American Red

by David Marlett

  ***

  Orchard held the fishing line in his bare, shivering hand. It was taut, disappearing into the sharp-leaved bushes and beyond, across a small roadway, then spanning another yard, and then along the governor’s fence to its terminus at the gate. He had gauged this would be a sufficient distance from the blast, but now was worried. His hand shook so much that he loosened his grip on the line, fearing he might pull it prematurely.

  Just then, “Good evening, Gov,” broke the silence from the roadway, just beyond the hedges. Orchard clenched every muscle, pulling himself into an even tighter ball. But in so doing he pitched ever so slightly forward to where his cheek met the sharp tips of the holly leaves. He reflexed a minuscule “mngh” sound before fixing himself again motionless, breath held.

  ***

  Frank had just replied, “Good evening to you, Zeb,” when both men heard a sound from the dark shrubs, but discounted it as some critter. “How was your Christmas celebration?” Frank asked flatly.

  “Splendid, Governor,” replied the man. “I hope you and yours have a happy new year, my friend.”

  “And you,” Frank offered over his shoulder, having resumed his walk, unwilling to linger to talk with this Republican who was anything but a friend. Once in front of his house, he saw his children had called for their mother to join them at the window. They waved and grinned. Waving back and noting the snow was falling harder, Frank was glad to be home. He opened his front gate.

  ***

  The explosion was heard and felt over ten miles away. It shook cognac snifters from cabinets, decorative plates off brass displays, and cracked glass windows for blocks around. At the Steunenberg home, the concussive blast blew out every window along the front and side of the house, shards slicing the faces of the family inside. It loosened the front porch from its piers, flattened most of the fence, leaving only a few posts, obliterating the gate entirely, and turned the cold whiteness to warm red—a massive ruddy daisy thrown onto the snowy yard, its ten-foot bloody petals shooting in all directions from a gaping black center.

  <><><>

  – 12 –

  TUESDAY

  January 1, 1907

  Three days later, Chief Detective James McParland stood in the transformed lobby of Boise’s Idanha Hotel, having just arrived from Denver and having already assumed effective control of the entire building, staff included. Before him stood an assemblage of thirty-three agents and operatives. The agents, standing in a semi-circle closest to McParland, were in their regimental Pinkerton white shirts and dark coats. Beyond them were the operatives in various attires of working men, including some appearing to not be there for the gathering at all. Among the latter group was Operative 21, Jack Garrett, who stood near the main doors, holding his black, wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat in front of him. He and four others had been brought from Denver at the request of McParland. The other agents and operatives had come from various places in the west, and a few from Chicago and St. Louis. Each was armed with a pistol, and some clasped rifles or shotguns. At the door and windows, several faced out, attentive to the street beyond.

  “We cannot fail in this endeavor,” McParland said softly. “I’ll not. And you’ll not either.” A few words were soggy with his Irish lilt. “We’ll never sleep, we won’t. Why? Because Pinkertons never sleep. Aye?”

  A chorus of aye’s responded.

  “We’re always watching. And you, my boys, you’re my eyes. You’ll not fail me. You’ll not fail Mr. Pinkerton. You’ll not fail your families or your country. You’ll not fail yourselves.”

  Polite nods and mutterings of agreement spread, then slowed. Each man wore his own version of a grim expression, uniformity in resolved obedience, a mirrored dedication to the task set to them: Find the murderers. Quickly. At all costs. Spare nothing. Do not concern yourself with the law.

  McParland continued low, “It’s been two days since this nation suffered the first assassination of a high-ranking elected official by means of an explosion. And it happened in my region, on my watch. Not in Chicago or Boston. Not in New York City, but right the hell here: Boise, Idaho. In the heart of the American West. Our home.” His voice rose. “Make no mistake. They’re not men, these Wobbly terrorists. They’re insurgents set upon the destruction of this free nation, this country given to us by God.” He went silent for a full thirty seconds, barely blinking but moving about, staring into the eyes of the men before him, his broad gray mustache leading the way.

  A man entered, knocking snow from his boots, and spoke to Jack, the nearest man he found.

