Canyon Secret Read online

  CANYON SECRET

  by Patrick C. Lee

  Patrick C. Lee, Inc. Publishing

  [email protected]

  Copyright 2008 by Patrick Lee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper—without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Cover photos from Hungry Horse Newspaper Collection by Mel Ruder, Cover design by Rachel Jones

  This is a work of fiction based on factual events. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To all the men who built Hungry Horse Dam and to those brave men who died while working on the project.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank all those men who graciously shared their personal stories with me. Bud Cheff, Emmett Myrhe, Bob Higson, Al Sparr, and Glen Kartheiser provided invaluable first-hand knowledge about working on the Hungry Horse Dam project. Bob Emerson, who worked as an electrician on the Dam, also provided me with important photographs and stories.

  I would like to thank the women whose stories of life in Hungry Horse, Martin City, and Coram during the construction days helped me inject color and personality into the lives of the characters in the canyon towns. I am grateful to Edna Foley, Irene Schaffer, Judy Johnson, Frieda Ostby, Judy Rabadue and her mother for all the information they shared.

  The History of the Canyon Area, produced in 1994 by the Canyon Citizen Initiated Zoning Group was a valuable historical resource. Reading this publication helped me understand the growth and development of each of the canyon towns.

  The Hungry Horse News in Columbia Falls, Montana provided me with volumes of newspaper articles written about the construction of the Dam. The late Mel Ruder, the owner, publisher, editor, and photographer of the News, published a comprehensive series of articles and photographs detailing this period.

  Butte, Montana’s Jim Michelotti and his Montana Standard Newspaper article entitled “The Lost Neighborhoods,” and Steve Luft’s Master’s thesis on the same subject, provided historical information, which I used to foreshadow the encroachment of the Berkley Open Pit Mine on the neighborhoods of Meaderville, East Butte, and McQueen.

  I also wish to thank three retired Flathead High School English teachers for reading, editing, and discussing the early drafts of my manuscript. Harry Mular, Lynn Scalf, and Tom Antonovich applied the tools of their trade and made the final editing much easier.

  Finally, I would like to thank my close friend Ken Siderius for planting the seed for this story several years ago when he shared exciting memories of his days in the canyon towns when he was young and somewhat impressionable.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Table of Contents

  Hungry Horse Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  September 10, 2007

  Montana Veteran’s Home

  Columbia Falls, Montana

  With a raspy voice the elderly man whispered to his morning personal care attendant at the Veterans Home. “Steve, talked to Doc Carr last night. Told me the cancer’s gone wild. I ain’t ate nothin’ in two days. Can’t keep it down.” He struggled and managed to inhale two shallow breaths. His shaky hands slowly tugged his throw blanket up beneath his neck.

  Steve carefully backed up to the exit door and guided the wheelchair out through the six-foot wide double pane glass door. He moved closer to the man in order to hear as the failing man continued to whisper, “Told my niece school’s out for me. That’s the long and the short of it, I expect.”

  His attendant lovingly ushered the man outside to the concrete pad in the picnic area. He carefully guided the chair as tears started down the cheeks of his tan face. The man in the chair meant so much to him. More than once Steve found an envelope stuffed with money in his employee mailbox. With the money he continued classes at the local community college. The young man wiped his eyes and runny nose with the upper part of his white short sleeve shirt. Steve struggled as he attempted to speak to the seventy-four year old man who now slumped down in the wheelchair. They stopped next to a table in front of the clump birch trees. Steve rearranged his patient comfortably in the chair. “Here we are Mr. A, right at your spot. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

  In a barely audible and weak gasping voice, he answered, “No thanks, Steve. I’ll wait for the police right out here. After I die, make sure you read my will. I left a little something for you. You finish school and become a nurse.” Steve disappeared back into the building and dried a new set of tears from his face.

  The old man listened and heard the door close behind his devoted attendant. Now alone, he considered how he’d tell his story to the police. “After fifty-five years of feeling guilty, I’ll get this weight off my chest. Just to be done with the secret will be worth it. They can’t do much to me now; I’m circling the drain.”

  The September sun filtered through the wilting leaves of the birch tree and warmed the back of his wrinkled neck. He coaxed the down throw blanket from his shoulders and covered his legs. His circulation problems now chilled his legs most of the time. He slowly raised his head as his tired eyes wandered toward the east. Through his thick, scratched trifocals, he found Badrock Canyon. Teakettle Mountain guarded Badrock to the north and Columbia Mountain protected it to the south. Looking toward Bad Rock Canyon, he focused his mind back to the task at hand.

  “With the cops, I best get right to the beginning. Right to where it all started. I won’t leave nothin’ out. The police won’t care much about what happened back then, but it’ll clear my conscience. I need to do it.” He lost the battle with sleep and blinked his eyes closed. His mind sleepily traveled back through time to 1952, to the streets of the McQueen Addition in Butte, Montana.

