Haywood wished he’d been the one to light the Bunker fuse. Not just figuratively, as he had done, but literally. But he was too recognizable. Yet would he have had the nerve? It was a question he refused to ask himself. Or, better put, a question he refused to honestly answer. But he found pride knowing he’d put this man Orchard to the task, along with the other man—Addis, Adams, or whatever was the man’s real name. Their orders had been written, and then burned. And the lovely act was complete. Almost.
“Did I do something to dissatisfy—” began Orchard carefully.
“The superintendent of the Bunker Hill, Mr. Branson?”
“Dead. He was in that Pullman there. We’d locked him in.”
“Dead?” Haywood asked, thrumming his fingers, then stopping. The room fell silent, save the buzz of a horsefly sluggishly dying on the window ledge. “Superintendent Branson and his family were observed in Spokane just yesterday. I’ll give you, he’s missing a hand now; but otherwise, he’s most decidedly not dead. How do you figure that happened?”
***
Orchard was stone. This was the reason he was on the kill list. He didn’t care how Branson might’ve cheated death, he was trying to figure how he might.
***
Haywood continued, “Steve Adams—you know him as Addis—has been tasked to complete your original task. It seems the now-one-handed Mr. Branson has fled to San Francisco—apparently more afraid of me than he is of fires and earthquakes.” He paused, observing Orchard, this dreary-faced man who could do only one thing correctly: devise and implement an effective bomb. For that, Haywood admired him. A man with such unflinching talents was indispensable in this fight with the mine owners and their Pinkertons—this glorious crusade for the common American man. In fact, skilled and willing artisans such as Orchard were in rare supply. Thus, adding Orchard to the kill list was good theatrics. Formidable inducement. Nothing more. Fear being a most effective tactic for the control of one man by another. Haywood selected a pen, placed a short stack of the cream paper in the center of his desk, and began to write. When he finished, he slid the note to one side and wrote on the next blank page.
***
Upon seeing his boss writing this way, Orchard relaxed—he was being tasked again, not killed. At least not at this time. He paused mid-thought. They still might kill him. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to have seen his name on that list. No, he was—of course it was meant for him to see. Meant to scare him. But why? He didn’t need to be threatened to take a task, to do a job. So, why the additional lean on him? What task could possibly need such inducement behind it?
When Haywood finished writing, he stood, leaving the remaining blank paper on the desk before him, and handed the two notes to Orchard. Orchard read the first one:
Adams - once SF done
Orchard might have expected it: the order to kill Adams. Adams (as he now knew to be Addis’s real name) was a dumb weapon whose time had come. The only thing special about Adams was his unflinching knack of killing another human directly, face to face. Orchard read the other note and froze:
Gov Steunenberg – bomb
He looked up at Haywood, silently seeking an explanation, then whispered, “This is a horse of a different color.”
“He’s a traitor. After the Bunker thing, arresting every union man—violating the Constitution he swore to uphold,” groused Haywood. “He is a lapdog of the goddamned capitalist. Betrayed every vote I got him.” He resumed his seat. “Betray me, you betray all of labor, the whole union, the Federation, the workers. You betray every American. You become a criminal against the United States Constitution.” He mindlessly arranged a few things on his desk. “No, the federal government won’t protect the rights of individuals, so we must. We must cause change in America.”
“With this,” muttered Orchard, making it more statement than question.
“Do you know how they accomplish change in Russia?”
“No, Sir.”
“Looting, burning, blowing things up, Harry,” replied Haywood. “Firing squads. The only way to get justice. Big strikes are good, but they’re not enough. Everyone knows that. It takes socialist revolutionaries, leaders like that fellow Trotsky over there. Bolsheviks, they call themselves. Brave men. Bold men. It wasn’t until they proved themselves willing to do violence, to assassinate government officials, that they brought change to the Russian working man and his family. That’s how it is. They made that clear. Same here. Last year, the Russians made the necessary sacrifices—killed who needed to be killed. So now they’ve got a new government, a constitution, and their goddamned czar has been nutted. The Russian people have their power back. Why? Because they showed their mettle.” He lowered his gaze toward the paper in Orchard’s hand. “We’re doing the same here. I’m the American Trotsky. You’re the tip of the spear. I need you. We need you. This country needs you, Harry. Needs you to do what you were born to do.” He held his hands up, palms out, and whispered, “Boom.”
