King Coal

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She stopped speaking; and Hal walked beside her, stirred by a conflict
of emotions. His vision of her was indeed true; she would make more
strikes! He was glad and proud of that; but then came the thought that
while she, a girl, was going on with the bitter war, he, a man, would be
eating grilled beefsteaks at the club!

"Mary," he said, "I'm ashamed of myself--"

"That's not it, Joe! Ye've no call to be ashamed. Ye can't help it where
ye were born--"

"Perhaps not, Mary. But when a man knows he's never paid for any of the
things he's enjoyed all his life, surely the least he can do is to be
ashamed. I hope you'll try not to hate me as you do the others."

"I never hated ye, Joe! Not for one moment! I tell ye fair and true, I
love ye as much as ever. I can say it, because I'd not have ye now; I've
seen the other girl, and I know ye'd never be satisfied with me. I don't
know if I ought to say it, but I'm thinkin' ye'll not be altogether
satisfied with her, either. Ye'll be unhappy either way--God help ye!"

The girl had read deeply into his soul in this last speech; so deeply
that Hal could not trust himself to answer. They were passing a
street-lamp, and she looked at him, for the first time since they had
started on their walk, and saw harassment in his face. A sudden
tenderness came into her voice. "Joe," she said; "ye're lookin' bad.
'Tis good ye're goin' away from this place!"

He tried to smile, but the effort was feeble.

"Joe," she went on, "ye asked me to be your friend. Well, I'll be that!"
And she held out the big, rough hand.

He took it. "We'll not forget each other, Mary," he said. There was a
catch in his voice.

"Sure, lad!" she exclaimed. "We'll make another strike some day, just
like we did at North Valley!"

Hal pressed the big hand; but then suddenly, remembering his brother
stalking solemnly in the rear, he relinquished the clasp, and failed to
say all the fine things he had in his mind. He called himself a rebel,
but not enough to be sentimental before Edward!

SECTION 30.

They came to the house where John Edstrom was staying. The labouring
man's wife opened the door. In answer to Hal's question, she said, "The
old gentleman's pretty bad."

"What's the matter with him?"

"Didn't you know he was hurt?"

"No. How?"

"They beat him up, sir. Broke his arm, and nearly broke his head."

Hal and Mary exclaimed in chorus, "Who did it? When?"

"We don't know who did it. It was four nights ago."

Hal realised it must have happened while he was escaping from
MacKellar's. "Have you had a doctor for him?"

"Yes, sir; but we can't do much, because my man is out of work, and I
have the children and the boarders to look after."

Hal and Mary ran upstairs. Their old friend lay in darkness, but he
recognised their voices and greeted them with a feeble cry. The woman
brought a lamp, and they saw him lying on his back, his head done up in
bandages, and one arm bound in splints. He looked really desperately
bad, his kindly old eyes deep-sunken and haggard, and his face--Hal
remembered what Jeff Cotton had called him, "that dough-faced old
preacher!"

They got the story of what had happened at the time of Hal's flight to
Percy's train. Edstrom had shouted a warning to the fugitives, and set
out to run after them; when one of the mine-guards, running past him,
had fetched him a blow over the eye, knocking him down. He had struck
his head upon the pavement, and lain there unconscious for many hours.
When finally some one had come upon him, and summoned a policeman, they
had gone through his pockets, and found the address of this place where
he was staying written on a scrap of paper. That was all there was to
the story--except that Edstrom had refrained from sending to MacKellar
for help, because he had felt sure they were all working to get the mine
open, and he did not feel he had the right to put his troubles upon
them.

Hal listened to the old man's feeble statements, and there came back to
him a surge of that fury which his North Valley experience had generated
in him. It was foolish, perhaps; for to knock down an old man who had
been making trouble was a comparatively slight exercise of the functions
of a mine-guard. But to Hal it seemed the most characteristic of all the
outrages he had seen; it was an expression of the company's utter
blindness to all that was best in life. This old man, who was so gentle,
so patient, who had suffered so much, and not learned to hate, who had
kept his faith so true! What did his faith mean to the thugs of the
General Fuel Company? What had his philosophy availed him, his
saintliness, his hopes for mankind? They had fetched him one swipe as
they passed him, and left him lying--alive or dead, it was all the same.

