Get out of this cemetery

Chapter 132 Get out of this cemetery

The next morning.

Outside St. Peter's Church.

The temperature has dropped to minus ten degrees Celsius.

In the cemetery behind the church, several young miners were wielding pickaxes, painstakingly chiseling a grave into the frozen ground.

The funeral of Arthur's mother, Mary Kennedy, was held on such a morning.

Dozens of miners and their families, who had emerged from the tent area, silently gathered around the newly dug grave.

Father Els stood before the tomb, holding a tattered Bible in his hand.

"Merciful Heavenly Father, please accept Mary's soul. She has already borne enough burdens in this world full of suffering. May she no longer endure hunger and cold, nor breathe air filled with dust in your heavenly kingdom—"

Arthur stood at the very front of the crowd.

He stood out awkwardly among the dilapidated miners, wearing a well-tailored black wool coat.

Just as the priest was preparing to carry out the final scattering of soil ceremony, the deathly silence of the cemetery was shattered by the piercing roar of a car engine.

Three light trucks, each loaded with burly men, drove directly into the open space in front of the church.

The car door opened, and more than a dozen men in uniform jumped out. They carried heavy batons and had revolvers tucked into their belts.

They were private armed men employed by banks and coal companies.

A notorious thug from the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

In those days, these private security guards, employed by capitalists, had greater law enforcement power in the mining areas than the local police; they were the hyenas of capital.

The leader was a burly man with a fierce face and a cigar in his mouth.

He strode to the edge of the cemetery, his leather boots making a harsh sound as they pounded on the snow.

He glanced dismissively at the crowd of people attending the funeral.

"Stop! Don't waste time!" the burly man in the lead shouted.

Father Els turned around angrily and shouted, "This is the church cemetery! We are holding a funeral, please leave immediately!"

"The churchyard? Old man, are you getting senile?"

The burly man sneered, pulled out a document stamped with a red seal from his pocket, and waved it in the air.

"The coal company has gone bankrupt and been liquidated. This land, including this dilapidated church, along with the abandoned land where you pitched your tents, has been officially awarded to First National Bank as collateral by the local court!"

The burly man took a deep drag on his cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke: "You penniless bastards who refuse to pay your debts, pack your things and get out of here!"

A commotion arose from the crowd. A young miner couldn't help but shout, "Where can we go? It's ten degrees below zero outside! If we leave the tents, the old folks and children will freeze to death tonight!"

The burly man brandished his revolver menacingly, shouting, "What's that to me! You still haven't paid off your company bills! If you can't pay, then take something to pay off your debt!"

He turned to look at the coffin that had just been placed into the grave, a glint of greed and cruelty flashing in his eyes.

"I think the wood in that coffin is pretty good. Brothers, drag the coffin out, and take the wood with you. Also, load all the scrap metal and tin stoves from that tent over there onto the cart; we can at least get some scrap metal money!"

The miners were thoroughly enraged upon hearing this.

They even steal coffins from the dead to pay off debts, and they dismantle life-saving tents. This has crossed the line of humanity.

A dozen or so miners raised their pickaxes and shovels, their eyes red, trying to block the entrance to the tomb.

But Pinkerton's henchmen are clearly well-trained and ruthless.

They raised their revolvers in unison, the dark muzzles pointing directly at the unarmed miners.

"If anyone dares to move, I'll dig a few more holes here today! Anyway, nobody cares if a few miners die in this godforsaken place!"

The burly man burst into arrogant laughter.

Several thugs roughly shoved Father Els aside and strode toward the tomb, preparing to jump down and pull the coffin up with ropes.

Arthur, who had been silent all along, finally moved at this moment.

He turned and strode toward the Ford Model A pickup truck parked on the side of the church.

The thugs paid no attention to the well-dressed young man, assuming he was just a terrified city relative trying to run away.

Arthur opened the car door and got into the driver's seat. He grabbed the Colt M1911 semi-automatic pistol from the passenger seat, skillfully cocked it, and casually tucked it into his belt.

Then, he inserted the car key into the ignition and turned it sharply.

"boom!!!"

The modified engine let out a beastly roar, spewing out a thick plume of black smoke from the exhaust pipe, instantly shattering the oppressive standoff in the cemetery.

Arthur shifted into first gear and slammed his right foot down on the accelerator.

The pickup truck showed no sign of slowing down and crashed directly into the light trucks parked in the open space.

A loud bang echoed throughout the cemetery.

The massive impact caused a light truck to overturn, shattering windows and leaving a huge dent in the vehicle. Batons and ropes from inside the truck were scattered all over the ground.

The modified Ford pickup truck only had some scratches and dents.

The thugs screamed in terror and scattered in all directions, fearing they would be crushed into mincemeat by this steel behemoth.

Arthur didn't stop. He expressionlessly pressed the clutch, shifted into reverse, reversed a few meters, then shifted into first gear again and turned the steering wheel.

"Bang!"

The pickup truck then crashed into the front of another truck, severely deforming and lifting the hood of that truck, causing the radiator to burst instantly.

In the blink of an eye, most of the vehicles brought by the Pinkerton thugs were destroyed by this steel beast.

The burly man leading the group was enraged. He raised his revolver, aimed it at the driver's seat of the Ford pickup truck, and roared, "Shoot! Kill that lunatic!"

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, the door of the Ford pickup truck was kicked open.

Arthur jumped out of the car. He was holding the M1911 in his hand.

Without any hesitation, Arthur raised his arm and aimed it at the snow beneath the strong man's feet.

"Bang! Bang!"

Two consecutive, extremely powerful gunshots rang out. Two .45 caliber bullets struck the frozen ground in front of the burly man's toes with pinpoint accuracy, sending up a spray of ice and dirt, and shrapnel made the man's calves sting painfully.

The entire room fell silent.

All the thugs stopped what they were doing and stared at the young man in shock.

Arthur held his gun high, the muzzle steadily aimed at the chest of the burly leader.

"Take your scrap metal and get out of this graveyard. Otherwise, the next shot will be through your heart."

The burly man glanced at Arthur's modified pickup truck, then at the dark military pistol in Arthur's hand and his unwavering gaze, and swallowed hard.

He realized that the person in front of him was a ruthless character who could shoot and kill at any time.

They were just thugs paid to do things; there was no need for a real gunfight or a life-or-death struggle. Besides, their car was wrecked, and in this snowy landscape of minus ten degrees Celsius, they would have difficulty even walking back to the city.

"You win. We'll see!"

The burly man cursed and waved his hand: "Retreat!"

Pinkerton's thugs scrambled onto the only remaining intact truck, abandoned the overturned vehicle, and fled the church as if on the run.

Arthur put away his pistol and turned to face the dumbfounded miners.

"The funeral will continue," Arthur said calmly to Father Els.

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