Orchard gave a wide-eyed nod.
Haywood matched Orchard’s response with his own conclusive nod and reached for a matchbox from his desk drawer. But, in so doing, the matches spilled, cascading to the wood floor. “Damn,” he muttered, leaning to pick them up. When Haywood returned upright in his chair, Orchard was presenting two pieces of cream paper, ready to receive the flame—the Adams kill note on top. Haywood struck a match and held it to the papers’ edges. Orchard flinched as the notes flushed ablaze. “Here,” said Haywood, touching the porcelain ashtray. Orchard dropped the blazing papers there. Then Haywood picked up the first kill list, the one with Orchard’s name on it, and added it to the conflagration. It too burst and was gone. For a moment, neither man looked at the other, only at the ashtray, watching the flames turn to embers then to gray.
“I know of a ranch near Fort Collins,” said Haywood. “Four hundred and fifty acres. Water. Decent buildings. A man could start a family there.”
Orchard dipped his nose. “Sounds fine.”
Haywood leveled a hard stare at Orchard—the equivalent of a kick. Orchard saw it and turned for the door, donning his dirty bowler. Nothing else needed to be said about his payment for the two murders ahead: Adams and Steunenberg. His payment would be that ranch. Plus some money would appear in his account at the First State Bank of Boise, Idaho—the state presided over by its governor, Frank Steunenberg—the man soon to be no more.
<><><>
“This is difficult,” murmured Winnifred Minor, known as Winnie, Neva’s twenty-six-year-old kid sister. Winnie—her blonde hair tied up in a loose poof—leaned into the invalid chair to attach a lightly boned under-bodice around Neva’s waist. She was helping dress Neva for the evening, but thus far had only managed Neva’s muslin, knee-length drawers and half-camisole. On the bed was a high-collar, teal tea gown consisting of an outer-bodice and gored skirt. Winnie flashed her chirpy blue eyes at her older sister’s cutting green ones. “I don’t think …” Winnie began.
Neva scooted forward. “Just hook it.”
“I don’t see the point in you having them separate—”
“To make it easier.”
“Well, bravo,” snarked Winnie. “Can you stand up again?”
Neva winced. “It hurts, Sissy.”
“There’s really no point, right?”
“To what?” snapped Neva.
Winnie gave a plaintive smile. “I understand a corset when you’re standing ... with your crutches. But this?” She tugged at the under-bodice. “Why the shaping when you’ll be seated?”
Neva whipped her head around. “You have a corset!” She patted Winnie’s waist. “And you’ll sit tonight. So why shouldn’t I at least have this?”
“Don’t get that way.”
“What way?”
“Sissy,” Winnie began with stifled amusement.
“Don’t call me that.”
&nbs
p; “You just called— Why are you—”
“Are you finished yet?”
“No,” said Winnie, still struggling anew with the garment. “If you’d stand back up—”
“If, if, if! You don’t know.”
“You should use your crutches,” said Winnie, motioning toward a pair of plain crutches with bare-wood arm supports. They appeared to have been thrown in a corner.
“You use them!” snapped Neva, her neck reddening. “Stick em up your cock-catcher.”
Winnie giggled. “You’re in a horrid mood, Mrs. Haywood.”
Neva flutter-slapped Winnie’s hands away. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”
“Sissy!”
“You think I’m helpless, but I’m not. I tell you, I’m not.” Neva twisted in the chair, struggling get the under-bodice in position.
Winnie stepped back and sat on Neva’s bed. “Why are you so angry at me? I mean, why today?”
“Did I disturb the princess?” Neva rejoined. “You sit there. Not a concern. Look at you. Your skin, perfect. Your hair. Nothing but blue skies for you. And a good poke at that”—tears coursed her cheeks—“from my husband.” She gave up on the under-bodice and hurled it at Winnie—but being soft cloth, its impact was of no consequence. Neva’s hooded eyes peered at the dresser.