Hal had got some satisfaction out of his little adventure in widowhood,
and some out of Mary's self-victory; but there, listening to the old
man's whispered story, his satisfaction died. He realised again the grim
truth about his summer's experience--that the issue of it had been
defeat. Utter, unqualified defeat! He had caused the bosses a momentary
chagrin; but it would not take them many hours to realise that he had
really done them a service in calling off the strike for them. They
would start the wheels of industry again, and the workers would be just
where they had been before Joe Smith came to be stableman and buddy
among them. What was all the talk about solidarity, about hope for the
future; what would it amount to in the long run, the daily rolling of
the wheels of industry? The workers of North Valley would have exactly
the right they had always had--the right to be slaves, and if they did
not care for that, the right to be martyrs!

Mary sat holding the old man's hand and whispering words of passionate
sympathy, while Hal got up and paced the tiny attic, all ablaze with
anger. He resolved suddenly that he would not go back to Western City;
he would stay here, and get an honest lawyer to come, and set out to
punish the men who were guilty of this outrage. He would test out the
law to the limit; if necessary, he would begin a political fight, to put
an end to coal-company rule in this community. He would find some one to
write up these conditions, he would raise the money and publish a paper
to make them known! Before his surging wrath had spent itself, Hal
Warner had actually come out as a candidate for governor, and was
overturning the Republican machine--all because an unidentified
coal-company detective had knocked a dough-faced old miner into the
gutter and broken his arm!

SECTION 31.

In the end, of course, Hal had to come down to practical matters. He sat
by the bed and told the old man tactfully that his brother had come to
see him and had given him some money. This brother had plenty of money,
so Edstrom could be taken to the hospital; or, if he preferred, Mary
could stay near here and take care of him. They turned to the landlady,
who had been standing in the doorway; she had three boarders in her
little home, it seemed, but if Mary could share a bed with the
landlady's two children, they might make out. In spite of Hal's protest,
Mary accepted this offer; he saw what was in her mind--she would take
some of his money, because of old Edstrom's need, but she would take
just as little as she possibly could.

John Edstrom of course knew nothing of events since his injury, so Hal
told him the story briefly--though without mentioning the transformation
which had taken place in the miner's buddy. He told about the part Mary
had played in the strike; trying to entertain the poor old man, he told
how he had seen her mounted upon a snow-white horse, and wearing a robe
of white, soft and lustrous, like Joan of Arc, or the leader of a
suffrage parade.

"Sure," said Mary, "he's forever callin' attention to this old dress!"

Hal looked; she was wearing the same blue calico. "There's something
mysterious about that dress," said he. "It's one of those that you read
about in fairy-stories, that forever patch themselves, and keep
themselves new and starchy. A body only needs one dress like that!"

"Sure, lad," she answered. "There's no fairies in coal-camps--unless
'tis meself, that washes it at night, and dries it over the stove, and
irons it next mornin'."

She said this with unwavering cheerfulness; but even the old miner lying
in pain on the cot could realise the tragedy of a young girl's having
only one old dress in her love-hunting season. He looked at the young
couple, and saw their evident interest in each other; after the fashion
of the old, he was disposed to help along the romance. "She may need
some orange blossoms," he ventured, feebly.

"Go along with ye!" laughed Mary, still unwavering.

"Sure," put in Hal, with hasty gallantry, "'tis a blossom she is
herself! A rose in a mining-camp--and there's a dispute about her in the
poetry-books. One tells you to leave her on her stalk, and another says
to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying!"

"Ye're mixin' me up," said Mary. "A while back I was ridin' on a white
horse."

"I remember," said Old Edstrom, "not so far back, you were an ant,
Mary."

Her face became grave. To jest about her personal tragedy was one thing,
to jest about the strike was another. "Yes, I remember. Ye said I'd stay
in the line! Ye were wiser than me, Mr. Edstrom."

"That's one of the things that come with being old, Mary." He moved his
gnarled old hand toward hers. "You're going on, now?" he asked. "You're
a unionist now, Mary?"

"I am that!" she answered, promptly, her grey eyes shining.

"There's a saying," said he--"once a striker, always a striker. Find a
way to get some education for yourself, Mary, and when the big strike
comes you'll be one of those the miners look to. I'll not be here, I
know--the young people must take my place."

"I'll do my part," she answered. Her voice was low; it was a kind of
benediction the old man was giving her.

The woman had gone downstairs to attend to her children; she came back
now to say that there was a gentleman at the door, who wanted to know
when his brother was coming. Hal remembered suddenly--Edward had been
pacing up and down all this while, with no company but a "hardware
drummer!" The younger brother's resolve to stay in Pedro had already
begun to weaken somewhat, and now it weakened still further; he realised
that life is complex, that duties conflict! He assured the old miner
again of his ability to see that he did not suffer from want, and then
he bade him farewell for a while.