  CHAPTER TWO

  May 9, 1952

  McQueen Addition

  Butte, Montana

  Mikhail Anzich slowly walked down the concrete steps of Holy Savior Church after the 10:30 Mass. Most of the church congregation emptied ahead of him and stood outside in small groups laughing and talking. He took some extra time after Mass and prayed for the strength and courage to do what he knew was the right thing to do. It had to be done. Life sent him down a course that he couldn’t control. He anguished over his decision and the negative effects it would have on his family, his neighbors, and his labor union brothers. His thoughts abrupt
ly ended as his close friend John Nolan yelled up to him. “Hey, you thick-headed Bohunk. Get your head up.”

  Mikhail angrily approached Nolan and the two other men who leaned against the handrail at the bottom of the stairs. In his deep and gruff voice he whispered, “Nolan, I told you not to call me that in front of people. Especially when there’s women around.”

  “I keep forgettin’. I’m just so jealous of your big—”

  “Don’t say it! I mean it.”

  The men with Nolan stepped back and joined their wives. It wasn’t safe to be close when Nolan pushed the limits with Mikhail. Neither man wanted Mikhail to think they were part of Nolan’s teasing.

  John Nolan laughed and nodded his head to Mikhail to start walking toward the side of the church. As they walked by women leaving the church front, Mikhail tipped the corner of his newsboy cap with his right index finger. He imitated this sign of respect and courtesy that he learned from his father when they walked home from this same church many years earlier. He bristled from Nolan’s teasing, but his real anger originated from other pressing issues.

  Again Nolan interrupted his thoughts, “When you tellin’ all these people that you’re leavin’?”

  Mikhail stopped near the front of Holy Savior School and looked southward toward his neighborhood of McQueen. He continued to recognize people as they walked by. “I’m tellin’ the officers of the McQueen Club tomorrow afternoon. They’ll tell everybody else. I’ll tell the men at the union meetin’ tomorrow night.”

  “And when you tellin’ my nephew?”

  “Tomas ain’t your nephew! He’s your godson!”

  Nolan laughed again, “I adopted him last week when you were in takin’ a dump. He likes me better’n you anyways.”

  Mikhail shook his head and managed a weak smile as he looked away from his long-time tormentor and confidante. Nolan brought a lighter side to the problems Mikhail faced. “Someday Nolan, I’m goin’ to—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard that one a thousand times. You’re too big and slow. That empty bucket on the top of your shoulders weighs you down.”

  The two friends resumed their walk again, “I’m tellin’ Tomas tonight after supper.”

  “Call him Thomas, or Tom, or Tommy. You don’t live in Serbia or Croatia or wherever the hell you’re born. You’re the only one who cares about that shit anymore.”

  “It’s Slovenia. We’re Slovene.”

  “It don’t matter. You’re all the same. You’re all Bohunks to me.”

  The men walked down Leatherwood Street toward their homes on Garfield Street. Nolan managed to temporarily chase away Mikhail’s anxiety about his situation. He grinned and without looking at Nolan, he answered, “It’s worth leavin’ Butte, just to get away from the likes of you.”

  They continued their bantering until they passed in front of Nolan’s home on the corner of Garfield and Leatherwood. As they had done for the forty years they knew one another, the two old friends said good-bye and made plans to meet in a couple of hours to walk over to the McQueen Athletic Club for the afternoon.

  Once alone, Mikhail quickened his pace. He again faced his decision to leave McQueen and everything he loved. The labor strike of 1952 entered its fifth month with no possibility of settling in sight. The business agents from the six unions just returned from Washington, D.C. with the disappointing news that Senator Mansfield wouldn’t interfere and pressure the Anaconda Company to sit at the table to negotiate. The main issue to resolve was the Company’s demand for cross-productivity whereby officials insisted that two out of every eight-hour shift, men could be assigned to work outside of their craft or local union. It was a tactic to break the strong union hold on employment. The union movement gained strength following the labor strike in 1946. Solidarity was at its all time high in Butte labor history. The unions stood strong against the Company’s plan.

  Mikhail filled the role as shop steward for the Iron Workers Union. He and his son picketed every day of the strike. His commitment and example focused the strikers during the painful months of the strike. Now he planned to leave to go work on the final months of construction of the Hungry Horse Dam in northwest Montana. He had to pay the medical costs for his granddaughter, Anna. The expenses for the iron lung and the months of no paychecks drained the family’s small savings. His son-in-law brought in enough to pay for the day to day house bills and his fancy new pickup. With the strike and no money coming in for over five months, the hospital planned to move Anna to the County Hospital with other polio and tuberculosis patients.

