We took the train to Marmet, the jumping-off point for the road to the southwest. At Marmet thousands of armed men milled around outside the depot. Most were clad in overalls, but some wore faded military uniforms. Each man sported a red bandana tied jauntily about his neck. Some were already armed. One group of rawboned mountain men carried long rifles that Rondal said dated back to the Revolutionary War, and I even saw a Greek with a curved sword. A Ukrainian man wore a faded painting of St. Vladimir on his back, sewn there by his wife as a talisman of good luck. Welshmen, camped along the railroad track, sang of building Jerusalem among dark satanic mills. Trains kept arriving with men standing in the aisles, and trolley cars from Charleston so full that passengers hung outside on the steps. They gathered around the brightly hued banners of their union locals, formed companies in the main street of the town and marched off. Some were Justice County men who had escaped to safety, but most of them were union miners from the Kanawha and New River coalfields. Rondal left us at the station and we waited until Talcott came from the ferry with three hundred Point Lick men.

Rondal returned soon with a big grin on his face.

“We’re set up at the mouth of the creek,” he reported. “They’re checking passwords and handing out guns. They even sent two machine guns through that they stole from company stores. And there’s ammunition and medical supplies waiting in Danville. I got to check when we git there.”

“When did the boys first take out?” Talcott asked.

“Early. Some will be at the head of the creek by now. And the line stretches all the way back to here, with fellers still yet coming. God damn, we really done it!”

We joined the march. Townspeople lined the main street. Some only stood, their faces long with disapproval, but most clapped and waved. The men hoisted their rifles to their shoulders, swung their arms. We sang “John Brown’s Body.” Some Italians in front of us sang a marching song in their language. Doc said it had to do with a man named Garibaldi. Rondal held my hand and swung my arm high in time to the music. He laughed. “Jesus, I wisht C.J. and Isom could be here.”

We quieted as we started up Lens Creek. Dr. Booker whistled the Internationale softly. Cicadas buzzed far up the dark green hillsides. At the checkpoint, Talcott approached three automobiles parked across the rutted dirt road.

“I’m in charge. Point Lick, Local 124.”

One of the men made a mark in his notebook.

“Password.”

“I come creeping.”

“Stand around here and watch each man that passes through. Point out anybody you dont know.”

“Who’s the lady?” one man asked, his voice high with surprise.

“Nurse,” Rondal said. “See her cap?”

“Honey, you got a long way to walk.”