“He’s got secret police like that Czar had in Russia. He’s got hundreds of deputies, and the coal companies pay all their salaries. In Logan County, folks disappear in the middle of the night. And ifn anybody at the Huntington depot buys a train ticket for Logan, the secret police tail him, no matter who he is, or what his business is. The union aint never even got a toehold in Logan County. But we got to go through there to git to Justice. We’ll have to hang that bastard Chafin.”

He brought in a case of Pabst longnecks and drank three bottles every night.

“The local boys at headquarters are gitting nervous. The federal boys in town know something’s up. Everybody’s scairt.”

“How many men you talking about?” I asked.

He sipped his beer, studied the bottle. “Ten thousand,” he said.

“Lord in heaven,” I said.

He gave me a U.M.A. headband to sew onto my nurse’s cap. It covered the three black stripes that stood for the Grace Hospital.

Word went out on August 22. At dawn of the next day, Rondal took me by Dr. Booker’s little red brick house with the white porch posts. Dr. Booker carried his black bag and a roll of blankets. He wore his old gray suit and wide-brimmed hat and a red bandana knotted around his neck instead of a tie.

“Where’s the rest of your uniform?” He pointed at my overalls and plaid shirt.

“Uniform’s in my bedroll. I didnt want to git it dirty yet.”

“She’s got on her redneck uniform,” Rondal said. He pulled a bandana from his back pocket with a flourish. “I even got her one of these here.”

He tied it around my neck, touched my earlobe and then my chin.

“Aint she one hell of a brave girl?” he said.

“I always did think it,” Dr. Booker replied.

We walked with our bundles down Hale Street. The streets were sticky from a recent rain. On the sidewalk, gray pigeons with pink bills poked at a mound of shattered peanut shells. The downtown buildings closed in over our heads, like mountains near the head of a holler. We paid the toll and walked up the long curve of the bridge. An early morning streetcar clattered by. Rondal waved his bandana at the moustachioed conductor, who tipped his hat.

“You know we got to win,” Dr. Booker said. “You know what will happen if we dont.”

Rondal took my hand. “Be a relief to have it done with, one way or the other.”