Passages

By Lee Conrad

This collection of short stories spans from the early 1900s to the near future. The historical stories take place in America and Europe. From downtrodden miners; a detective hunting Nazis in 1938 USA; war, trouble, and chaos in Europe; political and cultural oppression; and Vietnam vets faced with deadly choices. The present time is a murder mystery; a story of generations in uncertain times; a cautionary tale of searching for ancestors and two stories of workers faced with challenges to their wellbeing. The near future stories are American dystopian tales and what we hope will not be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Conrad
• Release date: Mar 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201574765

Lee Conrad

Lee Conrad lives in upstate New York with his longtime love and their three rescue cats. His stories have appeared in Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Ariel Chart, Sundial Magazine, The London Reader, Books ‘N Pieces, Blood and Bourbon, Written Tales and The Blue Lake Review.

Book preview

Strange Cargo

Zachariah Woodruff watched as the long procession of downtrodden men walked along the sunbaked street in the small Arizona town of Bisbee. 100 guards, some on horseback, others in slow-moving cars, flanked the men with shotguns and rifles at the ready.

One man raised his head and look directly at Zachariah. It was Nathan Jones, a leader of the strike. A cynical smile flashed on Nathan’s careworn face and just as quickly faded. He continued his march with the other men but raised his head in defiance as he passed jeering townspeople.

Zachariah stepped into the shade of the overhang of the dry goods store, took his Stetson hat off and wiped his sleeve across his sweat-beaded brow. His short black hair was just starting to turn grey. His mustache though was still jet black.

He thought back to his first meeting with Nathan just a few weeks earlier in the Longbranch Café.

When Zachariah had gone into the Longbranch that night he knew the mood was different. The café was filled with angry miners and strike talk was in the air.

A tall, brown-haired man of about 25 years old was talking to some miners. His black suit was dusty and threadbare, his boots well worn.

Come on fellas, I need more of you to sign up with the union. The Industrial Workers of the World are going to fight to get us decent wages and better working conditions.  We can’t let these copper bosses and Phelps-Dodge grind us down.

Zachariah strode over to a table and greeted the owner.

Evening, Clarence.  A cup of coffee if you please, although I wish this was still a saloon. This so-called prohibition of selling alcohol could drive a man to drink, he said.

Clarence shook his head. Maybe someday, but 13 states have already stopped selling booze. It seems to be sweeping the country. Damn temperance people.

Zachariah looked at the crowd and turned back to Clarence.

What gives?

Clarence leaned in closer. New guy in town. Says he is an organizer for the union. You know, that bunch the government is so upset about. They’re called the IWW. Bunch of reds heard tell.

Nathan left the group of miners and walked over to Zachariah.

Name is Nathan Jones, holding his hand out to Zachariah to shake.

Zachariah out of politeness shook it but was wary.

Mine is Zachariah.

You’re not a miner, are you? Not with hands like those, Nathan said.

‘No, I’m not. Why do you ask?"

It’s my nature to find out what I can about a person. I like to size a person up to find out which side of the fence they are on.

So, did you size me up?

Not yet, Nathan said as he walked away towards a group of miners who had just walked in.

A few days later, on the edge of town, Zachariah saw Nathan talking to a group of Mexican miners.

You see fellas; we ain’t like the other unions. The IWW members come from all races, skilled and unskilled. The AFL might not want you, but the IWW, the One Big Union does. Now the company is going to try to drive us apart. He moved around them, looking them in the eye, trying to win their confidence. They tried that with us in New Jersey, but we all stuck together. And we won that strike. Heck, even here we got Italians, Polaks, Finns, and Americans all sticking together. You all have been getting the worst end of the deal here in Bisbee. Stick with us and we can change that.

The Mexican workers huddled together and talked about what they just heard.

A miner named Hector Vera stepped forward.

Mister Jones, our families have lived here longer than any of you, longer than the mine owners.  All of you should stick with us instead of us sticking with you. But we like what you have said to us, and you have treated us with respect. If the other miners will stay together, we believe that would be a good thing and we will join your union.

All the miners shook hands with Nathan. A pact was sealed.

Nathan walked over to where Zachariah was standing.

Dangerous man, this Nathan Jones, thought Zachariah.

Well, we meet again, said Nathan.

Just out for a stroll, said Zachariah.

Nathan laughed. In this sun?

