“Stop, Bill! I’ll shoot ya!” shouted McParland, pistol extended. With his other hand, he stuffed Neva’s floorplan drawing into his coat pocket.
Haywood froze, his naked ass pointed toward the five men standing on or near the collapsed door. He then plopped back on the bed where Winnie peeked wide-eyed from under a hastily yanked sheet. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Haywood, removing his eye patch but leaving his legs apart, airing his shrinking manhood.
“Big Bill?” McParland mocked. Then he looked at Winnie. “You’re Winnifred Minor, are you not?”
“Don’t speak to her,” barked Haywood.
Winnie scowled silently.
“Get his gun,” said McParland. A Pinkerton came around the bed, toward the cabinet, averting his gaze as much from the nakedness as from the dead eye. Once the Colt revolver was secured, McParland said, “Search the room. Get dressed Mr. Haywood. You have a long trip ahead.” He picked up Winnie’s shift from the floor and tossed it to her. “You too.”
Haywood’s jaw clenched as he stood, beginning to dress. “You’re a sorry son of a bitch, Jim.”
“An honor ya think so,” said McParland, leaning into his brogue.
As Haywood retrieved his pile of clothes, his hand found the strap of his shoulder holster that held the .38 revolver. But McParland saw it too. “Bill, I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.” Haywood released the strap and McParland continued, “Actually, that’s not true. I’d be more than happy to shoot you. Aye, but all in good time.” Then to one of the operatives he said, “Get that holster. And search his coat and the rest of the room. No telling the other guns in here.”
McParland moved closer to Winnie who had put on her shift while still under the sheet. “You’re his wife’s kid sister,” he said, shaking his head.
Winnie’s face flushed as she stood, her figure clearly visible beneath the clingy, white silk. “What of it?” she said.
“You’re a perversion of all that’s good. Both of you.”
“That’s not your business,” snapped Haywood, noting other Pinkerton eyes were absorbing Winnie where she stood.
Winnie glared. “If I scream, a hundred union men will come.”
“If you truly believe that, lassy,” McParland said, “then, by all means, go ahead.”
“No, dear,” said Haywood. “They’ve no doubt killed all—”
“We’ve killed no one,” said the detective as he holstered his pistol. “There are laws in this land, Bill, and by God, I lawfully follow them. I’m not of your foul breed.”
“Lawful, you say? Kidnapping me without permission from the Colorado Supreme Court? You imbecile. I have the best lawyer in the world. I despise the law, don’t abide it, but I know it, and I know you can’t—”
“Now, now,” McParland said, raising a hand to hush the big man. In his other hand was the FN automatic pistol that one of the Pinkertons had found in Haywood’s coat.”
“That’s not yours,” growled Haywood.
The detective marveled at it, turning it, pulling back the slide, aiming it at a wall. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket.
“Law?” exclaimed Haywood. “Goddamned thief! You’re stealing my property. How is that you ‘following the law?’”
Still silent, McParland produced from his coat the court order signed by Justice Goddard. As he did, Neva’s floorplan tumbled to the floor, landing partially open. McParland briefly held Goddard’s order for Haywood to read, then he retrieved the drawing.
“Where did you get that map?”
“Don’t ya recognize your wife’s handwriting?” asked McParland.
“Goddamn you!” Haywood thundered. “All of you.”
McParland withdrew a set of handcuffs, his mustache flitting as he suppressed a grin, logging this pinnacle moment into his memory. “Time to abide by the law.”
“Abide? To hell with your law. It’s infernally corrupt. I’m not a law-abiding citizen.”
“Aye, agreed.”
“Why should I be?”
“Hands,” said McParland.
“The law?” fumed Haywood while being cuffed. “What law? Your law?”
“Save your outrage for the judge, Bill.”
