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Back Come Again No More Save as PDF
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover
  3. Title Page
  4. Contents
  5. PART I 
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. PART II 
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. 21.
  28. 22.
  29. 23.
  30. 24.
  31. 25.
  32. 26.
  33. 27.
  34. 28.
  35. 29.
  36. 30.
  37. PART III 
  38. 31.
  39. 32.
  40. 33.
  41. 34.
  42. 35.
  43. 36.
  44. 37.
  45. 38.
  46. 39.
  47. PART IV 
  48. 40.
  49. 41.
  50. 42.
  51. 43.
  52. 44.
  53. 45.
  54. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  55. Touchstone Reading Group Guide

The bells came closer. Jake heard the shuffle of work boots on wet pavement, men getting set for battle. There was something ghostly about the tinkle of the bells in the fog, worse than the growl of trucks or the shouts of men ready to do battle. Jake could recall priests ringing bells at the head of a procession in a little village in France during the war. Maybe the strikebreakers had priests with them, ready to bless the carnage they were about to inflict. Or goats. Didn’t goat bells sound a little like that? Whatever it was, the approach was painfully slow, a crawl up the hillside. Tatro took a few steps forward. The men, unable to bear the stress of waiting, followed. It was better to move toward the thing that terrified them than to stand and wait. They moved forward in a long, rippling horizontal line, a few feet at a time, the irregular tread of their boots like an army platoon marching over rough ground. They advanced twenty yards before Tatro held up a hand, calling a halt. Again they listened to the tinny sound of the little bells, now nearing the curve where they would burst into sight.

Tatro barked an order in his drill sergeant’s voice. “Halt! Nobody moves until I say so.”

A hundred pairs of eyes strained into the fog, a hundred pairs of ears listened. It was old Gunny Gunderson who saw them first.

“Why, it’s kids! It’s just kids with bikes.”

Four boys about ten or eleven years old rounded the curve under the great fir trees, fishing poles over their shoulders, pushing their bicycles because the grade was so steep, ringing the bicycle bells as though they were playing a tune. They had to be playing hooky, heading for the fishing hole above the sawmill. When the boys looked up, they saw facing them a line of a hundred grim sawmill workers, all of them arrayed for battle. The tallest boy yelped and jumped on his bike. The others followed, and they took off, pelting back down the hill as fast as they could pedal. All the way along the line, men cursed and threw down their weapons. One tossed his crowbar so hard it bounced and hit another man in the shins and the two were on each other, punching and gouging and rolling over and over on the wet asphalt until Tatro broke it up.