  McParland had resumed with a snarl. “These rats are worse than the Molly Maguires. Those men deserved the justice of their trials and hangings. This sort, I tell you, deserve a death commensurate with what they’ve dispensed: cruel and without consideration. And so they’ll receive. Make no mistake, these ungodly anarchists will stop at nothing … as they’ve proven in this most unspeakable murder. They aim to eliminate your communities, your friends, and rip the very life from your women and your children.” Another pause, and then, “Arrest them, if you’re able. If you must. But do not allow them to escape this territory. They must be brought to trial here. They must die here. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Aye, Chief!” responded the baritone chorus, loudly echoing McParland’s word for yes. Though “aye” was a natural response for some, mainly the Brits, Micks, and Scots of the group, it had become tradition for everyone to say it in gatherings like this. Far from toadying, it was respect, a verbal salute unique to McParland, their famous and fearless Hibernian chief.

  McParland gave a nod. Though he didn’t let his face show it, the “Aye” gesture from his men carried deep meaning for him, especially at that moment—the launch of the most important manhunt of his career.

  Jack came to McParland’s side, relaying the message from the man who had entered. “Sir, you’re asked to return to the governor’s house. They think they know where the killer was hidden.”

  “Very well,” McParland muttered as he turned, before looking back at Jack. “Come with me, Twenty-One.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jack, brightening at the personal summons.

  <><><>

  At that moment, two blocks away in the Saratoga Hotel, Carla stood at a table, clearing the used glasses and plates. She was in her waitress uniform: high-collar white waistshirt and crimson skirt, beneath an apron piped in matching red, above stockings and black pumps. She listened to the dark chatter around her. The governor had been assassinated. It was the only subject. It was as if the bomb’s blast had set off an angry storm with the rain and thunder relentlessly stabbing and pounding the city.

  In one cluster, they were certain the killer was a lone anarchist. Some had seen a posse of darkies, probably a group from that damn army unit. Some swore it was the union. Some even gave the bomber a name: Haywood. Though she was certain Mr. Haywood wasn’t in Boise, she had no doubts he had ordered it. Moreover, she was beginning to see how she was involved, how her assignment fit into things, which man needed to be blamed for the killing, and how she would spark that blame. But she didn’t kill the governor. She had nothing to do with it, not directly. She was just helping the cause. She was on the side of right, a fighter in the virtuous struggle for the oppressed, the workers of America. And those owners, and their Pinks, they … well, they … Her thoughts trailed away as she snuffed her doubts, returning them to the recesses of her mind. After placing the tray of dishes in the wash area, she detoured into the dry storage room. On a back shelf, she found a glass jar that appeared full of a whitish powder. She touched its wire-bail sealer, reassuring herself it hadn’t been opened. Then she turned the jar and silently read its label:

  HIBBS PLASTER OF PARIS

  Fine Grade Medical Quality

  <><><>

  Five stories above her, ensconced in a warm bath, Harry Orchard blew soap bubbles away from his fac
e. His work was done. He had seen the swarm of Pinkertons entering the Idanha Hotel—even the legendary McParland himself. So many people in despair for the damn dead man. So much alarm, and oh the newspapermen—he had never seen such fuss. The lobby and dining room of the Saratoga were filled with long faces, though Carla seemed nonplussed. Earlier, he’d given her his best smile, careful to keep his lips over his crooked teeth, and asked her what had happened. She said she didn’t know and walked away. A lie to be sure. Everyone knew. But who could blame a girl for just wanting to stay out of the mess? She was a keeper. So, now a bath, and then down to dinner and more conversation with his love. Maybe he’d get to touch her silky hair.

  The Pinkerton investigation would be in full force, but what would they find? Nothing. He replayed it all, over and over, every step. He had taken no chances. Though the bomb could’ve been a crude blasting cap and dynamite, set off by the gate latch, he had crafted it with watchmaker care, packed it in plaster so it was safe from the elements, and embedded a trigger activated by pulling a fishing line—once he saw the governor was in the right spot. Or the wrong spot, for the governor. (He waggled his head at the thought.) After the blast, he withdrew what remained of the line and disappeared into the dark. It had been perfect. He wished he could tell Carla the details. He had been brilliant, but no one knew.

