after tomorrow we'll be ready for 'em. Say, London, some guys that call 'emselves a committee tried to run me and Jim out of the Valley. Better pass the word to the guys not to go out alone. Tell 'em if they want to go any place take some friends along for company."

  London nodded at one of his committeemen. "Pass the word, Sam." Sam went out. Again the roll of voices spreading out and rumbling, like a wave over round stones. This time the tone was deep and angry.

  Mac slowly rolled a brown cigarette. "I'm tired," he said. "We got so much to do. I guess we can do it tomorrow."

  "Go to bed," said London. "You been goin' like a fool."

  "Yep, I been goin', all right. Seems kind of hard when you're tired. They got guns. We can't have no guns. They got money. They can buy our boys. Five bucks looks like a hell of a lot of jack to these poor half-starved bastards. Be pretty sure before you tell anythin', London. After all, you can't blame the guys much if they sell out. We got to be clever and mean and quick." His voice had grown sad. "If we don't win, we got to start all over again. It's too bad. We could win so easy, if the guys would only stick together. We could just kick Bi
lly Hell out of the owners. No guns, no money. We got to do it with our hands and our teeth." His head jerked up. London was grinning in sympathy, embarrassed, as men are when one of their number opens his heart.

  Mac's heavy face flushed with shame. "I'm tired. You guys carry it while me and Jim get some sleep. Oh, London, in the mail tomorrow there'll be a package for Alex Little. It's handbills. Ought to be in by eight o'clock. Send some of the guys down to get it, will you? And see the handbills get around. They ought to do some good. Come on, Jim. Let's sleep."

  They lay in their room in the dark. Outside the men sat and waited, and the murmur of their voices penetrated the walls and seemed to penetrate the world. Away, in town, a switch engine crashed back and forth making up a train. The night milk trucks rumbled over the highway beside the orchard. Then oddly, sweetly, someone played a few tunes on a harmonica, and the murmur of voices stopped and the men listened. It was quiet outside, except for the harmonica, so quiet that Jim heard a rooster crowing before he went to sleep.

  7

  THE day was coming in grey and cold when Jim started awake at voices outside the door. He heard a man say, "They're in here, probably asleep yet." The door opened. Mac sat up.

  A familiar voice said, "You here, Mac?"

  "Dick! How the hell'd you get here this early?"

  "Came down with Doc Burton."

  "Doc here too?"

  "Sure, he's right outside the door."

  Mac scratched a match and lighted a candle in a broken saucer. Dick turned to Jim. "Hello, kid. How you makin' it?"

  "Fine. What you all dressed up for, Dick? Pants pressed, clean shirt."

  Dick smiled self-consciously. "Somebody in this dump's got to look respectable."

  Mac said, "Dick'll be infesting every pink parlor in Torgas. Listen, Dick, I got a list of sympathizers right here. We want money of course; but we want tents, pieces of canvas, beds. Remember that--tents. Here's your list. There's lots of names on it. Make the contacts, and we'll send cars for the stuff. Lot of the boys 've got cars."

  "O.K., Mac. How's she going?"

  "Going like a bat out of hell. We got to work quick to keep up." He tied his shoe. "Where's Doc? Why don't you call him in? Come on in, Doc."

  A young man with golden hair stepped into the room. His face was almost girlish in its delicacy, and his large eyes had a soft, sad look like those of a bloodhound. He carried his medical bag and a brief-case in one hand. "How are you, Mac? Dick got your wire and picked me up."