American Red

by David Marlett

  In the Pioneer Building suites, Winnie was asleep in her bed while one of the Pinkerton guards sat drowsily in a nearby chair, facing her, pistol in hand. The other guard was near the elevator, reading a book that he held open across the shotgun in his lap.

  In the Park Hill home, Neva was stretched on the drawing-room couch, deep in the grip of a gossamer dream, riding a pale unicorn up from a mine shaft and then out beyond the reach of the trees.

  <><><>

  The train’s fat shadow tore north, a jagged blade scything the plains, clacking and roaring, whipping at the upstart greens, yellows and early reds. A black notch in the budding grassland, running at a staggering speed. Inside the Pullman car, Haywood was reading a day-old newspaper and sipping coffee, trying to appear oblivious to McParland who, in his shirt sleeves, was pacing and then pausing to peer past the curtains and out at the passing prairie.

  The Sterling Single 4-2-2 engine, chosen for its swiftness (so as to get the McParland Special to the Colorado border in record time), accelerated to seventy-five miles per hour and held there as planned, with stretches reaching eighty to ninety. To maintain that pace, the boilerman shoveled ten pounds of coal every fifteen seconds—thus the need for an additional boilerman to spell the first, and the larger capacity tender.

  The plan was working well, yet there were hundreds of miles to go; and if at any point along the way, McParland was presented with a valid habeas corpus order, he would be obligated to turn Haywood over. Therefore, under no circumstance should they allow the boarding of some labor-friendly sheriff alerted by a Federation telegram. That meant that, for the entire route, as they approached each town, whether it had its own depot or was just a jerkwater (meaning it offered only a water tank), the McParland Special maintained its speed—its whistle wailing from a half mile out, its bell clanging mercilessly as it thundered past each platform, rattling the station’s windows, startling anyone there.

  But the Special still needed servicing, so all water and coal intake, and the three planned engine changes, would occur at one of McParland’s eleven strategically mapped remote stops (his Cassidy stations), each having been constructed for this one purpose. That morning’s first two Cassidys (both in Colorado) had gone flawlessly. At 9:12, the train crossed into Wyoming, and McParland allowed himself to breathe.

  <><><>

  On that same Friday morning, Clarence Darrow arrived in Chicago on a train from St. Louis where he had held meetings with three clients. Travel weary, he hired a motorized cab to take him home. Finding the house empty, he left his luggage and hailed a horse-drawn cab to Marshall Fields. He needed more shirts and undergarments. On the way, he thought about where he would go next, after the department store. He would go to Hull House, the Chicago settlement house and social reform institution that he and Ruby frequented and supported. Comprised of multiple, tightly clustered brick buildings, Hull House’s several dining and drawing rooms, libraries and living quarters attracted intelligent, reform-minded thinkers, artists, writers, and activists—Chicago locals and travelers alike—all seeking refuge from the mundane, all sharing a drive for intellectual curiosity and progressive change. Wakes and weddings were conducted there, holiday and birthday parties as well. It had its secrets, but didn’t hold them well, especially among its members. (He knew Ruby was planning a surprise party for him there when he turned fifty in a month.) Though Darrow loved the place for all it provided him socially and cerebrally, he treasured it for a personal reason: Hull House was where, in 1903, he had first met Ruby, an alluring, free-thinking journalist whose unflagging intelligence came with such icy wit and sizzling charm that his nerves had yet to settle.

  <><><>

  At the third Cassidy station—just shy of Cheyenne, Wyoming—the boilermen had the McParland Special’s tender refilled with water and coal in just under fifteen minutes. The train then hurried back to speed. It was 10:05 when they boomed past the Cheyenne depot at forty miles per hour, the maximum possible due to the curves there—too slow for McParland’s liking but still too fast for anyone to jump aboard. Looking out a window as they rolled through, McParland saw a platoon of armed men on the platform, shotguns and rifles in hand. One brandished a red flag. McParland’s pulse quickened. Those men had hoped to stop the train. Word was out—already. The union was awake, angry, and gunning for them.

