Inside, I leaned against the wall in the semi-darkness, breathing hard. Talcott handed me a canteen.

“Hit will be dark soon,” he observed.

“How do we go up?” I said.

“Damned if I know.”

“You were in the goddamn army.”

“Hell, you think I’m General Pershing?” He leaned closer. “You know what hit would take to breach that there hill? Ever man we got, going up in the face of them machine guns, knowing full well that half of them will git kilt in the charge. Then hand-to-hand combat at the top. And the only thing that will make a man do such a durned-fool thing is ifn he knows for sure they’s a firing squad waiting ifn he disobeys. That there is how they drug us outen them trenches and that is the only way.”

“Then what can we do?”

He shrugged. “I’m thinking on it.”

The firing continued heavy that night, for the defenders feared we might use the darkness to cover an attack. The mountainside was alive with explosions of orange sparks. We took shifts, some spreading out along the hillside to return the fire, others sleeping under cover. I slept two hours. Then I woke, and the air in the sheds was too close to fall back to sleep. I went outside, crouched behind a tipped-over railroad sidecar and sucked on a cigarette. I stayed there watching the moon float behind the clouds and wondered briefly about Carrie. She was busy, likely, and wore out, but safe. The defenders could pass by us no more than we could break their line. Again I studied the flashing lights on the mountainside.

“Beech Creek,” I said aloud, then shook my head. The shooting was heavier there. I threw down my cigarette butt in disgust.

“Big brother,” Talcott called from the shed, “come on in here. I got someone I want you to meet.”

A skinny man with thin blond hair cowered in the corner while the Negroes who had been on patrol trained their rifles on him. He wore a dirty white armband, the badge of Don Chafin’s volunteers.

“Dont k-kill me,” he whined, his words so slurred as to be barely understandable. “Oh, lordy, dont sh-sh-oot. I’m just a poor ole miner like you.”

“You’re a scab,” Talcott said.

“No! I work over to Ethel camp. They wont let us join no union there. I would ifn I could. You know how it is, boys.”

One of the Negroes poked him with his boot, easy, but the man jumped liked he’d been hurt.

“Aint got no union in McDowell,” said the Negro, “but we’re fightin on this here side.”

“You’re fighting for them,” Talcott said.

“Oh, no!” The man wept, his mouth wet and bent like it was made of rubber. “They made me. They come pulled us outen the mine. Said we had to plug up Crooked Creek Gap. Said they was short of men there.”