  Just as planned, the only man of suspicion was someone described as looking like Steve Adams (who Orchard figured was already halfway to San Francisco). All that remained, Orchard reasoned, was time and patience, and then to slip from Boise in the midst of the flurry and crowds. He grinned, soap bubbles still on his chin, and whispered, “My God,” re-visioning the beauty of that yellow blast in the black night.

  <><><>

  McParland was crouched behind a bank of holly shrubs in front of a little house two away from the governor’s house. Behind him, four agents and two operatives, including Jack, watched. Removing his hat, McParland inclined forward, peering through an opening in the bushes, and then pantomimed pulling a cord. Finally he stood, returned his hat to his head while sucking on his bottom lip. “He was right here. What is this, sixty feet away? Seventy? Pulled a string or wire. Fishing line probably, so the snow wouldn’t interfere. Wire would’ve been trouble spooling in flight. Ran off there, probably.” He pivoted, still reeling the imagined line as he tramped away. His men remained where they were, watching their boss disappear around a corner. Soon he returned, asking one of them, “Did you talk to the neighbors on the next street over?”

  “Not yet, Sir.”

  “Get on it. They might’ve seen the fellow running off … or coming earlier.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said the agent as he hurried away.

  McParland took deliberate steps toward the governor’s destroyed front yard, his shoes crunching snow. Along the way, he pointed to where he imagined the trigger cord had run. At one point he stopped and kneeled, leaning close to ground. Then he pulled back, motioning Jack to come look. When Jack’s face was inches from the ice and slush, McParland pointed to a small tunnel through an odd bit of snow not yet trampled. “Right there. Came through right there.” After McParland and Jack stood, the four other Pinkertons gave Jack scrutinizing looks that asked, Why you?

  McParland picked up what appeared to be a small, cream-colored, jagged rock. Laying it flat in his left palm, he flicked at it, rolled it a bit, then spit on it. The others watched. As he began to walk away, he handed the rock to Jack and grumbled, “Gypsum. He packed the sticks in builder’s gypsum.”

  Catching up to the cluster, one of the agents asked what the detective had said. “Gypsum,” said Jack, handing over the shard. “Held the bomb together. Plaster of Paris.” The agent studied it, then dropped it in the dirty snow.

  “Get that, Twenty-One,” barked McParland. “That’s evidence.”

  Jack retrieved the plaster rock, and soon all seven men were knotted in Governor Steunenberg’s yard, their shoes and boots further trampling the blood, dirt, and near-frozen slush into a muddy gunk. Behind McParland, the last of the blown-out windows was being boarded, the sound of the hammering ricocheting off the other homes like echoes of the bomb itself. “Your assessment, Twenty-One?” asked McParland, taking back the plaster piece. All eyes narrowed at Jack.

  Jack cleared his throat, wondering why he alone was being grilled. “A man pulled a trigger cord from over there.”

  “That wasn’t the first contact. What was the first?” asked McParland. “What do we know?”

  A convivial, big-eyed agent named Peter Polk spoke up. “Someone warned Governor Steunenberg on Christmas day.”

  “Aye, good,” said McParland. “You’re thinking like a detective. Someone called the governor and warned him. So, gentlemen, someone in this city knows who the killer is, and knew the killer’s plans. We must find that person. What next?”

  Jack tried again. “A man came to the door at one o’clock, on the twenty-ninth, saying he was the governor’s life insurance salesman.”

  McParland stood square to the taller Jack. “Continue.”

  “He asked to meet the governor at the governor’s office, at his bank, about a mile from here, at three o’clock. But we know the actual life insurance salesman—” he checked his notes before continuing “—Thomas O’Malley, was already dead. Had his throat cut in an alley near the Saratoga Hotel, where he was lodged.”

  “Yep,” McParland said, taking over impatiently. “The killer pretended he was an insurance man. He came here, walked up there in broad daylight. The governor’s daughter got a good look at him. But he didn’t come to kill the governor right then. He wanted to get the governor out. He needed him to come out front to be blown up. So he waited, over there in the bushes. But the governor went out his kitchen door to avoid his children seeing him go to his office that day. That meant the killer had to adjust his plan. He had to wait until the governor returned that evening. Then—boom.”

