For a moment, he stared at the hole, then hurried to it, sat, stared some more, then slowly lowered himself until his new Sorosis shoes were sailing just above the flashing rail ties. Triceps trembling, he gripped the undercarriage, lowering himself until he swung suspended beneath the hole, head toward the rear of the train. He lifted his feet, hooking them into cross braces, and studied the tenuous situation. The wind whipped his pant cuffs, shirt sleeves, his hair. Looking between his knees at the approaching track, he searched for an opportunity to drop. Wait. Wait, he thought. Just wait. Not on a curve. That’d kill you. His mind was a whir of probabilities and prayers. He had to stay very flat when he landed, but protect his head. This was going to hurt. Then came a long straight section. He braced, took a breath, and let go, slamming into the speeding rail bed below, feeling the rock rip into his back as his body shuttled forward, his shoes digging through the gravel, his back across the rail ties, all while desperate to turtle-in his head and all appendages. He finally stopped sliding just as the last passenger car rushed over him. Suddenly a dangling piece of metal smacked his left hand, knocking it outward onto the rail, where the last wheel of the caboose severed it. In the next instant, Branson found himself looking straight up into the blue sky with the sound of the train disappearing below his cap-toes. He rolled to his right, managed to sit, feet spread, staring in shock at the halved shirt sleeve, white turned red, arterial blood squirting onto the rail bed.
***
The depot at the Bunker Hill Silver Mine and Concentrator did not resemble a train depot in the traditional sense. It was more an industrial shipping dock surrounded by the mine’s maintenance buildings, supply sheds, shower cabins, offices, and the back wall of the cacophonous concentrator where silver findings were processed from the ore. That massive wood-and-iron building ran fifty yards along the track, with the main entrance having its own rail landing accompanied by assorted cranes and loading equipment. It was a dirty, bleak place, covered in rock dust, attended at the time by twenty-six men, all strike breakers, clustered around the main office. Alongside them were three Pinkerton guards in their employer-prescribed attire: clean dark suit, trim vest, white shirt capped with dog-eared collars, black silk tie, and a small bulge mid-coat betraying the revolver holstered beneath. Hearing the train approach, the Pinkertons, along with the group of workers, turned to the sound. A leader of the non-union workers spoke up. “Boys, that’s it—what we were called for! Thanks to the alert from the Pinks.” He turned to acknowledge the three Pinkerton men but couldn’t find them. He continued, lifting his voice over the concentrator’s din. “There’s a hoard of labor dogs on that train, all looking to deny you the right to work!” A chorus of grumblings and threats ensued. The man continued, “We ain’t scabs! We’re honest, God-fearing Americans who’ll not bow to the wicked Federation. We’re free men, damnit. We gotta stand our ground. We mustn’t let em deny us our rights!” That caused cheering, grunts, and general clamoring among the men, each holding an ax handle, candle pike, or some other makeshift weapon. They moved in solidarity onto the grimy landing. Again the leader looked for the Pinkerton guards, but again couldn’t find them.
The train eased its way into the mine’s depot. The hissing engine squeaked loudly as it passed slowly, followed by the tender. Then it all came to a creaking, shuddering, shushing stop just as the Pullman passed, leaving the front of the first passenger car aligned with the landing. Had the strike breakers noticed, they would have seen a man disembark on the far side of the engine, mount a horse and gallop away. But no one saw him. One of them did take note of two men—one tall, one short—on the far side of the track, behind the train, hurrying away. Others took notice of the cars being empty, devoid of the expected brood of Federation men. Alarm came to some, but too late to matter.
The white-hot detonation occurred in such an instantaneous fury and force that none nearby stood a chance of surviving. It leveled most every structure, including the lift buildings at the mouth of the mine and the entirety of the massive concentrator, sending missiles of wood, iron, and humanity hundreds of yards in all directions. When the debris began to settle, only the caboose, the rear of the last passenger car, a bit of the tender, and the hulk of the engine were recognizable. The first passenger car and the Pullman Special seemed to have never existed at all. In a deafening instant all the noise of production had been eliminated. Dust billowed angrily over everything. Silence cut by distant cries of agony, the finishing moans of life. Gory heaps missing limbs, heads, impaled or crushed. Bare bones and bright blood. Men writhing in wounds. Men docile in death.
