“It needs to be real, but it won’t be used.”
“That all?”
“And I need you to take a train to Denver—about a month on.”
Siringo shook his head. “I’d get seen. People know me.”
“Aye, they do. One hundred dollars—one bomb, one train ride.”
“Where to where?”
“Cheyenne to Denver, then down to Fort Worth.”
“I’ll be killed in Denver.”
“No, you won’t.”
Siringo paused. “You’ll get the old man square on my book?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Priscilla’s got to come too.”
“Who?” asked McParland.
“My motorcar. I told you.”
McParland sighed. “I’ll get her to you, wherever you end up.”
“If you get me killed, I wanna be buried in her.”
The detective squinted. “Your automobile?”
“Yeah. Now, you just said—”
“Alright, Charlie. Alright then.”
“Alright then,” echoed Siringo with a resigned shrug.
The detective peered over his eyeglasses. “You can’t be drunk.”
“Says the Mick. No, I’ll be sober as a judge.”
McParland smiled. “Aye. That’s what worries me.”
<><><>
The plan was for Jack, Iain, and Pete to spread out across the infield as the second race got underway. Then they would advance on Adams from three directions, corralling him against the inside rail where it curved at the first turn. Stan would remain on top of the clubhouse as their spotter, signaling the three below. His job was to keep sight of Adams and occasionally point at him. If he could no longer see Adams, he was to cross his arms across his chest until he found him again. That way, the other three need only look up at Stan to get a bearing on their target. Once the three were close and had Adams in sight themselves, they would take up positions and stay put. Then, after the fourth and last race, as Adams moved back deeper into the infield, they would tackle and cuff him, using the crowd to disguise their final approach. That was the plan.
***
The three on the ground worked their way behind the grandstands and around the outside rail, out of sight of the first turn where Adams seemed set to remain for the duration of the races. Each carried a shotgun close to his leg, pointed down. As they reached the third turn, they crossed the track when it was clear. Then, once on the infield, they fanned out, heading for Adams in the far corner. Pete moved along the backside rail, Iain along the front side, and Jack diagonally through the refugee tent-city in the middle.
But things went wrong rapidly. When they looked up at Stan, they saw one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding binoculars to his face. Had he lost sight of Adams, or not? Seeing the half-signal, both Jack and Iain slowed, unsure if they might run into the killer. But Pete, having read his brother’s signal differently, kept moving swiftly along the backside. When he reached the midpoint of the track, he passed within three feet of Adams—recognizing him immediately—and stumbled into two girls as he came to a stop. One of the girls fell, then yelled as Pete pivoted, pulling his shotgun toward Adams who turned at the commotion, saw the shotgun and drew his pistol. Already within touching distance, Pete kept his shotgun spinning, grabbed it by the double barrels and whipped its butt into Adams’s jaw, smashing him against the rail, the pistol flying onto the track. By then the cars were roaring by, down the back straightaway, just feet from the pressing, cheering crowd. Only a few noticed the brutal fight in their midst. Pete again spun the shotgun—this time to fire it—but Adams was on him, leaning into him, Bowie knife in hand, arm shaking as Pete tried to shove the blade away. Pete threw an elbow into Adams’s face and turned the knife back.
From above the clubhouse, Stan noticed a commotion on the far side of the infield and began searching the area with his binoculars. (He had, in fact, lost sight of Adams, and was unaware that their target had moved to the backside rail.) When he saw Pete and Adams entangled, he began shouting, but it was no use. He resorted to firing the rifle into the air, but few noticed—other than to presume he was a drunk enjoying the race. His shooting did draw Jack’s and Iain’s attention, but neither comprehended its meaning—until they saw Stan pointing urgently toward the far side of the track. At that, they both turned and ran, pushing through the crowd.
