The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 52

Finally, they came out of the tunnel on the Montana side. Taft was a scar, half the buildings empty, roofs caved in by snow. No one greeted them on the platform, and in the center of that mud-and-ice square were only two human beings, and those two barely, a couple of slack-mouthed booze sacks perched on empty kegs waiting for the saloons to open.

“It looks like this during the day,” Early said to Rye. “But the player pianos start jangling and the men come out of tents and shacks, straight for the saloons and cribs. We won’t want to be here after dark.”

It already felt dark to Rye as Bolin led them along a narrow trail between peaks toward a dark barracks hall. They walked single file down a rutted path, clumps of trees felled on either side for strips of roughhewn cabins. Smoke tipped from the tin chimney of the log barracks in front of them.

At the door, the smell hit Rye. “Here we go,” Early said.

The faces inside were whiskered, sooty, dull. They wore dirty long johns and work clothes—loggers, rail spikes, and tunnel rats out of work until spring. They sat on sleeping pallets or leaned forward on the few rickety chairs they hadn’t burned for heat. An old boiler had been turned into a woodstove in the center of the room, and it burned so hot its iron sides glowed red. Yet no matter how close he stood, Rye couldn’t shake off the Bitterroot cold.

“Well then,” said Al Bolin, and he clomped to the center of the room next to the stove. With as little fanfare as possible, he made the introduction: “Boys, here’s Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, the labor girl out of New York I said about.”

No applause, just quiet stares from the thirty or so men in the room, a third the number Al had promised. Rye’s eyes and nose had adjusted, and he watched as, again, despite the setting, Gurley brought the fire. “The ruling class will keep you in slavery until you demand freedom!” she said. “Come stand beside me in this fight!” But unlike the other crowds, these hard, hungover men just stared. She introduced Rye and he told his usual story of getting knocked around and surviving the sweatbox. The shadowed faces didn’t seem to register any of it, and Rye wondered how many of them even spoke English. They watched with bored, hungry stares—like hawks trying to decide if that mouse was worth the dive.

Gurley gave another pitch for them to come to Spokane for the November 29 free speech action, and when they’d finished, Al Bolin hobbled into the center of the room, tilted his ranch hat back, and said, “Well, boys, give a hand to these folks come to tell you about this business.” They did, a couple of short claps. Then Al Bolin said, “You’re welcome to come ask them questions and wish them luck as they travel on to Missoula to continue raising money for this thing.”

At the door, Early Reston straightened. Rye felt his unease and watched his friend’s eyes sweep the room and finally fall back on Bolin, who was backing away toward the rear of the building. They both watched as Al slid out a side door.

“Where’s he going?” Early said, and he went out the front door to catch up to Bolin. Rye was frozen. He couldn’t follow Early and leave Elizabeth alone. He could see why Early was alarmed. Why had Al made a big deal of them raising money? And why, when he’d introduced Gurley, had he mentioned the “New York girl I said about”? When had he told them about her?

Rye made eye contact with Gurley, who also seemed to sense something was wrong. Then he looked at the travel bag at her feet. She had hundreds of dollars in there from their fund-raising, plus whatever she’d brought for expenses on the trip, more than enough to stir those hawks.

“We’d love to take questions, but we should get going on to Missoula,” Gurley said, and she edged toward Rye and the door.

“I got a question,” a voice called.

“We really should be—”

“How much money’s in the bag?”

A thick man stepped in front of the door just as Gurley reached Rye’s side. She cleared her throat. “Whatever funds we’ve raised are intended for the legal representation of those labor leaders in the Spokane jail.”

“How come you didn’t ask us for money?” said a tall man with gray-blond hair. “You think we ain’t got any to give?”

“We’d be honored to have your contributions”—Gurley looked at the two men by the door and then back at Rye—“to challenge the unconstitutional law against speaking on the street—”

Another man with a thick accent cut her off. “How much money—”

Gurley persisted: “As I said in my speech, we hope to hire—”

“How much?” the man came again.

“—the great Clarence Darrow—”

“How much fuckin’ money!”

Rye’s eyes darted around until they landed on the shirt of a small dark-haired man standing next to him—his white undershirt was stained yellow, with a bib of crusted brown blood below his chin, like he’d eaten something alive.

Then the tall man with graying blond hair stepped forward until he was right in front of Gurley. Something about him seemed authoritative, and he spoke with an accent Rye couldn’t place. “Mind if I look in your bag, miss?”

Rye took a half step between the man and Gurley. This caused the man to turn slowly and look sidelong at Rye. A toothy smile crossed the tall man’s face. With the heat from the woodstove, the awful breath of the tall gray man, and the ripe of the men around them, Rye felt bile rise. His only defense might be to vomit on the man.

“Well, look at here,” the blond-gray man said. Rye could feel Gurley’s hand in the center of his back, supporting him or cautioning. “The orphan boy wants a go.”

Thirty minutes of speeches and