9 
“OH, HELL, MORGIE, IT’S BEEN tried before,” Armbrister objected, shrugging like someone tired to death of the litany. “It’d be like shooting at the moon, trying to hit Anaconda with that. Every damn time the issue gets brought up, the votes are never there in Ulcer Gulch, am I right, Jared?”
“But what if—” I spun out my idea at greater length, my pair of listeners leaning to take it in even though we were in the quiet confines of the editor’s office, away from the newsroom’s racket of phones going off and typewriters accelerating toward deadline. With a train to catch, Jared kept checking his watch; Ulcer Gulch waits for no man, his expression said. But he heard me out to the final word before saying, “That’s a brainstorm if there ever was one, Professor. It’s a long shot, but maybe worth a try. Jake, what do you think?”
The glum editor still did not think much of it. “I still say we’d only be whistling Beulah, same old tune that never gets anywhere. You can dig up whatever you want on Anaconda, and they just throw it back at you and buy off enough politicians, excuse my language, Jared, until the matter goes away again.”
“But there’s digging, and then there’s digging,” I invoked what must be a Butte truism. “All we need is to hit just this little bit of, mmm, paydirt”—what on earth would we do without analogies?—“and then we can refine things.”
“Sounds to me like a show of color,” Jared decided with a miner’s phrase beyond any I could have come up with. “I’ll see what I can find out in the capitol.” Putting on his overcoat and heading out the door, he called over his shoulder: “You do the homework at this end, Professor, and we’ll figure out what it adds up to. Good hunting.”
• • •
Jared reported back after his legislative week, this time with Rab at his side practically purring with intrigue.
“Sure enough, one of my colleagues”—the political life was drawing him in enough that he no longer said that with any irony—“knew how to get the dirt. He’s Williamson’s man in the Senate, actually. Likes to joke that he’s the cow herder of the place. He checked with Williamson, and from the sound of it, what we’re after took some asking around in the major’s old Harvard crowd back east, but somebody knew somebody else who knew to the decimal point how much Anaconda has been raking in. You can see why they hide the figure.”
Armbrister and I waited with shrinking patience while, unconsciously or not, Jared tugged at his short ear as though the profit had come out of miners’ hides, looked at Rab for the courage needed after what he was about to say, and finally said it. “Last year, it was twenty million dollars.”
“Imagine,” Rab murmured, although none of us could really picture a fortune of that size—even Henry Ford, industriously spewing out Model Ts every minute on his famous assembly line, was probably a pauper compared to that—accruing in the copper company coffers like clockwork.
Dazzled as we all were, Jared wasted no time prompting me. “Your turn. What did you come up with at the assessor’s office?”
What Grace came up with, actually. Carrying off this part of my scheme like a trouper, she drew no particular attention at it, merely a boardinghouse owner—better yet, a widow, as she still was on the county’s assessment and tax records—come to see if there was not some horrible mistake about the tax bill on her humble property. And when directed to the ledgers to see for herself, naturally such a person would timidly open those from the very front, where it could hardly be her fault that the alphabet delivered the A’s.
“The Anaconda Copper Mining Company last year paid taxes in the grand sum of”—I could not resist a slight dramatic pause—“thirteen thousand, three hundred forty-six dollars.”
“The pikers,” Rab did the arithmetic with a schoolteacher’s rapidity.
“Jumping Jesus!” Armbrister’s eyes suddenly were alight beneath the green eyeshade. “That’s peanuts! It’s only, only—Morgie?”
“Seven ten-thousandths of one percent, rounded off.”
Jared banged a fist into his palm, the sound like a shot. “In other words, the Hill is assessed like it’s a pile of worthless rocks while it pours out tons of money to Anaconda. And the company gets away with taxes the size of a gnat’s eyelash.”
“Excellent analogy,” I filed the phrase away for a forthcoming editorial. “And well done in your reconnaissance, Senator.”
“You too, Professor. We’ve got the numbers, but it’s still only half the battle.” He gave me the mock command, although with our fate and the Thunder’s behind it. “Rally the troops.”
• • •
“Oh, boy, Morrie, I dunno about this. What do you say, Hoop?”
“Be a big step.”
“Righto.”
“Real big.”
“All that is involved is for the pair of you to become the owners of record,” I patiently laid out the idea again.
“That’s all, huh? Sounds like plenty.”
“As I’ve said, it would only be temporary. Just while Jared and I are at this.”
“Except you want to tell everybody in Montana about it.”
“Well, yes, more or less.”
That did nothing to erase so much as a single wrinkle of concern from the two old bald heads. Griff looked at Hoop, and Hoop at Griff, then both together at Grace, listening with her arms crossed determinedly. “Up to you, Mrs. Morgan. It’s your piece of property. We’ll do what Morrie wants if you say so, but—”
There was a catch in her voice, but she said it. “Whatever it takes. The boardinghouse is yours.”
