Chapter Nine
Coffee and Donuts

The morning after the power outage, the picketers make their daily 
march to the Columbine Mine. A long line of picketers has formed, 
waiting to join the others at the front gate. Jerry Davis paces 
the line up and down the line. He holds a long stick, carrying a 
dozen dead rabbits. 

"Rabbits, rabbits here!" hollers Davis. "Get yer rabbits, fresh 
from the hills!"

Davis sells half his quarry in under a minute, making a while 
seventy-five cents. The strikers have been eating pinto beans, and 
nothing but, for a solid month now. 

Davis steps to the front of the line, where Spanudakhis is patting 
a striker down. 

"Whaddaya know?" says Davis, "it's the Greek! It looks like you're 
the foreman now, deciding who gets in."

The Greek replies, "Yeah, well foreman says open your coat."

"What are you on about?" says Davis.

"You know what I'm on about," says Spanudakhis. Davis sighs, and 
holds his arms up. Spanudakhis pats Davis down and pulls a long 
billy club from the young man's coat. 

Davis protests, "Aw, come on, Nick!"

"No," says the Greek. "No weapons in the pick line, ever."

"How do you think I got those rabbits?" asks Davis. "With my foul 
mouth? Look, I forgot, okay?"

"Not okay," says Spanudakhis. "If them Rangers think we're 
bringing weapons in, they'll come after us. Old Adam Bell says we 
have to be the better men. Or boys, in your case."

Davis smiles and continues down the line. "You're asking for it 
now, ya dumb Greek!"

Eastenes walks over to Spanudakhis, who hands over the club and a 
rabbit. "Put the club on the truck back to Frederick, the Rookie 
can pick it up there."

Eastenes tosses the club into a nearby truck bed. He looks at the 
rabbits, they're almost as skinny as the men.

"Rabbits for three days now, Nick," says Eastenes. "Think we'll 
get sick of 'em?"

The Greek holds his rabbit up and looks into its dead eyes. "I 
think we're going to find out, one way or another."

Over in the crowd of picketers, Beranek stands in a circle with 
the other women. The wives, and a few daughters, have been front 
and center at these pickets, maybe even more than the miners. When 
a miner is underpaid for his work, and driven to spend it all at a 
speakeasy, it was as much an injustice on his wife and his 
children. In the Long Strike, it was old Mother Jones who led the 
women of Trinidad against a charge of cavalry militiamen. It was 
Mary Miller, mother and banker in equal parts, who lent money to 
miners in their time of need. It was wives and little ones who 
paid the mortal price at Ludlow, when fires swept over the tent 
colony. 

The women at the picket have discussed the usual daily necessities 
of blankets, which charity organizations to petition with letters. 
Their conversation now turns to that strange and indispensable 
alchemy known to women, by which armies are sustained, men fall in 
love, and the great cities of the world earn their reputations. In 
America, they call it "cooking", and in a strike, when food is 
scarce, cooking is everything. 

Beranek finishes jotting a list in her journal. "Okay, that's nine 
more ways to cook pinto beans."

Mary Ortega laughs. "If my kids have pinto beans one more night, 
they will turn into a pinto."

"I'll tell you what," says Beranek, "one more good idea before we 
leave. Two extra bags of pinto to the best one!"

Bertha's hand shoots up. "Oh! How about a little Polish sausage?"

"We're running low on meat," says Beranek, "unless it's 
jackrabbit."

"We found a little Polish sausage in the cellar last night," says 
Bertha.

"*Si*," says Mary, "and what if I added a little bit of chili 
pepper and tomato? That's a real meal right there!"

Beranek rubs her chin. "Polish chili? At this point I'll try 
anything you put in front of me." She tosses one bag of raw pinto 
each to Bertha and Mary. "Have it ready by tomorrow morning!"

John Ortega catches Mary with a kiss on the cheek as he passes by 
with a large ledger book. "Let's see..." he says to Jacques, 
"that's five old coats for the Simpson Mine camp, some kerosene 
from the Monarch in Louisville, *gracias, SeÑor Jacques*..."

"*Pas de quoi, Monsieur Ortega*," says Jacques. 

The boxer sees Adam Bell run up to the front gates, panting. 

"Everyone, listen!" yells Bell.

"*¡Escucha!*" yells Ortega. The picketers fall silent. 

"I just got a telegram from Walsenburg," says Bell. "This is it, 
comrades!"

Murmurs in the crowd. "What's it?" asks Davis.

Bell is downright elated. "Every coal mine in Colorado has shut 
down, except for this one right here!"

The crowd explodes into cheers.

As Bell addresses the crowd, he ignores the heavy Model T pulling 
up full of uniformed men. "Brothers and sisters, comrades and 
friends! I've picketed all across this nation. I've been beaten 
and left on the edge of town more times than I care to recall, but 
this, this, my friends, is the closest we've ever come. This time, 
they're going to listen to us."

"Bravo!" says a voice from the back, "Hear, hear!"

