Battle at Indian Cave

by Michael Cooney

Everybody in the gang knew that Anton’s big brother was slow in the head, but it was 1918 and all the boys his age had to report for the draft.

“What’s the army gonna do with him?” asked Miro. “Use him for target practice?”

“Shut your mouth!” Anton smacked his friend in the face. He had to defend his brother, but he knew Bogdan wasn’t right. Down at Gilbert’s Mill, the boss didn’t trust him to do anything more than to carry the heaviest rolls of fabric.

Since the boys had no father, at least since 1912, their mother expected Anton to look out for him, but now the big guy was in real trouble. The way Anton heard it, the head of the draft board, D.H. Burrell, and two of the doughboys who had been guarding Lock 17 showed up at the mill and tried to take Bog into custody. It didn’t go as planned. Everybody was saying that one of the soldiers ended up with a broken arm and the other had a fractured skull.

Letters from the county draft board had been piling up on the sideboard and he had told their mom that he would take care of it. But all he did was write one letter and that was never answered. He tried to persuade his brother to go down to City Hall and take the physical and they even got as far as the room where Doc Santry worked. “You see, Bog,” he explained to his brother. “They won’t take you anyhow. You just have to let the doc check you out and stamp your papers ‘Rejected’ and you’ll be fine. Understand?” His brother had nodded.

Then Bog saw the naked guys lined up. He balked and wouldn’t go one step farther. Finally, Anton had to say, “Let’s forget about it for now” and that was already two months ago. He had meant to talk to Doc Santry but he never got to it. “I’m only thirteen,” he told himself. “Who’ll listen to me?’

A week before, he had told their Mom she should take the trolley to Herkimer and explain things to the board. “I’ll come with you. You can talk Slovenian and I’ll translate, but they’re never gonna listen to me on my own.” She said she would try but how could she take a day off from the mill? It wasn’t so much losing the day’s pay as getting fired that worried her. Too late for that now, he thought when their cousin Aleks came by the flat and told them what had happened to Bog. “He slugged the soldiers and ran away,” the fool cousin grinned. “Boy, is he in for it now!”

Anton knew where Bog would run. He sent Little Luka with a message to the whole gang that they had to meet right away at their secret hide-out in Indian Cave. As the chief, Anton could call an emergency meeting without telling anybody why. If they didn’t like it they could vote him out. That was in the rules that Martina had written in the notebook she always carried.

All of the children, even Luka, worked during the days and brought pay envelopes home to their families. But work was done for the day and they would all be glad to meet, whatever the reason. The summer evenings were light until nearly nine and their parents were used to them roaming about on their own.

“Bogdan!” Anton was the first to show up and called into the cave. “Bog! You can come out. It’s only me and the gang.” The big fellow came shambling out, not bothering to brush off the dead leaves. He was too tall to stand in the cave and looked like he had been sleeping. “Here, Bog, I brought you a piece of kielbasa.”

Indian Cave was on the steep, wooded hillside that rose up on the north side of Little Falls. If you know the town, you’ll remember how it sits in a narrow gorge on the Mohawk River, surrounded by hills. Except along the river where the mills are, almost every street is on a hill.

Although the mansion of D.H. Burrell was less than half a mile away, steep gullies made it unlikely that any of the rich people out for a walk would come that far. They probably didn’t even know that the cave existed. The gang felt that the cave in the woods was theirs alone.

Miroslav Neborchek spoke for all of them after Anton had explained the situation: “What are we gonna do about Bog?”

“The cops will looking for him,” offered Aleks, whose English was still not very good. Sometimes he tried to talk Slovak with Miro, who learned it from his parents, but Martina told him that English-only was the rule for the gang.

“What if I wanted to talk Slovenian and Martina would only talk Polack?” Anton had asked him. “What then?”

“Then none of us would understand each other,” said Martina, who was the only girl in the gang. “We would not be able to protect each other.” Her father beat her and Anton had offered to kill him when he grew up but she said that by then she’d be able to give the old man a beating he’d never forget.

Bog was way older than any of the rest of them but they were used to him tagging along, big as he was. “He’s like a little kid,” said Luka, who especially liked him. “They can’t put him in jail, can they?”

“He’s nineteen, even if he acts like a kid,” was Miro’s view of the matter. “He’s old enough to go to the electric chair if the doughboys die.”

