a boy from West Virginia or Kansas—but he could just have easily have come from the mean streets of New York. If there is one human characteristic which truly recognizes neither border, breed nor birth, it is the courage to face life squarely.
As for the coal miners who are central to the story, people may think the portrait unrealistic. That is their problem, not mine. I never had the honor of being a member of the United Mine Workers of America. But in my days as a trade-union activist, I had many occasions to work with the UMWA and its members. I know the union and its traditions, and those traditions are alive and well. That is as true of the Navajo miners in the southwest and the strip miners in Wyoming as it is of the Appalachian core of the union. I began this book by dedicating it to my mother, who comes from that Appalachian stock. Let me end by rededicating it to UMWA Local 1972 of Sheridan, Wyoming, especially to Dan Roberts and Ernie Roybal; and to Maurice Moorleghen, who came up from District 12 in southern Illinois to lend a hand. their way.
The officers gathered in a knot around the general commanding the entire expedition. Angrily, the general was stroking his mustachioes, examining the unexpected barricade.
“There must be a gap!” he snarled. “Between those—those things—and the building. Dismount and—”
* * *
James waited until the officers had gathered. He and Julie were positioned at the open window of a classroom on the second floor, facing to the south.
“I’ll take the guy in the middle,” he said, sighting down the barrel of the .30-06. “You take—”
Julie started firing. Crackcrackcrackcrack. By the time James took out the general—a perfect shot, right in the middle of the sniper’s triangle—four of his officers were already dead.
Julie ejected the magazine and slapped in another. Crackcrack. Two more. Crack. Another.
The sole surviving
As for the coal miners who are central to the story, people may think the portrait unrealistic. That is their problem, not mine. I never had the honor of being a member of the United Mine Workers of America. But in my days as a trade-union activist, I had many occasions to work with the UMWA and its members. I know the union and its traditions, and those traditions are alive and well. That is as true of the Navajo miners in the southwest and the strip miners in Wyoming as it is of the Appalachian core of the union. I began this book by dedicating it to my mother, who comes from that Appalachian stock. Let me end by rededicating it to UMWA Local 1972 of Sheridan, Wyoming, especially to Dan Roberts and Ernie Roybal; and to Maurice Moorleghen, who came up from District 12 in southern Illinois to lend a hand. their way.
The officers gathered in a knot around the general commanding the entire expedition. Angrily, the general was stroking his mustachioes, examining the unexpected barricade.
“There must be a gap!” he snarled. “Between those—those things—and the building. Dismount and—”
* * *
James waited until the officers had gathered. He and Julie were positioned at the open window of a classroom on the second floor, facing to the south.
“I’ll take the guy in the middle,” he said, sighting down the barrel of the .30-06. “You take—”
Julie started firing. Crackcrackcrackcrack. By the time James took out the general—a perfect shot, right in the middle of the sniper’s triangle—four of his officers were already dead.
Julie ejected the magazine and slapped in another. Crackcrack. Two more. Crack. Another.
The sole surviving