Hell Town

Chapter 27

Gunther Hammersmith was in the office at the mine when one of the guards ran in and reported in a breathless voice, “Trouble in the shaft, Boss.”

Hammersmith came to his feet. “What sort of trouble?”

“The men are talkin’ about goin’ on strike.”

Hammersmith grunted as if he had been punched hard in the belly. He had orchestrated the strike at the Lucky Lizard by sending the Fowler brothers in to stir up unrest. The cave-in was their work too. Hammersmith hadn’t ordered them to cause the deaths of any of Woodford’s miners, but the luck that had dropped those rocks on the two men had been good for Hammersmith, if unfortunate for the miners who had died. The deaths had made it that much easier to get the strike started.

In the meantime, Munro had raised the wages of the men working at the Alhambra, and Hammersmith had taken it easier on them than usual. What the hell were they thinking, talking about a strike under these conditions?

Balling his hands into fists, Hammersmith strode out of the office. “I’ll put a stop to this,” he told the guard.

“Want me to come along with you just in case there’s trouble?” the man asked, hefting his rifle.

Hammersmith started to tell him no, that this was nothing he couldn’t handle with his fists, but then he thought better of it. He was a match for any two or three or even more of the miners, but a whole mob of them might be too much. They were tough men too—just not as tough as him.

“Yeah, come on,” he snapped as he stalked off toward the mine entrance. The rifle-toting guard followed him.

A tight knot of men had gathered just in front of the shaft’s mouth. Hammersmith heard their angry voices, one in particular. As he drew closer, he recognized the burly, beard-stubbled figure. Dave Rogan had been working for the Alhambra for a couple of weeks, ever since he’d been fired from the Lucky Lizard after causing some sort of ruckus in town. He was a good worker, tireless with a pick and shovel, but surly all the time and prone to getting into fights with the other miners. Hammersmith wasn’t surprised to see that he was the troublemaker.

“—ain’t just the Lucky Lizard,” Rogan was saying. “Sure, Munro’s payin’ us more than Woodford pays his men, but it’s only a few cents an hour! That ain’t enough more to make a real difference. We ought to be gettin’ two bits more an hour at least! And you know damn well Hammersmith’s gonna start workin’ us like dogs again. You saw how he was up until a few days ago. Easin’ up on us is just a damned trick! Hammersmith and Munro don’t want us lookin’ at what’s goin’ on at the Lucky Lizard and gettin’ any ideas!”

One of the other men spotted Hammersmith coming and nudged Rogan to shut him up. Rogan didn’t take the hint, though. He turned and saw Hammersmith approaching, and a snarl twisted his mouth.

“Here he comes now,” Rogan said. “Gonna try to shut me up and scare you boys into not thinkin’ for yourselves.”

With an effort, Hammersmith reined in his temper. What he wanted to do was to sledge a couple of blows into Rogan’s face and knock that smirk off the man’s lips. Instead, he demanded in a harsh voice, “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”

“We’re tired of bein’ taken advantage of, Hammersmith,” Rogan replied. “Ain’t that right, boys?”

A cheer went up from the miners. Like any mob, they were brave, but it was a collective courage, not an individual one. Split them up and they’d be as craven as they normally were, Hammersmith knew.

And the first step in splitting them up was dealing with Rogan. The man was almost as tall as Hammersmith and only about twenty pounds lighter. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were corded and ropy from swinging a pick for endless hours. Despite that, Hammersmith had no doubt that he could defeat Rogan in a fight.

He might get the chance to find out, because Rogan had a crazed light in his eyes that said he wasn’t going to be cowed. A man like that lived for conflict, and the more violent the better.

Hammersmith decided to try talking first for a change. He hadn’t been around Munro so much without learning something. Munro used words—backed up by the threat of violence, of course—to get what he wanted.

“Listen, you men,” Hammersmith began. “You know you just got a raise, and you’re working ten-hour shifts now, not twelve.”

“You can’t buy us,” Rogan shot back. “Not with a measly ten cents more than what caused the miners over at the Lucky Lizard to go on strike.”

“You know it wasn’t just the pay that made those men decide to strike,” Hammersmith argued. “They had a cave-in too. They don’t trust Woodford to keep ’em safe anymore. You don’t have to worry about that here.”

“No?” Rogan asked. “Woodford claimed his mine was safe too, until the ceiling came down in the shaft!”

“You can see for yourself, damn it!” Hammersmith paused and forced himself to draw a deep breath. In a calmer tone, he went on. “Just look at the timbers and everything else in the Alhambra. You’ll see that it’s a safe place to work.”

“Any mine can have a cave-in,” one of the other miners pointed out. “It’s a dangerous job, no matter how careful you are.”

“Yeah!” another man called. “That’s why you ought to pay us better, Hammersmith. We’re riskin’ our lives down there!”

“Blast it, that’s true of any mine anywhere in the world!” Hammersmith said.