As Haywood began to walk, he leaned towards Winnie. “They’ll try to get me to Boise,” he whispered. “Get word to Swain. Tell—”
“Oh aye, Miss Minor,” said McParland with a derisive chuckle. “Go tell Captain Swain. That is, if you can find him again. Remember when, only a few weeks ago, you went to Salt Lake City and delivered Mr. Haywood’s instructions to Captain Swain? You told him to go kill Steve Adams—remember? A word of warning: you’d better pray Swain’s not successful in that endeavor, in killing Adams—or so help me God, I’ll be back for you, an accomplice to murder.” Then he poked his cane in Haywood’s direction. “And how about your wife? No message to be delivered to her?” He returned to Winnie. “In truth, there’s no need to tell your sister, dear.” He waved the map. “She knew about this days ago. She made this possible.”
“What?” blurted Winnie.
“Don’t listen to the bogtrotter,” growled Haywood. “As soon as they walk me out, send word to Swain and Clarence—”
“No, she won’t be communicating with anyone till later tomorrow, at the soonest.” McParland motioned to an operative who began handcuffing Winnie. “Aye, Mr. Haywood, it seems your wife, the poor woman, is all too happy to see you gone.”
“You’re a yellow—” Haywood was silenced by a gag being tied around his head.
“Stay quiet,” said McParland. “Otherwise we’ll club you and carry you out. Nod if you understand.”
Haywood dipped his nose.
McParland looked at the operative who had finished handcuffing Winnie. “If she makes a noise, gag her too.” He slapped Haywood on the back. “Alright, let’s go.” They left for the stairwell in a formation of two operatives in the lead, then Haywood, and then McParland, followed by one more operative. Soon they were exiting the back of the building and climbing into a waiting coach with blacked-out windows.
***
For five days, an unremarkable Union Pacific train had been sitting in a railyard ten miles north of Denver, curtains closed, sentries set, and no one allowed near. During those days, Union Pacific completed its logistical work, and McParland and his men conducted their operations in Denver, including orchestrating the dummy bomb at Chief Justice Goddard’s home. Then, on Thursday, Dodge’s telegraph was received at the Oxford Hotel, and the short train eased into Denver’s Union Station while all other rail traffic stopped.
Named the McParland Special by the Pinkertons, the train was comprised of an engine, a tender, a passenger car, a Pullman, and a caboose. The engine, a Sterling Single 4-2-2, had the usual compliment of engineer, brakeman, and boilerman—plus an extra boilerman and a heavily armed Pinkerton guard. The tender, immediately behind the engine, had a custom-built, high-capacity water tank and coal bin. The passenger car carried eighteen men: three hired gunhands (with unique knowledge of certain sheriffs and other potential troublemakers along the route); two Union Pacific representatives (armed with letters signed by General Dodge for the purpose of mollifying any concerns among fellow employees along the line); nine Pinkertons (two of whom were dedicated to operating the telegraph during stops); and four soldiers from the newly formed Colorado National Guard. The federal soldiers were only permitted to act defensively, and only if the train was under direct or imminent attack. In that scenario, they were authorized to operate two Gatling guns mounted in the windows on either side of that passenger car; and to fire, if needed, the latest technology in warfare: a .30 caliber Maxim Machine Gun still crated in the middle of the floor. The Pullman state car, behind the passenger car, carried McParland and the prisoner, plus two cooks, a small kitchen, and a compliment of four Pinkerton guards. Finally, the ca
boose contained four more Pinkertons, two more contracted gunhands, supplies, and an arsenal of additional weapons.
By midnight, Haywood was aboard the McParland Special. He was reclined on a tufted couch in the Pullman, eyes closed, left wrist handcuffed to the wall.
Nearby, McParland paced anxiously. Why were they not underway? He left through the Pullman’s forward door, crossed the covered coupling, and entered the passenger car just ahead. There he found the two Union Pacific representatives sitting on facing benches. As he approached, they saw him and began to rise. “Keep your seats,” McParland said, sliding in beside one. “For godsakes, why are we not moving?”
“There’s a logging flatcar on the track, just beyond the switch.”
“What? Why is it there?”
“We aren’t certain, but when the other traffic was shut down this evening, the yard crew just left it sitting there … apparently.”
“That’s unacceptable. We had an agreement: the track is to be clear, and we’re to leave before midnight.”
“Yes, Sir, but we were just told, and—”
“Well, lads, go move it,” instructed McParland.