He started out, and Mary went as far as the head of the stairway with
him. He took the girl's big, rough hand in his--this time with no one to
see. "Mary," he said, "I want you to know that nothing will make me
forget you; and nothing will make me forget the miners."

"Ah, Joe!" she cried. "Don't let them win ye away from us! We need ye so
bad!"

"I'm going back home for a while," he answered, "but you can be sure
that no matter what happens in my life, I'm going to fight for the
working people. When the big strike comes, as we know it's coming in
this coal-country, I'll be here to do my share."

"Sure lad," she said, looking him bravely in the eye, "and good-bye to
ye, Joe Smith." Her eyes did not waver; but Hal noted a catch in her
voice, and he found himself with an impulse to take her in his arms. It
was very puzzling. He knew he loved Jessie Arthur; he remembered the
question Mary had once asked him--could he be in love with two girls at
the same time? It was not in accord with any moral code that had been
impressed upon him, but apparently he could!

SECTION 32.

He went out to the street, where his brother was pacing up and down in a
ferment. The "hardware drummer" had made another effort to start a
conversation, and had been told to go to hell--no less!

"Well, are you through now?" Edward demanded, taking out his irritation
on Hal.

"Yes," replied the other. "I suppose so." He realised that Edward would
not be concerned about Edstrom's broken arm.

"Then, for God's sake, get some clothes on and let's have some food."

"All right," said Hal. But his answer was listless, and the other looked
at him sharply. Even by the moonlight Edward could see the lines in the
face of his younger brother, and the hollows around his eyes. For the
first time he realised how deeply these experiences were cutting into
the boy's soul. "You poor kid!" he exclaimed, with sudden feeling. But
Hal did not answer; he did not want sympathy, he did not want anything!

Edward made a gesture of despair. "God knows, I don't know what to do
for you!"

They started back to the hotel, and on the way Edward cast about in his
mind for a harmless subject of conversation. He mentioned that he had
foreseen the shutting up of the stores, and had purchased an outfit for
his brother. There was no need to thank him, he added grimly; he had no
intention of travelling to Western City in company with a hobo.

So the young miner had a bath, the first real one in a long time. (Never
again would it be possible for ladies to say in Hal Warner's presence
that the poor might at least keep clean!) He had a shave; he trimmed his
finger-nails, and brushed his hair, and dressed himself as a gentleman.
In spite of himself he found his cheerfulness partly restored. A strange
and wonderful sensation--to be dressed once more as a gentleman. He
thought of the saying of the old negro, who liked to stub his toe,
because it felt so good when it stopped hurting!

They went out to find a restaurant, and on the way one last misadventure
befell Edward. Hal saw an old miner walking past, and stopped with a
cry: "Mike!" He forgot all at once that he was a gentleman; the old
miner forgot it also. He stared for one bewildered moment, then he
rushed at Hal and seized him in the hug of a mountain grizzly.

"My buddy! My buddy!" he cried, and gave Hal a prodigious thump on the
back. "By Judas!" And he gave him a thump with the other hand. "Hey! you
old son-of-a-gun!" And he gave him a hairy kiss!

But in the very midst of these raptures it dawned over him that there
was something wrong about his buddy. He drew back, staring. "You got
good clothes! You got rich, hey?"

Evidently the old fellow had heard no rumour concerning Hal's secret.
"I've been doing pretty well," Hal said.

"What you work at, hey?"

"I been working at a strike in North Valley."

"What's that? You make money working at strike?"

Hal laughed, but did not explain. "What you working at?"

"I work at strike too--all alone strike."

"No job?"

"I work two days on railroad. Got busted track up there. Pay me
two-twenty-five a day. Then no more job."

"Have you tried the mines?"

"What? Me? They got me all right! I go up to San Jose. Pit-boss say,
'Get the hell out of here, you old groucher! You don't get no more jobs
in this district!'"

Hal looked Mike over, and saw that his dirty old face was drawn and
white, belying the feeble cheerfulness of his words. "We're going to
have something to eat," he said. "Won't you come with us?"

"Sure thing!" said Mike, with alacrity. "I go easy on grub now."