Rogan folded his arms across his brawny chest and glared at Hammersmith. “We’re goin’ on strike,” he declared. “We want two bits more an hour, eight-hour shifts, and an independent inspection of the mine to prove that it’s safe. And until we get what we want, we ain’t goin’ back down there.” He turned to look at the other miners. “Are you with me, boys?”

Again, they cheered. Some snatched their hats off and waved them over their heads. Others pumped their fists in the air. Hammersmith couldn’t believe what he was hearing and seeing. How had things gone so wrong so quickly and unexpectedly? It had never occurred to him that the strike at the Lucky Lizard might spread over here to the Alhambra!

Munro was going to be mad. Damned mad.

That was why Hammersmith had to put a stop to this now before it got more out of hand than it already was.

He stepped closer to Rogan and said between clenched teeth, “Get into that mine and get back to work, mister. Right now, or you’re fired!”

Rogan gave a stubborn shake of his head. “You can’t fire me,” he said. “I’m on strike!”

And with that, he spit in Hammersmith’s face.

That was more than Hammersmith could stand. With a howl of rage, he slammed a punch into Rogan’s jaw. The blow landed with a solid thud and knocked Rogan back a couple of steps, but the miner didn’t go down. He stayed on his feet, caught his balance, and roared in defiance as he charged Hammersmith.

The battle was on. A clash of titans, a poet might have called it. Actually, it was just two big men beating the hell out of each other. They slugged, they wrestled, they threw each other down and rolled on the ground. Hammersmith tried to knee Rogan in the groin, but Rogan twisted aside and took the blow on his thigh. Rogan tried to dig his thumbs into Hammersmith’s eyes, but Hammersmith caught one of them in his mouth and bit down hard, tasting blood as his teeth went all the way to the bone. Rogan screamed, pulled free, and flailed at Hammersmith. Blood from the injured thumb spattered on Hammersmith’s face as some of the punches got through and battered him.

All the while, the assembled miners cheered and shouted. Some of them grabbed the guard and took his rifle away from him, as well as the pistol on his hip. The man tore out of their grip and sprinted away, fearing for his life if he tried to stay and help Hammersmith.

The mine superintendent roared like a maddened bull, grabbed Rogan by the shoulders, and pitched him off to the side. Rolling to his feet, Hammersmith charged after Rogan and kicked him hard in the side, hard enough to maybe break a rib. Rogan grunted in pain and tried to get up, but Hammersmith’s foot thudded into his chest and knocked him onto his back. Hammersmith lifted his foot again, ready to drive the heel of his work boot down into Rogan’s face. Caught up in the grip of rage like he was, he didn’t care if he stomped the life out of the bastard.

Before Hammersmith could bring his foot down, the mob surged forward. Strong hands gripped him and pulled him back. He yelled in alarm as he felt himself lifted off his feet. He struck out, throwing wild punches as fast and hard as he could, in every direction. He knew that if he allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the miners, he might be the one who wound up being stomped to death.

“Hold it!” The shouted command cut through the noisy confusion. “Let him go, damn it! If you kill him, you’ll be playin’ right into Munro’s hands!”

The orders came from Dave Rogan. He continued to shout as Hammersmith was shoved roughly back and forth. Gradually, the miners let go of him and moved back a little to give him some breathing room, although he was still surrounded. They looked like a pack of wild-eyed wolves, Hammersmith thought as he stood there with his chest heaving. His muscles already ached from the battering he had received, and his left eye was trying to swell shut.

“If you kill him, Munro will have the law on us,” Rogan said as he shouldered his way through the crowd to confront Hammersmith again. “It’s legal for us to strike, as long as we don’t murder anybody.” He sneered at Hammersmith. “No matter how much they might deserve killin’.”

“Why the hell do you hate me?” Hammersmith burst out, genuinely puzzled. “I never did anything to you!”

“You work for Munro. That’s enough. But I’ve heard plenty about you, Hammersmith. You’ve beaten men to death before for not obeying your orders. And you’ve worked them to death in the mines, damn you.”

Hammersmith wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away bloody. “I never laid into anybody except lazy sons o’ bitches who had it comin’,” he insisted. “Either that, or they jumped me first.”

“Well, it don’t matter now. You won’t run roughshod over us anymore.” Rogan thumped his chest with a clenched fist. “We’re on strike. Go tell Munro that he’d better meet our demands, or else he won’t ever take any more ore outta this mine!”

Hammersmith didn’t want to tell Hamish Munro any such thing. Munro would explode with fury when he heard about this. As if they didn’t have enough trouble with that damned nosy marshal!

Rogan waved an arm at the other miners. “Come on, boys, let’s get out of here. Somebody go down and make sure everybody’s out of the mine.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Hammersmith warned. “You’ll all just lose your jobs and get nothin’ for it. We’ll bring in more workers.”

“They’ll have to get through us first,” Rogan warned with an ominous glare.