I am heading to the Longbranch for a cup of java. Care to come along, Nathan said.

They entered the café, sat at a table, and ordered their coffee.

I know what you are, Zachariah, but I will just call you my ‘observer’.

Zachariah just smiled.

Where are you from, Nathan?

Originally from Pennsylvania. I followed my father into the coal mines. He didn’t make it out one day and after we recovered his body and 12 others, well, I just packed it in and moved on. Ever see a man crushed by a cave-in? Ain’t a pretty sight. I joined the union and worked in some mines out here. He took a sip of his coffee. I believe in what I am doing. I ain’t hiding anything Zachariah so you can give your bosses the straight skinny on me. I don’t care.

The government says you are a bunch of un-patriotic reds in cahoots with the Kaiser, said Zachariah.

Of course, they do. You see, Zachariah, we don’t believe in killing workers just like ourselves in other countries. Why would I want to kill a German miner who is fighting for better wages and mine safety just like me? He pushed his empty cup aside.  President Wilson said he would keep us out of this war in Europe. Just another liar. And this strike isn’t about the war over there. It is about the class war here and we aim to get what we deserve. Nathan stood up. Well, I must go, Zachariah. Got work to do.

Me too, said Zachariah.

The IWW and 3000 workers went on strike after its demands to Phelps-Dodge and the other mining companies were ignored. It was a peaceful strike, but already the effect was hurting the profits of Phelps-Dodge and other mine owners. A war was on and there was a high demand for copper needed in the making of brass for bullets and shells.

At the Loyalty League meeting later that week, Zachariah gave his report. He was just one of many who gave reports that night.

The room was filled with representatives of Phelps-Dodge, local business, the other mining companies, the railroad, and the telegraph company. Names of miners who were leaders or members of the IWW were written down. Of real concern was the uniting of the Mexican workers with the American workers. The 20 men in attendance, not a miner or working man among them, all agreed that drastic measures needed to be taken and soon.

Cochise County Sheriff Wheeler, the leader of the league, walked over to Zachariah.

Good report, Zachariah. Glad to have a Pinkerton man on our side.

Ex-Pinkerton, Sheriff. Remember that. Once I am through here and paid off, I am moving on.

Well, it will be over soon. Lots of townsfolk are getting riled up because they think the miners are pro-German, said Walker.

That’s not true Sheriff and you know it, said Zachariah.

You and I know that, and most of the others in this room know it, but that ain’t the point, son. We are going to use whatever means to destroy the IWW, get them out of Bisbee, and get these mines running again. It’s what Phelps-Dodge and the other mine companies want.  The sheriff looked directly into Zachariah’s eyes. Be ready because it is coming.

Three days later at 2:00 am the word went out from the Loyalty League to its supporters to assemble at the post office, armed.

By 4:00 am 2000 men from around Bisbee and Cochise County had gathered, were sworn in as deputies, and given white armbands.

Sheriff Wheeler addressed the posse.  Men, you have been given a list of names. You loyal Americans will arrest them on charges of vagrancy, treason, and being disturbers of the peace. Anyone not supporting us and unwilling to wear a white armband gets arrested. Today we will deport the IWW and its supporters from Bisbee.

At 6:30 am the posse moved through town and headed to the headquarters of the IWW at Brewers Gulch.

Nathan, asleep on a cot, was shaken awake by another union man, Kevin Barrett.

Hey Nathan, men are coming down the street. They don’t look too friendly, he said with panic in his voice.

Nathan jumped up and went to the window.

Nothing we can do, Kevin. They’re armed. We aren’t.

They stood in the center of the room as the door crashed open.

No need for that. It was unlocked, said Nathan.

Shut your mouth before I slam this rifle butt in it, snarled a burly deputy.

Eight more deputies stormed in. Cabinets were turned over and union pamphlets scattered across the floor.

OK men, let’s march these guys down to the post office with the others.

Nathan found himself corralled with other miners and townspeople sympathetic to the miners, guarded on all sides by armed deputies.

At 10:00 am the Bisbee newspaper boys shouted out the headline, All women and children stay off the street!

The posse went up and down the streets. Nathan saw one group storm into a miner’s house. A woman screamed, a child cried, and a man yelled profanities. They dragged him out and pushed him in with others being force marched to the post office. Some deputies settled old scores and arrested people who had nothing to do with the strike and stole things from their homes for good measure. From Brewers Gulch to School Hill, scores of men, some barely dressed, were being driven from their homes to the holding area.

