The one consolation: thirteen of the fifteen dead had been Federation, thus they had received ceremonial funeral cartages: shiny black carriages pulled by teams of equally black horses, trailed by hundreds of miners in solemn procession. Haywood had instructed that the other two dead men, neither being union, be left where they fell, to rot at the bottom of the shaft.
Nearing the Federation’s offices (and his own office nearby), Darrow passed under sycamore trees whose disconsolate shadows matched the gray of his cynicism. And in that gloom, Haywood’s favorite rubric (and polemic alike) came to Darrow’s mind—the four boxes of change: the soap box, ballot box, jury box, and cartridge box. Certainly, the soap box could be commanding—it had led to the formation of the Federation, the most powerful labor union in the United States. And with the ballot box, the Federation had forced laws for an eight-hour workday, wage protections, and prohibitions against child labor. But those laws were useless without enforcement, without the power of the jury box, Darrow’s domain—or so it was supposed to be. But when he failed, like today—when juries brought back verdicts such as this one, unwilling to hold owners liable—what was left? Perhaps Haywood was right: the moment was at hand for the fourth and final box: the cartridge box. Regretful but true. Maybe it was time for violence to bear its inexorable teeth, to exact what it had proven throughout history to be singularly capable of achieving: authentic and proximate change. One thing was certain, thought Darrow as he stepped around bird droppings towards the granite-arched portico of the Pioneer Building: by any means, by any box, it was time for real change.
<><><>
– 3 –
That same afternoon, a thousand miles northwest of Denver, Sheriff Sutherland was managing the aftermath at the Eagle Head Saloon in Wallace, Idaho. The body, now covered in course burlap, was in a wagon bed through which blood dripped to the axle beneath. Inside the saloon, the barkeep (who had fetched the sheriff on his own) and two deputies were sweeping up brain and skull bits, along with dirt and shards of glass—a menagerie of earth, elements, and man.
Outside, Sutherland lit his cigar and looked down at the crimson-splotched sack over the dead head. With a “humph” and a sway of his large gray-white mustache and unshaven chin, he turned and walked back toward his office, two blocks away. Behind him, a tall, spry, ginger deputy approached. Both sheriff and deputy were in canvas trousers and floppy jackets, and both under Montana-style, wide-brimmed hats.
“Fellow named Addis done it,” said the deputy. “Big knife and a pistol.”
“He’s long gone,” said Sutherland, keeping his pace. “Addis?”
The deputy continued. “One fella, the taller one, called the other Addis—the one that did the shootin.”
The sheriff turned. “Frankie, son ... then his real name’s probably anything but ‘Addis.’”
“Oh ... alright,” said Frankie.
“His partner planted it in the ears of the bystander folk.”
“Oh.”
“Then again,” said Sutherland as he resumed his stride, “we don’t know that there isn’t a man out there somewhere named Addis, someone who did the Federation wrong, and Big Bill is marionetting us as his instruments of vengeance.” As they reached the office, he stepped to the porch. “Or maybe the taller one was betraying the Addis fellow by saying his name aloud.” He paused just inside the office to unbuckle his gun belt. When Frankie was also inside, the sheriff continued, “If that’s how it is, then Addis is the killer’s name.” He strolled to a window, staring out blankly. “So what should be done, son?”
Frankie removed his hat and peered into it as if that’s where he kept his ideas.
Sutherland turned to the young man. “Son, I know you want to be treated like any other deputy. It’s not easy.”
“If you’d give me something—”
“Your mother—” Sutherland sucked air through his teeth and rubbed his forehead. “Alright, take two men. See if you can find this ‘Addis’ about town. And his partner.”
“Thank you, Pop. You’ll see.”
“Mind you, these animals are killers. They’ll turn without a moment’s reflection. Understand? If God Almighty puts an opportunity in your hands, you’re obliged to gun em down.”
Frankie’s face fell. “Shouldn’t I at least—”
“You want to try these bastards in a courtroom? They get some fast lawyer in front of a scared judge? You think they’d ever hang? Here in Idaho? You think any witness will say a word?”
