This year, one matter loomed central in the minds of the seventy-eight local officers in attendance: the recent assassination of the governor of Idaho, Frank Steunenberg. Not only had the horrific event empowered the Mine Owners Association to unprecedented action, but it might destroy the Federation en masse. Haywood couldn’t disagree more. It was merely a lone assassin, not unlike the terrorist who shot President McKinley a few years earlier. The man, or men, whoever they were, acted alone. In fact, the Federation risked greater damage by reacting as if it bore some guilt-by-association. But few of the chapter leaders bought it. Obviously the Federation would be blamed: it was their Idaho men who had been illegally arrested and detained by Steunenberg—a reaction to the bombing of the Bunker Hill Mine last summer—which was of course also blamed on the Federation. The Federation must be seen assisting the investigation now—helping the government bring the assassin to justice. That was the only way. Haywood assured them that he was doing just that. In fact, he already had people in Boise helping. That led to a laugh-inducing quip from the president of a Wyoming chapter: “You’re aiding the Pinks now? Pray tell us how that turns out, will you, Big Bill?”
***
On the first evening, Haywood used his annual speech to address the issue. The schoolhouse’s largest room, with its desks cleared, had been filled with cloth-draped tables and chairs, and dining service was brought in on trays. Most of the attendees wore dark sack coats, though a few were in Norfolk-style hunting jackets. Haywood stood beneath two Federation banners and a sign reading:
IN THE WORLD’S BROAD FIELD OF BATTLE,
IN THE BIVOUAC OF LIFE,
BE NOT LIKE DUMB DRIVEN CATTLE,
BE A HERO IN THE STRIFE.
—Gravestone of John Barthell, Telluride, Colorado
He was finishing his prepared remarks. “As you know, the corruption of the low wage system is slavery in another form. Corporations have monopolized the necessities of society and the means of a decent life. Change will only come when intelligence masters ignorance, when workingmen stop bowing at the shrine of wealth and begging for the crumbs that fall from the masters’ tables. There can be no lasting harmony between organized capitalists of such extreme greed, and organized labor—nor between employer and employee, or millionaire and working man.”
After settling the men from their rigorous applause, he added, “Before I finish, let me say—” He leaned and picked up a rifle. “Thank you all for this most wonderful gift.” He lifted it and read the etched words: “Springfield Armory. M1903. It is a fine weapon. Thank you all.” He set it down, then stood erect again. “Now we turn to the annual tradition of questions, though I’m more inclined to call it The Hour of Brutus.” General laughter erupted, and then one hand went up in the crowd, and Haywood motioned to it. “Yes, Henry. Or rather: Et tu, Henry?”
After more laughter from the group, the elderly man began. “I’m hearing a lot of grumbling, from—”
“Didn’t your wife pass, Henry?” chirped one, drawing laughs.
The man smiled ruefully, revealing a barren upper gum, then continued. “Men are concerned about that red fellow, Eugene Debs. If we get seen as socialist, what with the newspapers and all, we’ll lose more members than we got.”
“Do you have a question?” asked Haywood.
“What are you gonna do bout it?”
“We’ll stay true to our ideals. The Western Federation of Miners is not socialist, but we’re about the business of socialism. Socialism with its working clothes on.”
“Don’t know the hell that means,” mumbled Henry, taking his seat. “Doubt you do neither, Bill.” More laughter.
Haywood waited for the room to quieten. “It’s about the treachery of capitalism. Gentlemen, I’ve never read Marx’s Capital, but I have the marks of capitalism all over me.” He pointed to his dead eye. “And I know you do too. Your wives do. Your children too. Same for all your chapter members and their families—marks of injury, hardship, hunger, disease, betrayal, anger. No, our fight is not the Socialist Party’s fight. We don’t seek revolution. We may be miners, but we’re about the business of leveling the ground. We want fairness, humanity, our lives to be valued at the same elevation as that of the rich man who prospers by our labor. We don’t seek to lower him, but to raise ourselves. Socialism? If it’s socialism to uplift the fellow who’s down in the gutter—realizing society can be no better than its most miserable—then I’ll accept that name. But that’s not the socialism Mr. Debs preaches. And I won’t let the Federation be tarred as he’s railed from the national stage.”