• • •
I always want my battles in life to be bloodless. In the periodic tricky situations that somehow find me, and I them, so far I had managed that, although with some escapes narrower than was comfortable. Never far from my mind was my margin of safety from the Chicago gambling mob, but the more immediate concern was the behavior of the Anaconda Copper Mining Company. Believe me when I say I’d had enough of window men and goons during my previous spell in Butte. Since then, people had been gunned down in broad daylight on the Hill for the temerity of challenging the mighty corporation. And there was the murky set of circumstances that cost cocky Quinlan his life. Yet even while conscious that newsprint was no more bulletproof than my own flesh, I did feel shielded by the Thunder and its ability to make a noise in the world; that and Jared’s steely political presence. So, while Voltaire was never more trenchant than when he said God always sides with the big battalions, numbers of another sort might be deployed for a certain kind of stealthy victory in this different kind of battle, something told me. Handled right, arithmetic can be quite a weapon. For if my brainstorm worked, we might suddenly have a majority of the state of Montana on our side.
• • •
The heady buzz in the newsroom could be felt, like the thick hum of bees in clover, when it became known that Jared, Armbrister, and I were about to launch a new editorial campaign against the masters of the copper collar. Jared stationed himself in Helena to contend with reaction in the legislative halls, while the other two of us huddled, I suppose, like conspirators, guarding the first of our surprises until it was safely set into type.
“You need to be ready for the Post to kick and scream,” Armbrister warned, veteran of many arrows in his own journalistic hide. “The SOBs.”
“I know.”
“They’ll call Pluvius every name in the book and make the same old argument Anaconda always does. It’s probably in overset, they dust it off and run it at the slightest hint of something like this. The bastards.”
“I know, I know.”
“Fire away, then.” Leaving me alone with my typewriter, the editor raised his voice to the watching staff, “Let’s crack our knuckles and get to work, folks. We’re not going to make history by running blank pages in the rest of the damn paper.”
As the regular newsroom commotion resumed, my fingers found the typewriter keys, old friends of the mind. And down the coarse strife-scarred streets of Butte, above the dark honeycomb of mineshafts beneath the copper-ruled city, from an all-wise portrait above the Reading Room door came the unabashed inspiration that lends words lasting power: “Devise, wit! Write, pen!”
I typed like a man possessed. If Shakespeare was not enough, Cavaretta passed by with his account of the latest bone-crushing accident in the depths of the Hill, telling me savagely, “Go get them, Morgie.”
When I handed in the editorial, deadline looming, Armbrister read it through without putting a pencil to it. “That ought to do the job. We’ll give it a screamer,” by which he meant an inch-high headline, in newspapering terms an absolute shout for readers’ attention.
Plight of Property Owners. All Except One.
A taxing situation exists within the boundaries of the Treasure State, in more ways than one. It is as indelible as a seemingly innocent line from the Bible: Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests. Let us suppose you own a modest house nestled on no more space than it needs, and your neighbor owns a gigantic business atop the most bountiful hill in the world. Good citizen that you are, you pay full taxes on your property, while what does that neighbor pay? The answer, alas, does not hew to biblical justice of any kind:
Next to nothing.
The hole in the taxation system that the foxes of the Anaconda Copper Mining Company have added to their vast den of mines has let them hide the pittance they pay, compared to the fortune they earn.
Then came the magic numbers, adding up to the fact that in the course of a mining year, it took a mere six hours—or as Armbrister gleefully had it set it in boldface, six hours—of Anaconda’s profits to cover its property tax bill.
• • •
Reaction at the Post, and no doubt at certain desks high in the Hennessy Building, was a predictable tantrum. Scriptoris squealed in print at the word t-a-x and pulled out the old argument Jared and Armbrister groaned over in unison, that it was only to be expected that domiciles which otherwise put no product into the world should pay on a different basis than productive property which already contributed to community prosperity, and furthermore any penny wrongly wrung out of the Anaconda Company would take away from wages for the workingman, et cetera. That, and calling me, in my Pluvius persona, a hysterical jackass.
“Ouch, Morrie,” Grace said as the Post screed got passed around the supper table. “It makes it sound as if I’m married to someone who has taken leave of his senses.”
“Never fear, that’s merely what we expected. The stars are now aligned for our next phase of the battle. That’s if”—I swept a look past Sandison, who was chewing an antelope cutlet and keeping his own counsel, to Hoop and Griff—“our two secret weapons are willing and able.”
Their forks paused in midair, the pair looked at each other for a long moment before saying anything. “It’s like Rudy says,” said the one, “you got to chuck it in the laundry and see what comes out in the wash.” It took me a moment to identify Kipling as translated by Griff, but no time at all to take to heart what Hoop then uttered. “Ready as I’ll ever be, this side of the grave.”