The tall young Pinkerton, Jack Garrett, was easy to find. In fact, Carla had noticed him several times since the bombing, making “finding him” unnecessary. Of course, his peculiar hat—a flat blacky, as Winnie had called it—aided in identifying him. But Carla thought she could’ve spotted him by his square shoulders and rugged face. Winnie hadn’t mentioned those.
What Winnie had told Carla was that Federation guards in Denver had begun to suspect Jack as a possible Pink spy, rather than the Federation man he pretended to be. In fact, had Jack stayed in Denver, he might’ve been hurt badly. Or even killed. In Boise, any doubts about Jack being a Pinkerton had been erased. He’d been seen close with the Pinkertons, even examining Governor Steunenberg’s yard with Chief Detective McParland. Now, under the new plan that Carla was making happen, Jack would be recruited as a double agent, just as the loner Wade had been. Jack the Pinkerton would be helping the Federation, not spying on it.
First, she wanted to test Jack, to toy with him, to tease him, to learn what she could. Thus, two days earlier, she had crossed Main Street from the Saratoga and flirted with him, let him chase after her—even planted the idea that she was someone he could count on, that she wanted to help him. She figured that once she received the telephone call telling her to give up Orchard, she would have the perfect person to take her inside Pinkerton operations. The added benefit was that Jack would be grateful to her; and thus, perhaps, he’d be open to recruitment. Or so went her plan. But she hadn’t counted on the tingling flush she felt when she was near Jack, as she was at that moment, standing at McParland’s table, waiting as Jack pulled her chair.
“Miss Capone,” Jack began, “is a waitress at the Saratoga.”
“Of course,” said McParland. “How do you like it there?”
“They’re decent to me,” Carla replied, sitting.
Jack took his seat. “She has a report about a man there who—”
McParland raised a finger. “If you will, let her tell me.”
“Oh, I’m not sure it was anything,” she said, her voice prim.
“Don’t be nervous, dear,” said McParland. “Just tell me what you told Agent Garrett—whatever got him to bring you up here.”
Jack remained quiet, watching.
“This is quite new to me,” she began. “What with the awful murder of— And the crowds and armed men.”
“Aye,” offered McParland. “It can be a bit overwhelming.”
Carla gave a contrite smile—theatrics sold by it being expected. “There’s a man who— I’m not sure, of course, but he might be someone … you know … involved.”
McParland silently counted to four. “All right. Who is he?”
“Mr. Orchard. A guest at the Saratoga for some time.”
“How long?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Well before Christmas.” She paused for another question, but, getting none, she continued, “He’s been behaving queerly. Especially the night of the murder.”
“How so?”
“With the poor governor, as you know … well, everyone has been most upset. We felt the explosion all the way from Caldwell. Then, when it was learned what had happened, people in the Saratoga were crying and the like. But this man came in that evening full of lightness. You might say, happy.”
“Is he usually happy? Is that the kind of man he is?”
“He’s a sheep seller. I don’t know if that’d make him so.”
“Some sheep sellers are happy, I think,” McParland said, drawing a wide-eyed shrug from her. “How do you know his profession?”
“He told me. He’s often sought my company.”
McParland looked at Jack. “Can’t fault the man for that.”
“No. I’d expect—” began Jack.
“Did he speak about the bombing?” McParland continued.
“No, Sir. But he gave the image of a man who—I’m sorry to say—seemed pleased it had happened.”
McParland let silence come, then asked, “Orchard, you say?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Thank you, Miss Capone.” He sat back and considered her, watching her eyes flit to Jack, then back to him. “Do you know what room he’s staying in?”
“Three-twelve,” she replied.