  <><><>

  It was early afternoon by the time Darrow hung his hat and set down his Marshall Fields’ parcel in the front parlor of Hull House. A huddle of women was there, laughing about something that had occurred during their suffrage-march meeting which had just ended. One acknowledged Darrow, her face revealing a touch of surprise. He kept moving. In the main kitchen, he found Jane Addams, one of Hull House’s founders, discussing menus with her staff. Though she was about Darrow’s age, Jane was mother to them all, with empathic strength, impenitent compassion, and bright eyes that missed nothing.

  “Hello, Jane,” he said.

  She turned. “Oh, hello, Clarence. I’m glad you’re here. Are you familiar with a breakfast dish called cream of wheat?”

  “No, I don’t believe I am. Have you seen Ruby today?”

  “Yes, she interviewed Mr. Wrigley in the green drawing room. But that was this morning.”

  “Thank you, dear,” said Darrow.

  He walked through the main building, exited the rear, crossed a small path and entered another building, intent on passing through it to access yet a third building which included the green drawing room. But moving through the second building, he stopped at the sound of feminine laughter followed by distant talking. One of the voices was Ruby’s. He climbed the stairs and came to the partially open door of one of the many guest quarters. He eased it open and saw Ruby and another woman at the vanity within. Neither woman saw him. Ruby, in a camisole, stood braiding the sitting woman’s auburn tresses. In the vanity’s mirror, Darrow saw the other woman’s bare breasts perked above her loose corset. When Ruby leaned and cupped the woman’s breasts, the woman looked up, meeting his wife’s lips in a kiss. Then Ruby saw him in the mirror and straightened, turning to him. The other woman covered herself with a robe.

  Darrow’s face was blank. He didn’t speak.

  Nor did Ruby, though she wore a pensive smile.

  The other woman bit her bottom lip.

  Darrow began a slow nod. “I just got back.”

  “Hi, dear,” Ruby said. Smiling, she came and embraced him, kissing his cheek.

  He let her, but gave nothing back.

  She turned. “This is Rebecca Tarleton. A visiting resident.”

  Darrow dipped his chin once. “Rebecca.”

  The young woman stood, clutching the robe across her chest.

  “Rebecca, this is my husband, Clarence.”

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m honored. I heard you speak at the University of Michigan last year and—” She glanced around self-consciously. “I’m sorry if—”

  “No, no,” said Darrow. “It’s— I’ll let you two resume what you were … well …” He turned to go.

  Ruby came after him in the hall. “Clarence,” she beckoned, her voice bearing a tone of exasperation. “Clarence, please. Don’t be like that. We’re just having a bit of fun. It’s harmless.”

  He stopped and regarded her. “I know.”

  Downstairs, the front door flew open and someone entered.

  Ruby kissed Darrow’s lips and said softly, “Darling, I’m yours. I’ll show you tonight. Will you be home in—”

  “Mr. Darrow?” came a man’s voice from below.

  Darrow kept eye contact with Ruby while he replied loudly, “Upstairs.”

  Ruby clasped Darrow’s hand. “Clarence, darling.”

  He kissed her, and then pivoted to the man now at the top of the stairs.

  Ruby retreated into the bedroom.

  The man approached. “Mr. Darrow?”<
br />
  “Yes.”

  “Western Union. The ladies in the other building said you—”

  “Yes. I’ll take it. Thank you.”

  The messenger handed a telegram to Darrow, received a few coins in gratuity, and left.

  Darrow opened the envelope and removed the message.

  Ruby reappeared in the doorframe of the guest room.

  The telegram was from an unknown source and addressed to Darrow at either his house or at Hull House:

  PINKS TOOK BILL LAST NIGHT.

  TRAIN TO BOISE.

  Darrow drew a heavy breath. It had begun.

  “Is everything all right?” asked Ruby.

  “I must go.”

  “Not because of this,” she said, motioning toward the bedroom. “Surely.”

  “No. No, dear.” He offered a smile. “You know, we’ve discussed— I must go. I’m not sure for how long.”

  “Back to Denver?”