  The other plain-clothes operative spoke up. “Why not go to his office and kill him there, at the appointed time?”

  McParland stopped and stared at the inquiring man, holding his gaze till the man began to fidget. “What’s your name?”

  “Forty-Two, Sir. Wade Farrington.”

  McParland’s mustache lifted at the ends. “Forty-Two? So you’re twice the operative as Twenty-One here?”

  “No, Sir.”

  McParland continued, “Why not kill the governor at the office? Logical, if just killing the man was the objective. Would’ve been better. Easier. No one would’ve seen it.” McParland squinted down the street, then back to the shattered porch. “No. There was two of them—one to lure him out, the other to wait and detonate it. Wouldn’t have been the same man. No, it was supposed to be a bomb, an explosion in front of his family. This gruesome carnage is what they wanted. Wanted it in papers across the country.” He stopped, his eyes alive and flitting. “But, no. They didn’t want that. Not these two. They didn’t care. They’d just as soon’ve shot him at his office. Or cut his throat. No, somebody else. Someone wanted to send a message to every politician … every governor, senator … the president. Killing the governor in his office might be mistook as robbery. This was supposed to be big, its message clear.” His enunciation swelled with each realization, each invective. “This was no lone anarchist. This was planned, coordinated, and executed by two men, two animals who knew what they were doing. One’s good with explosives. Look for blasting caps, pieces of cords.” He held up the plaster piece. “Plaster. Hell, maybe one of them is injured. We can hope. Those hedges aren’t far.” He walked into the street with the men in tow like ducklings, then turned and studied the neighborhood. “Mind you, gentlemen, this was ordered. Two did it, but one ordered it. One goddamned man.” McParland watched a carpenter at another house descend his ladder, having completed boarding a window. “One man sent two. One coward, and I know who—that vulgarian in Denver, shagging his wife’
s sister … while the good governor here is blasted to bits in front of his children and wife.” The chief detective’s cheeks reddened. “He made a mistake. Now we must take advantage of it. Find the two dogs. Bring them in alive.” He gave a big nod indicating his approaching conclusion. “If we get them both, we’ll hang William Haywood.”

  <><><>

  – 13 –

  SATURDAY

  January 5, 1907

  Every January, Big Bill Haywood was king when sixty to one hundred locally elected chapter officers of the Western Federation of Miners came together in Park City, Utah. They arrived from mining towns across the Rocky Mountains—the Monitor, Sierra Nevada, and Cascade Ranges to the west; the Bitterroot, Absaroka, and Bighorn Ranges to the north; the Laramie and Sangre de Cristo to the east; and the San Juan and Zuni south. They would meet for two days at the limestone Washington School House which was idle for the winter, and bunk in the Ontario Silver Mine’s barracks. The mountain town of Park City was chosen because it was winter accessible (at the end of a well-maintained Union Pacific branch line) and small enough to provide a sense of freedom and privacy. Women of loose morals were railed in and put up at boarding houses, and the three saloons were stocked with whiskey and poker chips. It also provided a sense of security for the gathering. A Pinkerton spy would be more easily identified there than if the meeting was in Denver, or even in Salt Lake City thirty miles away. The citizens and merchants of Park City embraced them—the exception being Thomas Kearns, President of the Silver King Consolidated Mining Company, who would barricade himself in his Temple Street mansion, certain of a mob insurrection that never came.

  Each year, the discussion topics were the same: improving the lives of miners and their families, being more persuasive against mine owners and more damaging to the Mine Owners Association, how to grow the Federation, and how to improve ties with other national labor unions. In addition, it provided an opportunity for local chapter presidents to register complaints with the Federation’s central leadership. Haywood enjoyed it all, save the last. Usually he had the Federation treasurer, George Pennington, handle the chapter complaints, especially as most gripes concerned money. The exception was this year—George wasn’t there on account of a family illness that kept him in Denver. Thus Haywood, along with his staff, planned to manage it all, complaints included.