<><><>
With the pick-lock keys failing him, Pinkerton operative and Federation spy, Wade Farrington, was frustrated. He had to kill the man inside room 312 before Carla’s tip drew McParland there. That was his order, relayed from, he assumed, Mr. Haywood. He was to kill the governor’s assassin, and he had to do it right then. Running out of time, he stepped back and considered booting open the hotel room’s door. He pocketed the keys and again drew his pistol. Then he noticed the snoring had stopped. Might the killer have awakened, heard the lock attempts, and prepared himself with a sawed-off 10-gauge? Farrington tried to ease his shuddering gun hand. Perhaps the man had already fled through his window, leaving a bomb to be triggered by the opening of the door. Farrington would be dead before he knew what happened. He eased forward and placed his ear to the door. Nothing. Just then, another guest opened a different door to the hall, causing Farrington to jump, hide his pistol, and make for the stairwell.
<><><>
McParland hurried into the Saratoga with Jack and three other Pinkertons trailing closely. The four in tow carried shotguns. Passing the passenger elevator, McParland considered the baggage elevator but instead headed to the internal stairwell and began walking up. On the second-floor landing, the posse going up met Farrington coming down.
“What are you doing here?” inquired McParland in a hushed voice. He noted Farrington’s face flashing disappointment upon seeing them.
“I was here,” stuttered Farrington, blanching noticeably. “Followed someone here, up here. He seemed suspicious.”
“Who?”
“Not sure, but you don’t—”
“Where? Where is he?”
Farrington skipped a beat, then said, “Room three-twelve.”
McParland’s chin cocked to one side. “You don’t say. We’re here for the same man. Why are you coming down?”
“He went in his room, and I thought—”
“Is he armed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, Sir.”
McParland moved by. “Good. Come with us.”
“Yes, Sir,” muttered Farrington, turning around.
Jack studied Farrington. Something didn’t feel right.
At room 312, Farrington moved up to advise caution. But before he could, McParland motioned him to kick open the door.
Farrington pointed at himself, as if to ask, Me?
McParland nodded.
“Maybe we should knock first,” Farrington whispered, only to get a grizzled glare from behind the detective’s round glasses. The other men were preparing to rush in. Farrington stood for a moment while the imagined threats within the room flooded his mind. He inhaled, blew it through pursed lips, and then, with one explosive kick, burst open the door. But there was no booby-trapped explosion. No shotgun blast from within.
McParland entered promptly, led by his Colt .45 revolver which he pointed at the instantly awake Harry Orchard, cowering on the far side of the bed, having leapt there upon the door flying wide. Farrington entered next, pistol in hand, followed by Jack with a shotgun. The other three remained in the doorway and hall.
“Mr. Orchard?” McParland asked.
“Yes. No,” squeaked Orchard, still hiding.
“Get yourself dressed, Mr. Orchard,” snapped McParland.
Muttering under his breath, Orchard stood and complied.
McParland surveyed the room, honing in on a small, brown glass bottle in a corner. He picked it up, flinched from the smell of it, and handed it to Jack who likewise sniffed and winced.
“Snow? I fish with it.”
McParland nodded vaguely. “You came to Boise, mid-winter, to go fishing, did ya? You don’t look the sort. Not to me you don’t.”
“I’m a sheep man in commerce. And I fish. I was tying flies.”
“No, Mr. Orchard, I don’t think any of that’s true.”
“It is.”
“No. I’ll tell you what it is—it’s incongruous,” said McParland. “Do you know that word? Incongruous?” Orchard looked down. “Means out of place. Something that just doesn’t fit.”
Jack picked up a flyer from the windowsill. “Federation,” he said, handing it to McParland.
McParland read a line from it aloud: “‘Soulless corporations located in a foreign state who treat workers like machines.’ Bunch of socialist horseshit, Mr. Orchard.” He then tossed Jack a set of handcuffs. “You found the man, you cuff him.”
“Yes, Sir,” Jack said, beaming on the inside, firm on the out.
McParland was at the washstand, examining the sticky powder that appeared to have been spilled behind the basin. He smoothed a finger through it, sniffed it, ground it between his thumb and middle finger. “Plaster of Paris.”
“That ain’t—” protested Orchard. “I didn’t put that there.”
“This is your room, is it not?”
“Yeah.”