  “Boise.” He rubbed his nose absentmindedly, thinking about the immediate concern between them. “I’ll say again what I’ve long said: I want you happy, dear. Though yes, of course, so long as I’m your only man.”

  She tilted her face toward him, her eyes cheery. “My darling, you are. You do know that. You must.” As she began to kiss him, he pressed into her, taking over the kiss, making it his to give. When he let up, she whispered with a breathless grin, “Maybe I should come to Boise too.”

  “I wish you would. I’ll telephone,” he said. “We may have to celebrate my birthday there.”

  Her eyes smiled. “Be safe.”

  “You too,” he said.

  ***

  After retrieving his yet-unopened luggage from his house, Darrow urged the carriage driver to hurry for the Chicago train station. Once there, he bought a ticket to Boise, checked his luggage, and walked a block to the main Western Union Telegraph office. Within thirty minutes, telegraph machines all along the railroad from Denver to Cheyenne to Green River to Boise were bursting to life, furiously clicking the same message:

  ALERT TO ALL LAW ENFORCEMENT!

  WILLIAM HAYWOOD KIDNAPPED.

  ON TRAIN PASSING YOUR LOCATION SOON.

  BOARD WITH HABEAS CORPUS ORDER.

  REMOVE HOSTAGE. FORCE IF NECESSARY.

  MSG DARROW ESQ AT BOISE IDANHA HOTEL.

  Unknown to Darrow, his was the fifth-such telegram to go down the line that day.

  <><><>

  The first big test of McParland’s pre-stationed system occurred near Buford, Wyoming, where the engine was to be replaced by a Shay 122 geared to maintain speed through the Medicine Bow inclines. During that long stop, all Pinkertons, soldiers, and gunhands were wide awake and alert. This was also the first opportunity to splice into the telegraph lines and learn what was being said about them. Those intercepted telegrams were then brought to the chief detective. Several were alerts about Haywood, including the one from Darrow. They were expected, yet unsettling all the same. What most alarmed McParland was the message he was holding. He had Lieutenant Larson, the officer of the National Guardsmen, summoned to the Pullman, and handed him the telegram.

  Larson read it aloud, quietly: “Green River bridge targeted by Sheriff Wilkins and posse. Knows your ETA. Sheriff’s brother on board.” He looked up at the detective. “Someone’s trying to warn us?”

  “Looks that way—if it’s true. Might be a ruse, trying to scare us into stopping.” McParland turned and addressed one of his Pinkerton guards. “Escort Mr. Haywood to the caboose and hold him there until I instruct otherwise.”

  “Trouble, Detective?” said Haywood as he was led away.

  McParland studied the map while others read the telegram. “How far to that bridge?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Looks about two hundred miles,” offered the officer.

  “Damn. Gives them plenty of time. Who’s the brother?”

  Larson paused. “Maybe a gunhand you added?”

  McParland looked a guard returning from the caboose. “Those five we brought on, the gunhands. Any named Wilkins?”

  “Yes, Sir. Should I get him?”

  McParland blew a sigh. “No. Where is he now?”

  “Helping with the new engine, I believe.”

  “Alright.” He turned to another guard. “Place yourself near him—the man Wilkins. Watch him, but don’t let on.”

  With an “Aye, Chief,” the man left the car.

  “We cleared those men,” said another Pinkerton. “Wilkins knows the Green River area. Swore his allegiance—”

  “Aye, he knows it, that’s for certain,” McParland said. He looked at Larson. “They won’t blow the bridge. They mean to take Haywood, not to kill him. And I suppose that Sheriff Wilkins up ahead doesn’t want to kill his brother—the Wilkins we’ve got. But one can never know.”

  “Our Wilkins might try to stop the engine,” said Larson.

