In Dubious Battle by John Steinbeck

  Four men came running out of the barn with a red yearling bull calf between them. They clung to a rope around its neck and steered it by butting it with their shoulders. They dug their heels into the ground to stop it, and held it, plunging, between them.

  "Over here," the farmer said. "Here the blood could go into the ground."

  Mac said, "We ought to save the blood. It's good strong food. If only we had something to carry it in."

  "My old man used to drink it," said Jim. "I can't drink it: makes me sick. Here, Mac, you take the hammer. Now, you hit him right here on the head, good and hard." He handed the knife to Albert Johnson. "Look. See where my hand is? Now that's the place to stick him, just as soon as Mac hits him. There's a big artery there. Get it open."

  "How's a guy to know?"

  "You'll know, all right. It'll shoot blood like a half-inch pipe. Stand back out of the way, you guys."

  Two men on the sides held the plunging calf. Mac slugged it to its knees. Albert drove in the knife and cut the artery open and jumped back from the spurting blood. The calf leaped, and then settled slowly down. Its chin rented flat on the ground, and its legs folded up. The thick, carmine blood pool spread out on the wet ground.

  "It's a damn shame we can't save it," Mac said. "If we only had a little keg we could."

  Jim cried, "O.K. Bring out another. Bring her over here." The men had been curious at the first slaughter, but when the two old cows were killed, they did not press in so close to see. When all the animals were down and the blood oozed slowly from their throats, Albert wiped the sticky knife on a piece of sack and handed it back to the farmer. He backed his truck to the animals and the men lifted the limp, heavy creatures up on the bed, and let the heads hang loosely over so that they might bleed on the ground. Last, they piled the ten sacks of lima beans on the front of the truck bed and took their places on the sacks.

  Mac turned to the farmer. "Thanks, mister."

  "Not my place," he said. "Not my cow. I farm shares."

  "Well, thanks for the loan of your knife." Mac helped Jim a little as he got into the truck and moved over against Albert Johnson. The shirt sleeve on Albert's right arm was red to the shoulder with blood. Albert started his slow, chugging motor and moved carefully over the rough road. At the gate the traffic cop waited for them, and when they got out on the county road he followed a little way behind.

  The men on the sacks started to sing.

  "Soup, soup, give us some soup--

  We don't want nothing but just some soup."

  The cop grinned at them. One of the men chanted at him,

  "Whoops my dear, whoops my dear,

  Even the chief of police is queer."

  In the cab, Mac leaned forward and spoke across Jim. "Albert, we want to dodge the town. We got to get this stuff to the camp. See if you can sort of edge around it, will you, even if it's longer?"

  Albert nodded morosely.

  The sun shone now, but it was high, and there was no warmth in it. Jim said, "This ought to make the guys feel fine."

  Albert nodded again. "Let 'em get their guts full of meat, and they'll go to sleep."

  Mac laughed. "I'm surprised at you, Albert. Haven't you got no idears about the nobility of labor?"

  "I got nothing," Albert said. "No idears, no money, no nothing."

  "Nothing to lose but your chains," Jim put in softly.

  "Bull," said Albert, "nothing to lose but my hair."

  "You got this truck," Mac said. "How'd we get this stuff back without a truck?"

  "This truck's got me," Albert complained. "The Goddamned truck's just about two-bitted me to death." He looked sadly ahead. His lips scarcely moved when he talked. "When I'm workin' and I get three dollars to the good and I get set to look me up a floozy, somethin' on this buggy busts and costs three dollars. Never fails. God damn truck's worse'n a wife."

  Jim said earnestly, "In any good system, you'd have a good truck."

  "Yeah? In any good system I'd have a floozy. I ain't Dakin. If Dakin's truck could of cooked, he wouldn't of wanted nothing else."

  Mac said to Jim, "You're talkin' to a man that knows what he wants, and it ain't an automobile."

  "That's the idear," said Albert. "I guess it was stickin' them cows done it. I felt all right before."

  They were back in the endless orchards now, and the leaves were dark and the earth was dark with the rain. In the ditches beside the road a little muddy storm water ran. The traffic cop rode behind them as Albert turned from road to road, making an angular circuit of the town. They could see among the trees the houses where the owners or the resident share-croppers lived.

