1897 — Strike at the Monolith

Billy was foreman at the Monolith and ran the Kentuck stamp mill for the Monolith and Kentuck mines.

That summer, Sam James—the indomitable Sam James—died. After nearly thirty years roaming these mountains in every kind of weather, on every kind of trail, he fell from his horse. He took to his bed in the cabin near the Blackbird Mine. The doctor came from Salmon, set his broken arm and did what he could, but there are injuries no eye can see and no hand can mend. Sam died on June 4th and was buried in Salmon—gone, but not forgotten.

Once the grief softened at the edges, we began placing quiet bets on how long it would take Julia James née Howard—the woman Sam married in a drunken stupor back in ’83—to appear and lay claim to whatever he’d left behind.

That fall I put all of the children in school. It was Billy’s first year and he clung to Alta until the teacher pulled him off her skirt and pushed him into his classroom. Or so Alta said of it when the children got home that afternoon.

Charles Crandall staked a claim on the opposite side of the mountain from where the Kittie Burton mine was. Crandall named it the Ulysses in honor of his hometown in Pennsylvania and we hoped it would be more promise than prayer.

The year ended with quite a commotion. In early December, there was trouble at the Monolith. The men hadn’t been paid in weeks and the way the bullion was being moved out of camp didn’t sit right with the men. I ventured into Shoup to check into the matter. The miners had called a strike.[1]

A meeting was held—not the kind you advertise. A few key men gathered: Webb, a union man who chaired it; McFarland; Y.C., the bookkeeper; and even the sheriff, though he wasn’t exactly on the side of justice—though no one knew that at the time.

Billy was invited to attend the meeting and instructed not to speak of it. But if the aim was to keep the men in the dark, they picked the wrong man. Billy came back, stone-faced but told me everything. Then he told the men.

The bullion Billy was due to take to Salmon City wasn’t going to pay their wages.

Bill composed a letter to George G. Shaver to tell him what was going down at the Monolith, then walked to the livery barn, hired a fast horse and rider and sent a message galloping over the mountains toward Salmon. Shaver, the banker, was upright and wouldn’t tolerate shady shenanigans.

As darkness fell, Billy made his way to the boardinghouse office. Later that evening, Webb returned and told Billy, “The men met again. You’re to cut up the results of the meeting you were asked to attend.” Meaning: act on it.

Guards were posted at the office, the mill and at North Fork. Tension hung thick in the air. One of the men gave me a long look and said, “Don’t you write about this affair.” I didn’t answer. But another man nodded subtly. Next, word came: Shaver had received the letter and without delay wrote back, instructing Bill to bring the bullion directly to his bank. If it wasn’t enough to pay the men in full, Shaver promised to cover the shortfall himself.

A few miners were still working the mill when the letter from Shaver arrived. Billy read it aloud. Then, with that letter in his hand and a grin wide enough to measure with a yardstick, he walked straight into the office.

The bookkeeper looked up and snapped, “How in the ___ do you suppose Shaver ever got on to this?”

Y.C. was inwardly convulsed but outwardly dumb.[2]

The good news spread like wildfire. Every man got back to work, pitching in for the final cleanup. Around ten o’clock that night, Billy, Webb, and McFarland set off for Salmon City. They packed out all the way to Tom Harvey’s ranch before they could secure a team. Harvey drove them through the night, reaching the bank just as the first light of day broke over the valley.

Shaver was already standing at the door. He’d been up all night waiting for them.

That very night, the men returned to Shoup. Though it was late, every miner was lined up to collect their “two-by-four.”[3] I’ve never seen a more “O Be Joyful” crowd in my life.

And after that, every time Y.C. happened to cross paths with the sheriff, the atmosphere congealed with the chilly effect of an iceberg.

NOTES

[1] Idaho Recorder, March 7, 1924; p. 1 [Copy cut off at left margin, p. 8 is readable]. The story was written by Mrs. W. E.. Taylor. MINERS’ STRIKE IN ’97 AT MONOLITH. I have taken the liberty to put the story in Annie’s voice so as to make it more easily understood —S.E. Crie

[2] “Inwardly convulsed but outwardly dumb,” the bookkeeper wanted to laugh but acted like he didn’t know a thing about what just transpired.

[3] The slang term “two-by-four” was sometimes used by miners and laborers to refer to a full day’s wage, or in some regions, a payment covering two days and four hours of owed labor. In this context it likely meant a long-overdue or eagerly awaited payout—something modest in amount but deeply appreciated.