Iain slid on his back a few feet out of sight, to a place he might let himself sleep.
Time inched by. Jack rubbed his eyes and nose. He wanted coffee. “Come on, muck snipe,” he whispered, staring at the door. “Come take a shit.” At that moment, seemingly conjured by Jack’s words, the rear door opened, and Steve Adams stepped out. He was naked, his body pale white, his arms and head turned brownish red by the sun, his blonde hair matted to one side. Jack scuffled his boot at Iain, and soon both were watching Adams piss on the pile of dead men.
“I’ll be damned,” said Iain. “Let me shoot—”
“Shhh.”
Adams stretched lazily, looked around a little, and then started back to the house. Then he turned, walked to the outhouse, opened its squeaky door, and entered.
“Let’s go,” whispered Jack.
Leaving the long guns, they descended the hillside, careful not to slide, each with his pistol out and rope coiled over his shoulder. Soon they were approaching the little building from opposite sides. When each was about ten feet away, Jack raised a hand. Both stopped and holstered their guns. A fart came from within the gray-wood building. Using his upheld fingers, Jack counted: one, two, three, and then they both rushed the shed.
From inside, the sound of approaching boots alerted Adams. He had just grasped a knife hidden there when the door burst open. Iain was first in, going low, grabbing Adams by the feet, yanking him out. Adams flailed, thrashing, yelling, being dragged naked by his ankles across dirt and rock. “Sombitch!” he hollered, swinging the knife, wriggling to get himself up.
Jack ran near Adams’s head, trying to lasso the man’s arms.
Iain slowed, but it gave Adams better purchase on the ground.
“Keep going!” shouted Jack.
“Well, get him!” Iain yelled back, resuming the pace.
“I’m gonna kill you both!” managed Adams.
Jack got the rope around Adams’s left arm and cinched it tight.
Iain slowed again, now running out of dragging room.
“Go back! Go back!” shouted Jack.
Iain turned, pulling Adams the way they came. Suddenly, Adams’s exposed crotch slammed into a cactus and he screamed. Iain held Adams’s ankles high, giving all the desert creatures a clear view of the man’s needle-laden balls and bloody ass. Adams cried in pain, still wildly swinging the knife, trying to cut one of Iain’s legs. Jack pulled at the rope, and Adams sliced at it, but missed and cut his own left arm. Blood squirted. The knife tumbled loose. Within seconds, Iain had tied Adams’s ankles, and Jack had both of Adams’s arms tied above the man’s head. “Damn you!” screamed Adams, incapacitated.
“Gotta stop that blood!” Iain shouted.
Jack tied a tourniquet high on Adams’s left arm.
“What a wee pecker,” said Iain. “Look at those thorns— God in heaven, that must hurt.”
“Is your uncle in there?” asked Jack.
Adams shook his head. He remained scrunched and bent from the cinched ropes—a red and white squeeze-box in the dirt.
“Go get him some clothes,” said Jack. “But watch for the uncle.” After Iain went inside, pistol drawn, Jack stood over Adams. “You’re a mongrel— A murdering cur.”
“Better’n a cocksuckin Pink. I’ll gut you, like I did that un at the track.”
Jack tsked. “Shouldn’t say that.”
“Heard about it, did you? Yeah, that was me did it. He—”
Jack kicked Adams in the back.
“Goddamnit.” Adams groaned, gasping for air before lying still.
“I warned you.”
Iain returned carrying trousers, a shirt, and boots.
“No boots,” said Jack. “If he gets loose, he’ll die in the desert.”
“Nah,” said Adams. “I’ll kill y’all and have myself two pair.”
Iain knelt beside him, then hit him, strappy fist to scrawny face. “We’ve miles to go,” said Iain. “You’ll get there alive—don’t worry—but just by a fuckin hair.”
Jack looked at Iain. “You want to get the auto, or should I?”
***
Thirty minutes later, the Oldsmobile was on a bluff overlooking the tiny town of Austin tucked in hills a mile away. Most of the baggage and equipment was on the floorboard, and Iain’s legs were kicked up over it, stretching onto the walnut dash. He puffed a cigar and looked up at Jack standing in the driver’s seat, surveying the town through his binoculars. The skinny form of Adams could be seen within burlap bags bound tightly to the rear cargo platform, bare feet sticking out one end, blonde hair the other. From inside came a polemic of muffled insults, like a faraway dog in an unrelenting fit of barking.
“There he goes,” said Jack, seeing Captain Swain riding toward Stokes Castle. Jack hopped back into the seat and coaxed the automobile to life. “To the road!”
“To the road!” echoed Iain. He looked behind him. “It’s gonna get bumpy, ratbag. Hang on!”
