Risk
By Doc
Part Four
Resting his hand on the butt of his gun, Johnny followed Beauregard through a narrow passage to the back door of Butterick Mining. They walked down a long hallway to the front room; a group of men stared out a big window toward the square. Two were in street clothes. The other five wore brown canvas uniforms with yellow scarves knotted around their necks. Guns and knives shone in their belts. The bandoliers criss-crossing their backs were heavy with ammunition.
"Here he is," Beauregard announced.
The civilians turned toward him. The clerk nodded and scurried away.
Johnny recognized Junior right away, even dressed like a businessman. Must have been Junior who pulled the string to get him called for private security. But why?
The guy beside Junior had to be his old man. He looked like Junior, down to the waxed handlebar mustache, only twenty years fatter and grayer.
Johnny cleared his throat and stuck his hand out. "I'm Johnny Madrid, Mr. Butterick."
The older Butterick gave a sharp nod without really looking at Johnny, and turned back to the window. Part embarrassed and part mad, Johnny dropped his hand. There better be something really interesting outside that big window.
Junior tapped the shoulder of the shortest man in uniform. "Corporal."
The corporal turned around while Junior shook a finger at Johnny. "Corporal Jara gives the orders. You follow them."
"Okay."
Orders might come in handy, since Johnny didn't have a clue what was going on. Why did a rich mine owner need private soldiers? Johnny hadn't understood what Clint was saying about getting 'scabs across a strike line' but he'd bet these guys had something to do with that.
Johnny knew the kind of men who wore military uniforms. He didn't trust any of them.
Jara focused beady eyes on Johnny. "I'm told you can shoot." His teeth were pointy and yellow.
Johnny bit back a smart remark. He was a professional now and he'd better act like it, even if orders were coming from a guy with a face like a rat.
"Yeah, I can shoot."
Jara nodded, but before he said anything else Butterick senior led them out the front door. They lined up, Jara and Johnny to the left of the Buttericks while the other uniforms stood to the right. An overhang provided enough shade to cool the day.
Folks in the square craned their necks toward the far west end of the street. Beyond the shiny bricks, a cloud of dust rose. Through it marched a mass of men dressed in working clothes. Shoulder to shoulder they filled the street, silent except for their footsteps. Some wore hats but most were bareheaded; none were armed.
By the time the marchers stopped at the fountain, the city folks had disappeared. Johnny waited in the shade with the Buttericks and their soldiers. The marchers stood in the heat of the sun. An air of uneasiness filled the square.
A gringo in a town suit and a bowler hat, taller than most of the workers, moved up through the ranks. He was followed by a stout Mexican old enough to be somebody's grandfather. Both men wore an air of authority. The marchers moved to let them through, then closed together again. The gringo's thick, dark beard made it hard for Johnny to judge his age.
Once clear of the marchers the bearded gringo stood in front of them, alone except for the Mexican one step behind him. He raised his chin and stared at the elder Butterick like he expected the answer to a question.
"What is it you want, Lester?" Junior shouted.
Lester, huh? So that was the man disputing with Junior and his family. Not the usual dispute over water rights or fences, but something to do with mining. Lester was one of the big dogs in the fight. Instinct told Johnny to slide over a few steps to have a clear shot at him. Corporal Jara caught the motion; his eyes narrowed. Johnny winked and stayed where he was.
Lester spoke loudly to Junior's old man. "By the authority of the Miners Trade Union of the Territory of Sonoma, the employees of Butterick Mining Company cease work as of right now. We will resume only when you meet our demands." Some of the men behind him nodded and squared their shoulders.
Butterick Sr. drew a deep breath before he stepped off the boardwalk into the street. He stopped ten paces from Lester like a gunfighter ready to dance. When he reached into his jacket pocket Johnny put his hand on his gun, but Butterick didn't draw a weapon. Instead he pulled out a piece of paper and made a show of looking past Lester to the miners, sweating on the hot bricks of the Camino del Este. Tense faces stared back.
Butterick shook open the paper with a flourish, and his gravelly voice carried over the square. "Let me see here…a ten per cent increase in each man's hourly wage."
He looked up from the paper. "No."
Johnny heard the sneer in his voice.
"Wages to be paid in dollars, not scrip. Again, no."
The miners remained silent.
"And last, one ten minute work-break every four hours." With that, Butterick spat on the ground.
Lifting the paper high, he slowly ripped it in half, then in half again. He let the pieces flutter from his fingers.
"My answer is no. No to all of your demands, and most particularly, no to the idea that any action on your part can affect my running of Butterick Mining. Go back to work before I fire every last man of you." He stalked back to the shade of the boardwalk, shaking his head.
Lester's face was grim as he turned to face the miners. The burly older man touched his shoulder, and he and Lester spoke quietly for a moment. No one broke ranks. Then Lester raised his hand.
Johnny tensed.
The miners turned around and sat down.
They turned their backs to the offices of Butterick Mining and to the armed men on the boardwalk. Without any fuss they sat down where they were, right there on the decorated street of Camino del Este. Only Lester stayed on his feet facing them. His hands were at his sides. His fingers tightened into fists. They unclenched, then tightened again.
Townspeople hiding in the shadows snickered; Johnny smiled and snuck a look at Butterick. The man was turning red as he stared at row after row of men sitting on their butts, facing away from him.
"This is over. Go back to work! Now!"
Nothing happened. Not one man even looked back over his shoulder. Johnny admired their calm courage. He could picture his stepfather in his mining days, sitting there with the rest of them…trying for something better but taking whatever came his way.