Zachariah went over to the line of men and pulled Nathan aside.

Well, if it ain’t my observer, said Nathan.

Ex-observer and ex-Pinkerton, Nathan. I just took this job to get some money so I can go to ‘Frisco. But I didn’t sign up for this. This just reminds me of why I left Pinkerton’s. It disturbs me what this country is doing to working men and folks who came here for a better life. And don’t try to run. These folks are itching to shoot someone. They already killed one miner for resisting arrest.

I am not going to do anything stupid. We are sorely outgunned and besides, this has been a peaceful strike. Once people learn what’s going on here today, these vigilantes will be put in their place, Nathan said.

No one is going to find out for a while, Nathan. The telegraph lines have been seized by the Loyalty League. Hell, the telegraph and telephone companies all belong to the same employer association as Phelps-Dodge and the other mine owners. And the newspaper is owned by Phelps-Dodge. The sheriff has deputies keeping an eye on the newspaper men just in case any independent thinkers might get high and mighty and try to be a crusader.

A look of dismay swept across Nathan’s face.

Best get back in line, Nathan. They are going to move you out soon.

Alright, fellas, let’s not give these guys a reason to shoot us, said Nathan to the surrounding men.

Sheriff Wheeler pulled in front of the line in a 1911 Ford Model T touring car. Strapped to the back was a belt-fed machine gun aimed at the strikers. The deputies called out to the arrested miners to move out through town.

Zachariah moved towards the dry goods store. The temperature had built up to 90 degrees and as the hundreds of miners moved along, their feet stirred up the dust on the city street.

Nathan looked at the dry goods store and saw Zachariah staring back at him. Well, you won this time; he thought. But there will be another time. He turned his head back and continued walking.

The morning progressed and the group of miners, supporters, and some unlucky citizens swelled to 1000 as deputies shoved more men into their ranks. Along the way, the so-called loyal citizens of Bisbee taunted and yelled at the strikers. The mass of men moved out of Bisbee and the shelter of the Mule Mountains. The sun beat down on them as they walked past scrub brush and cactus. Throats were dry and lips cracked, but shotgun-wielding deputies offered no water.

The posse marched them out of town to the ballpark and ringed it tight as a drum with armed men.

Nathan and Kevin collapsed on the ground next to a boy of about 18.

What are you doing here, boy? You don’t look like no miner, said Nathan, his voice croaking from the dusty march.

I’m not. I work at the soft drink place. He was close to tears. They grabbed me and tried to deputize me and wanted me to wear one of their white armbands. I told them I had friends who were miners that came in for soft drinks. I can’t arrest them. So, they put me in line with you all.

Outside the ballpark, a grey-haired woman in a dress and floppy hat got out of her buggy and sauntered, cane in hand, towards one of the guards.

You there, she shouted. Not only do you have some of my neighbors in there, but you have my youngest son as well.

Another guard came over. You in sympathy with that lot?

Sure, I am, she said, a voice as angry as the look she gave the guard.

Well, in you go, said the guard.

He pushed her in.

She turned toward the guard and gave him a withering look.

Ma, the boy cried out.

Hush son, we’ll get out of this pickle.

She went over to the bleachers, stood in the second row, and yelled at the guards.

I know many of you. Look at ya. Push women around. Picked up a gun against workingmen. She looked over to a well-dressed man, white armband, and rifle at his side and pointed. Dr. Boland, you are nothing but a dirty coward. You are supposed to care for people, not do this. And you, Jacob, if your mother could see you now. She looked to the other side of the ballpark. Shame, shame, she said, pointing at various deputies. Just a bunch of low-down vigilantes. She went on like that for 15 minutes.

Get her out of there, yelled one leader of the posse.

They went in and grabbed her.

I ain’t leaving without my son. Come on, boy.

Both left. The miners cheered.

One called out to her, Mother, you can join us anytime.

Maybe next time fellas, she called back as she pushed her way past the guards.

Late in the morning, the El Paso and Southwestern Railroad brought 23 cattle cars down the tracks near the ballpark.

What do you suppose this is all about, Kevin, said Nathan.

They looked at each other, perplexed and worried.

