“Grant,” Dodge grumbled without eye contact. “Some with Sherman, I suppose.”
“General Dodge is a pioneer of US Army intelligence,” McParland said to Borah. He turned back to their guest. “I’m a student of yours, Sir.”
“No, no,” said Dodge. “You’re the great detective. I’m just an old general.”
Borah added, “And president of Union Pacific Railroad. We’re grateful you would join us today.”
Moments later they were in McParland’s office. “What we’re going to discuss,” commenced the detective, “must remain a tightly held secret, the details known only to the three of us.” He indicated toward the men accompanying Dodge.
With a nudge of his head, Dodge instructed his men to leave.
Once the door closed, McParland lit his pipe and the other two lit cigars, each settling deep into wingback chairs. Behind McParland, a sheet had been hung across a section of the wall. “I hear Butch and Sundance ran into trouble in Argentina,” said McParland.
“I read that,” said Borah. “Someday—”
“They better think twice about returning,” grumbled Dodge.
“Cassidy’s too smart to come back,” said McParland. “He won’t venture north of the equator after what we did to them.”
“To them?” said Dodge.
“To the Wild Bunch. To their men,” McParland corrected himself. “Never got a solid feeling for Sundance’s smarts. But Cassidy—all brains. That nickelodeon got him wrong.”
“Oh, but what a thing, the flicker,” said Borah. “When I was in Washington, I saw—”
“What?” Dodge fumed. “That dung heap, The Great Train Robbery? Great train robbery, my ass. Nothing great about it. That goddamned motion picture made a farce of the Northern Pacific. I should sue them. I’d be in my rights. A perversion of the truth. Ridiculous fellas all made up. A puff of smoke to open one of my safes. And those costumes. Milksops. The silliness. Not one of my trains would be— I mean, damn, you could see they weren’t even on a real goddamned train. You saw that, didn’t you?”
Borah nodded, taken aback by the general’s outburst. “I didn’t think it was a real train, General Dodge, but I suppose—”
“Charlatans!” said Dodge, stamping a period on his invective.
After a moment of silence between the three, Borah eased them on. “Jim, you were saying—Cassidy, brains?”
“Aye, brains,” said McParland, looking primarily at Borah. “Cassidy came barreling out of Telluride, after the San Miguel bank job, and I was tasked to catch him. I was superintendent for Colorado at the time. And Allan Pinkerton’s son, Robert, ran the Western Division. General Dodge knows this. In any case, we were on the narrow gauge in a jiff, quick around to Grand Junction.”
Borah nodded, already engrossed in the detective’s story. Dodge was nonplussed, his expression more toleration than interest.
McParland continued, “We knew they’d be high-tailing it up from Telluride, heading to Brown’s Park, so of course they’d have to go through the Junction area, and their horses would slow on the slopes, making it a hard two days from Telluride. That meant they’d get new mounts in Junction. So, we got to Junction first—by rail in one day. Charlie Siringo was my second-in-command. We talked to liverymen there. They said none of the Wild Bunch had come through. Of course, Charlie and I were a might pleased with ourselves, having gotten ahead of em. I posted men there in Junction and took Charlie and the rest south to come at em head on. We were gonna catch ol’ Butch and Sundance by surprise. But no more than an hour south of Junction, we heard they’d already come through, going north—the day before! Oh, I was a mad hornet, I tell ya. I’d been sold a dog. We turned back to Junction and there got the truth: The night before, Butch and Sundance had ridden right by Junction at a full gallop. Didn’t stop. Aye, they’d been there all right, but they hadn’t switched horses there. We’d missed them by six hours. They were long gone to Browns Park, then on up to Hole-in-the-Wall. Disappeared. Not my finest wire to Mr. Pinkerton.”
“I didn’t know you ran that posse,” said Borah admiringly.
“Aye, it was me. But I was out-matched by—”
“Yes, yes, he stationed horses,” said Dodge in bored resolve.