“They will, Sir, the moment they arrive.”
“They? Who is they?”
“The railyard crew.”
McParland peered over his glasses and growled, “When?”
“Their shift begins at six-thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes, Sir, in the morning.”
“Are you men mad?” McParland’s face was reddening. “Get out there this instant. Clear that car!”
“We can’t, Sir.”
“Move it right now, or I’ll have my men move it.”
The Union Pacific men froze, then one mumbled, “It’s loaded with timber. It’ll take a pusher.”
“A pusher?”
“Yes, Sir, from the switching yard.”
McParland shook his head, stopped, then angrily scratched an eyebrow. “What does that require, to get a pusher?”
“We’d have to wake some yardies and a foreman. A lineman too. They’d ask a bunch of questions. Mr. Dodge told us to wait.”
“This is re-goddamn-diculous,” shouted McParland, bringing the whole car’s complement of men to silence. “We’re sitting here, right out in the open. The great prize is in our possession. We have him. Do you two not understand that? He’s in the next car for godsakes! It’s the middle of the night. We have the cover of darkness. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The only thing separating us from certain death, from this train being stormed by a thousand angry, armed Federation fellows, is that they’re all still sleeping. Do you know that?”
“Yes, Sir, but—”
“They have no idea we’ve taken their man. Not yet! But when they cotton to it, the very last place this train should be is right in the middle of the goddamned Denver station! We need to be long gone, moving a hundred miles an hour across the prairie.”
“I don’t think this one goes that fast,” said one of the men.
“What would you like us to do?” asked the other.
McParland thought for a long moment, then huffed and lowered his chin. When he did finally speak, it was with a soft, resigned voice. “If we get the men and equipment necessary to move it, we risk waking the wolves too. We can’t do that. So, gentlemen, be sure they clear it first thing when they come on duty in the morning. The very first thing they do.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And the second it’s on a siding, I want us passing on our way.”
The Union Pacific men acknowledged.
McParland stood and walked back to the Pullman where its four Pinkerton guards were playing cards. Haywood was asleep.
“Unchain him,” said McParland. “He knows I’ll kill him if tries to escape. Leave the cuff. Just unhook the chain from it.”
As one guard walked to unchain the prisoner, another asked, “Are we moving soon, Chief?”
“Not for a few hours,” McParland grumbled. “Pass the word to all the men: we’re delayed here. It’ll be a dangerous night. Those on post must stay vigilant. Everyone else needs to get their sleep. We’ll have to make our run in full daylight. We’ll need every man at his best. And tonight, absolutely no one may exit the train for any reason, other than one of us Pinkertons on watch. And if anyone attempts to board the train, bring them to me.”
“Yes, Sir.”
As one of the operatives left to spread the word, another spoke up. “Should we send a runner to Twenty-Nine, watching that woman? Tell him to hold off releasing her?”
McParland scrunched his eyes so tightly that they exploded into ripples of deep wrinkles across his face. He had forgotten about Winnie. “Damnit. Damnit. Damnit. Aye, slip off now. Stay unseen, but get yourself to the Pioneer. Tell Twenty-Nine to hold Miss Minor till mid-afternoon. He’ll need to keep her especially quiet. In the morning, people will begin arriving at the Federation headquarters just below him. In fact, you stay there with him, help him, then you both come north on Saturday.”
The man repeated the details and left.
When McParland sat on the couch opposite Haywood, he saw the prisoner’s eye was open. “I have you,” McParland whispered.
Haywood rolled away, muttering, “Ah, but can you keep me?”
“Mmmph,” McParland snorted, his gaze set on Haywood’s back. Here was his twelve-point buck. Now to get it home and gut it.
