Death and Destruction Ride Rampant

The staccato bark of revolvers, the whine of death-dealing bullets, the dull thud of flying missiles as they rained about the heads and shoulders of police officers, the guttural rumble of an angry mob, the piercing screams of wildly excited women and the hoarse shouts of men in bitter battle, these shattered the peace and quiet of a beautiful autumn afternoon Tuesday as tranquil Fourth St. was suddenly transformed into a maelstrom of bloodshed and destruction.
The picture was unbelievable, unforgettable.
For three quarters of an hour a reign of terror lasted. It is stamped indelibly in the memories of citizens who, from points of vantage and comparative safety, watched with mingled sensations of amazement and fear while mod violence rode rampant on their town's main street.
Halted by Royal Canadian Mounted Police when they attempted to parade through Estevan, 400 striking miners and their wives, mobilized from the industrially crippled Coalfields, beat back the redcoats with a smashing barrage of rocks, loaded sticks, pieces of steel and iron piping, and chunks of cement. Unable to repulse the attack with their riding crops and batons, the police drew their guns and fired. Two men were killed and a score of people injured during the running fight, which finally broke up on the arrival of police reinforcements armed with rifles.
It was a shocking experience for a town which had never before in the forty years of its history seen open defiance of law and order.
Worse, it was a tragic climax to a labor dispute in which the cause of the workers had been inflamed to the point of open violence by the exhortations of outside leaders.

Assembled at Bienfait. Shortly after the lunch hour on Tuesday, the miners and their wives commenced to assemble in Bienfait, storm center of the strike sector. They came in cars from the various camps of the field and gathered in front of the meeting hall which has been their headquarters during the 23 days of the strike. They laughed and joked toghether. Some of the women held babies in their arms. Others led children by the hand.
In a small group apart from the assembly two of the leaders, Sam Scarlett of Saskatoon and Martin J. Forkin of Winnipeg, chatted with a few of the miners. Neither Jas. Sloan of Calgary, Dominion president of the Miners' Union nor Anna Buller of Winnipeg, organizer, were seen in the crowd.
Forkin was asked if the union intended to go ahead with the parade in spire of Estevan town council's edict that morning that it would not be allowed to enter the city limits. "The police won't stop us," was his reply. He and Scarlett then went to one of the miner's homes for a quick meal. They had been very busy all morning.

Wave Banners Some of the miners came out of the meeting hall with banners bearing inscriptions such as "we won't work for starvation wages," and "We want houses, not boxes." These were handed to men who had climbed into big lorries. Gradually the crowd took to its cars, proceeding to the Crescent Mine, three miles up the road on the way to Estevan. There they stopped and waited while more vehicles loaded with men and women were driven in from the other mines. Finally the signal was given to start. The procession moved out onto the highway, stretching a full mile in length and piloted by a huge truck packed with men.
At the pace of a funeral cortege the parade trailed up the road toward Estevan. As it passed Big Butte schoolhouse, the children out for recess, waved gay greeting; hilarious shouts answered them. The parade was like a big community picnic. There was not the slightest hint of the grim shadow which hung over its progress.
As the motorcade rounded a curve in the highway and entered the city limits, cars from town dashed about on side roads, like tugs escorting a dreadnought. Men ran out from houses along the way and were hauled into the strikers' lorries by their comrades.
Still there was no indication of what was in store.
Then, far down the street opposite the city hall, Chief of Police A. McCutchean and Constable Oliver Mackay strode out to the center of the road. Behind them filed a cordon of red-coated Mounties, which spread across the street.

Deceive Police On came the strike parade, until it reached the corner of Souris Ave. and Fourth St. The guard of policemen stood a block further down. Swerving abruptly to the right, the parade moved down Souris Ave. The crowd of citizens which had gathered, laughed loudly. It was a joke on the police. The latter raced to the corner of Fifth and Souris. The motorcade swerved again, cutting back up Fifth St. Then the big lorry at its head suddenly put on full speed, and dashing around the block, carrened down Fourth into the heart of the town.
The men riding in it leaped to the ground and tore up the north side of Fourth, shouting triumphantly. They joined their comrades at the corner of Souris Ave., where the miners and their wives were alighting quickly from the cars. A cordon of police was flung across the street again. The crowd advanced upon it.
Women came first, shrieking invectives; then came the men flourishing clubs and threating to break through. One burly striker attempted to grapple with a redcoat. He was immediately placed under arrest. As he was led away to the cells in the city hall by two officers, the fight broke with startling suddenness. The faces of the crowd were suddenly grim with purpose.