  Mac said, "If it didn't make our guys so miserable, I wish the rain'd go on. It isn't doin' those apples no good."

  "It isn't doin' my blankets no good, neither," Albert said sullenly.

  The men on the back were singing in chorus,

  "Oh, we sing, we sing, we sing

  Of Lydia Pinkham

  And her gift to the human race----"

  Albert turned a corner and came into the road to Anderson's place. "Nice work," said Mac. "You didn't go near the town. It would of been hell if we'd got held up and lost our load."

  Jim said, "Look at the smoke, Mac. They've got a fire going, all right." The blue smoke rolled among the trees, hardly rising above their tops.

  "Better drive along the camp, near the trees," Mac advised. "They're going to have to cut up these animals, and there's nothing to hang them on but the apple trees."

  Men were standing in the road, watching for them. As the truck moved along the men on the bean sacks stood up and took off their hats and bowed. Albert dropped into low gear and crawled through the crowd of men to the end of the camp, near the apple trees.

  London, with Sam behind him, came pushing through the shouting mill of hysterical men and women.

  Mac cried, "String 'em up. And listen, London, tell the cooks to cut the meat thin, so it'll cook quick. These guys are hungry."

  London's eyes were as bright as those of the men around him. "Jesus, could I eat," he said. "We'd about give you up."

  The cooks came through the crowd. The animals were hung to the lower branches of the trees, entrails scooped out, skins ripped off. Mac cried, "London, don't let 'em waste anything. Save all the bones and heads and feet for soup." A pan of hacked pieces of meat went to the pit, and the crowd followed, leaving the butchers more room to work. Mac stood on the running-board, overlooking the scene, but Jim still sat in the cab, straddling the gear-shift lever. Mac turned anxiously to him. "What's the matter, Jim? You feel all right?"

  "Sure, I'm O.K. My shoulder's awful stiff, though. I darn near can't move it."

  "I guess you're cold. We'll see if Doc can't loosen you up a little." He helped Jim down from the truck and supported him by the elbow as they walked across toward the meat pit. A smell of cooking meat hung over the whole camp, and the meat dripped fat on the coals so that fierce little flames leaped up and devoured each drop. The men crowded so densely about the pit that the cooks, who went about turning the meat with long pointed sticks, had to push their way through the throng. Mac guided Jim toward London's tent. "I'm going to ask Doc to come over. You sit down in there. I'll bring you some meat when it's done."

  It was dusky inside the tent. What little light got through the grey canvas was grey. When Jim's eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw Lisa sitting on her mattress holding the baby under her shoulder blanket. She looked at him with dark, questionless eyes. Jim said, "Hello. How you getting along?"

  "All right."

  "Well, can I sit down on your mattress? I feel a little weak."

  She gathered her legs under her and moved aside. Jim sat down beside her. "What's that good smell?" she asked.

  "Meat. We're going to have lots of meat."

  "I like meat," she said. "I could just about live on meat." London's dark, slender son came through the tent flaps. He stopped and stared at the two of them. "He's hurt," Lisa said
quickly. "He ain't doin' nothing. He's hurt in the shoulder."

  The boy said, "Oh," softly. "I wasn't thinkin' he was." He said to Jim, "She always thinks I'm lookin' at her that way, and I ain't." He said sententiously, "I always think, if you can't trust a girl, it don't do no good to try to watch her. A tramp is a tramp. Lisa ain't no tramp. I got no call to treat her like a tramp." He stopped. "They got meat out there, lots of meat. They got limey beans, too. Not for now, though."

  Lisa said, "I like them, too."

  The boy went on, "The guys don't want to wait till the meat's done. They want to eat it all pink inside. It'll make 'em sick if they ain't careful."

  The tent-flaps whipped open, admitting Dr. Burton. In his hands he carried a pot of steaming water. "This looks like the holy family," he said. "Mac told me you were stiffening up."

  "I'm pretty sore," said Jim.

