The Winchester snapped to the coal miner's shoulder. Smoke and flame belched, sending immigrant strike breakers scrambling back into their dark haven. The report flashed past the mine office, disturbing its patina of dust.

MacDowell smudged blackened sweat from his brow and snatched up the phone.

“Herrin operator.”

“For the love of God, send Sheriff Thaxton up here.” Mac didn’t need to say where. Everyone in Williamson County knew. “They're slaughtering-”

Fury reddened his face. “Morning?”

Chet flinched as the receiver banged down. “Thaxton don’t care, Mac. Heck, even the National Guard turned its back. We’re scabs.”

Mac spied the dark outlines of former friends lurking in the forest. “Yeah, and Mister Lester cowers up in Chicago, issuing high sounding proclamations and pissing away the quarter million he screwed us for. I told that sumbitch strike breaking was suicide.”

Chet winced. “One of them Polish fellers just took a ball in the brisket.”

A young man writhed in agony near an empty train car. Rifle fire shattered the air.

Stillness followed.

Mac looked away. “Welcome to Illinois. Make good money mining black diamonds.”

Chet sighed, hopeful; fearful. “Tomorrow.”

“Maybe for Thaxton, my friend. Not us.”

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