The producers news. [volume] (Plentywood, Mont.) 1918-1937, 1934-10-04
Continued from last week.


clock, it seemed like something was
about to happen. Women seemed
to be pouring into headquarters to
be near their men. You could hear
only lies over the radio. And lies
in the paper. Nobody knew pre-
cisely what was happening, but
everyone thought something would
happen in a few hours. You could
feel the men being poured out of
the hall onto the picket line. Every
few minutes cars left and more
drew up and were filled. The voice
at the loudspeaker was accelerated,
calling for men, calling for picket
cars.
could hear the men talking
about the arbitration board, the
truce that was supposed to be
maintained while the board sat
with the Governor. They listened
to every word over the loudspeak-
er. A terrible communal excite
ment ran through the hall like
fire through a forest. l could
hardly breathe. l seemed to have
no body at all except the body of
this excitement. l felt that what
had happened before had not been
a real movement, these false words
and actions had taken place on the
periphery. The real action was
about to show the real intention.
We kept on pouring thousands
of cups of coffee, feeding thous-
ands of men.
The chef with a woman tatooed
on his arm was just dishing the
last of the stew. II was about two
o'clock. The commissary was about
empty. We went into the front
hall. 1t was drained of men. The
chairs were empty. The voice of
the announcer was excited. "The
men are massed at the market," he
said. Something is going to hap
PEN" 1 sat down beside a woman
who was holding her hands tightly
togeter, leaning forward listening,
her eyes bright and dilated. had
never seen her before. She took
my hands. She pulled me towards
her. She was crying. cts az
full" she said. Something aw-
full is going to happen. They've
taken both my children awya from
me and now something is going
to happen to all those men," I
held her hands. She had a green
ribbon around her hair.
The action seemed reversed. The
cars were coming back. The an
nouncer cried, "This is murder"
Cars were coming in. / don't know
how We got to the stairs. Every
one seemed to be converging at a
menaced point. 1 saw below the
crowd stirring, uncoiling. l saw
them taking men out of cars and
putting them on the hospital cots,
on the floor. At first l felt
frightened, the close black area OF
the barn, the blood, the heavy
movement the sense of myself lost,
gone. But l couldn't have turned
away now. A woman chung to my
hand. I was pressed against the
body of another. If you are to
underst and anything you must un-
derstand it in the muscular event,
in actions we have not been trained
for. Something broke all my sur
faces in something that was be-
vond horror and l was dabbing al
cohol on the gaping wounds that
buckshot makes, hanging open like
CRYING mouths. Buckshot wounds
splay in the body and then swell
like a blow. Ness, who died, hao
SO slugs in his body, in the chest
and in the back.
The picket cars keep coming In.
Some men have walked back from
the market holding thier own blood
in. They move in great explo-
sion, and the newness of the move
ment makes it seem like something
under ether, moving terrifically to-
wards a elimination.
From all over the city workers
are coming. They gather outside
in two great half-circles, cut in
two to let the ambulances in. A
traffic cop is still directing traffic
at the corner and the crowd cam
not stand to see him. "Well give
YOU Just two seconds to beat II"
they tell him. He goes away
quickly. A striker takes over the
street.
Men, women and children are
massing outside, a living circle
close packed for protection. From
the tall office building business
men are looking down on that
black swarm thickening, coagulat-
ing into what action they cannot
tell.
We have living blood on our
skirts.
That night at eight o'clock
mass meeting was called of all la
Dor. It was to be in a parking
lot two blocks from headquarters.
All the women gather at the front
of the building with collection cans
ready to march to the meeting. I
have not been home. It never oc-
ours to me to leave. The twilight
is eerie and the men are saying
that the chief of police is going
to attack the meeting and raid
headquarters. The smell of blood
hangs in the hot, still air. Rum
ors strike at the taut nerves. The
dusk looks CHASTITY with what
might be in the next half hour.