When Pete saw a chance, he landed another blow to Adams’s jaw, dazing the killer for a second. But Pete didn’t follow through quickly enough. Adams wheeled, slamming Pete over the railing, landing both men on the dirt track. Looking up, they saw cars rounding the second turn, accelerating onto the back straight, directly toward them. Panicking, Pete tried to roll under the railing but, in doing so, he abandoned his guard. Adams saw it and buried the knife deep in Pete’s side. As Pete gasped, Adams leapt the railing just as the front wheel of a speeding Fiat crushed Pete’s head, splattering blood and jerking the wheels left, sending the car through the railing at seventy miles an hour where it missed the crowd but plowed through two refugee tents, rolling twice and flipping once, killing both the driver and his assistant instantly.
The infield that had been sheltering refugees of ruin was now a panorama of wreckage—spectators scattering, frantic outcries and confusion, black smoke billowing skyward over an inverted racecar and shredded tents. Against the stampede, the wide-eyed young Pinkertons kept shoving, shouldering and pushing their way toward the tragedy.
Meanwhile, Steve Adams had vanished.
<><><>
– 35 –
FRIDAY
March 8, 1907
“Yes, I’m on my way,” Neva shouted, rolling herself with eagerness from her bedroom in the Pioneer suites, her wheels growling down the dark hall’s long, wooden planks, past the wash closet and Winnie’s room, past the small hall to the drawing room and the dining room beyond, before turning at the foyer where she beamed to her black-suited guest. “Reverend Sanders. Oh, Reverend, you don’t know how good it does my heart to see you.”
“Neva, thank you for accepting my request.” He took her uplifted hand. “You’re looking well.”
“Then you’ve gone blind,” she demurred in false humility. She knew she looked better than she had in months. It was due to George, of course, but who could say. She did like the silk waistshirt she wore, particularly the pointed yolks, but that wasn’t something the reverend would notice.
“I see quite well,” he said with a flat smile.
She turned toward the parlor. “Come, we’ve much to discuss.”
“Yes, thank you.” He began to place his hands on her invalid chair, to roll her, but she was already in motion.
A storm was rolling into Denver, cutting the afternoon light from the windows to a dusky gray, leaving the fireplace to provide most of the room’s illumination. Neva pointed for him to sit on a couch before the glowing mantel. “Harriet,” she said to a servant in the shadows, “bring the tea?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Shall I put on the lights?”
“No, the reverend is not a friend of electricity.” She pivoted to Sanders. “Sit, won’t you?” She patted the couch. “You arrived today from Walla Walla?”
“Yes. I’m no friend of trains either, necessities they may be.”
“But can you imagine taking a coach? My father used to wagon from Walla Walla to Salt Lake, to trade. I went with him once. What a fool thing.” She refocused. “You were here last Fall?”
“Yes, in October. I came to see Mr. Darrow on the Fort Collins land matter. I called on you, but you were unwell. It was kind of you to arrange for him to handle the particulars. It’s God’s earth, but it takes lawyers to parcel it up.”
“I’m pleased he was of service.”
“I’ve yet to see the deeds, but I don’t doubt he—”
�
��He gets distracted by Bill’s business.”
The reverend took the tea when presented, thanked the servant, and stared into the fire. “May I ask, is your husband home?”
“He’s in his office.” She blew across her tea. “Or elsewhere.”
“And Winnifred?”
Neva tensed. “No, Winnie isn’t here.”
“Good.” Sanders nodded. “What I must discuss is delicate.”
“Then perhaps you should’ve written.”
“I couldn’t. I needed to speak with you—directly.”
Neva fell silent. On alert. Like seeing a pan fall from the stove, she knew where it was going and hoped to dodge the burn.
“We, your church family, Seventh-day Adventists, we are enormously grateful for the contributions you and your husband have made to Walla Walla.”
“Made by me. Me. Bill would end it, but I’ve persuaded him of the importance of giving for the cause of our Lord.”
“As I said, our gratitude is abundant.” He blew a sigh through his nose. “But … the funds come from the Western Federation of Miners. And controversies—great ones, mind you—have arisen around that source. So, whether or not I, or anyone, may sympathize with labor causes, it’s simply—”
“Those are separate matters.”
