The Callahans: The Complete Series

by Gordon Ryan

  Tom was pleased with the performance of his new car on its first outing into the mountains. He crested the climb at Soldier Summit and entered a brief level plateau. Pulling off to the side of the road and exiting the car to stretch his legs, he found himself staring at the snow-covered mountains above him. In the twenty-odd years that Utah had been his home, he had come to love the mountains, the high valleys, and the stillness found in the back country. Camping and fishing trips with the boys, sometimes including the adventurous Tess, had been such a joy when they were younger. They had not gone since Benjamin’s death. Indeed, the young lad’s tragic passing had been a watershed emotional event in the life of the Callahan family.

  Arriving in Price, Tom checked into the hotel and was given a message sealed in a small envelope. His luggage was attended to by an old Mexican porter who greeted Tom by name.

  Tom opened the envelope and unfolded the piece of paper.

  Seven-thirty in the hotel dining room. Be prepared, Dickson’s got his lather up and the union wants blood. J. Milner.

  Tom pulled his pocket watch from his vest and flipped open the cover. Five-twenty. Time enough for a quick change into some old clothes, a casual visit to a tavern where he might ascertain the local mood, and then back to the hotel for a bath before dinner.

  “Can we be of any assistance, Mr. Callahan?” the desk clerk asked.

  Tom looked up from studying his message, folded the paper, and put it in his shirt pocket. “Just luggage to the room, please. Oh, and the latest edition of the local paper, if you have one.”

  “Certainly, sir. We’ve got one right here,” the clerk motioned to the old Mexican porter.

  “It’s nice to have you with us again, Mr. Callahan,” the clerk said.

  “Thank you, Horst. And how’s your oldest?” Tom asked.

  “Growing, Mr. Callahan. Always growing.”

  Tom nodded as he accepted the newspaper from the elderly Mexican. Tom gave the man a quarter and asked him to knock on his door at seven.

  “Certainly, Mr. Callahan. Would you like us to care for your shoes before this evening?”

  Tom looked down at the accumulated dust and nodded. “They could use it, couldn’t they? Thank you. Seven, sharp.”

  “Yes, sir.” he replied. “Just leave the shoes in the hall.”

  About thirty people were seated at various tables in the hotel dining room when Tom entered at seven forty-five. John Milner, General Foreman at Winter Quarters Mine, the man who had left the note, rose to greet him, stepping to shake his hand before he arrived at the table.

  “Evening, Tom,” he said quietly. “Dickson’s got his nose all out of joint. Claims you’re late and he’s not standing for it.”

  Tom nodded and kept walking toward the table. Two men sat at the four-person table. Neither stood as he approached.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” Tom said, coming around the table to shake Dickson’s hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Dickson,” Tom smiled.

  “Cut the malarkey, Callahan. You’re late—you’re wasting my time, and it’s gonna cost you plenty,” Dickson snarled. Dressed in a rough weave, western-cut shirt with a colorful Indian bandanna tied around his neck, Erik Dickson fully played the role of roughneck to the members of his union, and a tough, hard-boiled negotiator to management who had to meet his demands.

  Tom made a show of pulling his pocket watch from his vest pocket and looking at the time. He shook his head, mumbling to himself. “I’ve been meaning for some time to replace this watch. Just that it’s sentimental to me.”

  “But,” he said, looking back at Dickson, “you’re exactly right. I’ve wasted your time and I apologize. Thank you for coming,” he continued, once again offering to shake Dickson’s hand. “Perhaps we can spend a few minutes together tomorrow, that is, if you can come out to the mine for a while.”

  Dickson stood, throwing his table napkin down on the floor. “I came out here to meet with you, Callahan. What’s this nonsense about meeting tomorrow? I got some demands to make to you, right now!”

  Tom looked quizzically at John Milner. “Didn’t Mr. Dickson get my message, John?”

  “Well, sir, I’m not actually sure what ...”