“Shhh, Miro! You’ll scare him,” Martina whispered. “Besides, nobody said the soldiers he hit will die.”

“He should turn himself in. They call it throwing yourself on the mercy of the court.” Miro liked to read detective stories. “If he’s lucky, he’ll only get ten to twenty.”

Anton watched his brother as this conversation went on. He wondered if the older boy even knew they were talking about him. He felt like asking Bog why he did it but he knew that would only make his brother clam up. “Okay guys, here’s the way it is. Whatever he did, Bog is one of us, right?”

“Right,” they all echoed back.

“One for all and all for one, right? Like the three musketeers, only there are eight of us, right?”

“Right,” they echoed again.

“We couldn’t even have built this hideout without Bog,” he reminded them. Their eyes turned toward the huge rocks that Anton’s brother had rolled across much of the entrance, almost concealing the opening into the mountain. They remembered how he had dug down through layers of dirt on the flood of the cave in order to make it possible for the rest of them to stand and walk around inside.

“Bog stole the kerosene lanterns for us,” pointed out Luka. “So we could see inside. And he found the arrowheads.” In his digging, the big boy had uncovered a handful of flint arrow points that were now the gang’s greatest treasure, hidden in a tin cigar box in the back of the cave. Those arrowheads were why they named it Indian Cave.

“So turning him into the cops is out,” said Anton. “And not just because he’s my brother. We’re all brothers in this gang.”

“And one sister,” said Leopold, whose brother Jan was also a member. “We stick together through thick and thin.”

“Through thick and thin,” the rest of the gang echoed.

“So for now,” said Anton. “Bog stays here, safe in the cave until things cool down.”

“In case there’s a manhunt going on,” explained Miro.

“I brought a blanket so he can sleep here and we can sneak away some food for him so he’ll be okay for the time being. But Bog, listen to me.” His brother looked up. “You gotta stay in the cave. Except to go out to pee.”

“And poop,” giggled Luka, for whom these things were still funny. “Don’t poop in the cave, Bog!”

“Right,” nodded Anton, wondering once again if Luka wasn’t too young to be in the gang, but he was a perfect messenger and a great all-around spy. “You go outside only to go to the toilet, Bog. You can’t be wandering around or you’ll get caught by the cops, do you understand?”

As they made their way down the hillside and out onto Gansvoort Street, Anton looked up into the woods where the cave was completely invisible. He knew it was only fifty-fifty that Bog wouldn’t become scared and run home in the middle of the night, but that was a chance he had to take. When he got to their flat, his mother was crying. The only nice cop on the force, Allie Baker, had come to tell her what Bog had done when they tried to take him for the draft. Allie said the doughboys were only bruised up and the smart move would be for her son to turn himself in and join the army. Anton told his mother that Bog was in a safe place for now. “Don’t worry, Ma, I’ll take care of him.”

Anton could hear his mother crying most of the night. He knew that even a nice cop like Allie Baker couldn’t be trusted. When his father died, Doc Santry said it was a stroke but Anton’s mother said it was because of when he was hit on the head by a cop during the 1912 strike. Anton had read in the encyclopedia at the library about strokes and blood clots and had come to share his mother’s belief that his father was murdered by the police. He talked about it with Miro who said that one day they would together track down the cop who did it and shoot him. “I can always get a gun if I need one,” bragged Miro, who claimed that he had good connections with the Black Hand.

There were no Italian kids in the gang, though. They had their own gangs on the South Side and spoke Italian everywhere outside of school where they were forced to say a few words of English. “To be in our gang,” Martina explained, “you have to be from Austria-Hungary. That means you can be Slovak, Croatian, Slovenian, or Polish but only if you come from the part of Poland taken over by the Austrians, like my family.”

“How about Russians?” Leopold had asked.

“Ukrainians are okay but not real Russians,” declared Martina. “They are the worst.”

“Worse than Germans?”

“I guess they’re both just as bad as each other.”

Even though the homelands of their families had been at war since 1914, none of them had paid any attention, nor had their parents. It was just more of the usual bad news from the old country. When the USA had joined the war in April of 1917, the gang didn’t exist yet. Only last summer did Anton come up with the idea of a hideout at Indian Cave and the gang with its rules was mostly Martina’s idea. She hated brushing her hair and fancy dresses, everything girly. She only liked to play with boys and the gang idea was what gave her a permanent place in their games, which were mostly cops and robbers and cowboys and Indians. They never played the kind of ball games American boys did.