Sheriff Wheeler fired the machine gun into the air and shouted out, You are all guilty of treason. Deputies move them out.

Alright, you men get up and get moving towards those boxcars, yelled a guard. Other guards joined in the chorus of shouts. Go on, get moving! On top of the boxcars stood 23 armed deputies.

How about some water, a miner pleaded.

Get going you, a guard said as he pushed the miner towards the train.

More guards moved in and forced miners into the boxcars.

Hell, what is that stink, a miner said as he held a bandana to his nose and mouth.

There is about 3 inches of sheep dung in these cars. Have fun boys, a guard said.

He and another guard laughed as they closed the boxcar door.

Where are you taking us, Nathan said through an open slat.

Out of here. You are deported from the great state of Arizona and being sent to New Mexico. They can have you.

Dejected men stood in the dung trying to get air through some openings in the boxcar.

What is going to happen to my wife and children, said a miner who put his head down and wept.

Men gathered around comforting friends and shared stories of how they were rounded up. Angry voices questioned the legality of the deportation while others cursed the mine owners.

Hector Vera, the leader of the Mexican miners, stood next to Nathan.

How can they do this? My family has been in this territory forever. How can they force me out of my home?

Nathan looked around at all the men. They were Americans, Irish, Finns, Mexicans, and many others from around the world. Most had worked in the Bisbee mines for years.

Look at us, fellas. You got forced out of your homes, separated from your families, our union crushed, all because you dared fight back for a bigger piece of the pie. But you stuck together, and that scared them.  Nathan looked at the men in the boxcar. What a strange cargo we are.

The miners, dejected and cramped, peered out the slats of the cattle car. The whistle blew as the train moved down the tracks and out of Arizona, to deposit its unwanted cargo to parts unknown.

Flames Over Anacostia Flats

Patrick O’Brien stepped out of the slapped together shack on the Anacostia Flats. The July morning was already hot and steamy. The Flats, between Washington DC and the Anacostia River, muddy even in dry times, added to his misery. His denim pants and cotton shirt, loose on his wiry body, were soiled and sweat seeped through. He looked around the encampment as the 10,000 strong remnants of the Bonus Army in their makeshift city called Camp Marks roused from an uneasy slumber.

O’Brien, like the rest, was a veteran of the Great War. They came to Washington DC a month ago from all over the country to pressure Congress to give them the veteran bonus due to them. It was two years into the depression and people were desperate. They were out of work, out of their homes and out of hope, except for the promise of the bonus. The bonus though wasn’t payable until 1945, and now in 1932, many felt they would be dead from hunger if they waited much longer. They wanted the money now, and the Bonus Army and its leaders came here to make sure they got it.

Hey Patrick, want some corn mush? It ain’t much, but it is tasty. Might cheer you up some.

The voice was his friend Sean Ryan. They served and fought together with the 1st infantry in France and survived. Many of their comrades didn’t.

Thanks. Don’t give me too much. I don’t want to short you.

When we get our bonus, you can buy me a fine meal at a fancy restaurant, said Sean.

You know Sean, this Congress and President Hoover ain’t going to give us anything. You have been out of work for a year, and I’ve been looking for work for a year and a half. The good citizens of those towns we passed through on the way here called us tramps and bums. They didn’t call us tramps when we marched off to war in 1917.

Patrick, when the Senate voted not to give us the money in June, I thought it was all over. But look around you. Even though many have left there are still thousands here in our own Hooverville and more inside DC. How can they ignore us?

We and the thousands of others are here because we got no homes to go back to Sean, and they will ignore us or worse.

They finished their corn mush, cleaned up, and walked towards the center of the camp.

Camp Marks was orderly, with streets laid out like a regular city. They set kitchens up to feed people, even though the food donations were running out. A library was set up by the Salvation Army. At night bands would play music and the people would dance their cares away. The dwellings of the people were everything from scraps of wood and metal found at the rubbish dump nearby to canvas tarps and tents. Some even built small replicas of the homes they no longer had. Signs on the shacks showed where they were from. Racine, Wisconsin to DC! said one. Another said, Washington or Bust-Bonus We Trust. Others flew state flags and American flags. This was their city and their country.

