Red Jacket

by Joseph Heywood

  “You get to pick the men?”

  “Si, I pick, he talks, tells them to tell others quit strike and go back work.”

  “I’m not Italian,” Bapcat said.

  “What you are?”

  “One hundred percent nobody knows.” Or cares.

  “Bene, you come.”

  “Why?”

  “Favors—you capisce?”

  Bapcat understood. Marinello owes Geronissi, same as me.

  •••

  It was 10 a.m. Kids were in school, non-striking miners were underground, most other people working, and the streets seemed relatively empty as the editor led the three men to a house with a man in a black suit on the porch. The man carried a sawed-off shotgun, and wore a black fedora. He nodded to Marinello and opened the door.

  Just inside were five more men in black suits—bodyguards—and MacNaughton, lean, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, straight hair combed neatly back, tiny rimless eyeglasses, slate-gray eyes, pink face from a fresh shave, pressed white shirt, black tie, jacket off, red braces over his shirt, holding out his hands in welcome: Jesus welcoming the multitudes.

  Bapcat took the chair on MacNaughton’s right, closest to him, and watched Marinello leave. The two miners who had accompanied him also sat down, a bit farther away and said nothing. Bapcat could tell they were nervous.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. My good friend, Mr. Marinello, tells me you are reasonable fellas, pressured to strike by socialists and the other radicals from out west. I’m not going to ask you to come back to work in the mines. But I’m going to make you an offer that will benefit all of us.”

  MacNaughton made no eye contact, stared off in the distance, reciting something scripted in his mind. “Interested?” the C & H boss man asked.

  Bapcat’s companions said nothing. He said, “We’ll listen.”

  “For every man you talk into coming back to work, I will give you the equivalent of his first day’s wages as a reward.”

  The two miners blinked.

  MacNaughton rolled his eyes and complained. “Marinello keeps sending us deaf and dumb mutes.”

  “You want to pay us to recruit for you?” Bapcat asked.

  MacNaughton was surprised at what was being said to him. “It’s a simple proposition.”

  Bapcat said, “Rather than recruiting men, why don’t we talk about your deer bounties instead?”

  MacNaughton began to blink at a sheet of paper in front of him. “Which one are you?”

  Bapcat turned his lapel to show his badge. “Bapcat, Deputy State Game, Fish and Forestry Warden.”

  MacNaughton’s scowl faded to a blank. “Your name is not one put forth by Marinelli. Where is he?”

  “Gone,” the nearest guard said. “You want we should go fetch him?”

  “No,” MacNaughton said, and the bodyguards began to step toward Bapcat and the miners with their revolvers out.

  Bapcat said, “These are simple questions, Mr. MacNaughton. Who is paying men to kill deer and leave them to rot? Who is poisoning the streams and ponds and wells? Who is cutting timber so there’s no firewood? Who is setting fire to private homes, and who is cutting down fruit trees so there can be no harvest next spring? Who is doing these things, sir?”

  Bapcat saw his two companions squirming.

  “Get Marinelli,” MacNaughton said to the nearest guard.

  “Are you going to answer me, sir?” Bapcat asked. “Why are you asking these men to recruit their friends back to work when you’re trying to starve them and their families?”

  “Joshua,” the mine boss said.

  A bodyguard started to step toward the table, but just then, the front door flew open and the exterior guard came stumbling in backward with Zakov pushing him, holding a black Colt .45 to the man’s head. “Let us now each and all exercise keen and pragmatic judgment in these delicate circumstances,” the Russian exhorted.

  MacNaughton rose to his feet. “I have no idea what you are talking about, sir, and I resent this intrusion. We are leaving now. Joshua.”

  With that, the leader of the Keweenaw’s copper industry ran out of the house and got into a vehicle, which raced away.

  “This is true, what you say—the mine operators, they do these bad things?” one of the men asked.

  “Somebody’s doing them,” Bapcat answered.

  “You got balls, talking to MacNaught that way,” one of the men said.

  “Or un sacco di stupidita,” the other one whispered.

  The two miners departed on shaky legs, and Zakov and Bapcat walked back to where the Russian had parked the truck.

  “I don’t think MacNaughton knows what I was asking about,” Bapcat told his partner.

  “Which suggests perhaps the impetus comes from below him,” the Russian said.

  “Maybe, but the fact that MacNaughton is still trying to use miners to recruit miners tells me the strike is hurting him and his operations more than he wants to let on.” It says there’s desperation in the air, on all sides.

  “How the heck did you find me?” Bapcat asked the Russian.

  “Game wardens,” Zakov said. “We are adept in the black arts, the magic of detection.”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “I was driving through Kearsarge, saw you, followed and waited, just in case.”

  “How did you know when to come in?”

  “I didn’t. I got bored. Pure luck I came through the door when I did.”

  97

  Bumbletown Hill

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1913

  The witch had roared to life two days before, on the sixth of November. Lake Superior’s surface water had remained strangely warm all fall, and Bapcat knew that when sudden winds swept down from Canada, there would be a snowstorm of epic proportions. He’d been in one in 1905, and had been trapped in the woods for a month. These winds, like those of eight years before, had come up fast from the northeast, the temperature fell just as quickly, and rain began and turned to sleet, coating everything with two inches of ice before it turned to snow, turning the world white and making all men blind.