“Precisely, General,” said McParland. “Butch Cassidy—first bank robber to plan a getaway across three states. Allies and sympathizers all along the way—all prepared, fielding fresh horses, with food mind you, all ready and waiting for em. Planned it out months before he entered that bank. No stopping at towns like Junction—provisioned only out where we didn’t expect.”
General Dodge lifted an eyebrow and turned his wet cigar between his lips. “So, you’re impressed with that whore’s son.” He spanned his hands as if to say, What of it? Then he grumbled, “The man robbed more from my trains than anyone ever did. We’re not pleased they slipped away.”
“I understand,” said McParland. “As you’ve been quoted: Even the most loathed enemy can teach tactics.” He stood and pulled the cloth from the wall, revealing a large map of the western states. Drawn clearly on it was the railroad going north from Denver to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and then west across the entirety of Wyoming and up into Idaho, ending in Boise. Along the route were a number of red dots and brass pushpins in tiny towns like Greeley, Colorado and Green River, Wyoming.
Dodge stood and studied the map. He pointed at the brass pins and gave an erudite snort. “Unexpected stations. Not horses like Cassidy did, but coal, water and engines.”
McParland nodded. “They’re my Cassidy stations.”
“And for those, General Dodge,” said Borah, “the State of Idaho has a special request of the Union Pacific.”
“Yes, yes, I see.”
<><><>
– 34 –
WEDNESDAY
March 6, 1907
To the rising sounds of a large crowd singing the Star-Spangled Banner, Jack entered the Ingleside Racetrack, Iain close behind, both of them sliding and shouldering through the small crowd and past the main gate with its red-and-white sign:
CHARITY AUTOMOBILE RACE
Benefiting the San Francisco Relief
and Red Cross Funds Corporation
They entered the three-story club house where, at the lightly attended betting windows, they turned and surveyed the big room full of people. Most stood in lines leading to tables managed by women wearing Red Cross arm bands. Iain nudged Jack and said, “Over there,” having spotted Pete Polk near the back of a newsstand. As Jack and Iain approached, Pete gave a head tilt toward the door he was holding wide. Inside, the three Pinkerton agents ascended the building’s unadorned back stairs.
As they climbed, Jack asked, “What are they betting on? Isn’t bookmaking—”
“Automobiles,” replied Pete. “It’s for charity. The track closed to horse racing last year. The infield is a refugee camp. You’ll see.”
Re-entering sunlight atop the building, they saw Stan Polk there, alone, kneeling behind a short wall that ran along the edge of the roof. The M1903 rifle was leaning beside him, absent the scope. Also nearby were three shotguns. Stan motioned them to join him and they did. Squatting, peering over the wall and down to their left, they saw four autos abreast at the starting line. Just infield of the cars was a raised white platform on which stood an announcer, bullhorn to his face, addressing the crowd: “… so much gratitude and appreciation for your generosity today. Your kindness and open hearts will never be forgotten. Because of you, our city on a hill will rise again, and so many lives will be restored.”
Jack surveyed the grandstands. It was a sea of brown and black fedoras, homburgs, caps, bowlers, and derbies, interspersed with floral pockets of bursting color—broad-brimmed women’s hats spewing feathers—as if a flock of exotic birds had been shot down over the men.
“Our first race will be an easy one, folks—an amat
eur race—some local heroes, men you know, going up against a racing champion. But the second and third races will be at full speed, with trained drivers. No one will want to miss them!”
In the infield, Jack saw less-bedecked crowds just inside the track’s white railing. And behind those people: a sea of gray-white canvas tents dotted with makeshift small buildings and privies.
“Waving both the starting and winning flags today, the man who made today happen, the founder of the Committee of Fifty, and your leader during these challenging months—the Honorable Mayor of San Francisco, Eugene Schmitz!” Big applause.
“Look there,” said Stan, handing Jack a pair of binoculars and pointing down slightly to their right. “See the 15/16 pole?”
“But you came for a motor race!” The crowd cheered. “So, let’s meet the first race drivers and their cars.”
Jack used the binoculars but didn’t see the pole. He then glanced back at the M1903 rifle. “Where’s the scope?”