Hal introduced "Mr. Edward Warner," who said "How do you do?" He
accepted gingerly the calloused paw which the old Slovak held out to
him, but he could not keep the look of irritation from his face. His
patience was utterly exhausted. He had hoped to find a decent restaurant
and have some real food; but now, of course, he could not enjoy
anything, with this old gobbler in front of him.

They entered an all-night lunch-room, where Hal and Mike ordered
cheese-sandwiches and milk, and Edward sat and wondered at his brother's
ability to eat such food. Meantime the two cronies told each other their
stories, and Old Mike slapped his knee and cried out with delight over
Hal's exploits. "Oh, you buddy!" he exclaimed; then, to Edward, "Ain't
he a daisy, hey?" And he gave Edward a thump on the shoulder. "By Judas,
they don't beat my buddy!"

Mike Sikoria had last been seen by Hal from the window of the North
Valley jail, when he had been distributing the copies of Hal's
signature, and Bud Adams had taken him in charge. The mine-guard had
marched him into a shed in back of the power-house, where he had found
Kauser and Kalovac, two other fellows who had been arrested while
helping in the distribution.

Mike detailed the experience with his usual animation. "'Hey, Mister
Bud,' I say, 'if you going to send me down canyon, I want to get my
things.' 'You go to hell for your things,' says he. And then I say,
'Mister Bud, I want to get my time.' And he says, 'I give you plenty
time right here!' And he punch me and throw me over. Then he grab me up'
again and pull me outside, and I see big automobile waiting, and I say,
'Holy Judas! I get ride in automobile! Here I am, old fellow fifty-seven
years old, never been in automobile ride all my days. I think always I
die and never get in automobile ride!' We go down canyon, and I look
round and see them mountains, and feel nice cool wind in my face, and I
say, 'Bully for you, Mister Bud, I don't never forget this automobile. I
don't have such good time any day all my life.' And he say, 'Shut your
face, you old wop!' Then we come out on prairie, we go up in Black
Hills, and they stop, and say, 'Get out here, you sons o' guns.' And
they leave us there all alone. They say, 'You come back again, we catch
you and we rip the guts out of you!' They go away fast, and we got to
walk seven hours, us fellers, before we come to a house! But I don't
mind that, I begged some grub, and then I got job mending track; only I
don't find out if you get out of jail, and I think maybe I lose my buddy
and never see him no more."

Here the old man stopped, gazing affectionately at Hal. "I write you
letter to North Valley, but I don't hear nothing, and I got to walk all
the way on railroad track to look for you."

How was it? Hal wondered. He had encountered naked horror in this
coal-country--yet here he was, not entirely glad at the thought of
leaving it! He would miss Old Mike Sikoria, his hairy kiss and his
grizzly-bear hug!

He struck the old man dumb by pressing a twenty-dollar bill into his
hand. Also he gave him the address of Edstrom and Mary, and a note to
Johann Hartman, who might use him to work among the Slovaks who came
down into the town. Hal explained that he had to go back to Western City
that night, but that he would never forget his old friend, and would see
that he had a good job. He was trying to figure out some occupation for
the old man on his father's country-place. A pet grizzly!

Train-time came, and the long line of dark sleepers rolled in by the
depot-platform. It was late--after midnight; but, nevertheless, there
was Old Mike. He was in awe of Hal now, with his fine clothes and his
twenty-dollar bills; but, nevertheless, under stress of his emotion, he
gave him one more hug, and one more hairy kiss. "Good-bye, my buddy!" he
cried. "You come back, my buddy! I don't forget my buddy!" And when the
train began to move, he waved his ragged cap, and ran along the platform
to get a last glimpse, to call a last farewell. When Hal turned into the
car, it was with more than a trace of moisture in his eyes.

POSTSCRIPT

From previous experiences the writer has learned that many people,
reading a novel such as "King Coal," desire to be informed as to whether
it is true to fact. They write to ask if the book is meant to be so
taken; they ask for evidence to convince themselves and others. Having
answered thousands of such letters in the course of his life, it seems
to the author the part of common-sense to answer some of them in
advance.

"King Coal" is a picture of the life of the workers in unorganised
labour-camps in many parts of America, The writer has avoided naming a
definite place, for the reason that such conditions are to be found as
far apart as West Virginia, Alabama, Michigan, Minnesota, and Colorado.
Most of the details of his picture were gathered in the last-named
state, which the writer visited on three occasions during and just after
the great coal-strike of 1913-14. The book gives a true picture of
conditions and events observed by him at this time. Practically all the
characters are real persons, and every incident which has social
significance is not merely a true incident, but a typical one. The life
portrayed in "King Coal" is the life that is lived to-day by hundreds of
thousands of men, women and children in this "land of the free."