  The night before, Bapcat had tried to call Harju to request a telephone for the house, but the clerk at Petermann’s told him the lines were down, and he had no idea how long the outage would last. It was the same with electric power in nearby towns. Bapcat had trudged back up to the cabin through deep snow.

  “Canady yew?” Bapcat asked his partner, who had been north in the woods and only returned an hour ago, yet had not even mentioned the storm.

  “As reported, mostly in dark canyon bottoms, and judging by the specimens I saw, they appear to be untouched since last winter. Yard browse, I conclude, to be eaten only when it is nearly the last choice, like borscht for me.”

  “Deer?”

  “A few, and some sign, but no rotting carcasses.”

  “Too far from settlements to bother with,” Bapcat said. “Maybe. Did you look for bats?”

  “In this weather?”

  Bapcat grinned. “I was beginning to think you didn’t notice there is a storm.” Then, “I think we should try to estimate the extent of the siege activities, you up here, me south of Houghton. Or vicey versey. Your choice.”

  “Here suits me,” Zakov said. “It will be some days before we can move. Trees are down everywhere, drifts are up to my head, and it is looking like Siberia. Where will you start?”

  “I’m thinking Painesdale, which in my mind seems to be the southwest fringe. We know there is activity east toward Chassell.”

  Zakov said, “The strike seems more violent and vehement south and north, softer in the center. Why would this be?”

  “If I were smarter, I might manage an equally smart guess,” Bapcat said.

 
“You are plenty smart, wife.”

  Meant to say more schooled, not smarter.

  “Impressions of MacNaughton?” Zakov asked.

  “He doesn’t look people in the eye, but I think I saw fear.”

  “Not many people are direct,” the Russian said. “In some cultures direct eye contact is taken as an insult, or worse—a call for combat to the death.”

  “Where did you come up with the Colt?” The semiautomatic pistol had only been issued to the US military a couple of years ago.

  “Harju left one for each of us, but when he saw how attached you are to your beloved Krag, he gave both to me.”

  The Russian went and fetched a second weapon, a box of cartridges, and two spare magazines, and set them in front of Bapcat. “It is a hand cannon,” Zakov said. “A man-stopper.”

  “I hope it never comes to that,” Bapcat said.

  “Greed sometimes situates violence within whispering distance,” the Russian said.

  “Thanksgiving, I intend to go to Jaquelle’s, spend some time with the boy and her. You want to come with me?”

  “One of us should remain here,” the Russian said. “How is the boy doing?”

  “Adjusting,” Bapcat said with a chuckle. “Grudgingly.”

  “You should be a good papa and explain to this boy the sheer folly of resisting the Widow Frei.”

  “I’m not his father,” Bapcat said, jarred by the concept.

  “Yet,” the Russian whispered. “Wife.”

  “There are moments,” Bapcat said, pointing the empty Colt at a wall.

  “These are, of course, mutually frustrating moments,” the Russian said officiously, “and here I must posit a question stimulated by our readings in Tiffany’s. That is, if I shot you, my wife, would I be compelled by law to testify against myself?”

  “Let me know when you get that worked out. We should be patrolling. Deer will not be moving much, so they’ll be easy targets,” Bapcat said. “I’ll go south, and you can take care of this area.”

  “To enforce what?” Zakov asked. “You unilaterally suspended the law, at least for these surrounds.”

  “Just make sure hunters have licenses.”

  Zakov said sarcastically, “Yes, of course; the state treasury must have its pound of flesh.”

  98

  Trimountain, Houghton County

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1913

  The storm south of Houghton was much milder than to the north. Early today Bapcat had intercepted twenty hunters in the Obenhoff Lake country and checked their licenses. He wrote no citations, gave only verbal warnings.

  It felt good to have been outside for nearly two days as he trudged up the trail past Trimountain Peak, toward the mining village of Trimountain down the hill to the east. Most of all he was looking forward to a fine dinner at Shewbart’s Cafe in town, and a room at Vijver’s Boardinghouse, which Harju had recommended in one of their conversations. Sunday and Monday he had slept in his sleeping bag and bedroll in the woods, and each morning had brushed away fluffy new snow before making his tea fire.

  This morning he had found two headless deer, but he was unable to back-track the hunter or hunters because they had carefully kept to rocky areas. This was the first evidence of the siege he had come upon around here, and knowing the kill was certain and heavier east of Trimountain and Painesdale, toward Chassell, he guessed that Obenhoff was the southwestern edge of the scheme. He wondered what Zakov was discovering up north.

  When he was in sight of the town’s main street, four men stepped into the alley, blocking his way. All wore black coats adorned with round white buttons with citizens’ alliance printed in red. As he walked toward them, they formed a wall. He said, “Hungry man here, gents. Make a hole, please.”