  “Maybe,” mused McParland, again holding the telegram. “But they wouldn’t be able to count on that. The sheriff will force the stop. Ours has already done his part in their scheme—he got word sent ahead. Somehow. During the quarantine maybe. Regardless, he’ll wait till they stop us, and the attack begins, then he’ll turn sides. Sure as spit, he will. We can’t let it get to that point. We need to convince his brother, the sheriff, that he’s too late. Somehow.” McParland closed his eyes, his mind shifting into its highest gear, envisioning the possible maneuvers. “If we telegram that the onboard brother has been found out, they’ll just go forward with their plan and blow the track. No change for them. In fact, they’ll feel more empowered to do so—to rescue the brother too. Same if we put the brother off the train. He’ll telegram ahead. No, our Wilkins stays.” He walked to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and watched men working on the engine. Is that him?” He pointed at a man next to the Pinkerton whom McParland had sent out.

  Larson was also looking. “I believe so.”

  “We must keep moving, on schedule and on pace. So, what message can we send to delay them blowing the track?”

  “That we’re delayed?” offered Larson.

  The detective nodded, chewing on the man’s suggestion. “Aye. Their timing is critical to them. That’s their weakness. They won’t want to blow it too early. That would give us time to get Haywood off the train miles before.” He looked at the map and pointed to Laramie, a town between them and Green River. “They’ll have someone wire when we go through. They’ll calculate from there.”

  “Maybe cut the line after Laramie?”

  The detective continued inspecting the map. “That wouldn’t matter. They’ll wire ahead soon as they see us coming into Laramie. Or they’ll have someone else wire on, from further ahead.”

  “If he blows the track, that’s a federal crime,” said Larson.

  McParland considered that for a moment. “The Federation hasn’t shied from federal crimes. But a sheriff, a lawman? Perhaps you’ve a got a point, Lieutenant.”

  “Do I?” asked Larson. “And what point is that?”

  “The sheriff down the line—he’d rather hit us at one of our make-shift stations, when we’re already stopped. Better than having Union Pacific collecting repair costs from his county. Yeah, if the brother knows our stations, he’ll hit us at one of them. But we don’t have a Cassidy station at Green River. So, why Green River?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know.”

  “Maybe,” mused McParland. “But if he thinks we plan to stop there, then he’ll attack us there.” He touched his mustache. “I tell you what, while we’re stopped and tapped in, let’s send a message up the line—something urgent and open, something they’ll intercept. Let’s ask for a push engine to be ready for us.” He placed his finger on the map. “Right here, a couple of miles this side of the Green River. We’ll say: ‘Will wait at siderail for replacement. U
rgent.’” McParland sucked air through his teeth. “I guarantee, thinking we’ll stop there, they’ll set up on us there.”

  Larson inhaled. “Alright. And we will ... what?”

  The mustache curled. “We have a Maxim Machine Gun.”

  Lieutenant Larson nodded, slightly bemused. “Yes, Sir.”

  “After we’ve cleared that last tunnel”—again he pointed to the map—“just here, at Bitter Creek, get it up-top the engine cab.”

  “It’s very heavy.”

  “You’ll have to do it while we’re rolling fast. We won’t be stopping again until we’re across the Green.”

  “Alright. We’ll find a way,” Larson said, looking at his boots.

  “Good. That’s our motto: Whatever it takes.”

  ***

  Two hours later, as the McParland Special approached the Green River, everyone on board was tense. McParland and Lieutenant Larson were in the engine cab, angling from the side windows, binoculars to their faces, surveying the tracks ahead. As the train entered a bend, Larson yelled over the engine’s roar, “Up there! Men on the track!”

  McParland found them in his binoculars: three men leaning by the track. “Bastards are wiring it. Well, they’re too late.”

  The engineer shouted, “If they’re blowing it, I have to stop.”

  “No, Sir!” yelled McParland. “No! You keep this train moving. They’re too late. They only want to make us stop, not blow us up. They won’t risk killing their man.”

  “You don’t know that,” bawled the engineer. “You said they wouldn’t blow it at all!” Behind him the boilermen were frozen, locked on the argument.

  McParland shouted, “Speed! Goddamnit! Keep shoveling!”

  The train neared the band of men a half mile ahead and visible. They were scrambling from the track, unspooling a wire as they stumbled and ran. When the engineer reached for the throttle levers to bleed steam, he saw the end of a shotgun. “I said, no,” growled McParland.