Stan pointed at the black tube lying behind the shotguns. “I took it off. It’s dog shit,” he said.
Jack nodded and resumed peering through the binoculars.
“First and foremost, we’re honored to have the Mercedes ninety-horse-power automobile that was driven to victory by Willy Vanderbilt at Daytona Beach, Florida, only a few weeks ago—at a top speed of ninety-three miles per hour!” Cheers.
“Who am I going to see by the pole?” asked Jack. “Swain?”
“No,” said Pete, kneeling. “Still no hide or hair of that man.”
Jack frowned. “Then who? Adams?” Seeing Stan’s nod, Jack’s eyebrows shot up. He looked again, but still couldn’t find the pole.
“Just think, that one machine is ninety horses running this track! Today it’ll be driven by Mr. Thomas Kirkland.” The driver waved to the cheering crowd.
“Try without the specs,” said Stan.
“Daring their luck against the professional driver are three of your San Francisco sons—all members of the Committee of Fifty.” Cheers.
“Right there,” said Iain, pointing over the rail.
Following Iain’s pointed finger, Jack saw a white pole erected alongside the interior rail. It was painted with the marking: 15/16. “I see it,” said Jack.
“Alright,” said Stan. “Now go right—I mean left—about two deep against the rail. See that man?”
“Which one?”
“Wearing a cap.”
“That narrows it down,” grumbled Jack.
“Plaid. Sorta green,” Stan added quickly.
Looking again, Jack thought he saw him. He pulled the binoculars up and found the man: a sharp nose protruding from under a dingy-green cap. Then the man turned, revealing his face in full. Fumbling, Jack unfolded the drawing of Steve Adams. They were the same. “My God, Polk boys—you found him.”
“Been living out there,” said Pete. “Took one of those tents.”
As the race began, Iain yelled over the growl of the automobiles and the crowd. “So what do we do next?”
“Tell the two at the depot?” asked Stan. “Bring em here?”
Jack heard their questions but was still fixed on Adams, who in turn appeared mesmerized by the cars roaring through the first turn at over thirty miles an hour. Jack felt a coolness ripple through his body. They had found Adams. They had found him. Steve Adams. Right down there. “We need to make a plan,” said Jack. “That dog might run.”
<><><>
When McParland arrived at tiny Corral, Idaho—traveling east from Boise for an hour by train, and then a half-day north by horse—he was more than aching; he was angry. The gall of Charlie Siringo, the hired gun and on-again-off-again Pinkerton, to make McParland go so far to meet him.
A self-promoting Texas cowhand, Charles Siringo had been recommended to McParland’s employ in 1898 by the famous US Marshall Pat Garrett. Siringo had then worked for McParland out of the Denver office, tracking a number of outlaws, including Butch Cassidy and Sundance. In addition, Siringo had infiltrated the Federation on occasion, as McParland assigned. But when Siringo became convinced Haywood had him marked for killing, he disappeared. Thus, years later, after McParland finally got word to him, this clump of dirt was where Siringo insisted they meet.
McParland found the sun-furrowed, middle-aged man in the only saloon still standing in Corral. On his way in, McParland scrutinized an unexpected sight: an open-seater automobile parked at the saloon’s hitching rail.
“Charlie,” said McParland once inside. He removed his hat and pulled a chair up to Siringo’s table, on which was a half-bottle of whiskey, a glass, and a nickel-finished Colt .45 with a cherry-red grip. Seeing Siringo’s hat hanging on a high-backed chair nearby, McParland hung his there too.
“Well, looky here,” snorted Siringo. “If it ain’t Old Necessity himself.” His matted, ashy-brown hair bore a permanent hat crease.
“Pretty gun,” quipped McParland, noting the grip.
“Yep.”
The detective peered at Siringo. “Why this place?”
“No railroad here.”
“That’s a problem?”
Siringo shrugged. “I’m careful ’sall.”
McParland signaled the lone barkeep. “Another glass.”
Siringo squinted. “Don’t like being near you none neither.”
