DOC MOO WATCHED THE coffins being carried across the green slate of the Tug Fork like the trophies of ants. Their sleek forms bobbed along the wood-and-wire footbridge on the bearers’ shoulders as summer rain slanted feathery through the valley, pattering through the leaves and dimpling the surface of the river. The streets of Matewan were muddied, slogged and churned with the throng of two thousand mourners who trailed the caskets across the sagging belly of the bridge and climbed toward the graveyard on the far shore, the stones set on a steep green slope on the Kentucky side. A silent column of grievers, dead-eyed as they passed the militia patrols, their faces drawn down hard as masks. Their breath blew through their teeth as they climbed the steep hill to the cemetery.
They’d seen their darling, Smilin’ Sid, made to frown inside a white casket, his hands crossed over his chest. Two-Gun Sid, hero of the mining man, shot three times in the heart on the steps of the most public building in all the land, in broad daylight, while his killers walked free. Known members of the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency, who hadn’t even worn masks.
Some of the mourners were adorned in the regalia of fraternal orders, their stoles or sashes emblazoned with mysterious insignia. Others wore what they had, black suits or overalls or their uniforms from the war. Most of the women were dressed in black, frowning trap-jawed over stiff collars, gripping their umbrellas with white knuckles. Doc Moo saw the vigilance men and troopers staring open-mouthed at these grim furies, as if they were in the presence of something holy or wicked. More than one of them took a step back, perhaps fearing one of the women might spear her umbrella through his eye.
What they did not see, he knew, were the men hidden in the hills around them. Men like Big Frank and his comrades, unable to show their faces to the authorities, who crouched in thickets and slicks, rifles in hand. Men who would risk prison to see their man honored. They were up there, Doc knew, rain streaming down their faces.
The eulogist was Senator Montgomery. A man, many said, who would’ve been governor if his votes hadn’t all gone floating down the Tug, cast out of ballot boxes by Baldwins and bribed officials. He spread his arms wide against the gray sky, his shoulders sodden, his hair slicked jagged across his forehead. His eyes smoldered in his heavy face.
“We have gathered here today to perform the last sad rites for these two boys who fell victims to one of the most contemptible systems that has ever been known to exist in the history of the so-called civilized world. Deliberately shot down, murdered in cold blood, while entering a place that should have been a temple of justice. And by whom? Men who are taking their orders from coal operators who live in Cincinnati, Chicago, New York City, and Boston. Sleek, dignified, churchgoing gentlemen, who would rather pay fabulous sums to their hired gunmen to kill and slay men for joining a union than to pay like or less amounts to the men who delve into the subterranean depths of the earth and produce their wealth for them.”
Amen.
“There can be no peace in West Virginia until the enforcement of the laws is removed from the hands of private detective agencies and deputy sheriffs who are paid, not by the state, but by the great corporations, most of them owned by non-residents who have no interest in West Virginia’s tomorrow.”
Amen.
He looked out across the two thousand mourners, the rain beating down on their shoulders, riffling the surface of the river. Few umbrellas before him. Few hats. The people stood bareheaded, the rain running down their faces.
“Is it any wonder that even the heavens weep?”