Winnie saw where Neva was focused. “Want me to roll you over there so you can throw that candlestick at me?”
“Yes, please,” said Neva faintly.
Winnie smiled as she watched Neva stare at herself in the cheval mirror. Then she rose from the bed and knelt before Neva, wiping the tears from her older sister’s cheeks. “Crutches in my crock-cratcher … cock-cratcher … cock-catcher? That’s hard to say.” There it was—what Winnie hoped to see—Neva pressing her lips together yet failing to hide a growing grin. “Ready for your dress now?” asked Winnie.
“Yes. Crock-cratcher.”
<><><>
Once Orchard reached Market Street, he realized he’d forgotten to stop at the Gassell for that Trivoli-Union beer. But it didn’t matter. The time had come to assess his prize. He turned, watching passersby, checking to be certain no eyes were on him. Just then a pretty young woman rounded the corner, shapely green skirt gliding, long dark hair flitting behind. Though he flashed at her what he considered to be his most alluring smile, she was too far away to see it. Not that it would’ve mattered, he knew. She crossed the street and walked by him, forty feet away, cold—a typical response from women he tried to engage, especially Italian sorts like this one. Moving on, he stepped between two buildings, leaned close to one wall and tilted his hat. From under it he pulled a folded piece of soft yellow paper. Opening it, he read Haywood’s inscription:
Gov Steunenberg – bomb
With a faint smile, he refolded it carefully, then tucked the little life insurance policy into his bowler’s inside band, and then snugged it down on his head.
***
What Orchard had not noticed was that, after passing him, the Italian beauty had doubled back. Now she was across Market Street, watching him between the flats, seeing him in shadows, stowing a note within his hat.
<><><>
– 6 –
The altitude of Clarence Darrow’s Denver office kept him swaying in and out of a headache. He had been there for two days, over from Chicago, and though the throbbing was no longer sharp, it had settled into a drumming of which he had grown woefully accustomed. Big Bill’s summonses had doubled in the three months since the Stratton Mine trial and the Bunker Hill Mine bombing. And with all his coming and going, Darrow’s body had acclimated to the higher stresses and urgencies—but it seemed unyielding to the lower air pressure of Denver, at least for the first few days following each arrival. Now he lay prone on the pine bench in his Fifteenth Street office, a wet cloth molded across his face, his fingertips flitting across his temples.
He wished his wife was already there, but it would be another week—if Ruby came at all. Every time he left their Chicago home for Denver, she would kiss him and promise she’d join him—just as soon as her editorial and writing work allowed. Sometimes she came, but usually not. Though he chose to believe her pledges, he knew that in truth they were no more than wistful expressions of best wishes she felt no obligation to fulfill. All the same, there were times he questioned why he remained married to her—a number of women vied for his attention. But those doubts were snub wicks, bright but short lived. Ruby was brilliant. And a young, terrific writer—thus to be allowed some degree of narcissism. In any case, he loved her, so he tried to temper his expectations.
But it was difficult on this particular afternoon. Having not won a case in the months since losing the Stratton, and with this altitude headache, he wished she was there. His next-best option for feminine sympathy was his secretary, Miss Carlotta Capone.
“Miss Capone?” he moaned. Hearing no reply from the front parlor, he tried again. “Miss Capone, are you out there?” He could hear the street-cacophony of hooves, boots, and the familiar call of Soapy Smith, but not a sound from his new secretary, the one Haywood had recently assigned him. Once more he began, “Miss Cap—”, but a low rumbling from the front parlor interrupted him. Or was that a growl? Perhaps a snore?
The front parlor held a small desk at which Miss Capone would normally be seated, her lithe fingers flying across an Underwood #5, transcribing Darrow’s volumes of handwritten letters, motions, pleas, contracts, orders, and sundry other affairs. Across from the desk was a set of four similar chairs, all with modest upholstery and tall backs. In one sat the black-suited, Seventh-day Adventist minister, a leading figure in the church’s college at Walla Walla, Washington. The man’s head, crowned in a clerical-style black bowler, was flopped against one of the chair’s wings, and from his drooped-open mouth came an occasional snort and gravel snore.