The people looked like the millions that were out of work and living in tent cities across the country. Gaunt, sallow faces from too little food and too much worry. Veterans who brought their families looked worse off. Their children had distended bellies and no shoes. Mothers kept clothes together with scraps of sackcloth. White and black veterans shared food and dwellings. The segregation in the military and even in their home states was ignored here. They all had a common purpose, and it kept them going.

Hey, Sean, seems to be a gathering over there. Let’s see what is going on.

On the back of a truck, a leader of the Bonus Army was speaking.

Men, you have a right to lobby Congress just as much as a corporation or those corrupt Wall Street bankers. Let us march but keep your sense of humor and don’t do anything to cause the public to turn against us.

With that, he jumped down and mingled with the other veterans as they all headed to a small drawbridge that led to the capital district. Sean and Patrick joined them as the mass of people chanted, the yanks are starving, the yanks are starving!

Thousands of veterans were also camped inside Washington. They had taken over the many abandoned buildings that were all over the capital. There was an uneasy peace between them and the police. The Chief of Police was a veteran and sympathized with their plight.

President Hoover and Attorney General Mitchell did not. They considered the ex-soldiers a ‘communist mob’ who illegally occupied the nation’s capital. They gave the order to clear out the veterans.

By the time the thousands from Camp Marks made it to the capital district, the police were on the move. Buildings were being cleared out of veterans.

Patrick and Sean watched with dismay as police stormed an abandoned building filled with veterans.

Sean, did you hear gunshots?

Veterans poured out of the building.

They killed two of our fellows, yelled one.

I didn’t survive the war to get shot here. Bill Hushka and Eric Carlson were both shot dead. Now the poor bastards will get their bonus, a disheveled vet said to Patrick as he passed by him.

The two friends nodded their heads in understanding. The bonus was paid early on one condition: if you were dead.

The police pushed the ex-soldiers away from the abandoned buildings and towards a line of trees along Pennsylvania Ave.

At 4:45 pm as veterans mingled with government employees leaving work, 400 soldiers and 200 cavalry troopers with 8 small tanks behind them moved down Pennsylvania Ave. Off to the side was Army Chief of Staff General MacArthur.

MacArthur walked over to a cavalry officer. Major Patton, I want you to clear these red insurrectionists out of this city.

Major Patton saluted, wheeled his horse around, and led his troops towards the crowd of office workers and veterans.

The veterans thought the military display was to honor them as ex-soldiers of the Great War. They cheered them as they approached.

Suddenly Patton’s cavalry drew their sabers and charged veterans and government workers alike.  Shame, shame echoed from the scattering crowd.

Come on Sean, let’s get the hell out of here. Head back to the camp.

Soldiers wearing gas masks and with fixed bayonets on their rifles threw tear gas canisters at veterans and onlookers alike. The vets, having tasted war before, threw the gas canisters back and fought with whatever they could pick up.

Sean, we went through worse than this in the war. Remember your training and we will get through ok, said Patrick, barely able to talk as he choked and coughed on the gas.

Patrick, they are coming this way, yelled Sean.

A soldier in a gas mask advanced through the haze of gas and lunged at Patrick with his bayonet. Patrick’s mind was now in 1918 France, not 1932 Washington and he reacted with force. The soldier in front of him was the enemy, and Patrick sidestepped and took him down easily. As the soldier lay on the ground, Patrick’s clouded mind reached over for a large rock, held it above his head with two hands, and prepared to smash the gas-masked face in.

No, Patrick! shouted Sean above the din of shouts and horses charging.

Patrick shook his head, and his mind cleared. He ripped off the gas mask of the prone soldier. In front of him lay a soldier with a boyish face.

Sweet Jesus, how old are you, 12? said Patrick.

No, I am 18, said the soldier with contempt.

Right lad, and when we were in France fighting, you were in shorts hanging on to your Mama’s knee. Now stay there. Don’t follow us. And maybe you should be thinking you are on the wrong side in this fight, said Patrick as he moved away.

Sean glared at the young soldier. You’re lucky we don’t have guns. I guarantee I am a better shot than most of you. With that, he turned and joined Patrick and other vets making their way back to the vet’s city.

The trek back was a battle. Hundreds of veterans fought back as cavalry slashed at them with their sabers and soldiers jabbed at them with bayonets. Tear gas wafted over the area, burning faces and searing lungs.

Off to the side, Sean saw a soldier bayonet a black vet in the back. He hurried over to the injured man with Patrick close behind. As Sean knelt to help the injured man, the vet said: go on, just leave me.