The first signs of the war in Little Falls came quickly after the declaration. The American boys at the high school marched around carrying a big American flag and beating up boys they thought were German. The cops confiscated the rifles belonging to the Slovak Marching Band even though those rifles were only for show in parades. The German Maennerchor Club was closed down and padlocked “to prevent subversive meetings.” Soldiers were assigned to guard Lock 17 on the Erie Canal. And young men were drafted.

Anton and Miro agreed they would never go to war. Even though they hated Germans and Austrians, they hated cops and anybody in uniform more. Leopold, whose first name made some people think he was German, said he would go but only to learn how to use guns. “Then I will join the worldwide revolution and use my gun to kill capitalists.” He talked that way because that’s what he heard from his uncle who had been arrested and sent to Leavenworth along with Gene Debs and other socialists.

Helping Bog to hide from the cops was something they all came to think was a great idea. He was a perfect reason for them to meet each summer evening at the cave and to talk about the dangers they faced. When they discussed the situation, two of them took turns standing guard “in case the cops show up.” They talked about building booby traps to stop anybody who might sneak up on Bog during the days when they were not there to protect him. They worked on plans for providing him with food, other than the bits they filched from their families. Anton, one of whose regular jobs was to deliver for Reese’s Corner Grocery, stole whatever he thought wouldn’t be noticed, an apple here and a can of beans there, nothing that needed to be cooked because smoke would attract unwanted attention.

By mid-July, the days were very hot and they would have preferred to go swimming in the river. Some of them, especially Miro, were getting bored with the whole Bog situation. That’s when Martina came up with a new project to keep their interest. “We’ll need weapons,” she announced, “to defend the hideout against any attackers.”

“That’s a good idea!” Miro immediately agreed. “It’s time I talked to the Black Hand. I know those guys.”

“I don’t know about guns,” said Anton. “How about weapons that will defend us but not kill anybody. I mean, even if we had one gun, the soldiers will each have their own rifle.”

“And artillery,” said Jan. “They could bring up their artillery to Jackson Street and open fire on us.”

“We could hide in the cave,” said Little Luka, “and then when they think we are all dead and come marching up, we’ll let ‘em have it. Blam! Blam!” He waved the wooden pistol he always carried, the one his father had carved for him.

“I’m thinking more of the kind of weapons we could use to slow down any attackers,” said Anton. “Something to annoy them so they stay back until we get a chance to escape. I don’t think any of us want to get captured by the cops or soldiers and sent to reform school, right?”

‘“Right,” they echoed.

“Or the army,” added Bog, who for once had been listening closely.

“So that’s why I’m thinking slingshots,” continued Anton. “They’re easy to make and we can stash them anywhere we might be when the enemy approaches, in the cave or on the lookout tree.”

“We can collect lots of the right size stones and have them handy,” said Miro, “and you know what, we should get Daisy BB rifles.”

“They cost a lot,” Leopold said.

“We could steal ‘em,” Miro went on. “That way we could blind the cops instead of killing them which I would have to do if I got a .38 from the Black Hand.”

“Stink-bombs!” said Jan. “I know how to make ‘em real good. You just put grass or leaves in a bottle with water and let ‘em rot. Then when you throw ‘em and they break, they smell like shit.” He glanced apologetically at Martina who didn’t like bad words.

“That’s a good idea, Jan,” she smiled at him to let him know she wasn’t mad. “Sling shots, stink-bombs, what else?”

“Don’t forget the BB rifles,” Miro reminded her. “Even if we don’t aim for the cops’ eyes, those BB’s can really sting.”

The next evening, Miro showed up with a Daisy BB rifle which he proudly admitted having stolen from the hardware store on Albany Street. They hid it carefully in the cave next to where Jan’s stink-bombs were fermenting. It took another two days to gather the old bicycle inner tubes needed to make the best slingshots. On Sunday after church all of them, even Bog, made an expedition to Buttermilk Falls Creek to find the kind of smooth round stones that were perfect for slingshot ammunition. Anton had tried to get Bog to stay behind in the cave but he was getting very restless and wouldn’t listen.