In the inner office, Darrow remained cloth covered and listening. When the snore came again, he pulled the cloth from his face and lifted himself to a sitting position. Then he brought himself to the open doorway between the rooms. From there he saw the minister, sighed, and moved toward him. “Reverend Samuel Sanders,” Darrow said, measuring out the man’s name. He touched the man’s shoulder. “Reverend Sanders?” The minister roused. At that moment, the bell over the office’s door tinged and Miss Capone entered wearing a high-collared, white cotton blouse under an olive jacket flower-stitched to match her figure-fitting green skirt. Below that: stockings and black, patent varsity boots.
“Mr. Darrow, you’re awake,” she said, brushing past him, her Italian complexion glowing.
“Am I?” Darrow quipped. “Then you must be as well, Reverend.”
“My apologies,” the man said, rousing.
Darrow squinted as the young woman returned to her desk. “Did you abandon us to our naps, Miss Capone?”
“I took the opportunity to fetch some of Soapy’s cure. You’ll be in want about now,” she said with a smirk that made her dimples crease. She set a midnight-blue glass apothecary bottle beside the typewriter.
“Then you’re an angel sent from the Creator herself,” said Darrow. “Or from Beelzebub. I’m grateful either way.” He shook the bottle, unscrewed the metal top and took a swig. “Reverend?” he asked, offering the elixir.
“No thank you, Mr. Darrow. No nostrums. No demon tonics.”
Darrow chuckled. “These headaches are the devil’s handiwork. Best to seek the cure from the source.”
“Mr. Darrow, may I—” Carla began.
Darrow remained focused on the minister. “You’ve come regarding the Fort Collins land claim?” he asked. “I’m afraid I must repeat my telegraph of last week: I don’t work for Mrs. Haywood.”
“Yes, but I come at the request of—”
“I’m aware of—”
“At Mr. Haywood’s request,” the reverend interjected, giving the room a momentar
y suspension so that he might proceed. “He said you’d helped him purchase an adjoining ranch. Said you’d assist on this as well, seeing how our land is next to the other. If I’m mistaken, I’ll offer my apologies and return to speak with Mr. Haywood.”
“No. No. That’s fine,” said Darrow, giving a nodding assent seasoned with a dash of bile and a touch of surrender. He took another drink from the blue bottle, then capped the lid. He had chosen to be there, at the ready, at the call of Mr. Haywood and the Western Federation of Miners. He told himself the Federation’s cause was righteous, a purpose and effort to which he was eager to ply his legal talents. But in truth, after the mass killing at the Bunker Hill Mine, his remaining loyalty was constructed squarely on the belief that this one outrageous and reprehensible client might someday be of such a notorious nature as to give him a chance to grasp the law’s most golden chalice: to argue before the United States Supreme Court.
Over the years, Darrow had waited and watched, seeking an opportunity to bring himself into the Federation’s graces. Fortuity came in 1904 when he was forty-seven. That year, an upstanding, albeit stumbling-drunk, Federation man was mercilessly (according to Darrow’s argument) attacked outside Chicago while on his long walk home to his hungry children and sick wife (again, according to Darrow’s argument). He’d been accosted by a degenerate sheriff, without probable cause or legal provocation. His client, the good family man, was then put on trial for having defended himself—albeit thirty-six hours after the sheriff’s attack and through the use of an iron bar exercised deftly across the sheriff’s skull eleven times, effectively dispensing with the lawman’s head. Once Darrow’s flowery oratory secured the union man’s acquittal on grounds of self-defense (a victory Darrow hadn’t expected), a summons arrived from Bill Haywood: Darrow’s skills were needed in Colorado. Now, a little more than two years since that first train ride to altitude sickness, Darrow was still returning, still serving the Federation and Bill personally, still awaiting the exigent event that would take him to the Supreme Court. He had hoped Governor Steunenberg’s arrest of all labor union men in Idaho (in response to the Bunker Hill bombing) would’ve sparked the case that elevated him—but, though it was still ongoing, it looked to soon resolve itself without his legal acumen.
American Red Page 6
