Violence off the Streets

Despite an off and on drizzle, a cluster of farmers at the gates of the Equity Cooperative Livestock Sales Association yards in tiny (pop. 800) Bonduel, Wis., soon grew into an unruly crowd of 500. Many came direct from their dawn-time chores, still unshaven and wearing sty-stained overalls. They were there to halt--by force if necessary--all livestock deliveries that day.

"Murderer!" Whenever a truckload of livestock approached Equity gates, the angry farmers massed together, blocked the driveway, sometimes violently rocked the truck. Nearly 20 trucks turned back; other drivers prudently pulled off the highway to wait it all out. But Ivan Mueller, 40, a Cecil, Wis., hauler, drove his Ford truck steadily down State Highway 117. A pistol lay on the seat beside him. He swung into the Equity driveway and stopped a few feet from the gates.

As the crowd closed in crying, "Take it back. Go home!," Mueller sat still. "Tip him over!" came the roar. A few sheriff's deputies and state troopers were on hand by then. They cleared a narrow path through the mass, ordered the gates opened. Mueller inched forward. Men in the crowd were pressed tight between the slowly moving truck and a fence. Suddenly, two men--Melvin Cummings, 43, and Howard Falk, 64 --fell beneath the truck's rear wheels. Both were killed.

The crowd charged into the Equity yard after Mueller, shouting "Murderer!" Men swarmed over the truck cab, shattered the windshield with their bare fists. Inside, Mueller grabbed his pistol, but lawmen fought through, took him into custody and charged him with homicide by reckless conduct.

Barnyard Battle Plans. Bonduel was no isolated incident. It was one result of a militant livestock-farmers' crusade unleashed on Aug. 19 by the National Farmers Organization (estimated membership: 100,000) in 23 states. Hatched by N.F.O. President Oren Lee Staley, 41, onetime Missouri farmer turned big-league farm organizer, the scheme called for thousands of livestock men to withhold their products in a massive market boycott that would eventually boost meat prices all over the U.S. Then, as Staley planned it, he would negotiate longterm, high-priced contracts with meat packers on behalf of legions of farmers. Staley had tried the same thing in 1959, 1961 and 1962 and failed; as soon as prices climbed slightly because of the boycott, profit-smelling non-N.F.O. farmers had rushed in to take advantage of the rise, quickly driven prices right back down.

Still smarting from those experiences, N.F.O. adherents this time set out to make their boycott stick. Besides Bonduel, the Midwest has recently counted many deeds of destruction. Barns have burned in the night, livestock buying stations have been bombed, truck drivers have been stopped and threatened at road blocks, roadside snipers have fired out of the dark at speeding trucks, and at least one market-bound highway route has been sabotaged with a plank bristling with broken sickle blades. In Minnesota, Wisconsin and South Dakota there is talk of calling out the National Guard.

Yet Oren Staley, who has condemned violence among his followers, insists he will not end the boycott. Says he: "For as many people as have been involved, and as hard as the battle's been fought, the incidents have been isolated." As it happens, farm policy has not yet become one of the more burning issues in this year's national political campaign. Staley, rightly or wrongly, hopes to make it one--and if he keeps on going, he may succeed.

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