The Buttericks huddled with Corporal Jara. For an instant Johnny's eyes met Lester's; the bearded face was unreadable. Jara nodded sharply more than once, and when Butterick raised his head Jara moved back into position beside Johnny.
"Ready!"
Johnny jumped at Jara's command.
Lester turned his back to them but remained standing. Jara and his men lifted their rifles. Johnny drew his Colt, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
"Aim!"
The soldiers sighted along their rifles at the backs of the miners. Johnny's heart raced; he felt the air quit moving, and he was afraid to breathe. Shooting the striking miners now would be murder, plain and simple.
"Boy," Jara hissed. "You take Lester."
Johnny shook his head.
"That's an order."
"No," Johnny said under his breath. He looked over the sea of men on the colorful bricks and spoke more loudly. "No, I won't." He slipped his gun back into his holster.
Jara's nostrils flared. Muttering a curse he moved toward Johnny, but Johnny was already charging. He knocked Jara's rifle aside and barreled into the man with a force that carried them off the boardwalk. Johnny scrabbled on the bricks, his hands tangled somehow in Jara's coat. He freed up his fists and drew his arm back to punch that rat face. Somebody grabbed his elbow. Johnny tried to jerk free as Jara landed a glancing blow to his mouth.
"What the hell are you doing, boy?" Junior held his arm in a vice-like grip.
What the hell was he was doing? Right now he was fighting, and it was a damned sight better than shooting folks in the back.
Junior pulled him off Jara and threw him on the bricks. Johnny rolled with the motion until he came up against someone's canvas-covered leg. He grabbed it with both hands to pull himself up. When he got to a knee he yanked it, hard. It bent fast and crashed its owner to the bricks beside him.
Johnny tried to crawl over the guy, but a rifle butt to his neck knocked him flat. More blows struck his back and shoulders, and he crawled to get away.
Someone kicked him in the gut.
Goddamn, that hurt. Tears ran down his face as he gasped for air. He curled up into a ball, tasting brick dust and bile. Don't puke. Don't pass out. Don't puke.
He hoped whatever came next wouldn't hurt too bad.
But nothing came next.
Triumphant shouts filled his ears. He wanted to stay curled up, but people grabbed his arms and raised him to a sitting position. He opened his eyes and the world tilted; he slammed them shut. He panted and tried again. Lester's bearded face came into focus. He crouched beside Johnny with a steadying arm around his shoulders.
"I have to tell you, boy: that was about as stupid a move as I've ever seen."
Then a smile broke through the beard. "I'm grateful for it."
Johnny blinked. The urge to puke had subsided, but damn—he hurt everywhere he'd already been hurt, and then some. "What happened?"
"You took down the corporal. They were beating the piss out of you, so we ran at them, and then Butterick and his goons went back inside."
"They didn't shoot anybody?"
Lester shook his head.
Johnny couldn't make any sense out of any of it. The miners milled around, relieved smiles on their faces. Lester's right hand man, the big Mexican, was there beside him. The boardwalk was empty. Every window shade was drawn at the mining office.
Lester got to his feet and held out a hand. Johnny grasped it and let himself be pulled up. It was a good thing Lester didn't let go right away or he would have hit the bricks again. Once he was square on his feet Johnny shrugged off Lester's support, but Lester stuck his hand back out. "I'm the trade union representative. Perceval Lester."
"Johnny Madrid."
Lester nodded his head, like he already knew, and Johnny shook hands with him. Then Lester swept his arm toward the Mexican still at his side. "This is Señor Bartholomew. He leads the miners." Bartholomew shook Johnny's hand with surprising warmth.
After the handshake, Johnny drew in a careful breath. Nothing screamed at him, so he was pretty sure nothing was broken. Damn—when were folks gonna quit beating on him? He looked around at the miners talking and drifting back down Camino del Este, like nothing had happened. The tension of the day was gone.
Johnny blinked a few times and swiped at his chin to get the grit off it. Swatting the dust off his trousers, he coughed a time or two. "Well, looks like I've changed sides. What happens now?"
"Damned if I know." Close up like this, Lester's eyes were tired, his face lined. He looked like a man with a lot on his mind.
Johnny breathed in as big as he dared. "One thing for sure."
"What's that?"
"I'm not gonna get paid for today."
Bartholomew finally smiled.
Lester chuckled. "You looking for work, son?"
Wasn't he always? "Thanks, but I'm no miner."
Bartholomew regarded him seriously. "No one is, until he has to be."
"Yeah, I guess you're right."
Lester focused more closely on Johnny's face. "If you're not a miner, what are you?"
Johnny stood a little straighter. "I sell my gun some."
Bartholomew snorted, but Lester nodded. "Uh-huh. I don't remember seeing you in town before."
"Just got in a couple days ago."
"Did Abel Butterick send for you?"
Johnny wasn't sure if Abel was Junior's proper name, or the name of the old man. Didn't matter either way. "Nope."
"So how did you end up working with them?"
"Now that's a long story." Johnny rubbed his hand over his face, wincing. There was blood on his palm when he brought his hand down.
Lester glanced around. "Let's get out of the sun and talk. I at least owe you a drink after what you did."
"I'll leave you to it, then." Bartholomew cupped his hand on Lester's shoulder, nodded at Johnny, and headed west with his miners.
Johnny walked with Lester, looking forward to something to rinse the dust out of his mouth.
TBC