“I wish they were, but events have caused the college trustees, as well as the majority of our senior deacons, to reconsider.”
“No one made you take our money. No one forced you.” Neva snipped with an ingénue’s air.
“True, very true. But that was before new matters came to light.” Seeing her eyebrows rise, he continued, “It’s come to our attention that some of the monies that you, graciously of course, have forwarded to the college, originated as monies Bill received from the union in violation of union rules. Further, his dealings with socialist leaders, Mr. Debs in particular, are quite objectionable to church tenets. And that’s before the matter in Boise.”
“The matter in Boise?”
“Yes.” He stirred his tea, arranging his thoughts in the swirl, then took a sip and said, “Are you aware that a man, a Mr. Orchard, has confessed—both to the assassination and that your husband ordered it?”
It was her turn to sip.
He continued, “As I understand it, Bill will be tried in Boise.”
She shook her head. “Mr. Darrow says they can’t do that.”
“But if they do—if they bring Bill to trial—then you’ll want to remain unblemished, free from the stain of such an enormous scandal. You and your daughters. Whether he’s found guilty or not, the matter will ruin him. And I’m sorry to put this in words, but if Bill’s found guilty, he’ll be hanged.”
“I know that,” she said, her voice level.
Sanders took a moment. “All right.”
“If you don’t want my money,” Neva began haughtily, “after all that I’ve given to the church … I …” She fixed her gaze on the blue tips of the flames—evanescence that was never there. “Bill will be pleased,” she said, her voice having fallen soft. “He’ll buy more automobiles or something. But you can do good with it.”
“I’m sorry, but we cannot continue. Not in good conscience.”
“I love my church, Reverend. My faith, my girls. I love Winnie and—” She swallowed George’s name. “They’re all I have … all that’s mine.”
Sanders touched her arm. “You’re my sister in Christ. That’s why I came this distance to speak with you about it.” He paused. “And about you.”
“About me?”
“How you’re living in this world, and for the next. The indignity you suffer with your husband … and your sister.”
She was prepared to lash out at the man’s presumptuousness, his callous intrusion into such a private matter, but the indignation wouldn’t come. Maybe it was the surprise of it all. She had not suspected this was the intention of his visit—to talk about the “arrangement” with Winnie. And to now hear it said aloud, the audacity of a secluded truth put plainly before her, was a detonation in her heart. Even with George, the subject was nitroglycerin, not to be handled carelessly or bluntly. Here was this stranger, this representative of God, daring to speak aloud her sin. A sob rose from her throat and exited her nose. Then another. She sniffed, clamping her jaws, attempting not to dissolve. This man knew what she had fortressed away for years—murky secrets in frigid rooms she willed to stay locked. Not only did he know the contents of those rooms, but he had brought the key. When he gave her his handkerchief, she wiped her cheek and said the only words that dared to emerge. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not here to judge you, Neva. I have no right.”
She nodded.
“God gave us marriage as a holy sacrament—a divine gift for one man and one woman. Only your covenant with God, your faith, is greater than the pledge you made to your husband … and the pledge he made you. The Bible teaches us that to stray from the marriage bed is sin.” Holding eye contact with her, he touched her invalid chair. “My sister in Christ, there is no condition or cause, infirmity or ache, that would excuse what your husband is doing—forcing you to accept polygamy.” He paused, and then added, “And we’re well aware of God’s judgment against the Mormons for that wicked practice.”
Neva returned her gaze to the flickers and pops of the fireplace.
“I believe I know why you’ve permitted it,” he said.
“I had no choice,” she whispered. “For myself and my girls.”
“This is a vile thing he’s placed on you. But it’s a test.”
“Polio?”
“No, I don’t mean the burden that God has—”
“Yes. My burden.”
“I meant the situation with your sister. That’s the vile situation your husband, not God, has placed on you.”
