There was endless talk. The angry ones were always ready to talk of bombs. But talk is easy, and when you get right down to it, action is something different.
Even when those bold talkers volunteered themselves the truth came out that none had a clue how to put a bomb together.
And so the talk went on and the words grew hotter.
``There are no other options,'' it was said.
When they heard that a train full of strike breaking scabs would come into town on the following Sunday, they thought to blow up the train on the bridge over the Murray River. But who could do it? Who had the dynamite?
``There's old Powder Bob,'' a boy said, ``he told me he could change a river's course with dynamite. He's my great uncle, he lives up by the old Blue Strike. He don't hear good and he don't talk good but he'd help.''
Powder Bob lived alone by the worked out mine. His cabin had no comfort to it. A stove. A table. A bed.
The man was old and bent. His lower face was eaten away by the phossy jaw, the mark of his profession. His faded out green eyes were rheumy and running, their rims bright red. A wet patch constantly stained his pants. When he spoke they could hardly understand. A man took out a pencil and a scrap of paper, but Powder Bob couldn't read or write.
It took him a while, but once he understood what they had come for, the old man was all for it. He would have smiled if his face had been able. Yes. He could blow the train off the bridge. But one thing. He would do it alone. He'd been waiting all his life to get back at the sons of bitches. He'd done a few things before, true, but this would be his final act. A good way to go.
Powder Bob scoped the bridge for a couple of days. He was all over it, under it and along it. He sighted up and down its span. He muttered incoherently. He watched each spar's reaction to a train crossing the bridge and he looked up through the track at the blue sky and he thought it might be good to stay right where he was, but when all was set, he left with his great nephew who had done most of the leg work and started home. They were half way there when the explosion reverberated down the mountain valley.
Most of the men on the train knew they were scabs. Some didn't. Some spoke no English. All were desperate for work.
But the miners had made their point. The army came in. Threw many in the bull pen then ran every man with a union card out of town.
Nothing was gained. Perhaps once in a great while an owner or a manager would remember the Murray River bridge and think a little longer before extending hours or cutting pay.