A forest of hands and Haywood pointed to another man. “Yes, Henry … Henry the Younger.”
Laughter, and then a middle-aged man stood. “Thank you. I can only hope to live as long as Henry the Elder.”
“Old whiskey and young women,” blurted the aging Henry.
“I’m Mormon,” said the younger.
Another popped, “No whiskey and a bunch of wives—that’s an early grave.”
Smiling, Haywood said, “You had a question, Mormon Henry?”
“Yes, Sir. Some of my men, those who are on injury wages, money coming through you, I mean through Federation headquarters—well, they’ve been getting their pay late … and often missing ten, twenty percent. They get pretty hot at me, Sir.”
Haywood took a noisy breath. “As you can see, George Pennington, our national treasurer, couldn’t be here. But if you’ll give one of my assistants your information, along with the credentials of your men who’ve had this problem, I’ll have George look into it. Just soon as I get back. Fair?”
“Yes, Sir. Fair. Thank you.”
Others added their agreement, saying they too had recovery pay arriving late and missing dollars. Haywood asked them all to do similarly: report to his assistants. Seeking to move on, he pointed to a raised hand near the back. “Tony, I see you back there.”
An Italian man with a face like overcooked bacon stood. “I’m alarmed. And I know my feelings are shared by many here … about the assassination of Governor Steunenberg.”
“Mr. Sabini,” Haywood began, “we’ve discussed that for—”
“Yes, you have … you have,” said the man. “But I was there”—he motioned toward his burned face—“at the Independence Mine in ’04. We all know some members of this union—some say you included—believe violence has a place in the—”
“Not me, Mr. Sabini,” Haywood snarled, squaring his dead eye on the man. “Not me. I’ll not tolerate violence, and I don’t appreciate the accusation that I might. At this moment, our people in Boise are searching for those responsible for the governor’s death.”
With bent elbows, Mr. Sabini raised the flat of his hands, the flesh there also fire-scarred. Though it was a gesture of surrendering the argument, no one believed the matter was put to rest.
<><><>
The Haywoods’ official home was a four-gabled house surrounded by low picket fencing, two miles east of downtown Denver. It sat on Bellaire Street, at the edge of Park Hill Heights (the new residential development just beyond the massive open green that was unimaginatively named City Park). Bill didn’t prefer the Park Hill house. He found its domesticity overpowering, its temperament banal compared to the buzz of the city center with its opera district, saloons, trolleys, all-night cafés—the daring-do of real life with him as its most notorious citizen.
Neva couldn’t fault him his preference. She understood the allure, the aroma of entitlement that oozed up through the floorboards of their expansive Pioneer Building suites. She savored the feeling. It absolved her. It was a commiserative pillow. With it she snuffed breath from her recurrent doubts about her own morality, her guilt for overlooking the deeds that provisioned her, her sins of association, her complicity.
Bill craved the electricity and danger of downtown, rubbing shoulders with his mortal enemies—the mine owners
—just two blocks from the Pioneer. He needed that knife edge. That snap. It was in that crucible that he was most alive, most himself, the only person he wished to be, wished to see. But out in Park Hill Heights, his hair was cut—Samson became a resident, a neighbor, a homeowner, just a man.
Why Winnie equally eschewed the Park Hill house, Neva could only guess. Perhaps in that neighborhood of picket-fenced homes, Winnie felt out of place. A home was meant for one man and one woman, and Neva was clearly that one woman, at least at Park Hill—or so Neva convinced herself. Neva surmised that was why when Bill was out of town, and Neva went to Park Hill, Winnie stayed in the Pioneer suites by herself.