“But, like this”—she tapped her chair—“I didn’t have a choice with Bill. Nor did Winnie.”
“Come now, both of you had a choice. Have a choice. All three of you do. And I’m sorry to say this, but it is of cruel regard that your sister encourages the sin. Staining your family.”
“You don’t understand,” Neva retorted. “While Bill is my husband, if I refuse this arrangement, I’ll lose my sister. And my girls will be sent to a boarding school far away—Vermont. So, I won’t. You cannot ask that of me.”
“I don’t ask it. God does.”
“God asks it of me? God? He put me in this chair! He might take me home soon, leaving my girls orphans, essentially. Who is He to give me instructions on my marriage, telling me to lose everything, to be alone? No, Reverend!” She banged her invalid chair. “This … this chair is my right to refuse!”
Sanders bobbed his head. “God loves you, Neva. And your girls. And your church loves you and them. You’ll never be alone, and they’ll never go unattended. Bring them to Walla Walla. Winnifred too, if she wishes. Work at the College, perhaps—help others while you still have life and your wonderful spirit. Yes, this mysterious disease has befallen you, but none of us can count his days. I don’t know that I’ll survive the trip back on that speeding train,” he added with an unrequited chuckle. “Who can know what Jesus may ordain for our lives, before we are to join Him in his heavenly sanctuary.” He touched her hand as she began to cry. “But, Neva, don’t be tempted by what appears as power or privilege, only to lose your soul—just to remain close to William Haywood, who—and I believe you must know this—is consumed in the devil’s work: evilness, cruelty, greed, avarice. And he displays the foulest disrespect for you, not just as a woman but as a child of God.”
As Neva fell into full sobs, the reverend put both arms around her shoulders. Once a little calmer, she said, “I’m petrified—scared to my core. He would never let us go. With his thousands of loyal men, no one is beyond his reach.”
“I think you know,” Sanders whispered, “he actua
lly would let you go—and your girls, as you said. It’s a painful thought, but perhaps best accepted.”
“I hate him,” she muttered. “I’m not supposed to, but I do.”
“Then don’t enable his hedonism. Nor ignore his crimes.”
“His crimes ...” She gathered herself, wiping away the tears.
“Mrs. Steunenberg—the widow of the governor who was murdered—she’s an Adventist. When I went to Boise to pray with her, I heard about a Pinkerton detective named McParland who is working with the special prosecutor, Senator Borah. So, I telephoned the detective. Over the course of a few conversations, he told me a number of things, including about Winnifred and your husband. I told him what I could, but it wasn’t much.”
“What do you mean, you told the detective things? About me?”
“Oh no, not at all. About their case against Bill. I relayed something I’d overheard in Mr. Darrow’s office. The woman there, Mr. Darrow’s secretary, I believe, said Mr. Orchard—that awful fellow who confessed—carried secret notes in his hat.” Reverend Sanders chuckled at himself. “That’s quite pathetic, that that’s all I had to offer.” He smiled at Neva who was still forlorn. “But nothing about you, dear, except that you’re a good Christian woman. And I suggested that you might— Well, that you might see your way to helping them.”
“Helping who?” she asked. “The Pinkertons?”
“Yes.”
Neva shook her head in depressed amusement. “I must confess, I’ve been thinking the same. To protect the people I love from Bill’s activities—his work. I’d even considered calling on that same detective. God help me, but I have.”
“I’m so pleased to hear that,” said Reverend Sanders, pulling a letter from his pocket. “He gave me this note to pass on to you.”
“Detective McParland?”
“Yes, the same,” he said. “My goodness, this is exciting, Neva. Can you feel it? To see God’s divine will. I know it’s frightening, to be tested like this. But it’s good for our souls, from time to time. This is your time. Just as the Holy Spirit wrote in Matthew 14:22: Jesus asked Peter onto the stormy Sea of Galilee. You too, Neva, are asked to trust.”
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