The reader who wishes evidence may be accommodated. There was never a
strike more investigated than the Colorado coal-strike. The material
about it in the writer's possession cannot be less than eight million
words, the greater part of it sworn testimony taken under government
supervision. There is, first, the report of the Congressional Committee,
a government document of three thousand closely printed pages, about two
million words; an equal amount of testimony given before the U. S.
Commission on Industrial Relations, also a government document; a
special report on the Colorado strike, prepared for the same commission,
a book of 189 pages, supporting every contention of this story; about
four hundred thousand words of testimony given before a committee
appointed at the suggestion of the Governor of Colorado; a report made
by the Rev. Henry A. Atkinson, who investigated the strike as
representative of the Federal Council of the Churches of Christ in
America, and of the Social Service Commission of the Congregational
Churches; the report of an elaborate investigation by the Colorado state
militia; the bulletins issued by both sides during the controversy; the
testimony given at various coroners' inquests; and, finally, articles by
different writers to be found in the files of _Everybody's Magazine_,
the _Metropolitan Magazine_, the _Survey_, _Harper's Weekly_, and
_Collier's Weekly_, all during the year 1914.

The writer prepared a collection of extracts from these various sources,
meaning to publish them in this place; but while the manuscript was in
the hands of the publishers, there appeared one document, which, in the
weight of its authority, seemed to discount all others. A decision was
rendered by the Supreme Court of the State of Colorado, in a case which
included the most fundamental of the many issues raised in "King Coal."
It is not often that the writer of a novel of contemporary life is so
fortunate as to have the truth of his work passed upon and established
by the highest judicial tribunal of the community!

In the elections of November, 1914, in Huerfano County, Colorado, J. B.
Farr, Republican candidate for re-election as sheriff, a person known
throughout the coal-country as "the King of Huerfano County," was
returned as elected by a majority of 329 votes. His rival, the
Democratic candidate, contested the election, alleging "malconduct,
fraud and corruption." The district court found in Farr's favour, and
the case was appealed on error to the Supreme Court of the State. On
June 21st, 1916, after Farr had served nearly the whole of his term of
office, the Supreme Court handed down a decision which unseated him and
the entire ticket elected with him, finding in favour of the opposition
ticket in all cases and upon all grounds charged.

The decision is long--about ten thousand words, and its legal
technicalities would not interest the reader. It will suffice to reprint
the essential paragraphs. The reader is asked to give these paragraphs
careful study, considering, not merely the specific offence denounced by
the court, but its wider implications. The offence was one so
unprecedented that the justices of the court, men chosen for their
learning in the history of offences, were moved to say: "We find no such
example of fraud within the books, and must seek the letter and spirit
of the law in a free government, as a scale in which to weigh such
conduct." And let it be noted, this "crime without a name" was not a
crime of passion, but of policy; it was a crime deliberately planned and
carried out by profit-seeking corporations of enormous power. Let the
reader imagine the psychology of the men of great wealth who ordered
this crime, as a means of keeping and increasing their wealth; let him
realise what must be the attitude of such men to their helpless workers;
and then let him ask himself whether there is any act portrayed in "King
Coal" which men of such character would shrink from ordering.

The Court decision first gives an outline of the case, using for the
most part the statements of the counsel for the defendant, Farr; so that
for practical purposes the following may be taken as the coal companies'
own account of their domain: "Round the shaft of each mine are clustered
the tipple, the mine office, the shops, sheds and outbuildings; and
huddled close by, within a stone's throw, cottages of the miners built
on the land of, and owned by, the mining company. All the dwellers in
the camp are employes of the mine. There is no other industry. This is
'the camp.' Of the eight 'closed camps' it appears that practically the
same conditions existed in all of them, and those conditions were in
general that members of the United Mine Workers of America, their
organisers or agitators, were prevented from coming into the camps, so
far as it was possible to keep them out, and to this end guards were
stationed about them. Of the eight 'closed camps' one of them, 'Walsen,'
was, and at the time of the trial still was, enclosed by a fence erected
at the beginning of the strike in October, 1913: Rouse and Cameron were
partly, but never entirely, enclosed by fences. It is admitted that all
persons entering these camps and precincts were required by the
companies to have passes, and it is contended that this was an
'industrial necessity.'"

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