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– 4 –
MONDAY
October 22, 1906
For Nevada Jane Haywood (Neva to everyone who didn’t address her as Mrs. Haywood), late autumn was the best stretch of year—the golden trees mixed with pine spicing the brusque air while early snow dusted into the shadowed eaves, ready to stay the course for months to come. And before polio had withered her leg, Fall had meant crisp walks through foothill leas, through streams gurgling with the cold water of recent rains. Now walking was gone and her rolling invalid chair was her throne—on good days. But on days like this, when clumps of melancholy filled her like stones, the chair was her judicial bench and the world her accused. Still wearing her cream dressing sacque, she rolled herself closer to her bedroom’s wide window, midway up the five-story Pioneer Building in downtown Denver. From there she took pleasure in the birds fussing on the electric wires, fluttering between street lights—finches and scrub jays, doves and a cardinal—all squirting droppings on the walking, running, standing people below them. Or so she hoped. Her thoughts flew likewise, flitting here, landing there, remaining but a moment till startling up to settle again.
She knew her prior years of pain—stabs from her contorted leg to the top of her spine, along with the accompanying crumples and creases of discomfort—had advanced her appearance a decade beyond her thirty-two. She would never walk again, she knew that, at least not without contortions, crutches, and a dependent gait. And though in the last year she had begun to have weeks when the pain abated, she knew she would never be fully liberated from it, from the piercing agonies that arose on their mysterious schedules. She would never stroll freely with the man she loved. Never dance. Never satisfy her murderous husband—but that was a different matter. And she knew it was unlikely she would see her fiftieth birthday. Perhaps not her fortieth.
Still, a soft smile came to her. Whether it was earned, a reflection of an emotion she deserved to feel, or just an accidental spasm, she tried not to consider. But she couldn’t help herself. It was probably due to this beautiful autumn day. Or maybe it came from her habit that most annoyed her: reflexively reminding herself how blessed she was. In his most recent letter, Reverend Sanders had recapped the blessings of faith. But that wasn’t it. It was earthlier. She was blessed to be in this city, ennobled, empowered, and in the center of all that was important, all that mattered. And the truth was that she (George would be cross at her for thinking this) owed that blessing to being married to William D. Haywood, or Big Bill, the President of the Western Federation of Miners, the most powerful, most influential man in the United States—ceding only to President Roosevelt, but none other. Yes, Bill was a killer. Of hundreds probably. But not by his own hand. And he had saved ten times as many. Benefited the families of thousands more. So, yes, his words slit her throat on occasion. But sometimes he could be charming. Neva could remember eras of balance some distance ago when Bill had been as often kind as cold. But for the past year, he merely drifted by, knifing her with dull indifference. Regardless, he was her husband. She his wife. Thus a life. So to speak.
When a fleet of sparrows flurried up from their Fifteenth Street tree, she returned her scrutiny to the little people navigating both Fifteenth and Larimer Streets. Though she knew only a few of their names, she could surmise their status relative to her husband. For example, the two
bristle-bearded gunhands slouching in front of the Pinion Hotel were Federation guards. They were betrayed by their shotguns and their attentiveness toward the building she was in, the Pioneer Building, which housed the headquarters of the Federation on its second floor, one below these living suites. The men could also be identified as gunhands because of their frayed pant legs and muddy boots. She squinted at them—pants and shoes receiving her most strict assessment. If a person has two good legs and feet, they are obliged to clothe them correctly. She noted that one of the gunhands, the one in a black hat, kept glancing up. Did he just look at her? Maybe they were undercover Pinkertons, but what did it matter? If they were Pinks, they were wasting their time—they couldn’t touch her husband. There, that guard looked again. He was certainly a handsome fellow. Due to the broad brim of his hat, the gesture was pronounced: he couldn’t simply raise his eyes. He seemed younger than the other, and more square shouldered. But something was amiss. What she could see of his short beard seemed too recent, too intentional. Yes, a Pink. Then the old cigarist passed in front of her view, and behind him toddled the butcher. Then came the cigarist’s even fatter brother.