  “Oh, of course. It’s our new gal in Salt Lake.” He turned back to face Dickson again. “I am really sorry, Mr. Dickson. This has certainly inconvenienced you, I’m sure. I sent, or at least I thought I sent, a message to Mr. Milner to be delivered to you yesterday. I’ve only come down for a couple of days to make arrangements to close down the Winter Quarters Mine. For the rest of the year that is. The owners, well, they, uh, they met a few days ago and considered your demands. Frankly speaking, Mr. Dickson, I’m having trouble understanding their intractability, but, well, there you have it. Most of ’em, like me, are just immigrants themselves. I’d still be glad to meet with you tomorrow, but, well, we’re just going to kind of tidy up the place, and give the workers a week’s notice.”

  Dickson stood open-mouthed as Tom’s words sunk in. It was all Tom could do to keep a straight face, and Milner, to whom this was all news, stood quietly by.

  “We’ll see about that. I know your type, Callahan. Been dealing with ’em all my life. You’d bleed the men dry, if you could.”

  “I’m sure I’ve been misrepresented to you, Mr. Dickson,” Tom said calmly, his ever-present smile glowing. “Still, in all,” he nodded, turning to Milner with a question, “John, have you actually canceled your supply contracts yet?” he asked.

  Milner was, by now, fully appraised of the game. “I’ve drafted the contract cancellation letters, Tom, but I was waiting for your visit to wrap it up.”

  “I see,” Tom said, looking back at Dickson, whose face reflected a glimmer of hope. “Well, sir, perhaps tomorrow, that is if you’re available, we could give it another shot. I really don’t know. I’m only a minority share holder, and the major stockholders were quite adamant about closing it down.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Dickson said to his companion. “Tomorrow, Callahan,” he said, pushing his chair back and stepping away from the table. “Ten o’clock.”

  Tom quickly nodded, submissively. “Ten seems fine, doesn’t it, John?”

  “That’ll be good, Mr. Callahan,” Milner said.

  Dickson started to leave and Tom moved from behind the table to stand in his way. “Mr. Dickson, about my type. I’m a bit confused. You don’t like the Irish, or what?” he asked, still smiling.

  Dickson glared at Tom. “We’re all Irish here tonight, Callahan. But some of us were mucking out stables before we learned to stand up for the men in the mines.”

  “Oh, I see,” Tom slowly nodded. “And that would make me ...”

  “That makes you the enemy, Callahan.”

  Tom continued to smile at Dickson, an affectation that he could see was getting on the heavier man’s nerves. Finally, Tom stepped a bit closer to Dickson’s face. “You still gettin’ a dollar a month ‘employment fees’ outta these poor, mistreated miners, Dickson,” he said with sudden grit.

  “I, uh, well, the union ...”

  “C’mon out tomorrow, Dickson, and let’s allow the men to see who the enemy is. Oh, and Dickson, I came over steerage, just like you did. And what would you be knowin’ about the working man. You’ve been a bloody Dublin Jackeen all yer life.” He leaned into Dickson’s face, inches away. “And what I’ve got, Dickson, I didn’t get from bullying everyone and sucking the life out of my fellow workers. I think it’s time I see what the other men have to say about it.”

  “We’ll see who runs these men, Callahan,” Dickson shouted.

  The growing confrontation had drawn stares and mumbling from some of the dinner guests in the hotel dining room. Now, with Dickson’s outburst, all heads turned in their direction.

  “Ten o’clock, Callahan. And be on time,” he said, poking his finger at Tom’s chest, before storming out the door.

  Tom watched him leave and smiled at Milner. “How about a nice quiet dinner,
John?”

  “Suits me, Tom,” he grinned.

  “Aye,” Tom said, taking a seat and unfolding his napkin. The waiter approached and asked if they’d like a drink before dinner.

  “Coffee for me,” Tom replied, “and there’ll be just two for dinner,” he smiled.

  “I’ll have the same, please,” Milner said.

  “What’s his story, John?” Tom asked, nodding toward the departed Dickson.

  “He’s one of the shift leaders and supposedly the main spokesman for the miners. Fact is, it’s like you said to him. His thugs are just tougher at the moment, than the other ethnic groups. His bullies have won the day.”