“Why is plaster of Paris in your room? More incongruity, Mr. Orchard. So you’re a sculptor t’boot? Besides being a fishing sheep shagger, of course.”
“Dice,” implored Orchard. “I made a pair of loaded dice.”
McParland tilted his head back as if encountering a bad smell. “Loaded dice, ya say?”
“Yeah.”
“Weighted?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are they, these dice? Let’s have a look at em.”
“I gave em— They took em from me.”
“Oh, they did, did they?”
“Yeah. Cheatin bastards.”
“Cheatin bastards,” McParland said loudly. “Yes, that’s what they are. I hate cheatin bastards.”
“I hate em too.”
“I bet you do,” said McParland, turning around. “Plaster, acid, fishing line, all right here. You made the bomb right here, right in this room, didn’t you?”
“No,” said Orchard.
“A little nanty-narking, cheating at craps on your way to fish?”
“No. I mean, yes.”
“That’s enough. No need to lie about the acid. I’m sure you’ve got some excuse. What’s your given name, Mr. Orchard?”
Orchard shrugged, looking away.
“Come now. I think it’s Harry. I’ve heard of a Harry Orchard, henchman for the Federation. But I thought he was just a rumor. A myth—bigger than life. I didn’t realize he was a snively little liar. Guess I should’ve, though. It’s Harry, right? No, now, your real name is Albert Horsley. Isn’t that so?”
Orchard’s mouth gaped slightly, already answering the question before it produced words. “Might be,” he said.
“But you prefer Harry Orchard?”
Orchard nodded.
“In that case, Mr. Orchard …” McParland counted to four silently before finishing, “I arrest you for the assassination of Governor Steunenberg.”
“That ain’t right,” said Orchard.
“No, it most certainly ain’t,” said McParland. He picked up Orchard’s brown coat, the one with the bullet hole in the back, and placed it around the man’s shoulders. “State pen’s a might cold.”
“Then give me my bear one,” exclaimed Orchard.
“No, that one will do.”
“I want—”
“Shit in one hand, wish in the other, Mr. Orchard. See which one fills up first.” McParland smirked. “No, I don’t want you entirely comfortable.” He paused, looking at the bear coat, remembering the governor’s wife and daughter said the pretend salesman was wearing a long fur coat. This must be the one. He would leave it with the man—let him wear it—see who else recognized it. “Then again, we don’t want you freezing to death before we get to hang you.” McParland motioned with his hand, and Farrington put the larger coat over Orchard’s shoulders. McParland then picked up Orchard’s dirty bowler hat to place it on the man’s round head.
“No, just leave that,” said Orchard, as if afraid of the thing. “I don’t want it. It’s not mine. There’s lice in it.”
McParland stopped. “This isn’t your hat?”
“No.”
“Looks like it’s yours,” he said, turning it over to look inside.
“No. I found it, but it don’t fit me now.”
“Now? All of a sudden? It is a bit worn,” mused McParland, considering the grime on it. Then he set it down. He looked at Farrington. “Collect all this and bring it to my office.”
“The hat too?” asked Farrington.
“Aye.”
As Farrington and another agent gathered the items, McParland observed Orchard’s eyes skittering back to the bowler. Then, noticing Jack was observing the same thing, the chief gave a faint snort of approval. “You should be pleased with yourself, Agent Garrett. This was good.”
<><><>
– 20 –
TUESDAY
January 15, 1907
“Goddamnit!” shouted Haywood. He stood in his Denver office the next morning, one of his men standing before him—the one who had just delivered the telegraph sparking this torrent. “Go up and get Winnie. Get her down here.”
“Now, Sir?”
“Yes, now. And find Mr. Darrow. He’s back from Chicago, I think.” Haywood glanced at the tall clock. “Tell him to be here in an hour, at eleven. But Winnie, get her now.”
“Sir,” replied the man, already halfway gone.
Fifteen minutes later, Winnie entered to see Haywood’s broad back as he stared out the window. “Darling,” she said, gliding in under a rushed-up pompadour, wearing a dark-pink skirt and a white taffeta-silk waistshirt. “What’s the rush?”