On the first day of September, the gang had come to the cave at their usual time, except Jan and Leopold. Afterwards, he wondered if their father, who was friendly with the cops, might have overheard them talking and squealed. Or maybe someone had seen Bog on the day they went to Buttermilk Falls Creek.

Anton kept waiting for the two brothers before starting the meeting but finally he began. “I’ve been thinking that this can’t go on forever. We have to decide what to do with Bog before the weather gets cold.”

“It’s nice and warm in the cave when it snows,” Luka reminded them.

“Warmer than outside, Luka, but Bog can’t stay here all winter.”

“All winter,” said Bog.

“Right, Bog. So I want to discuss everything and then have a vote on what to do.”

“It won’t be a binding vote if Leopold and Jan aren’t here,” pointed out Martina who always wanted her rules to be followed.

“Yes, well, we can talk now and then have the vote when Leopold and Jan get here.”

“Where are they anyway?” asked Miro. “They’re never ever late.”

Anton thought he heard voices. “Shh! Quiet!” He held up his hand.

“Somebody’s coming,” Miro said, dashing into the cave and then shouting something about who stole his BB gun.

Luka got the slingshots and handed one to Bog and one to Martina. “The time has come,” she declared, filling the pockets of her skirt with stones.

The voices seemed to be getting louder, but Anton couldn’t decide if they were coming their way or not. The days were getting shorter now and it was nearly dusk in the woods. “There they are!” shouted Miro, hurling a stink-bomb in a great arc through the trees. They could hear the smash of the bottle and the loud cursing that followed. He fired off another bottle. Luka was zinging stones from his slingshot as fast as he could.

Martina was grabbing Anton’s arm. “We got to retreat, Anton. We can run uphill.”

“But which way are they coming from?” he looked frantically in every direction as the shouting grew louder. “There’s the slackers!” he heard a booming voice. “Go get ‘em, boys!”

But where was Bog? Miro had thrown one more stink-bomb and taken off. Luka was still shooting off stones from his slingshot. Aleks was nowhere to be seen. Anton heard the terrible sound of a gunshot and for a second he thought that Miro had gotten that .38 he was always talking about. Then he saw his brother come crashing down from the lookout tree.

“I got him!” said a doughboy with a black eye. “He was drawing a bead on you, Chief! I had to take him down!”

“That’s a BB gun he has, you fucking idiot!” said Chief Long, who was panting from the climb up the hillside.

“All due respect, Chief,” said the other doughboy, “but that’s no way to speak to a man in uniform.”

“Shut the fuck up!” said the Chief. He turned to the other policeman. “Look at this boy, Allie. He wouldn’t hurt a fly but this moron has killed him.”

“I told his mother he should just go for the draft physical. They probably never woulda took him anyway, being that he was feeble-minded and all.”

“What was he doing with a BB gun?” the Chief asked, noticing the other children for the first time. None of them could say a word. Anton couldn’t even make himself go over and touch his brother. Martina was crying and Luka had wet his pants. “What were you kids doing up here? Playing cops and robbers? You see what happens? You see?”

Shaking his head, Chief Long turned to the two soldiers. “Here’s what we’ll say if you idiots want to stay out of jail. The kids were playing cops and robbers. They found a real gun somewhere and accidentally the feeble-minded boy got shot. Nobody’s to blame. It’s just one of those tragic accidents. It’ll be a warning to people not to let their kids play with guns. Now, do you idiots get what I’m saying?”

The soldiers nodded and proceeded to pick up Bog’s body and carry it down the hill.

About the author

Michael Cooney has taught in high schools and community colleges and has been writing historical fiction inspired by the history and legends of rural New York state. His focus is on figures misjudged in their own time, ranging from the accused murderess Roxy Druse to the reputed Revolutionary War turncoat, Hanyost Schuyler. His novella “The Witch Girl and The Wobbly” centers on the isolated culture of the Taconic Hills a century ago and appears in a 2020 anthology from Running Wild Press. His short fiction has appeared recently in Sundial, Bandit Fiction and Cerasus. Find him on Twitter @mjcooney1205. His website is Upstate Earth.

About the illustration

The illustration is "In the Woods", a photograph taken at the Trieste Boys' Village, Italy, 1950. In the public domain because the copyright term has expired in its country of origin.