  “Is there opposition?”

  “Sure. Plenty of it.”

  “Think we can find a couple of their leaders tonight?”

  John Milner flapped his napkin open, laying it across his lap, and looked up at Tom, smiling. “They’ll be at my house at eleven.”

  Tom leaned back in his chair and laughed as the waiter returned with a pot of coffee. “Two steaks, please,” Tom ordered. “And make his rare,” he gestured, pointing to Milner. “I think he could eat it on the hoof,” Tom said, continuing to laugh.

  About three hundred angry and perplexed men were gathered at Winter Quarters Mine early the next morning when Tom and John Milner arrived in Tom’s car. A visible division was apparent in the clusters of men standing in what appeared to be, from the looks of their clothing and features, ethnic groupings of Greeks, Irish, and Mexicans. At the head of the Irish group, Erik Dickson stood with several cronies gathered around him. A few men carried ax handles. Tom cut the engine and exited the car, walking straight to the platform surrounding the mine office. He climbed up on the porch then turned to face the crowd. The men were silent, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “I’m Tom Callahan from Salt Lake. Now, if some of your mates don’t understand English, I’ll speak slowly so you can translate for them. I’m told we have a bit of trouble here at Winter Quarters Mine. From what I can gather, there is no clear-cut consensus on the issues. I’d like to hear from a spokesman from each of your groups so that all get a fair chance to speak.”

  Dickson stepped forward and shouted, “I speak for these miners, Callahan. And I’ll be the one to negotiate with you bloodsucking owners.” A murmur of assent arose from the three groups of men forming a semicircle in the area in front of and below the office porch.

  “I said I’d like to speak with a representative of each different group of miners who have concerns. And that,” he said looking directly at Dickson, “is exactly what we’re going to do.” Tom looked away from Dickson, glancing at the other two groups. “If you have a spokesman in your group, let him step forward now, and we’ll take some time together in the office.” Tom paused while several men turned back into their respective cluster of miners and began to translate. In a few moments, the men grew silent again.

  Tom stepped down from the porch and approached the crowd of men. “Now, who speaks for the Mexicans?” Tom asked, turning to look at the smallest of the groups of men.

  A tall, muscular man stepped forward. “I will speak for my people, Señor,” the young man said. Tom estimated him to be only eighteen or nineteen—a bit young for a spokesman, Tom thought.

  Dickson stepped between Tom and the young Mexican man. “I said I speak for these miners, Callahan,” he spit out. “Not some baby-faced, wet-nosed greaser.”

  Tom eyed Dickson and, from the corner of his eye, saw a couple of his Irish supporters move forward.

  “What’s your name, son?” Tom asked, looking past Dickson at the young man.

  “Raul, Señor.”

  Without warning, Dickson whirled and whipped a pistol he had drawn across the side of Raul’s head, knocking the young man to the ground. As Dickson turned back to face Tom, the banker stepped in close and grabbed the back of Dickson’s head, pulling him even closer. Tom’s right knee came up into Dickson’s groin, causing the heavier man to double over. Clasping his hands together in a double fist, Tom brought his full force down on the back of Dickson’s neck, dropping the man to his knees. With his back now to Dickson’s group, Tom didn’t see one of Dickson’s men raise the ax handle, but Raul was on his feet in a flash. He grabbed the length of wood just as the man was starting to bring it down toward Tom’s head. Jerking the wooden handle out of the man’s hand, Raul turned it sideways and jabbed him hard in the ribs, driving him backward, away from Tom.

  Tom heard the scuffle and turned quickly to see what had happened. Dickson got to his feet, but missed in his attempt to grab Tom’s shoulder. As the dazed man stumbled by, Tom landed a right fist to the man’s temple and Dickson sprawled on his face, dropping the pistol and lying still on the hard, bare ground of the compound. Tom sprang for the pistol and fired two rapid shots into the air. The report of the gunshots stopped Dickson’s supporters, several of whom were moving to the aid of their leader.