We aren’t doing that, are we Patrick, he said looking over to his friend who was eyeball to gas mask with the soldier. We were in it together over there and we are in it together here.

With that, they helped him to his feet and took him to a group that was taking care of the injured. They sat him down.  He winced with pain. Thank you, fellas, he said. A vet next to him coughed violently. Gassed at the Argonne and gassed in Washington. Don’t that beat all, he said as another coughing spasm shook his body.

They left the wounded in the care of an ex-battlefield medic and joined the vets making their way to Camp Marks. When they reached the drawbridge to the flats, they looked back at the carnage and mayhem taking place. They couldn’t believe that soldiers had attacked ex-soldiers in the nation’s capital.

General MacArthur stood at the drawbridge leading to Camp Marks, hands on his hips and chin thrust in the air. He yelled out to an officer in charge of a detachment of soldiers, clear them out!

Soldiers moved into the camp with bayonets and torches. One by one they lit shacks and tents on fire. Scraps of wood, possessions, flags, and the homemade signs of the Bonus Army lit up the darkening sky. The books in the Salvation Army library added to the conflagration. Families were forced out of their pitiful dwellings, barely retrieving the little possessions they had.

As the flames rose above Anacostia Flats, the camp looked like hell on earth–a nightmare come to life.

Patrick and Sean moved through the camp, helped people when they could, but knew they had to get out the back way.

Panicked thousands, some in cars, many on foot, once again moved as one.

When they reached the outskirts of Anacostia Flats, Patrick and Sean looked back at the flames that rose above Camp Marks. Shacks were burnt to the ground, as well as the possessions of people who came to Washington, hoping someone would listen to their plight. Smoke billowed towards the capital district. There was a curtain of blackness between the capital and the veteran’s city.

Well, Patrick, where to now? said Sean wearily.

Outta here. And I don’t think we will get our bonus, said Patrick angrily. This was the last straw for me. It was bad enough they killed the economy and our jobs. Now they want to kill us. If that is what they do to veterans who just want what is owed them, what are they going to do to the rest of the country? I think what I will do is put one foot in front of the other and where I go, I will tell people what I saw happen here today.

If you don’t mind, I will tag along with you. After all, I got nowhere else to go, right?

The two friends turned their backs on the capital district, leaving flames, tear gas and chaos behind. They joined the dispossessed veterans and their families, a stream of refugees in a country lost and adrift.

Hill of Sorrow

I am a miner. I dig in the good earth to pull out the riches that make other men wealthy. But this morning I dug into the earth to bury my young son. In the afternoon, after I am done sitting here for a while, I will bury his mother next to him. They won’t be alone. Tears will flow today. More families will do this gruesome task on this rock-strewn hill they call a cemetery. All told, it seems the mine company guards killed 16 men, women, and children. Cold winds are whipping over from the mountains, hitting me in the face like death itself. I will go on. I must. There are people that will pay for this. My name is Hans Gunther.

We came here to Colorado like everyone else, to work and hopefully prosper so we could move on to a better life. Mining is in my blood. Doesn’t matter what it is, coal or copper. I left Pennsylvania in the spring of 1913 with my wife Hilde and our young son Johann and followed others to where, according to the company agent in our town, riches could be found by people like us. I should have known better.

What we found was the Clear Creek Mine camp. It is a small mine with a squalid camp surrounded by high hills and rock outcroppings. Most of the trees have been cut down for building shacks and firewood. It is a desolate-looking place. The shacks for the 60 miners, some with families, are at the bottom of a hill where runoff from the rain makes life miserable. The tents are even worse, drafty, and leaky, but it is better than being outside in the elements. Working conditions are bad, the hours long, and the mine guards treat us and our families worse than they treat the pack mules. They don’t like us because we are immigrants, and they make fun of how we talk. The pay the company agent promised never came to be. Pay cuts seemed to be all they wanted.

The mine superintendent is Franklin Pearson. He is a cold-hearted man who does the bidding of the nameless and unseen owners of this mine. He came from the east too, Boston it is said, but his world differs vastly from the world we come from.

The mine guards walk around with guns. There had been trouble in this camp before. Last year, an organizer from the Western Federation of Miners had snuck into the camp to talk the workers into joining the union. Of course, there is always someone who