Chapter Five
The Prohibition Task Force

In the heart of the Arkansas River Valley of Southern Colorado, a 
lonely piano tune carries through the streets of Walsenburg. It's 
coming through the doorjamb of the Walsenburg union hall, the door 
dangling crosswise from a broken hinge. Men and women outside turn 
away as they pass the hall. When the passersby hear laughter from 
within the hall, they hurry across the street. The piano is wonky 
and out of tune; it's been that was since the union hall was 
raided last week. The men now inside had thrown a Wobbly headfirst 
into the piano keys.

A man is pouring whiskey into a row of shot glasses along the 
round meeting table. He picks the dribbling glasses up, two in 
each hand, and passes them around. Square-jawed, with the rugged 
adventurer look of Charles Lindbergh, Captain Louis Scherf clears 
his throat.

"A toast, men. The city of Walsenburg sleeps safe again tonight. 
Raise a glass, grab a gun, we've got the Wobblies on the run!"

No more proof of that was needed than the union hall itself: 
papers strewn across the floor, the cash box laid bare, and every 
chair now occupied by one of Scherf's men reduced to matchsticks. 

"How many Wobblies in the hospital this time, Captain?" asks a 
voice from the corner.

Scherf smirks. "Let's just say the local red rabble won't be 
marching anywhere soon. Not with Flaming Mamie, at least."

A man straightens himself off the wall, holding a raw t-bone steak 
to his face. "Crazy little bitch," he says. "Put up one hell of a 
fight."

Scherf pours himself another shot. "Law and order is making a 
comeback, men, and just in time for Thanksgiving. This year, I'll 
bake my turkey over the glowing cinders of the Wobbly 
headquarters."

The phone on the wall rings. Scherf stumbles over. He drains the 
shot glass in one fiery gulp, and picks up the receiver.

"Prohibition Task Force, Captain Scherf speaking..."

The men in the room, all former Rangers, lean forward to listen.

"We're on our way, sir," says Scherf, "thank you." He hangs up the 
phone and turns to his underlings. 

"New orders, men. We're headed for some coal outfit called the 
Columbine."

The men leap to their feet, but the head rush from the liquor 
almost forces them back down again. "Which way, Captain?" one 
asks. 

"North," bellows Scherf, "but not as the Prohibition Task Force. 
The Rangers have been called back into action!"

The men scramble through the room, collecting pistols, bayonets, 
and shotguns. Scherf walks through the hall, hands behind his 
back, admiring the hustle of his men. Busting Wobblies for booze 
hidden in the floorboards was child's play. Now the Rangers were 
back, bringing the hammer down on six cartridges of justice. 

"All eyes look to the Northern Coal Field for swift resolution," 
says Scherf. "At the Columbine, we'll end this strike once and for 
all!"

The Rangers cheer, and one sits down at the piano bench again. His 
fingers find their way through a rendering of the Colorado state 
song, *Where the Columbines Grow*. They are still singing it as 
they exit the union hall, and begin their long ride up the 
Overland Trail...

  *The bison has gone from the upland,*
  *The deer from the canyon has fled,*
  *The home of the wolf is deserted,*
  *The antelope mourns for his dead.*
  *The war-whoop re-echoes no longer,*
  *The Indian's only a name,*
  *And the nymphs of the grove in their loneliness rove,*
  *But the Columbine blooms just the same.*