“That girl, your friend, she failed us.”
“Oh no.” Winnie moved closer. “Was Carla found out?”
“No,” Haywood muttered, “but it didn’t go as I instructed.”
She slowly slid an arm around him, resting her head on his back. “I’m sorry.”
He moved away. “You said she’s reliable, that she’d see it done.”
Using her tone of disarmament, she asked, “What’s the big trouble, Bear?”
“The man’s been arrested! Alive! Goddamnit!”
“What man?”
“Harry Orchard. The one that—”
“Who arrested him?”
“Scum Pinkerton—McParland. Should’ve killed him here in Denver.” His chin fell. “It’s all shit now. I’ll hang. My God, they’re going to kill me, Win.”
“Nonsense,” she tried. She hated outbursts of weakness from him. That wasn’t their arrangement. She was in this for her sister, and for herself. His part was to be Big Bill Haywood, providing them protection, power, and a future without want. Not that her love for him wasn’t sincere—it was, she believed—but in this moment, she wasn’t acting on it. Rather, she needed to enclose his bad spirits, manage him to an easier mind before Neva (who was in the suites above them) heard him shouting through the floor. If Neva became anxious again, severely anxious, well … Winnie would not let that happen. “I’m sure you’ll find a way through this. You always do.” She kissed h
is neck.
“I don’t know.”
“Orchard can still be reached, I would imagine. Isn’t that so?”
Haywood shook his head. “They’ve got him in the Idaho State Penitentiary. Not some county jailhouse.”
Winnie poured two whiskeys from the glass decanter and handed him one. “You said Carla failed. How? Did she place the things in his room? The plaster I sent her?”
“Yes. I believe so.” Haywood groused, taking his glass to the tufted blue settee.
Winnie moved to a chair. “And she alerted the Pinks?”
“Yes.”
“But they arrested him?”
“Our man didn’t get him. The one she recruited, Farrington. Maybe he wasn’t with us after all. If that’s the case, then—”
“Then he needs—”
“You go. You can get into that prison. No one knows you there.”
“Detective McParland knows me.”
“Don’t call him that!” Haywood burst. “He’s a pulp copper at best. A traitor against the Irish, his people. Against everyone.”
She slid from her chair to kneel between his legs, laying one cheek on his thigh, the loose bits of her golden hair across his lap, her hand sliding up. “Let’s—”
“No,” he huffed, moving her hand. “Get up.”
She did. Though she felt blistered by the rejection, she didn’t allow a clue of it in her eyes. Instead, she returned to her chair, positioning herself on the leading edge so she could still touch his knee. “What can I do?” she cooed.
“I don’t need a poke, Win. I need a dead man in Boise.”
“Let’s start with this, and go from there.”
***
When Clarence Darrow arrived, Haywood’s walnut clock struck eleven and Winnie had just left, leaving behind a heady waft of lilac perfume and a big man remarkably calmer. Haywood passed the telegraph to Darrow and watched the lawyer examine it. He knew Darrow didn’t just ingest the words, didn’t just absorb the implications of the message—Darrow was processing chess moves far ahead. Nothing could surprise this short, solemn man, this orator second only to Shakespeare—had Shakespeare given closing arguments. Of all the trophies Haywood had collected, few compared to having the famed attorney, Clarence Darrow, as his personal counsel. In fact, pressed to rank his most prized treasures, he would begin with the admiration of his men, then having Darrow, then Winnie, and then the Packard. Maybe the Packard, and then Winnie. Oh, and of course Neva and the children would be up there too, somewhere. The Federation had a flotilla of attorneys—multiples in all the western mining states—but there was only one Clarence Darrow. Haywood recalled joking that he wished, just once, to be tried for something awful so he could hear Clarence Darrow give a closing argument in his defense—to hear the man speak about him, to praise him with the eloquence of the gods. What a thing that would be. It might happen now, Haywood thought gloomily, awaiting Darrow’s response to the telegraph.
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