  Doc looked down at the girl. "Do you think you could put that baby down long enough to hold some hot cloths on his shoulder?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes. I'm busy. Get his coat off and keep hot water on the stiff place. Don't get it in the wound if you can help."

  "D'you think I could?"

  "Well, why not? He did things for you. Come on, get his coat off and strip down his shirt. I'm busy. I'll put on a new bandage when you finish." He went out.

  The girl said, "D'you want me to?"

  "Sure. Why not? You can."

  She handed the baby to Joey, helped Jim off with his blue denim jacket and slipped his shirt down. "Don't you wear no un'erclo's?"

  "No."

  She fell silent then, and put the hot cloths on the shoulder muscle until the sore stiffness relaxed. Her fingers pressed the cloth down and moved about, pressing and pressing, gently, while her young husband looked on. In a little while Dr. Burton returned, and Mac came with him, carrying a big piece of black meat on a stick.

  "Feel better now?"

  "Better. Much better. She did it fine."

  The girl backed away, her eyes dropped with self-consciousness. Burton quickly put on a new bandage and Mac handed over the big piece of meat. "I salted it out there," he said. "Doc thinks you better not run around any more today."

  Burton nodded. "You might catch cold and go into a fever," he said. "Then you couldn't do anything."

  Jim filled his mouth with tough meat and chewed. "Guys like the meat?" he asked.

  "Cocky'r'n hell. They think they run the world now. They're going out and clean up on somebody. I knew it would happen."

  "Are they going out to picket today?"

  Mac thought a moment. "You're not, anyhow. You're going to sit here and keep warm."

  Joey handed the baby to his wife. "Is they plenty meat, mister?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, I'm goin' to get some for Lisa and I."

  "Well, go ahead. Listen, Jim. Don't go moaning around. There's not going to be much going on. It's along in the afternoon now. London's going to send out some guys in cars to see how many scabs are working. They'll see how many and where, an' then, tomorrow morning, we'll start doing something about it. We can feed the guys for a coupla days now. Clouds are going. We'll have clear, cold weather for a change."

  Jim asked, "Did you hear anything about scabs?"

  "No, not much. Some of the guys say that scabs are coming in in trucks with guards on them, but you can't believe anything in a camp like this. Damnedest place in the world for rumors."

  "The guys are awful quiet now."

  "Sure. Why not? They've got their mouths full. Tomorrow we've got to start raising hell. I guess we can't strike long, so we've got to strike hard."

  The sound of a motor came up the road and stopped. Outside the tent there was a sudden swell of voices, and then quiet again. Sam stuck his head into the tent. "London here?" he demanded.

  "No. What's the matter?"

  "There's a dressed-up son-of-a-bitch in a shiny car wants to see the boss."

  "What about?"

  "I don't know. Says he wants to see the chief of the strikers."

  Mac said, "London's over by the pit. Tell him to come over. The guy probably wants to talk things over."

  "O.K. I'll tell him."

  In a moment London came into the tent, and the stranger followed him, a chunky, comfortable-looking man dressed in a grey business suit. His cheeks were pink and shaven, his hair nearly white. Wrinkles of good nature radiated from the corners of his eyes. On his mouth an open, friendly smile appeared every time he spoke. To London he said, "Are you the chairman of the camp?"

  "Yeah," said London suspiciously. "I'm the elected boss."

  Sam came in and took his place just behind London, his face dark and sullen. Mac squatted down on his haunches and balanced himself with his fingers. The newcomer smiled. His teeth were white and even. "My name's Bolter," he said simply. "I own a big orchard. I'm the new president of the Fruit Growers' Association of this valley."

  "So what?" said London. "Got a good job for me if I'll sell out?"

  The smile did not leave Bolter's face, but his clean, pink hands closed gently at his sides. "Let's try to get a better start than that," he begged. "I told you I was the new president. That means there's a change in policy. I don't believe in doing things the way they were being done." While he spoke Mac looked not at Bolter, but at London.

  Some of the anger left London's face. "What you got to say?" he asked. "Spill it out."

  Bolter looked around for something to sit on, and saw nothing. He said, "I never could see how two men could get anything done by growling at each other. I've always had an idea that no matter how mad men were, if they could only get together with a table between them, something good would come out of it."