  All four men wore gun belts with the small .38s issued to special mine deputies. Buttons, not sun-star badges. Choices here: Push through, stop, retreat, or close on them, and engage. He decided to close in order to reduce their space to maneuver, to keep their flanks tight. Harju had advised against this, warning him to keep distance in order to spot threatening actions, but Bapcat’s instincts pushed him to get closer and use his presence to dictate circumstances. In a four-on-one-situation, most would assume the group would have the advantage, but he intended to crumple their leader immediately and remove whatever sass he had. As he drew closer, he reached back, slid his bayonet out of the scabbard on his pack, and snapped the blade on the barrel of the rifle. He did this while maintaining eye contact with the man to his far right.

  Affixing the bayonet happened with such speed that the men didn’t react until he had turned the rifle slightly. The blade gleamed and all four of them took a half stumble backward.

  “Who’re you?” the big man on the right challenged.

  “Bapcat, Deputy State Game, Fish and Forestry Warden. Who’re you?”

  “Fed-up citizens,” the erstwhile leader barked.

  “At least you’re fed,” Bapcat quipped.

  “Had our fill of troublemakers and damn radical socialists,” another of the men grumbled.

  Bapcat moved the rifle slightly and the men pulled back again. “You don’t want trouble, boys—not tonight, not with me, not here. He rolled his lapel to show his badge, asked, “Where’re your badges?”

  “You see our authority, sir,” the leader said pretentiously. “We are committed Alliance men.”

  “That has no legal standing,” Bapcat said. “Alliance . . . does that mean you’re union men?”

  This garnered a group snort of derision. “We represent citizens fed up with damn unions and their radical socialist leaders.”

  “So you fellas aren’t socialists?”

  This time they didn’t step back, and he said, “Men, I’m not real sure what a radical socialist is, so step out of my path, or you and your attitudes are going to get sliced to ribbons.” He wiggled the bayonet. The men flinched. “One more warnin,’ boys. Step aside.”

  Their postures told him they were fixated on the bayonet and his upper body. He moved his head, and his eyes, slightly left, pausing long enough for the men to react, and then came straight up with the rifle butt under the leader’s chin, crumpling him in place, pivoted, and racked a shell into the chamber. “Lead or steel, boys. Your choice. Me, I like both.”

  The group’s belligerence was replaced by visible fear.

  “All right, hands up and on top of your heads.”

  The three men complied, and he took each of their weapons and put them on the ground. The leader suddenly grabbed at his leg and Bapcat snapped a heavy punch to the man’s temple and he went back down face-first and sighed. He then took the leader’s sidearm.

  “Take the big boy and go,” Bapcat ordered the Alliance men. “I see you again, you’ll be jailed for obstructing a state officer in pursuit of his duty. That’s a felony, men.”

  He thought he’d read this in Tiffany’s, but wasn’t sure where. The men didn’t argue, just scooped up the big man and headed for a side street.

  One of the men yelled back, “You ain’t real law—just a damn game warden.”

  Bapcat made the bayonet flick again. “Game warden with a fang,” he called back. He dumped the loose cartridges into his pack and put the pistols on top.

  •••

  Othar “Old Bill” Shewbart was longtime beaver trapper, a bear-size man with a large square snout, gentle mannerisms, and a soft voice. His wife put up meals that were better than the fanciest places in Houghton or Red Jacket, and at half the price.

  The owner was at the counter, but there were few customers. “Look what done crawled up out of the cedar swamps,” the bearded man greeted him.

  Bapcat looked around. “Business slow, or do you just need a bath?”

  “That’s a worn-out joke. It’s been this w
ay since the strike came in and people hit the road. The strikers got no money to spend on good food.”

  “You know anything about a so-called Alliance, Billy?”

  “It’s just starting up; why?”

  “You belong?”

  “They came and asked, but I told ’em I ain’t the joinin’-up type. Truth is, Lute, lots of people in these parts have had enough of this whole mess.”

  “Who asked you to join?”

  “Some of the other businessmen.”

  “They say who’s behind it?”

  “Everybody, they claim.”

  “That’s where they got money to print buttons—from everybody?”

  “What’re you sayin’, Lute?”

  “Mine operators, not businessmen, that’s my guess.” Bapcat told his friend what had happened, and Shewbart scowled. “What’s their problem with you, Lute?”

  The game warden showed his badge, and Shewbart scowled even deeper. “You got to be crazy to take a job like that in normal times, never mind during a strike. What’s wrong with you?”

  “No beaver,” Bapcat said. “A man has to earn a living.”

  Shewbart still trapped as a sideline. “You know how many beaver licenses been sold in Houghton and Keweenaw counties for this trapping season?”

  Bapcat didn’t know.

  “Two up your way, and only thirty down here,” Shewbart said. “Beavers is disappearing, just like the copper will one day be gone, and then what?”

  “Why the attitude about game wardens, Billy?”

  “What’s out in the woods is ours. This ain’t your damn Europe with kings and potentates. You game wardens all want to take away what’s rightfully ours.”

  “No, Billy, we’re trying to make sure everybody plays fair, and that it will still be there for your kids and grandkids.” Oates and Jones had presented it this way at the Sault meeting, and Bapcat had liked the words, the logic, and the sentiment.