She glanced up the street to an argument that appeared to be about a dusty-black Victoria bicycle. Then she recognized a man and lowered her chin reflexively. Reverend Sanders, the Seventh-day Adventist minister, had rounded from Fifteenth. She watched him bisect a cluster of men working on the tram line, then pass the two fussing over the bicycle, before he disappeared through a door adjacent to A. M. Morton Furniture. He was heading to see her husband’s attorney, Clarence Darrow, whom she had requested handle the church’s Fort Collins land claim. She knew Sanders had arrived in Denver the day before, having come down from Walla Walla, Washington. What might’ve he done with his evening? Perhaps he had visited the women of California Street. No, not him. Of course not him. She was glad he’d come. He bolstered her power. The church needed her. They needed her donations—money from the Federation. And she alone could provide them with America’s Lawyer at no charge. No one else could do that.
She surveyed the busy swarms. Those disapproving people. When she was down among them, she saw their askance glances from the tails of their eyes, heard their whispered intrigues. They didn’t like her. Well, hell’s bells—if she wasn’t Mrs. Haywood, if she didn’t maintain that status at all costs, then they wouldn’t get funding for their petty causes. If she didn’t do as she felt she must, how would they receive their spoils? They were just a flock of ugly sparrows bathing in the largesse of her sins.
Her sins. Her one big sin. No different than any other sin. Not in the eyes of the Lord. That afternoon, Reverend Sanders would cross the street to call on her. He would avoid the Federation headquarters on the second floor, praying he might avoid her husband. But should she see the reverend? No. She would say she was ill, or some such thing. He had come to Denver. He was receiving Mr. Darrow’s services. Wasn’t that enough? Was he also entitled to sit in her parlor, sipping her tea, judging her? He was kind. But he was a reverend—he was supposed to be kind. But no. No. If she let him in, he would want to talk about Bill and might bring up her sister, Winnie. No, Reverend Sanders didn’t know about all that mess with them. Probably he didn’t. And certainly not about her friendship with George. Thank God. But all the same, he would spout his opinions about the Federation and its violence, without a speck of deference to how the church profited from it all, from her sins. She was the one who suffered, who had given up so much. She was a martyr, damnit. She was the one God saw fit to strike lame. Not them. The one who would die early. Whose children were far away. Reverend Sanders had no right making her feel things like regret and shame. No inquisition today, Reverend. She had endured enough on behalf of the world.
All those people down there. Just look at them. They came and went, arrived and departed, crossed and stood, a cotillion of canary yellows and junco browns, deep greens, and occasional blues, all in motion—whirligigs and skate beetles skittering over water, all in motion as if they might drown were they to stop. Interwoven in the male movement were the women and children—the outliers and inliers of the world—the companions and offspring of shopkeepers, saloon managers, hoteliers, and the like. Noting Neva’s third-story perch, one of the women gave a demure smile followed by a disingenuous wave, both of which Neva pretended not to see. Another woman, walking beside the first, leaned in for a conversation that Neva knew featured her at its excoriated center.
She surprised herself by the bite of her bristle that afternoon—but she let her mind run, wallowing in her own opinions while holding no concern for theirs. Their husbands may be strike breakers and non-union pigs for all she knew, or cared, but all women appreciated the sacrifice Bill made for their working men: their husbands and their lovers, their sons, fathers, and their brothers. Of that Neva was certain. Why else would they call on her, full of servile gestures worthy of any courtier? And why in their toadying conversations would they implore her to pass along good tidings to her husband? She saw their love for him and pitied them for it. They loved him more than they loved their own men. But they couldn’t have him. And they certainly wouldn’t get his love. No one got that. No one. Winnie was a fool to believe otherwise. Neva wiped at a tear. She had paid the highest of prices to be there, rolling chair-bound in their city lodgings, extending gestures and loaning out people, such as Mr. Darrow to her church. She could withstand those women’s accusations. What had they ever sacrificed? She may have sold her dignity, but she had no intention of squandering it.