<><><>
The Park Hill Heights home was silent, save for the ticks and tocks of two clocks battling for the correct time: a little, mahogany mantelpiece in the drawing room and its foe, the London longcase standing sentinel by the dining room door. Neva was in the fire-painted dark, listening to the time quarrel, half into a bottle of red wine and wondering where Bill was—wishing George was there. She pulled her knitted shawl tighter at her shoulders and rolled herself close to the crackling, popping fire. Her hair having come loose, little gold aggravators tickled her cheeks till she flicked them away. Did Bill know she had betrayed him? No, don’t think that, she tried feebly, her thoughts acquiescing to the Cabernet. How could it be? Was it treachery? She hadn’t done much, just drawn a map of their suites and where the guards would be. But the years of it. Of it all. The humiliations with Winnie. The stony estrangements. The bouts of anger. Him sending their daughters away. Not touching her. Telling her she was diseased. All of it. Her defenses were in shambles. Eroded. The relentless trickle having gouged a canyon through her self-worth. She downed the balance from her glass, refilled it, drank almost a fourth again, and then peered at the fire through the glass’s luminous crystal. Iridescence in shades of red. “Tiger,” she said aloud, surprised by the sound of her own voice. “Tiger burn bright.” The first swell-tide of alcohol washed through her, and her eyes doubled in weight. Bill will be furious, hurt—and right to feel that way. Would he hit her? He hadn’t—not ever. But this was different. “Maybe,” she whispered. She had helped the hated Pinks, of all people. She had talked on the telephone with Detective McParland, and she had talked about Bill. She told them things. Another swallow. Would Bill hate her? He should. A swallow again. But it was just a map. And she’d told them when Bill would be in the suites. That’s all. And she removed herself from the suites. That wasn’t illicit. And she didn’t tell Winnie. That was bad. Winnie would be furious. Sissy might never talk to her again. Another slow drink, this time with the trailing need to wipe her lips on the blanket. They would’ve captured him somehow, regardless. Right? “Of course,” she declared to the fire, her eyes wide. The mine owners and their dogs had been after Bill for years. Sooner or later they were bound to have gotten lucky—to get him. Her map had only made the arrest quick. And safer. Bill should thank her, the bastard. Had he fought back? Hopefully not. God, what if he did and Winnie got hurt? No, no, she moaned sile
ntly, shaking her head like a rag doll, then holding it steady for another drink. She was being silly. She felt the alcohol’s warmth in her forehead. They wouldn’t hurt Winnie. The Detective Pinkerton man had assured her. Winnie will be safe, he’d said. “No harm,” Neva muttered aloud. They were in her house. It was just the suites, not this place. Not here. Not her perfect home. She took a large gulp, imagining them in the halls of the suites. Then she topped her glass. Her silly map hadn’t changed the outcome. They wouldn’t have hinged the whole arrest on her saying where Bill would be, and at what time. She wasn’t responsible. Of course not, she argued, closing her eyes. They could’ve learned that without her. They didn’t need her. No one needed her. Maybe. Bill couldn’t be mad. Everything would be ok. She’d wait till George came—till he told her Bill was in Boise. “Sweet, sweet … darwing Geore,” she said faintly, failing to enunciate. It would be fine—it would be good—they would be—together—soon. But maybe she should go to Boise, be a good wife. Pretend. Bill will never know what she did. The alcohol put her thoughts at sea, the waves pulling at her. She didn’t mind Bill’s eye. Winnie didn’t like his eye, but she didn’t mind. Didn’t that matter? Why hadn’t that mattered? Did she matter? She should try harder. Bill would see. She’d be the woman he relied on. His rock. See him through this. Whatever this was going to be. Because she had betrayed him. She would’ve been a good wife had he been kinder. Had she not gotten sick. Had he loved her. She slipped out of gear, rolling toward sleep, faintly aware that her wine-soaked musings—her hopes—were folly. The big grandfather clock across the house chimed 1:00 in the morning. Almost a minute later, a single bell dinged from the mantel, high above where Neva now slept.
<><><>
– 39 –
FRIDAY
March 15, 1907
That Friday morning, as the sun escaped from the forever horizon, climbing over the plains of eastern Colorado, it illumined the front range of the Rocky Mountains in dull pinks and spring blues, and brought the metropolis of Denver to life. There, yawning travelers coming to the depot for boarding were met with signs declaring that all trains were delayed due to track damage. What they didn’t know was that one train had already left. By 6:45, the timber flatbed had been cleared. By 7:00, the McParland Special was gone.
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