  When the confrontation began, John Milner immediately left Tom’s side and moved to the rear of the office building. He now reappeared with about fifteen men, all armed with shotguns. They stood lined up in front of the office, facing the miners.

  With the new men to protect him, Tom stepped over to the Mexican man who was leaning on the ax handle. “You all right, son?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Dickson’s crowd.

  “Si, Señor,” he said, taking a rag from his pocket and wiping blood from the side of his head.

  Dickson slowly regained his feet with one of his gang assisting him up.

  “Now I said once,” Tom hollered, “and I say again, each group will have the opportunity to express their concerns, including the Irish,” he emphasized, looking toward Dickson. “Now back off and let’s not get anyone seriously hurt.” Tom motioned for Milner to come and take the young Mexican into the office. “We’ll take care of your injury, lad, and then I’ll talk with you,” he said.

  “Do the Greeks have a spokesman?” Tom shouted toward the group.

  Two men stepped forward. “We do,” one said.

  “And when I’ve heard their concerns, Dickson, then I’ll listen to you,” Tom said, moving closer to the bigger man. Dickson stood quietly, his head bowed, rubbing the back of his neck. When he was within close speaking range, Tom lowered his voice so that only Dickson could hear.

  “Now, Mr. Dickson, you’ve caused me to break a promise. It’s been ten years since I’ve struck another man, and I promised my wife it wouldn’t happen again. Got to admit, that angers me some. And I don’t exactly know what to do about it,” he said, pulling the hammer back and spinning the revolver cylinder. “But,” he continued, looking into Dickson’s face, “if you ever bring a firearm onto my property again, Mr. Dickson, you’ll be fired.” Tom stood his ground quietly, waiting for Dickson’s reply, but the man remained silent.

  “Look, Dickson, I’m here to listen to you and if what you say is indeed the consensus of all, then I’ll listen more carefully. But you’re through forcing your leadership on these immigrants. They may be new to America, Dickson, but so were we once. You seem to have forgotten that, Mick.” Tom lifted the pistol again, the barrel pointed toward Dickson, whose eyes grew larger. The point of aim slowly passed Dickson’s body, then his head, as Tom continued to raise the pistol toward the sky. He fired the remaining four rounds into the air, then flipped the pistol to hold the barrel and shoved the butt end toward Dickson. “This will be gone before your turn to talk, Mr. Dickson.” Tom turned his back on Dickson and his men, motioned for the two Greek spokesmen to wait, and then he stepped into the office.

  Two days passed while Greek, Mexican, and Irish miners aired their grievances. As Tom anticipated, pay and working hours were of concern to all, but the fact that all the shift foremen had been picked by Dickson proved to be one of the primary concerns. From talking with other Irish miners, Tom discovered that not even all the Irish were in support of Dickson’s demands.

  By Thursday afternoon, Tom had worked out an arr
angement with all three groups, one that satisfied Milner’s production schedule. Each group was assigned to work one of the three shifts, independent of the others, with shift foremen chosen from within their own ethnic group. Shifts would rotate each three months to equitably distribute the undesirable work times. Tom promised the Mexicans that he would seek additional Mexican workers to fill their crew requirements, inasmuch as they were the smallest ethnic group.

  The Irish miners under Dickson at first balked at the solution, since all of the previous foremen had been chosen by Dickson from among the Irish. But Tom’s threat to close the mine, or to import more Greeks and Mexicans to replace the Irish, forced Dickson to concede. Retention of some of his power, at least on his own shift, allowed Tom to mollify the hefty Irishman, but Tom could see he’d made an enemy for life. Thursday evening, Tom prepared to leave the mine office for another night at the hotel prior to returning to Salt Lake.

  “Tom, about this young Mexican boy, Raul. He’s challenged Dickson’s lads now, and he’s gonna have an ‘accident’ in the mine if he stays,” Milner said.

  “Aye, I’ve been concerned about that. Can you spare him?” Tom asked.

  “Better to spare him, than to bury him, Tom.”

  “Aye! Well, tell him if he’s interested, I’ll take him back to Salt Lake with me tomorrow morning and help him find something at Park City or Utah Copper.”