  Rumors of the Anaconda Company beginning open-pit mining instead of underground mining threatened the McQueen Addition and its sister neighborhoods, Meaderville and East Butte. The Company planned the open-pit mine right where these historic neighborhoods thrived. The nearby hillsides and the neighborhoods would be destroyed once the Company dug the open-pit mine. The Company already approached two neighbors to sell their homes and property. Mikhail’s stomach turned each time he thought of losing his beloved home and neighborhood McQueen. Most likely he’d never return to Butte following his work at Hungry Horse. He couldn’t tolerate the thought of the changes to come. His neighbors didn’t believe the Company about the pit. The handwriting was on the wall, and Mikhail knew it.

  The most painful problem for Mikhail was still the loss of his wife to the owner of the National Bank where she worked. For months after their divorce, he still thought she would come to her senses and return to him and their home in McQueen. This hope ended a week earlier when he read her marriage announcement in the Montana Standard. Mikhail snapped out of his torturing self-talk when he heard the front door close as his son Tomas walked into the kitchen.

  The next evening, Mikhail and Tomas drove in silence. As he pulled away from the curb in front of his house he recalled the days of the streetcar. Until 1937 when the buses came, he and his family caught The Dinky in front of his house and rode it over to the Pittsmont Mine. From there they transferred and rode out to the Columbia Gardens or to uptown Butte. The crowded streetcar ran continually up to midnight.

  He looked straight ahead as he steered his black 1949 Chevy sedan around the corner of Front Street and headed north up Main Street. The windshield wipers kept time with the radio and Hank Williams and his new hit song, “Your Cheating Heart.” With one quick motion, he turned the volume knob down. She was on his mind all day long and this song pushed the pain to the front of his troubled brain. Two years seemed like yesterday; it still made him crazy to think about her. The sudden silence in the radio caused his son to turn and look at him. “Don’t like that song, Dad?”

  He didn’t answer and stared straight ahead. His mind now shifted and focused on the upcoming union meeting. Union leaders promised a quick week or two and the Company would beg to have them back at work. That was five months ago. No end in sight. Tension grew at home between the strikers and their families. Wives grew impatient and more frightened as the meals became smaller and the bills piled higher. Some strikers wasted what little money available from maintenance shifts at their favorite beer joints. The lack of money affected the gas stations, bars, and clothing stores. Grocery store owners no longer carried the men. The men on strike feuded with one another. His announcement tonight promised to be very unexpected and unpopular.

  His son spoke again. “Dad, will any of the men get mad enough to want to pick a fight with us? I guess they’ll be unhappy with us leaving.”

  Mikhail stopped for the red traffic light at the corner of Main and Granite. He cleared his throat and spoke, “We might. Most likely we’ll have to fight more than one if it gets goin’.”

  “But who’d be crazy enough to choose you?”

  “John Navarro might.”

  “Is he as tough as everyone says? He ain’t close to your size.”

  Mikhail directed his car left onto Granite Street and shifted into second gear. “He is. I seen him fight two men at once.” Tomas shifted nervously in his seat as his stomach so
mersaulted. “Who’ll most likely come for me?”

  “Nelson. Or maybe O’Leary.” He slowed and angle parked in front of the Union Hall. A good crowd of men wearing bib overalls and yellow slicker raincoats stood outside of the Iron Workers Union Hall door. Some of the men passed a bottle of cheap whiskey and wiped off the bottle lip before and after they took long swigs. Tomas noticed that many of the men wore white carpenter caps like his father.

  As Tomas and Mikhail joined the men, Tomas sized up Jimmy Nelson and Dick O’Leary. He told himself that he might have a chance with Jimmy, but O’Leary probably would knock him out. His stomach continued to churn as Dick O’Leary welcomed the father and son to the crowd. “Take a pull Mik, it’ll cure what ails ya.”

  Mikhail shook his head no. Everyone knew he was on the wagon since he hit his wife’s new lover. His powerful backhand slap broke the man’s nose and eyeglasses. The man didn’t press charges, and Mikhail swore off liquor following that incident.

  The front door opened and the men trudged down the hallway toward the meeting room. Nineteen-year-old Tomas glanced at the photo of his father on the wall along with the photos of the other trustees and officers. Again nerves engulfed his stomach. “This is gonna be bad. Dad’s been one of the leaders at the picket line and I been there with him. Now we’re leavin’. I wish it was over.”

  Mikhail sat in a wooden chair near a table on the small stage in front of the rows of collapsible wooden chairs. Chairman Vic Pollard called the meeting to order, “Brothers, welcome. We got two or three things to talk about before I open it up to floor. First, we’re shy on pickets Sunday morning in front of the Mountain Con Mine. I need three more men. Sign up with Ducky Kelly before you leave tonight. Number two—”