“You’re no friend of the poor man, and you needn’t pose any more,” shouted one of the crowd.
“Shut your mouth,” said Kurfeldt to the crowd. “Colonel Stirling,” he continued, “we know you’re our friend. But you can’t stay so if you fight labor. Take your choice. Be the rich man’s servant, or our friend.”
“I know neither rich man nor poor man in this,” Colonel Stirling said. “I know only the law.”
“You’ll let the scabs go on?”
“I know no such class. If I find any man doing what the law allows him to do, I shall not interfere. But I shall preserve order.”
“Will you order your men to fire on us?”
“If you break the laws.”
“Do it at your peril,” cried Potter angrily. “For every shot your regiment fires, you’ll lose a thousand votes on election day.”
Colonel Stirling turned on him, his face blazing with scorn. “Votes,” he cried. “Do you think I would weigh votes at such a time? There is no sacrifice I would not make, rather than give the order that ends a human life; and you think that paper ballots can influence my action? Votes compared to men’s lives!”
“Oh,” cried Doggett, “don’t come the heavy nobility racket on us. We are here for business. Votes is votes, and you needn’t pretend you don’t think so.”