McParland shook his head. “Came to hire you, not kill you.”
“You flatter your damn self. You couldn’t hire nor kill me.”
“Then why’d you agree to meet?”
“Last time I signed on with you, it nearly put me under.”
“But it didn’t.”
“Answer’s no.”
“You haven’t heard—”
“No.”
“Put no in a telegram. Hell, try a telephone for godsakes.”
“I’ve used em,” said Siringo.
“I got a saddle-sore ass just so you can say no to my face?”
“Your face looks saddle-sore too.”
McParland laughed. “So—just no?”
“The great detective figures sumtun. Shot the brown, Jimmy.”
After thirty seconds of silence and stares, save the gurgle of poured whiskey, the creak of chairs, and the bartender’s chatter out the back door, McParland asked, “All right. All right. So what can I do for you, Charlie?”
“You wanna help me? Good, cause you owe me.” Siringo reached into a saddle bag, then slid a book across the table.
McParland picked it up and read the cover aloud. “A Cowboy Detective, by Charles Siringo.” He thumbed the pages. “Aye. I heard about this. You know the old man won’t—”
“But as his favorite prat-o-gee, you can get him to allow it. We know that’s so. Old Man Pinkerton’s got a ripe hatred for me.”
“He just wants things kept private, Charlie. Private eye?”
Siringo pointed at the book. “Took two years to write that. It’ll sell like hotcakes. Like my other. But he’s got all the publishers shut against me.”
“How’d you get this one printed?”
“Done it before he knew nothing bout it.”
McParland took a breath. “I’ll try, if and when you help me.”
“Swore I’d never. Not again.” Siringo drained his glass, filled it, and drank again. “You rode a horse here? Ain’t the eighteen-hunderds no more.”
McParland gave a nasally chuckle and pointed to the front of the saloon. “The legendary cowboy, Charlie Siringo, hung up his spurs for an automobile?”
Siringo slung a dusty boot onto a chair, showing that a battered spur was strapped to it.
McParland smiled. “You wear em driving?”
“Even mechanical nags gotta know who’s boss. Especially Priscilla out there.” After returning his boot to the floor, he asked, “So, Jimmy ... who needs
killing?”
“Haywood.”
“Haywood?” Siringo’s forehead scrunched. “The man hisself?”
“The man hisself.”
“My God. What’d he finally do to get roped?”
“He’s not roped yet,” groused McParland.
“What’d he do?”
“Assassinated the governor here.”
“Heard about that.”
“I need your help getting him.”
“I’d like to, that’s for damn sure. But one step in Denver and I’d be blown full of holes. I’d be that cheese with the holes in it. What’s it called?”
“I’m not asking you—”
“He’s got the sheriff and all his pissant deputies, night and day.”
“You asked who needs killing, but I’m not asking you to do it.”
“That’s too bad,” muttered Siringo, his words whiskey laced. He refilled his glass and lifted it. “A toast! Somebody, someday, somewhere should kill that sombitch.” As he pitched back to down the drink, he lost his balance only to catch himself against the wall.
“Devil’s water ain’t so sweet,” recited McParland.
“Sweet enough, by God.”
McParland waited till Siringo had his chair settled. “I need your help to get Haywood hanged. But you won’t need that gun. It’s useless.”
“No gun’s never useless.”
“Tits on a boar,” said McParland. “I don’t want you shooting—”
“Boar’s tits!” Siringo laughed. “Alright, no shooting. So, whadya want from me? Want me to vote eight times for some mine owner’s candidate, like you had me do for— Who was that fella? Oh, I remember.” He grinned broadly. “Yeah, it was the governor of Colorado, wasn’t it? Back in ’98, I think.”
McParland’s eyes grew hard. “We’re not talking old business.”
“Says’s who? Old business,” the cowboy muttered, waggling a finger. “Someone’s always getting killed riding with you.”
“I need a plaster-cased bomb. I’ll give you the design.”
Siringo’s voice dropped to a gravelly octave. “You’re gonna—”
American Red Page 28