Bell and the others turn to see Captain Scherf approach from the 
truck. He's dressed head-to-toe in full Ranger uniform. The rough-
and-ready cowboy getup of the Prohibition Task Force has been 
replaced by polished brass stars and boots that shine like 
mirrors. The other Rangers fall in behind Scherf. 

The door of the Foreman's office opens, and Sheriff Robinson 
emerges. He fixes his hat and pulls his trousers straight. 

Scherf extends a hand to Bell. "I'm Captain Louis Scherf. Don't 
mind us, we're just keeping the peace. 

Bell regards the Captain coolly. He asks, "And how do you plain on 
keeping the peace, Captain?"

Scherf grins. "Why the best way I know how: coffee and donuts!"

Bell watches the Rangers carry out a long table from the Foreman's 
office to the mine gate. It's topped with a platter of donuts and 
a cauldron-sized coffee pot. A crowd of picketers encircles Scherf 
and his table. Scherf cups his hands around his mouth, yelling 
"Coffee! Coffee and donuts, courtesy of your new company 
president!"

Eastenes approaches, hands on his daughter Dorothy's shoulders. 
"New president, who's that?"

Scherf ladles some coffee from the pot into a mug and hands it to 
a picketer. "The Rocky Mountain Fuel Company is under new 
management. A certain Miss Josephine Roche has inherited the 
Columbine Mine from her father. She has instructed us to make 
clear that we mean you no harm. We are to offer food and drink, so 
long as you keep to your side of the gate."

Scherf looks around at the wary faces eyeing the donuts. "What, 
you think they're poisoned?" snaps Scherf. He grabs a donut and 
stuffs it into his mouth. "*Shee, ish delishish!*" The strikers 
come forward, and the high donuts pyramid is picked away by hungry 
hands. 

Everything about Scherf rubs Ortega the wrong way. He's wondered 
about these Rangers that Bell speaks of in strained whispers, who 
have so far stayed hidden in the Foreman's office. He doesn't like 
Scherf's attempts to make nice. Down in the boxing rings of 
Pueblo, it was always the boxer who talked about a "good, clean 
fight" that seemed to be itching to piss on your grave.

Ortega hears the puff of a diesel engine, and sees a truck making 
its way up the hill. "Ah!" says Scherf, "new shipments!"

The truck pulls into the gate and parks. The driver steps out and 
opens the back door of the truck. For the first time in thirteen 
years, Ortega feels physically sick. The men shambling out of the 
truck share Ortega's brown skin, but their eyes are lifeless, 
cheeks hollowed from hunger, clothing in rags. 

Scherf pats Ortega on the shoulder. "Someone has to mine the coal, 
buddy. These fine gentlemen from--" Scherf looks down down at some 
papers, "--*Coo-ah-hoo-ee-la-day-zara-goza*, down in grand old 
*Mee-hee-ko*, were more than happy to take the jobs you and your 
'comrades' just threw away."

"You truck these men up here to work under the barrel of a gun!" 
says Ortega. He points to the machine gun now mounted atop the 
mine tipple.

Scherf laughs. "That's for their protection. We can't have you 
interfering with business."

"No," seethes Ortega, "it's to keep them your slaves, since *we* 
refused to be slaves any longer!"

Bell smiles as the crowd cheers Ortega on. *And that's how a 
Wobbly is born*, he thinks. 

Scherf's eyes narrow on Ortega, and for a moment the boxer thinks 
the Captain will lose his cool. "Easy there, friend, this is the 
Rangers. Our forebears in the Civil War kept the Confederates out 
of Colorado when they hungered for our gold mines. Shoot, we 
probably won the whole war at Glorietta Pass."

Ortega nods. "*Si*, and then Colonel Chivington took his men down 
to Sand Creek and butchered the Indians."

"You're quite the historian, huh?" exclaims Scherf. "I don't think 
I got your name."

"Careful, Captain," says another Ranger. "That's Johnny Kid Mex. 
He was a prizefighter down in Pueblo. I've seen him lay a few guys 
flat in the ring."

Scherf leans back and smirks. "I see. The Wobblies got a celebrity 
endorsement. I like it."

"I'm no celebrity, Captain," says Ortega. 

Eastenes steps forward and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with 
Ortega. "Kid Mex is my friend, Ranger. He's just a man like me, 
trying to make things right for his family."

"Like all of us," says Ortega.

Scherf keeps on smiling. He signals his men and they head for the 
office. "All the same," he says, "get the coffee while it's hot."

*   *   *

Meanwhile, at the state capitol in Denver, Governor Billy Adams 
drops the latest issue of the *Boulder Daily Camera* on his desk. 
Editor-in-chief Lucius C. Paddock has been using his newspaper to 
rail against the strike all week. Adams scans the editorial 
section. Paddock has a message for him:

*"Machine guns are the best answer to picketers,"* writes Paddock. 
*"When posted at the Columbine, willing workers go to work while 
picketers slink back. Machine guns manned by willing shooters are 
wanted at other Colorado mines, Governor Adams."*

Adams slaps the paper. *Just what I need,* thinks Adams, *Paddock 
throwing more chum into the water, starting a feeding frenzy!*

He collapses into his chair. Now he understands why every American 
president seems to undergo premature aging. He was merely a 
Governor, but in his years in politics, he'd had to commission a 
new college in his hometown, put down the Klan, and oversee 
construction of the longest train tunnel in the world. Now, the 
state faced a crisis which made all others pale in comparison. He 
rubs his temples, longing for the days when his hardest choice was 
which cowboy hat to wear.