“I don’t know.”
“You find em, you shoot em. No hanging.” The sheriff noted his son’s troubled squint. “My pop used to say: ‘Every man deserves justice: The good, long lives—the bad, short uns.’ He was right, but it’s not our duty to help the good. You’re a lawman now. You’re to dispense God’s revenge on the bad. You’re obliged to give them the short lives they deserve. So don’t get yourself hurt on account of the law. If we arrest Addis, he’ll get himself a fancy, city lawyer and be free, killing again, fast as whistling Dixie. But if you kill him, I’ll back you. Every US Marshal from here to St. Louis will support you. Hell, Governor Steunenberg wouldn’t look twice. No, some debts don’t need a jury to tally.”
“How about I bring him here and you shoot him?”
Sutherland’s mustached lips straightened as he saw his son’s eyes dart about. “Alright, Frankie. Alright. If you see him, just keep your distance and send for me.”
<><><>
Down the line in Missoula, James Branson remained alone, sunk plush in a lounge chair of the luxurious Pullman. The sun was streaming in acutely, particles afloat in its warmth, Branson’s head bobbing in half-slumber. Suddenly the train rocked forward. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. There had been no whistle, no notice of departure, just an abrupt jolt in the undercarriage. The train rolled slowly, squealing and creaking. Branson hurried to leave but a grizzled man was chaining the door from the outside. He saw Branson and shouted, “God speed to Bunker!”
“Wait!” Branson yelled, running to the car’s windows. As the train picked up speed, the man hopped from the car’s platform. Branson tried window after window, but all were nailed. He considered breaking one, but the vision of a long fall to moving tracks dissuaded him. The train was chuffing, rolling, leaving the Missoula station with him on board, and there was nothing he could do about it. They were just trying to scare him. It would be all right. Just a prank. Just an annoyance. He took a seat by the window and watched the accelerating forest beyond, broken occasionally by rock outcroppings and grassy foothills.
As he began to gnaw on what he knew, his calm evaporated. That man must’ve been union. So this train had been hijacked. It was probably carrying a swarm of Federation men to the Bunker Hill Mine, where he was superintendent. So, the Federation was scheming for a bloody battle—a battle against the sixty-seven strike breakers that he had brought in under Pinkerton guard several weeks earlier. He needed to telegraph ahead. Or telephone, perhaps—a device he was not entirely comfortable with. Regardless, he needed to warn his men at the Bunker. But how?
He had ridden this two-hour route over a hundred times in the three years since he had arrived from Pennsylvania to assume leadership of the Bunker. He had moved at the behest of the mine’s owners—as imposing and impatient of men as Branson had ever known. In those three years, he had come to know every bend in this track, every switch and siding, every telegraph box, every trestle and river crossing. And he knew that twenty minutes before arriving at the Bunker Hill Mine, this train would go through the little town of Wallace, Idaho. That would give him an opportunity to get off and signal ahead.
As the first hour passed, Branson attempted to juggle the variables in his mind, to force them into recognizable patterns. Federation men, union thugs, had this train. He was confident of that. They had done things like this before: the Federation would fill a train with labor b
oys scrapping for a fight, then take the train to the mine’s depot. There they would lay siege to the industrial machinery while brutally removing all scabs and strike breakers. And the Bunker Hill was ripe for that kind of action. They were in the midst of the third Federation strike this year. This one, just as with the other two, was guised under the demand for eight-hour workdays—something Branson knew the mine’s owners would never agree to. To them, an arbitrary work limit such as the eight-hour workday affronted the decency of the free market. But still the union struck for it, time and again. Branson may have admired the Federation’s tenacity were it not for the vicious undertone of this latest, third strike—one that was occurring in Colorado as well as in northern Idaho.