“If that’s what it takes, then so be it,” Hammersmith snapped. Munro could afford to bring in an army of armed guards if he needed to. Rogan and the others would soon see that they had bitten off a hell of a lot more than they could chew.

But in the meantime, Hammersmith thought as he watched the miners stalk off, throwing angry glances over their shoulders at him as they did so, the Alhambra Mine was shut down.

Like it or not, Munro had to be told about this, and Hammersmith knew he was the one who would have to bring that bad news to Buckskin.

It was the guard who fled for his life, though, who reached the settlement first. He was breathless from the hard ride into town as he came into the Silver Baron Saloon, went to the bar, and asked for a drink. After he tossed back the whiskey, he began telling anybody who would listen how the miners at the Alhambra had gone on strike and were rioting.

“They’ve probably killed poor Mr. Hammersmith by now,” he said.

Frank was seated at one of the tables in the rear of the room with Tip Woodford. They had cups of coffee in front of them, and had been talking about Frank’s confrontation with Hamish Munro that morning.

Now Frank stood up and strode over to the bar, where he faced the newcomer and said, “You should’ve mentioned that somebody was in danger first.”

“Sorry, Marshal,” the man said. “I know how you and Mr. Hammersmith feel about each other, though. I didn’t figure you’d care what happened to him.”

“I wouldn’t stand by and let any man be torn to pieces by a mob,” Frank said, not bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice.

The guard from the mine flushed. “There was nothin’ I could do. They would’ve killed me too.”

Frank just turned away. He said to Tip, who had followed him to the bar, “I’d better ride out there and see what’s going on.”

“Want some company?” Tip asked.

Frank shook his head. “No, but I’d appreciate it if you’d find Jack or Clint Farnum and let them know where I’ve gone.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Tip said with a nod. “Be careful, Frank. You sure as blazes don’t want to get yourself killed over the likes o’ Gunther Hammersmith.”

Frank knew what the mayor meant. Still, he had chosen to expand his jurisdiction to the mines in the area, whether he really had any legal right to do so or not, so to Frank’s way of thinking, he had a job to do and wasn’t going to shy away from it.

He left the saloon and went to Hillman’s livery stable. Both horses were well rested, so he saddled Stormy and rode out, taking Dog with him. He headed straight for the Alhambra.

However, he had ridden only half a mile or so when he saw a man on horseback coming toward him and recognized Hammersmith’s bulky figure. The man didn’t sit a saddle all that well, and Frank knew he wasn’t really comfortable on horseback. Hammersmith was moving along the trail at a good clip, though.

Frank reined in to wait for him. He held up a hand in a signal for Hammersmith to stop. Hammersmith pulled his mount to a halt, but looked like he didn’t care for being delayed.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked in a guttural voice. His face was bruised and swollen and had several patches of dried blood on it.

“I’m a mite surprised to see you alive, Hammersmith,” Frank drawled. “Fella who works for you out at the mine came galloping into town, said the men were on strike and were about to tear you limb from limb.”

“Yeah, well, you can see for yourself that didn’t happen.”

“What about the part about being on strike?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Anything that affects the community is my business,” Frank said, “because it might have an effect on law and order too. Just answer the question, Hammersmith.”

“Yeah, they went on strike,” Hammersmith replied in a grudging tone. “That bastard Rogan started it.”

“Dave Rogan?” Frank asked in surprise. “I didn’t know he worked for the Alhambra.”

“Yeah, he hired on after Woodford fired him.”

Frank hadn’t forgotten the ruckus at Ed Kelley’s Top-Notch Saloon. That fight had gotten Rogan discharged from the Lucky Lizard, but evidently the miner hadn’t had much trouble finding another job.

A part of Frank was tempted to tell Hammersmith that he had gotten just what he deserved. Frank was as convinced as ever that Hammersmith and Munro were behind the strike at the Lucky Lizard. Now their tactics had backfired against them, as their own workers, inspired by the strike at the other mine, had walked out on their jobs.

“You want anything else, Morgan?” Hammersmith snapped. “I got to tell Mr. Munro about what happened.”

Frank would have enjoyed being a fly on the wall during that conversation. That wasn’t going to happen, though, so he waved a hand in the direction of Buckskin and said, “Go ahead. I’m warning you, though, Hammersmith…. Your labor troubles had better stay confined to the mine. If they start reaching into town, I’ll put a stop to all this myself if I have to.”

Hammersmith’s lip curled. “What can you do? There ain’t no law against striking. More’s the pity.”

Again, Frank was struck by the irony of it. Hammersmith and Munro had struck at the Lucky Lizard, using the strike there as a weapon, but Hammersmith didn’t like it so much when the tables were turned and there was nothing he could do about it.

Frank moved aside to let Hammersmith pass. The man rode off toward the settlement. Frank started again toward the mine, chuckling as he said to Dog, “Wonder what they’ll do now.”

He didn’t figure he would have to wait very long to find out.

And he wasn’t expecting to be pleased when he found out, either.