*   *   *

Back at the Columbine Mine, Sheriff Robinson peers out through the 
shutters of the Foreman's office at the picketers. The coffee and 
donuts are almost gone. Scherf sits with his feet on a card table, 
playing poker with his men.

Scherf isn't sure who's ordering these strike-breakers in from 
Mexico. They do indeed appear to have been Shanghaied, or bought 
wholesale from a chain-gang labor camp. They might have been sent 
from the Columbine's competitor, CF&I. They might have been sent 
by the Governor's office. Or a rogue board member at the Rocky 
Mountain Fuel Company. It wasn't this new Josephine Roche lady, he 
knew that much. He wasn't paid to ask those sorts of questions. 

Even so, Scherf can appreciate the thought process. If the coal 
companies could keep a single mine open (not counting his old boss 
Hamrock's failed attempt with the inmates at CaÑon City), then 
they could still say the strike was a failure. The Wobblies 
couldn't close all the mines.

Furthermore, the Columbine Mine held a strategic position. The 
strike had taken CF&I by surprise down south. In the north, mines 
had real towns nearby to sustain a strike. The Columbine was the 
only company town in the Northern Coal-Field. It was fenced-off 
and miles from the nearest town. They could keep picketers out, 
and strike-breakers locked in. Not that those poor Mexicans had a 
prayer if they tried running...

Sheriff Robinson steps away from the window. "Captain Scherf, may 
we have a word?" 

Scherf doesn't look up from his poker game. "It's a free country."

Robinson pulls up his trousers again. "I don't know about you, but 
Weld County didn't elect me to hand out coffee and donuts to 
picketers. We should be out there arresting them!"

Scherf drops two cards from his deck, and is dealt two more. His 
pair of one-eyed jacks become a three-of-a-kind. "Sheriff, you 
might not know it yet, but were are on the cusp of victory."

"Coffee is victory?" asks Robinson.

Scherf wins the hands and collects his winnings. "Rangers, pay 
attention. You too, Sheriff. The best way to win a battle, men, is 
to make the enemy *think* they've won. I've known women like 
Josephine Roche before. Lily-livered progressives. Every mine 
owner's daughter is like that, I swear to God. If she wants her 
former employees to have their coffee, let 'em. They think the 
Rocky Mountain Fuel Company is on the verge of caving to their 
demands. With victory in sight, they'll let their guard down. At 
that moment, we'll spring our trap."

Robinson lets out a weak laugh. "Uh, and what trap is that, 
Captain?"

Five minutes later, Scherf, the Rangers, and a white-faced 
Robinson exit the office. Scherf sees a young girl eating the last 
donut. 

"Got you fill yet?" Scherf asks her. 

"Thank you, sir!" says Dorothy.

"You can thank the new mine owner," says Scherf. "She's a 
kindhearted woman." Scherf turns back to his men and mutters, 
"We'll see where that gets her in the coal business."

Dorothy looks down, blushes, and pulls another donut from her 
dress pocket. "May I take this one home to my brothers?"

Scherf chuckles and kneels down to Dorothy. "I don't see why not." 
He takes off his Ranger hat and sets it on Dorothy's head. She 
skips away.

Scherf stands up again and turns to Ortega. "So, Johnny Kid Mex. 
You know, I used to do some boxing back in Officer's training. 
Maybe we can go a few rounds sometime, a friendly exhibition 
match." He raises his fists in a boxing stance for Ortega.

Ortega finishes his coffee and sets the mug on the table. "A 
pleasure meeting you, Captain." Ortega leaves.

Bell is observing the exchange when he feels a hand sink into his 
shoulder. He turns around to see a sweating Sheriff Robinson. 

"You got me, Sheriff," says Bell. He raises his hands in mock 
surrender, and people turn to watch. "Hook me and book me."

"No, never mind that!" says Robinson in a low voice. "Listen to 
me: stay out of here for a while."

Bell shakes his head. "Sheriff, to quote a most beautiful and 
smart young lady, 'I'm an American, and I'm not going anywhere.'"

The surrounding picketers applaud. Robinson's eyes dot over to 
Scherf; the Ranger doesn't appear to be watching. The Sheriff 
wipes beads of sweat from his forehead. 

"You don't understand," says Robinson, "*It's not your day, see?* 
Don't come around here again. I'll be forced to arrest you again. 
This time, I'll... I'll drop you off in North Dakota!"

Bell puts an arm around Robinson. "Sheriff, we were just planning 
a parade up north to Erie. I think you should be our guest of 
honor."

The crowd approves. They push the Sheriff toward the motorcade, 
covering him with garlands and union accessories. The motorcade 
drives off towards Erie, ignoring the Sheriff's pleas to stay away 
from the Columbine.