Melee is On While the women picked up stones and hurled them, the men closed with the officers in hand-to-hand combat. Clubs and batons crashed down on heads and shoulders. The melee was on.
Chief McCutcheon staggered back from the police line, blood streaming from a deep wound on his head. He plunged in again, Detective Mortimer reeling as he was struck on the right shoulder. A young Mounted Police constable dropped to one knee as an assailant brought a club down on his shoulder with terrific force. He was up again. In the ranks of the attacking strikers, too, scarlet streams poured from scalp wounds. A man in a red sweater shrieked at the miners, spurring them on. They pressed afresh, and the police gave ground.
Slowly the officers withdrew, while rocks and all manner of missiles whizzed about their heads, often striking them. Then, as the strikers continued to attack, the policemen drew their revolvers. They fired a warning round over the heads of the mob. Still it advanced. Drawing back a few more paces, the police fired a second round, this time into the ground between them and the yelling, milling mob. And still it advanced, hurling stones and loaded sticks, lengths of iron piping, heavy steel washers, small pieces of machinery, anything that lay within reach.
The police took up their stand immediately in front of the city hall. Crimson stains of blood were splashed against the lighter scarlet of their tunics. Many of them had lost their hats, which were kicked about by the women, and their hair was matted with blood from scalp wounds. One or two had lost the use of an arm.

First Aid Given There was a lull in the battle as temporary first aid stations were set up. The stikers commandeered the home of A. Geiger on the north side of Fourth St. and treated their more seriously wonded there. Dr. J. V. Millions bandaged up policemen who dashed in for treatment. The reak of arnica was about.
Out on the street two young girls ran boldly forth from the ranks of the mob, taunting the officers and daring them to shoot. A woman in a brown coat stood in the centre of the road, waving her arms and reviling the police. Over their heads the shower of cruelly jagged rocks commenced with renewed vvigor; and then sang bullets. The police were shooting directly at the more daring of the male attackers.
Up the road near the Fegan Service Station, Julian Jryshko dropped to the ground, his abdomen pierced by a bullet. Four of his comrades picked him up and hurried him to the hostpital. He breathed his last as they were carrying him into the waiting room. Laying his body on the floor, they rushed back into the fight.
A new note in the bedlam as the fire siren rang out. The doors of the fire hall swung back and the engine dashed down the avenue, crossed the battle zone, and came to a halt beside a hydrant. The town brigade leaped from it and connected a hose. They turned a heavy stream of water on the strikers, who jeered them. A group of miners, standing behind the Lundquist building, barraged the brigade with stones and drove them off. The strikers then manned the fire engine.

Shot Through Heart One of the men, Nick Narwan, stood up on the engine, tore open his shirt, and dared the police to shoot him. As he stood there a bullet pierced his heart. He crumpled up and his body slipped to the ground. He was dead when his friends reached the hospital with him. His body lay on the floor beside that of Jryshko until the unertakers ambulance arrived a few moments later.
The shower of missles from the mob continued. A big rock smashed a light standard. Another broke a window in the front of the city hall. The police maintained their fire with more deadly aim. Louis Revay, a striker, dropped with a shot in his chest. Mike Kytatik was down, shot through the back just above the heart. Charlie Grigalis had a toe on his right off shot off. Fred Konopacki, Tony Stankewich, and John Forberg, each received a bulled wound in the left leg. They were rushed to the hospital, where doctors and nurses worked fervently to keep up with the urgent calls on their services.

Citizens Struck Not only among the attackers did the police fire wreak havoc. Five citizens, watching the melee were struck by bullets. Miss King, of Nelson, Lancashire, England, who has for ten day sbeen the guest of Mrs. T. Orr, was shot through the left shoulder as she sat at an upstairs window. Nearby Frank Hanna, Frobisher garageman, receibved a bullet in the leg, fracturing the bone. Clive Butterworth, Estevan music teacher, was walking up Eleventh Ave. when a shot struck him in the right thigh. In a statement given to police later, he declared that a striker shot him. Ewald Krueger, standing on the roof of a house near the conflict, received a wound in his cheek from a stray bullet. Tony Marten, 16, was shot in the right arm. All were taken to hospital for treatment.
Many of the bullets scattered far from the scene of action. One was found Wednesday embedded in the wall of the R. Oliphant home on Third St. East.
Still the battle waged, when the R.C.M.P. motor lorry came tearing down the street at breakneck speed. As it pulled up with screeching breaks, police reinforcements leaped from it, brandishing rifles. They had been called from the Truax-Traer strip mine, where they had been standing guard anticipating an attack. They lined up with their comrades and trained their guns on the mob.

Strikers Retreat In the face of this additional threat the strikers retreated. Many of them climbed into their cars and returned at once to Bienfait. Others slipped into alleys and other streets, but the police routed them out. Inspector W. Moorhead gave chase to a man who was carrying a gun. The striker tossed the weapon to a group of his friends and it disappeared from sight. A young constable, armed with a rifle, gave chase to another striker. The man refused to stop. The constable dropped to one knee and took aim; just as he was about to fire, a little girl ran across in front of his gun. He stayed his finger on the trigger just in time.
In another five minutes all the strikers had left town with the exception of eleven whom the police placed under arrest. As they were being locked up in the cells, a young girl was brought in. She shook free from the officer and rushed forward to greet and congratulate the men. Another girl and her mother came in, also under arrest. They too shook hands with the strike prisoners, and then turned on the police with bitter scorn. The women were taken to the courthouse cells; the men to the mounted police barracks. The former were released later in the evening.
With a suddenness almost as startling as when it commenced, the riot was over. A tragic climax in the prolonged tenseness of the strike situation had passed.