's voice. He was running along the sidewalk, in front
of her house, and behind him charged several more strikers, while he
shouted: "Come on, you Mohegans! We got 'em nailed to the cross!"

In his left hand he carried a pick-handle, in his right a revolver,
already empty, for he clicked the cylinder vainly around as he ran. With
an abrupt stop, dropping the pick-handle, he whirled half about, facing
Saxon's gate. He was sinking down, when he straightened himself to throw
the revolver into the face of a scab who was jumping toward him. Then he
began swaying, at the same time sagging at the knees and waist. Slowly,
with infinite effort, he caught a gate picket in his right hand, and,
still slowly, as if lowering himself, sank down, while past him leaped
the crowd of strikers he had led.

It was battle without quarter--a massacre. The scabs and their
protectors, surrounded, backed against Saxon's fence, fought like
cornered rats, but could not withstand the rush of a hundred men.
Clubs and pick-handles were swinging, revolvers were exploding, and
cobblestones were flung with crushing effect at arm's distance. Saxon
saw young Frank Davis, a friend of Bert's and a father of several
months' standing, press the muzzle of his revolver against a scab's
stomach and fire. There were curses and snarls of rage, wild cries of
terror and pain. Mercedes was right. These things were not men. They
were beasts, fighting over bones, destroying one another for bones.

JOBS ARE BONES; JOBS ARE BONES. The phrase was an incessant iteration in
Saxon's brain. Much as she might have wished it, she was powerless now
to withdraw from the window. It was as if she were paralyzed. Her brain
no longer worked. She sat numb, staring, incapable of anything save
seeing the rapid horror before her eyes that flashed along like a moving
picture film gone mad. She saw Pinkertons, special police, and strikers
go down. One scab, terribly wounded, on his knees and begging for
mercy, was kicked in the face. As he sprawled backward another striker,
standing over him, fired a revolver into his chest, quickly and
deliberately, again and again, until the weapon was empty. Another scab,
backed over the pickets by a hand clutching his throat, had his face
pulped by a revolver butt. Again and again, continually, the revolver
rose and fell, and Saxon knew the man who wielded it--Chester Johnson.
She had met him at dances and danced with him in the days before she was
ma