It was not just the wives who worshiped Bill, but their men too. And not just union men. Anyone, so long as they didn’t feel their greed threatened by him. If that was the case—if they perceived Big Bill Haywood was in their way—then they despised him. It was one or the other. Sycophants or cynics. Bootlickers or backbiters. The haters were capitalists—money men, bankers, company men—with their Pinkerton hounds. But what of it? The masses loved him. The thousand-fold flocks who lauded Bill for his struggle on their behalf; fighting for their eight-hour workday, decent wages, medical care for them and their families. She had seen their adulation for his greatness, his selfless leadership of the largest labor union in the United States. And they loved her for being his wife. How could they not? Sure, some of the bitch-wives had taken exception to her decisions. They were just dogs nosing at the butcher’s windowsill. God, what was this fury in my blood?
Nosy hags—it shouldn’t be their concern that she’d given her sister Winnie to her husband. Her sister, his mistress. If she thought he’d earned that privilege, then they should approve as well. She saw one of them being drawn into the banter of Soapy Smith and his faultless cure for sore feet. Tell her it’ll work on her sore box, thought Neva. That’s where she needs it. Yes, they had no right to opine about her sins. They had their own. It was just fornication. She remembered the morning when, as she sat in her invalid chair, Bill had tried but failed to please her the French way. He had become so frustrated. But at least he had tried. Of course he had learned the technique with Winnie’s young thighs at his ears—but better Winnie than one of those women down there.
Feeling a twinge of arousal—no, it was just hunger—she thought to ring for the servant to dress her for dinner. No, she’d wait. She’d rather be attended by Winnie. They’d be finished soon, and Winnie would wash up and come report that day’s hubbub. And she’d report on Bill, how he felt, and— Was that a moan in the distance, through the plaster walls? Was that Bill groaning in his completion? She hoped so. That would mean he’d be pleasant at dinner, not snarling at her discussion of birds and other things of interest to her. They’d dine, she and Winnie would discuss, then the three would end the evening with Veuve Cliquot. Yes, that would be ideal.
When a motor-carriage honked at a slow horse cart, Neva watched it, the automobile, seeing if it was a taxi from the train station. Who might alight from its shadowy interior? When it stopped at the corner of Fifteenth, a m
an exited, shut the door quickly, and stepped to the sidewalk beneath her. She stretched her neck to peer down. The man let two bicyclists rush by and held his bowler, his gaze fixed on the Pioneer Building, as if preparing himself to enter. He was a round-headed, nervous union man. Two reasons she knew he was union: One, the Federation controlled the Denver taxis, and this man didn’t appear to have paid a fare. And two, because she believed she knew him. Bill had introduced him once, as she recalled. The man had a curious name, something to do with a tree. Apple? No. Oak? No. Limb? (She smiled at the silly thought of someone being named Limb.) Forest? Maybe. Orchard? Yes, that was it: Orchard.
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The obsequious Harry Orchard was being followed by several men stationed along Fifteenth Street: Pinkertons disguised in the blatancy of the common. One was Operative 21, the young man who had drawn Neva’s attention. He sat across from the Pioneer, an undercover Pinkerton charading as a Federation gunhand. He held a shotgun across his lap, had a week’s worth of chin growth, and wore a low-crowned, Texas-steer-style black hat with a black silk band bearing a silver star on each side. From the shadows of its wide brim, his fair blue eyes watched the street. Beside him was an authentic Federation regular who would try to arrest him, if not kill him, if his true identity was discovered. Operative 21 stood and stretched, pulling at the back seam of his drab workman’s coat, aware that Haywood’s invalid wife was watching from the high window across the street. He then walked to the door of the Pinion Hotel behind him. “To the jake,” he said, declaring his destination as if the other guard had asked.
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