“We are less concerned with autocracy that is
abroad and remote than that which is immediate,
imminent, and at home.”
—Socialist Bruce Rogers, 1917
Old Nick hadn’t had such a good time since the miners’ strike in Arizona. He took up a place across the road from the Masonic Hall, in the shadow of a large tree, where he could get a good view of the brawl and of the crowd running for their lives. For a long time he watched with interest as the bearded traveler who had brought him to Boynton in the first place stood behind the building talking to a man and a woman whom Nick didn’t know. Eventually the traveler made his way toward the field where the wagons were parked, alone.
There had been so much interesting activity in town over the past week that Nick had almost forgotten about the traveler, a true believer whose single-minded dedication to his cause promised so much in the way of trouble and strife. Nick slipped out of the shadows to follow the man as he walked toward the two who had started the trouble in the hall.
Nick sidled up in the shadows, unnoticed, just close enough to overhear what the men were talking about. Plans were afoot, which made Nick happy.
Nick headed back across the road, but he was distracted by a solitary figure walking quickly away from the hall and toward town. A stink of fear and the heat of determination emanated from the figure, and Nick turned in his tracks to follow.
He waited until the object of his interest was well away from the hall and walking alone down a residential street before he approached from behind. The person heard footsteps and halted in the middle of the road, but didn’t turn around.
Nick leaned in, close enough to whisper in an ear. “I know what you want,” he said.
The figure stiffened, but said nothing.
Nick paused long enough to be sure his mark would not run away. “Give me a name,” he whispered, “and I will take care of it.”
***
It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Isaiah Kirby, editor of the Boynton Index, received the wire from Muskogee with the complete list of draft numbers drawn for the county. Kirby folded the list, put it in his breast pocket, donned his hat, and locked the door to the newspaper office before making his way at a trot toward the Masonic hall.
He expected to be greeted by a waiting crowd, but he slowed to a walk when he got close enough to see that the hall was dark. He stopped in the middle of the road, trying to figure out what had happened, until he saw a lanky figure holding a kerosene lantern come around the corner.
“Trent,” he called. “What in the world is going on?”
“Mr. Kirby! I’ll be danged. In all the excitement I plumb forgot what everybody was here for in the first place.” He ambled over. “Sorry we didn’t send somebody over to the paper so’s to save you the trip. The Liberty Sing didn’t go well. The pro-drafters and the anti-drafters butted heads and we had us a regular riot. Scott busted up the proceedings and sent everybody home. I reckon you’ll just have to print the list in the paper tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ll be!” Kirby was annoyed that he had wasted the evening waiting for a list of draft numbers when he could have been covering a riot. He pulled out the little notebook that he carried everywhere. “Tell me what happened.”
Trent held the lantern high. “You got the list of draft numbers with you?”
A knowing look crossed Kirby’s face as he patted his breast pocket. “I do. I reckon you registered, didn’t you?”
“How about if you let me have a peek? Then I’ll give you a story that’ll knock your readers on their butts.”
Kirby reached into his pocket. “Son, I’d appreciate if you would, but you can look to see if your number came up for nothing.”
***
When Billy Claude Walker called a secret meeting of the Knights of Liberty at the pool hall after the riot, Nick almost rubbed his hands together with glee.
The group gathered around their usual table. Nick took a chair in the corner, just behind Billy Claude. They looked pretty beat up, Nick noted. Several black eyes and a split lip or two. Rather than serving as a cautionary example, the injuries had stiffened the combatants’ resolve. “We can’t let this stand, fellows,” Billy Claude said. “Sheriff Tucker won’t do nothing about it, but it’s pretty obvious that we’ve got us a nest of traitors in town. And what about all them incidents at the brick plant? Somebody is trying to make sure that the bricks to build that Army installation don’t get where they’re supposed to go. Even if it takes murder. Look at what happened to Win. Who of us is going to be next, I ask you?”
One of Billy Claude’s henchmen piped up. “We ought to write to the Justice Department, tell them we know who the culprits are. You’re on the Council of Defense, Billy Claude. They’ll listen to you.”
A new man at the end of the table said, “Get Emmanuel Clover to back you up. Two CD men are better than one.”
Billy Claude sniffed. “Clover is useless. So is Sheriff Tucker. Neither one of them is going to do what needs to be done. Let them write all the letters they want. I say we need to take action now.”
“What kind of action, Billy Claude?”
Billy Claude leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs through his suspenders. “Let me think on it, Victor. We need to make sure to let everybody in town know that treason will not go unpunished.”
Nick leaned forward and gently placed his root beer bottle on the table beside Billy Claude. “I have a suggestion,” he said.