Neva found a different self in the Park Hill house. One she was beginning to prefer. Kinder. Easier. The sentiment was aided by the physicality of the structure: all on the ground level, meaning she could roll her invalid chair wherever she wished. It also had her garden, her roses, her trees, her birds. And silence. Too much silence, but at least it had enough. (Especially when Bill was gone on one of his many trips—the current one being his annual to Park City, Utah.) The gardener would come, as would the maid and cook, and they would talk about the planting depth of paper-white bulbs, the selections of electric chandeliers for the parlor, and the best way to prepare a mutton pie. They would wheel her, attend to her, and she could stay in a day dress from dawn to dusk. There she could even receive friends, were she to have any. Real friends, that is. Other than George. The house was good for receiving George when Bill was out of town. No need for the Metropole Hotel.
George was an unassuming man, though she wished he would assume more. When he arrived that morning with a new pair of green crutches, she couldn’t stop smiling. “Merry Christmas,” he said, standing in the drawing room, holding them out.
She covered her gaping mouth. “My dear George, how did you know I dislike the others?”
“To start with, you rarely use them,” he said, adding, “except for dancing, and undressing … sometimes.” With that and a wink, he had her blushing.
“But those ... look at them, they have such soft arm pads.”
“Lamb’s wool,” he said.
“And they’re green! How did you find green ones?”
“Your favorite color.”
“You’re an angel,” Neva gushed. “Did Denver Dry have them in green? Or Sears? Did you order them from Sears?”
“I had a chair maker paint them and add the wool.”
She held them across the arms of her invalid chair, stroking and examining them. “Oh, you are my dear George, aren’t you? Come, let me kiss you.”
He glanced about.
“No one is in, except Maria.”
“All right,” he said, “but how about you stand?”
As he helped her, she said, “Yes, I’ll certainly stand for that.” Once up, she tucked the padded tops of the new crutches under her arms and straightened the pleats in the blue skirt of her sailor-styled shirtwaist dress. (She knew he liked it for its plunging neckline featuring a gauzy insert.) “Perfect,” she said. “Now for the best part.”
He held her face, kissed her, and she returned it. As he moved a hand to her waist, she reached for the back of his neck. The right crutch fell against the invalid chair before clattering to the rug.
“Oops,” she whispered.
“Terrific,” he breathed. “I’ll have to bring new crutches every day … and night.”
“Well, get to it, Mr. Pennington. Every color of the rainbow.”
He snorted a laugh, kissing her again.
<><><>
– 14 –
WEDNESDAY
January 9, 1907
When the distant boom of the governor’s death reached the rear, boots, and ears of Steve Adams, he had been waiting at the dark Boise station. He had then left on the next train to Cheyenne, Wyoming, just ahead of the first Pinkertons to arrive and start interrogating every person coming and going through the station.
By the time the train had switched engines at Pocatello, Idaho, Adams had heard the first babbles about the assassination of the governor. Apparently, the telegraph lines had glowed from the heated messages zipping from Boise, or so they said. The killer was known—had been spotted—was already dead—was unknown—was on the run. He was an Italian anarchist hiding with the Blackfeet—he blew himself up at the scene—he was an Irishman on his way to Canada. It amused Adams, though he was a touch irritated. He should have slit the governor’s throat that afternoon at the man’s house. But no, glory had gone to the goat-fucker Orchard.
Now, a little over a week later, shafts of sunlight found Adams in benched sleep aboard a rattler as it whistled, braked, and belled to a stop at the Ogden Union Station. He sat up, checked his Bowie was still booted, and began to pick his nose and stretch his mouth—all while being observed from the facing bench by two boys each no more than six years old. They snickered at his finger up his buzzard beak until a parent yanked them to leave. He stayed put—would exit later. His next train, the Southern Pacific Overland to San Francisco, wouldn’t depart until 9:10 the next morning.