  London snickered. "We ain't got a table."

  "You know what I mean," Bolter continued. "Everybody in the Association said you men wouldn't listen to reason, but I told them I know American working men. Give American working men something reasonable to listen to, and they'll listen."

  Sam spat out, "Well, we're listenin', ain't we? Go on an' give us somethin' reasonable."

  Bolter's white teeth flashed. He looked around appreciatively. "There, you see? That's what I told them. I said, 'Let me lay our cards down on the table,' and then let them lay theirs down, and see if we can't make a hand. American working men aren't animals."

  Mac muttered, "You ought to run for Congress."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I was talkin' to this here guy," said Mac. London's face had grown hard again.

  Bolter went on, "That's what I'm here for, to lay our cards on the table. I told you I own an orchard, but don't think because of that I haven't your interests at heart. All of us know we can't make money unless the working man is happy." He paused, waiting for some kind of answer. None came. "Well, here's the way I figure it; you're losing money and we're losing money because we're sitting growling at each other. We want you to come back to work. Then you'll get your wages, and we'll get our apples picked. That way we'll both be happy. Will you come back to work? No questions, no grudges, just two people who figured things out over the table?"

  London said, "Sure we'll go back to work, mister. Ain't we American working men? Just give us the raise we want and kick out the scabs and we'll be up in those old trees tomorrow morning."

  Bolter smiled around at them, one at a time, until his smile had rested on each face. "Well, I think you ought to have a raise," he said. "And I told everybody I thought so. Well, I'm not a very good business man. The rest of the Association explained it all to me. With the price of apples what it is, we're paying the top price we can. If we pay any more, we lose money."

  Mac grinned. "I guess we ain't American workin' men after all," he said. "None of this sounds reasonable to me. So far it's sounded like a sock full of crap."

  Jim said, "The reason they can't pay the raise is because that'd mean we win the strike; and if we did that, a lot of other poor devils'd go on strike. Isn't that it, mister?"

  Bo
lter's smile remained. "I thought from the first you deserved a raise, but I didn't have any power. I still believe it, and I'm the president of the Association. Now I've told the Association what I'm going to do. Some of 'em don't like it, but I insisted you men have to have a raise. I'm going to offer you twenty cents, and no questions and no grudges. And we'll expect you back at work tomorrow morning."

  London looked around at Sam. He laughed at Sam's scowling face, and slapped the lean man on the shoulder. "Mr. Bolter," he said, "like Mac says, I guess we ain't American workin' men. You wanted cards laid down, and then you laid yours down backs up. Here's ours, and by Christ, she's a full house. Your God damn apples got to be picked and we ain't picking 'em without our raise. Nor neither is nobody else pickin' 'em. What do you think of that, Mister Bolter?"

  At last the smile had faded from Bolter's face. He said gravely, "The American nation has become great because everybody pitched in and helped. American labor is the best labor in the world, and the highest paid."

  London broke in angrily, "S'pose a Chink does get half a cent a day, if he can eat on it? What the hell do we care how much we get, if we got to go hungry?"

  Bolter put on his smile again. "I have a home and children," he said. "I've worked hard. You think I'm different from you. I want you to look on me as a working man, too. I've worked for everything I've got. Now we've heard that radicals are working among you. I don't believe it. I don't believe American men, with American ideals, will listen to radicals. All of us are in the same boat. Times are hard. We're all trying to get along, and we've got to help each other."

  Suddenly Sam yelled, "Oh, for Christ's sake, lay off. If you got somethin' to say, say it; only cut out this Goddamn speech."

  Bolter looked very sad. "Will you accept half?"

  "No," said London. "You wouldn't offer no half unless you was pressed."

  "How do you know the men wouldn't accept, if you put it to a vote?"

  "Listen, mister," London said, "them guys is so full of piss and vinegar they'll skin you if you show that slick suit outside. We're strikin' for our raise. We're picketin' your God damn orchards, and we're kickin' hell out of any scabs you run in. Now come on through with your 'or else.' Turn your damn cards over. What you think you're goin' to do if we don't go back?"