At the outset of the current strike, the Federation had discovered a Pinkerton among their ranks, the man having infiltrated a union meeting in Denver. Within the hour of the discovery, the man was so severely beaten and tarred that he fell blind in one eye and would likely not walk again. When some management remarked that the Pink was lucky to be alive, Superintendent Branson had agreed, knowingly. As the mine owners had Pinkertons ingrained in their strategies for breaking the Federation’s hold, the discovery and loss of an agent was unfortunate, but not uncommon. An acceptable cost. In fact, such discovery and retribution usually re-established balance between the two warring sides. But this recent time, even after tarring the Pinkerton, the Federation seemed dissatisfied. Rumblings of additional reprisals against mine owners and their Pinkerton militia had been adrift for weeks. A new level of violence was stirring. Tensions were so palpable as to have a smell, a taste in the air.
Therefore Branson reasoned that the Federation was using this commandeered train to transport a small army of union men to his Bunker mine, with a fight certain to erupt upon arrival. But never to Branson’s knowledge had a hijacked train included a Pullman, an owners’ car. It was a big prize for the Federation. And they had locked him in it. But, why? Why force him to return to the mine he managed? At this hour and in this manner? And what had become of the mine owners he’d expected to meet? And where was the usual Pinkerton protection detail? This was wrong.
As the second hour of the journey wound down, he began to suspect the union men were going to kill him. Could the Federation murder the superintendent of a mine in broad daylight? No, they wouldn’t. Yes, of course they might. His pulse quickened, skin prickling, his breath shallow and fast. Death was ahead. His blood iced. Standing quickly, he removed his suit coat and prayed aloud, “Lord, get me off this train.”
***
In front of the Pullman, just beyond the tender, was the engine where the conductor lay dead on the steel floor. The coal man and brakeman were nowhere to be seen. Beside the conductor’s bloody face were the muddy boots of his killer and replacement, a man deftly operating the train as it puffed through the wild, the Wallace depot coming into view.
***
From the windows of the Pullman, Branson saw the advent of Wallace. If the train stopped there, as it was supposed to, he could break a window and shout for help. But that would draw the attention of unioners who might shoot him. Best to just slip off, undetected. Then he could scuttle whatever plans these devils had for him and the Bunker. But how to get out? His eyes lit on a fire ax mounted in a corner.
***
The Wallace stationmaster stood resolute on the platform, noting the approaching train in the far valley was not simply off schedule, but it would arrive almost an hour before due. He turned to an assistant and barked, “Go around to the Eagle Head. Tell Sheriff Sutherland to get here right away.”
***
Holding the ax, Branson first thought to bust down the rear door, but he hesitated. Federation men in the car behind him would stop him. He looked around. How to get out unseen? He considered the ceiling, then the floor. That was it. He rolled back the carpet to reveal the wood below. Swinging the ax, Branson began to tear through the floor of the Pullman Special. Albeit slowly. Swing after swing. First the planking, then the under-floor; bits of daylight, then the push of air and the blur of rail ties below. Wood splintered wildly with each swift chop. Soon the hole approached a size he could reach through. He kept swinging.
***
What Branson didn’t realize was that the two passenger cars behind the Pullman were, in fact, empty; as was the caboose behind them. They were not carrying union men bucking for a fight, as he had presumed. It was just him and the rough in the engine compartment chugging steadily into Wallace.
***
Sheriff Sutherland joined the stationmaster on the Wallace platform. “Lester. What’s on your mind?”
The man popped his watch open. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“I see that. It’s not stopping. Just slow-rolling.” Behind Sutherland, three deputies appeared, including his son, Frankie. All watched expectantly as the engine hove into sight. In an instant, Sutherland realized what would happen next. He spun, shouting to his deputies, “They must be here! Addis and that other fellow are somewhere near. They mean to board that train! Find them!” He motioned to the men, ordering two to search along the near side of the track, and one to search the station. They complied, shotguns ready. A hundred yards away, with its black smoke pillaring into the sky, the train continued steadily—not speeding, but not slowing either. Seeing the opportunity closing, Sutherland motioned for Frankie to cross the track, to look over there. The young man complied just in time. The loud train passed by. First the engine—the silhouette of a conductor making no eye contact—followed by the tender, and then the Pullman with a man in the window, the two empty second-class cars, and then the caboose. Then it was gone.