He slid against the window, lowered the brim of his cap, closed his eyes, bit on a yellow fingernail, then pulled his black coat around him, popping up the collar. Orchard was just a coward pulling on blasting caps. But he, Steve Adams, was Death. Death used a scythe—a blade—not explosives. Death should be intimate, up close. Death felt the knife enter the body. Felt the life leave. And Death was coming for Mr. James Branson III, the unfortunately still-alive superintendent of the Bunker Hill Mine.
Someone had informed Big Bill of last summer’s incomplete operation at the Bunker—apparently the one-handed Branson had been seen in Spokane afterwards. Adams, holed up in Boise, had received a short telegram from an unidentifiable Denver source: JB IN SF. Adams had then intended to leave Boise, but Governor Steunenberg’s mass arrests had begun, and all Idaho depots were under tight guard. So, he hunkered in the Saratoga Hotel. Then Orchard arrived in Boise in desperate need of Adams’s help with the bombing. The no-good Orchard couldn’t just do things on his own. But he sure took the credit. Damn him.
Adams even tried to sabotage Orchard’s plan by warning the governor on Christmas Day—hoping the governor would remain alive, leaving Adams to kill both the governor and Orchard. But Adams lost his nerve when Steunenberg answered the phone. Rather than giving a detailed warning, Adams just mumbled about being careful and hung up. He was never good at talking and hated those damn telephones. So, Orchard got to use his bomb.
Having done his part, Adams lit out for Cheyenne before this journey west to San Francisco where he hoped the edge of the country wouldn’t fall into the goddamned ocean. He’d be fast, once there—in and out. Like a quick, lethal stab. Kill the superintendent and go. No earthquake would get him. Afterwards, maybe he’d visit his uncle in Nevada. He took a deep breath through his now-clear nose. He could rest. Tomorrow, Death would board the 9:10 to San Francisco.
<><><>
Haywood moved through their Park Hill Heights home, coffee in hand, dressed for the day, save his jacket and tie. In the privacy of his home, this was comfortable. But it wouldn’t do in public, not even in his office in the Pioneer Building. This rule wasn’t out of some desire to always appear well attired—it was because he needed the coat to conceal his shoulder holster. And, though he wouldn’t admit it, it was because he felt high-buttoned vests accented his girth. Without the span of his jacket’s foliage, the circumference of his trunk was too apparent. So, he always wore his jacket in public—emphasizing the largess of his presence, not its largeness. More importantly, he would never be seen sitting coatless outside this house or the Pioneer suites—sitting only made the tree trunk wider. He regarded himself in the hall mirror. Seeing Neva’s new green crutches behind him in the reflection, he turned to examine them. “Hmmph,” he grunted softly, feeling the fluffy woolen pads. He entere
d the kitchen, walked to Neva at the table, and leaned and kissed her on the forehead. She was in her invalid chair, flanked by two empty regular chairs. “Do this for me,” he said, continuing a request he had launched minutes earlier while urinating.
Neva rolled her green eyes at him, watching him sit to her left. She didn’t prefer that arrangement as it placed his gray-white, dead eye nearer to her. But she said nothing. She knew the other side of him was reserved—something to which she had long acquiesced.
She adjusted the sleeves of her sporting shirt, not wanting it to get stained. Then she touched his leg and gave a measured smile, the wrinkles about her eyes spreading into view. “You cannot be serious,” she said. “Claus is a bulldog.” The winter sun spilled across their fried eggs, tomato slices, and bacon strips. Out the window behind them, silvery hills rolled and turned under their snow-blue quilt, their jagged sentinel parents looming in the distance.
“So is Sheriff Tetter. He’s a bulldog,” offered Haywood, his mouth mushy with eggs. “His wife’ll tell him to do it, if you ask her. It needs to be his idea. I don’t want anyone knowing I want Claus deputized. Tetter’s got to suggest it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered, turning to watch cardinals alight on the tin birdfeeder just beyond the window seat. She was disappointed Bill had come to the Park Hill house upon returning from his Utah trip. But at least when he did, Winnie did too, which Neva had difficulty minding.
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