Chapter Twelve
No Place That Far

"Bang! Bang! I got you, Wobbly!"

Ortega watches the two boys run around him in the Union Hall, 
their fingers held like guns.

"Take that, company man!" says the other boy. "Bang! Bang!"

They fling the front door open and run out into the street. 
Beranek is standing on the Union Hall doorstep, her hand frozen in 
a knocking pose. She was hoping she wouldn't find Ortega here 
again, working with ledger in hang, as he has been for the past 
three days. Thanksgiving has come at last.

Beranek's face is bruised and bandaged. Her eyes are distant. Like 
Ortega, the shock and agony of that morning three days ago has 
been cast into her like concrete. Even here on Simpson Street, 
with the Thanksgiving feast imminent, she still feels like she's 
back inside the Columbine gate. She can still feel how her ears 
rang from the gunfire. She remembers looking up to see Davis 
sprawled out on the road in a pool of blood. Life had entered a 
suspended state, and every moment was a reliving of of that 
horror.

Ortega drops his pencil onto the ledger. "Mrs. Beranek," says 
Ortega.

"How are you doing?" Beranek asks.

"Mary and *mis hijos* are okay. Mrs. Lewis at the boarding house 
is looking after them now. They'll be safe there. And no whooping 
cough."

Beranek feigns a smile. "The coroner has his report," she says."

Ortega nods. He's seen the report, too.

Eastenes is dead, so are Spanudakhis and Jacques. Davis died on 
the way to the hospital, along with two more men. Dozens had been 
injured, men and women alike, but no children had been hurt. 
Beranek didn't know what happened to Bell; the Sheriff described 
Bell's condition as "missing."

"So Mike Vidovitch didn't make it," says Ortega. "Jacques used to 
talk about him. Six dead. Just makes things more complicated."

"Complicated?" says Beranek. 

Ortega looks down at his ledger. "I just can't organize it all 
neat. We needed an Orthodox funeral for Nick, a Catholic funeral 
in Louisville for Jacques, and now Vidovitch in Erie... 
*complicado*, we'll need a military funeral for him. Did you know 
he fought in the Great War?"

"I think I had heard that," says Beranek. Everyone in town was 
like this now, trying to drown themselves in busy work, rambling 
on to avoid being alone with their thoughts.

Beranek comes up to Ortega and closes the ledger for him. "I can 
come by later to help plan," she says. "Good Lord, Bertha has six 
kids! They'll need help with food. I think Mrs. Lewis said her 
husband still has some credits over at the Hayward Mine. Maybe I 
can send him over for supplies." Beranek heads for the door and 
makes her way up Simpson Street.

Ortega sets his ledger aside and reaches into a box on his desk. 
He pulls out a length of crumpled cloth. Ortega unfolds the cloth, 
staring at Davis' American flag, shot full of holes and stained 
with blood.

A day's journey to the south, Flaming Mamie sits in her jail cell. 
A guard comes up, dangling a set of keys. 

"This being a holiday and all," says the guard, "any chance we can 
release you early, so we can get home for dinner? The judge says 
all he needs from you is an apology."

Flaming Mamie turns away from the guard, lying back on the cell's 
wooden bench. "I have nothing to apologize for," says Mamie. 
"There's still work to be done."

Back up north in Weld County, the cell door slides open, and a 
train ticket falls into Adam Bell's lap. Sheriff Robinson stands 
at the open door.

"This ticket's on me, Adam," says the Sheriff. "Tell anybody and 
I'll deny it."

Bell picks up the ticket and stands up from his cot. His bruised 
ribs leave him short of breath. He makes his way out of the cell.

"You're a drifter and a troublemaker," says the Sheriff. "Maybe 
someday, Adam, you can drift yourself somewhere far from police 
and picket lines."

Bell laughs, and his bruised ribs punish him for it. "A place 
without police or picket lines?" he asks. "A place without 
tenement rows, a place without Rangers and their iron heels? 
There's no place that far, Sheriff. I think I'll find my way to 
those places as long as there's breath in my body." 

At the state capitol in Denver, Governor Billy Adams is delivering 
a radio address from his office. Jesse Welborn look on from a 
corner of the room.

The Governor recites his prepared statement, "My reports show 
conclusively that the strikers were to blame for Monday's affair. 
Captain Scherf exercised great patience, and wonderful courage, 
doing everything possible to avoid bloodshed."

Welborn checks his watch, straightens his suit, and heads for the 
door. He can't keep his family waiting for Thanksgiving dinner.

With the radio address finished, the newspaper reporters leave the 
office. The Governor's secretary closes the door behind her. Adams 
leans back in his chair, pulls his cowboy off the coat rack, and 
drops it over his face. A month later, Adams will announce his 
retirement from public office.

Elsewhere in Denver, Louis Scherf stands outside of a club, 
listening to the commotion inside. He pulls a flask out of his 
jacket and takes a long drink. He takes a deep breath before 
opening the door, pretending to be surprised at the celebration in 
his honor. The other Rangers invite him inside to sample a new 
beer keg, confiscated from Central City.

Ortega sets the bloodstained flag back in its box and pushes it 
aside. He dries his eyes, and starts preparing Union Hall for the 
Thanksgiving feast.