Sutherland turned to the stationmaster. “That man in the special—did you see him?”
“Yeah. Superintendent Branson. Looked to me.”
“Un-huh,” said Sutherland. “But why would he—”
“Sheriff, nothing here,” said one of the two deputies who had been assigned to search for Addis along the near side of the tracks. Sutherland spun on his heel and surveyed the far side of the tracks, beneath the lodgepole pines. The toe of a boot rising from the grass caught his attention. He leapt from the platform, crossed the tracks, and ran to it. There was his son, supine, gawking, silently pleading, throat slit to a gurgle, blood spurting, sopping his shirt and the earth below. Sutherland collapsed.
<><><>
Orchard clung to the railing of the rear stairs of the last passenger car as it accelerated toward the Bunker Hill Mine. Behind him was the caboose, and just ahead, Addis was already up the stairs and disappearing inside. Orchard followed quickly and saw Addis plopped onto a seat. “We gotta do the rigging,” said Orchard. “Ten minutes. Get up.”
“Mn-huh,” said Addis, smearing blood from his knife onto the damask seat cushion. He then rose and sheathed the blade.
Orchard slid a trunk from the back of the car and opened it. “Here we are,” he breathed. From within he removed a long role of blasting fuse.
Meanwhile Addis strolled to the front of the car, opened the connecting door, stepped over the noisy gap, entered the first passenger car and proceeded down its length to its front wall. There he stood and whistled. “Ain’t that a thing of beauty!” In front of him was a stack of crates, five high by ten wide and at least two deep, all marked DYNAMITE! DANGER!
Behind Addis, Orchard approached, unspooling several feet of fuse from a roll. “You needn’ta killed that boy.”
“He was the law,” mused Addis, watching Orchard with the fuse. “They already done most of it.” He pointed to the network of fuses and blasting caps protruding from the boxes. “Wonder why.”
“Damnifino,” said Orchard, contemplating the rigging. He used his hand to measure the length of the master fuse stemming from the center of the web. Then he glanced at the roll and grumbled to himself, “No reason to give us all this, then. Just need the main.”
“Ca
se these caps don’t full do it,” said Addis.
Orchard snorted. “You reckon if only half this shit blows, we can just fuse it all over again? That right?”
“Can’t leave it half blown.”
“Goddamned if you ain’t stupid, Addis.”
Addis looked out the window, folding his bony fingers into the palm of his hand. “That ain’t my fucking name.”
“Didn’t figure it was,” said Orchard, unrolling a length of fuse.
***
In the car ahead of them, the luxurious Pullman Special, the hole in the center of the floor was now a gaping breech through which rushed a whir of sound, wind, and light. Lying on his stomach, head dangling through, Branson studied his options below—options which, under there, were not favoring his survival were he to drop while the train was in motion. He lifted himself and sat on the Persian rug covering a portion of the Pullman’s floor, proud for having created such an impressive hole. He’d wait until the train stopped at the mine, then jump through the hole and be gone before anyone knew better.
Standing, he looked out a side window, surveying the passing landscape. Just then the train entered a sharp curve, giving him an opportunity to see through the windows of the passenger car behind him. To his surprise, he saw no one—no silhouettes of heads on the bench seats. No one standing. No one at all. No army of Federation men hell-bent on a fight. He moved to the back of the Pullman and tried the door again. It was futile. He pulled back the curtain and looked at the front door of the trailing passenger car, just beyond the coupling gap. Some boxes or crates obscured the door window of that passenger car. He studied them. The train hit a loose rail tie and the jolt caused one of those boxes to turn slightly, revealing the first two letters of a word stenciled in bold red: DY. Branson paled. Dynamite. He turned and saw smoke rising from the massive mine buildings ahead. His veins ran cold. His breath caught. He had to get off. Immediately.
American Red Page 3
