It was in line with all that Oakland had already done to her and hers, and, besides, Billy was not dangerously hurt. Broken arms and a sore head would heal. She brought chairs and seated everybody.
“Now tell me what happened,” she begged. “I'm all at sea, what of you two burleys breaking my husband's arms, then seeing him home and holding a love-fest with him.”
“An' you got a right,” Bud Strothers assured her. “You see, it happened this way—”
“You shut up, Bud,” Billy broke it. “You didn't see anything of it.”
Saxon looked to the San Francisco teamsters.
“We'd come over to lend a hand, seein' as the Oakland boys was gettin' some the short end of it,” one spoke up, “an' we've sure learned some scabs there's better trades than drivin' team. Well, me an' Jackson here was nosin' around to see what we can see, when your husband comes moseyin' along. When he—”
“Hold on,” Jackson interrupted. “Get it straight as you go along. We reckon we know the boys by sight. But your husband we ain't never seen around, him bein'...”
“As you might say, put away for a while,” the first teamster took up the tale. “So, when we sees what we thinks is a scab dodgin' away from us an' takin' the shortcut through the alley—”
“The alley back of Campbell's grocery,” Billy elucidated.
“Yep, back of the grocery,” the first teamster went on; “why, we're sure he's one of them squarehead scabs, hired through Murray an' Ready, makin' a sneak to get into the stables over the back fences.”