<><><>
In Boise, the black candlestick phone on McParland’s desk trilled, but the room was empty. The rings continued. Then the door flew open and McParland entered, cane first, picked up the device and snatched the earpiece from the brass hook. “Yes?” He listened for a bit, then smiled. “Very well. Thank you for letting me know.” He hung up, set the phone down, hung his hat and coat, and returned to the open door and leaned into the hall of the Idanha Hotel. Only his legs and backside were still inside the room. “Tommy? Come here, Tommy.”
From the hall came indistinguishable words from the clerk.
“Go get me Senator Borah, will you?” McParland could be heard asking. “He’s in the lobby, I believe. Thank you.” A pause, and then, “What? Ok. Sure. Come in.” McParland backed into his office, followed by the Saratoga coach driver. McParland motioned the man to sit, but the man didn’t. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Sir …”
“Have you something to tell me?”
“If your coins are heavy enough.”
“They will be for good information. What do you have?”
Borah entered. “What is it? Who’s this?”
McParland waved off the senator. “Go ahead, Mister.”
“I’d rather not say.”
McParland sighed. “Just tell me the nature of what you have. I’ll get you paid if it’s useful.”
Borah sat on the table’s edge, watching the man cut his eyes between the senator and the detective.
“Don’t worry about him,” said McParland. “But get on with it.”
“I drove two women to the Saratoga. They were talking about Mr. Haywood. Sounded like one of them had killed a Pinkerton man, and she was working over another. Something about GJP. Or PJG, I think.” The driver paused.
Borah widened his eyes at McParland.
McParland appeared nonplussed.
The man continued, “Said the other should be setting her ways on a man for the prosecution. A lawyer. She meant to bed him.”
“I imagine she did,” said McParland. “Was the name Borah?”
“That’d be correct,” said the driver.
“The one who was to bed this Borah fellow,” McParland asked, glancing at Senator Borah, “do you recall her name?”
“Winnie,” replied the man.
“And the other girl was Carla, perhaps?”
The man nodded. “That’s it. That’s correct.”
“Anything else?” asked McParland.
“One’s staying at the Saratoga. I brought the other here.”
“Hmm,” sounded McParland, his arms crossed before him.
“That’s worth something to you, ain’t it?” asked the driver.
Borah approached the man. “What do you think it’s worth?”
The man glanced at his feet. “Maybe two bucks?”
McParland squinted. “How long have you been driving here?”
“Nine years.”
Borah looked at McParland. “What do you say?”
“He’s underestimating his value,” said McParland. “I think we should pay this man five dollars for this morsel of knowledge, and another five every time he brings us something this good again.”
“Truly?” The driver reached eagerly for McParland’s hand. “Name’s Jenkins.”
McParland shook his hand. “We’re going to call you Smith.”
Borah gave him five silver dollars. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”
“Thank you, sirs. I’ll see what else I can gather for you.”
“Go about your business as usual,” instructed McParland. “Watch and listen. Listen and watch. Same as you did. And if you know any others who are reliable, who might want to make a few dollars—send them to me. Tell them to go to the front desk and say they’re a friend of Mr. Smith.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you,” said the driver, letting himself out.
After he was gone, McParland stepped into the hall after him. From inside the office, Borah could hear the detective say, “Mr. Smith, before you go. Just so we’re clear: my Pinkerton men are everywhere, from the man shoveling your horse’s shit here in Boise, to barkeeps in Colorado backcountry, to cowpunchers in Kansas, to coat-check boys in Washington, DC.”
Borah’s heart fumbled a few beats.
McParland kept talking in the hall. “I’ve got quite the spider’s web. I catch a lot of flies. So, if I hear you’ve also been selling information down at the Saratoga—well, there’ll be a reckoning.”
“Yes, Sir,” came the voice of the driver.
McParland re-entered the office, walked past Borah, and began preparing his pipe. “Cigar, Senator?”
“Yes. All right.”
“My God,” said McParland, opening his tobacco pouch. “Haywood’s whoring out the sister. Well … fine, we’ll use her. We’ll feed them skunked-up information—straight through her.”
Borah blinked a few times before realizing what McParland was saying. “Hold on there,” Borah began. “You think I should go along with this?” He clicked his tongue. “I have a reputation to—”
“Your reputation, aye.” McParland chuckled. “When you’re ready for something to tell Winnie, let me know.”
“Nah,” said Borah. “No more coat checks for me. Not with you anywhere around.”
<><><>
– 46 –
SATURDAY
March 23, 1907
“This is a right lally cooler, Bill,” said Darrow, stepping into the spacious jail cell set in the corner of the courthouse offices of the Ada County Sheriff. He walked to the window and looked through the bars to the street below.
In his shirtsleeves and vest, Haywood sat on a cane-backed wooden chair, reading a newspaper spread across a table. His shoes were polished, his hair combed tight. His suit coat hung at the end of his bunk. Without looking up, he asked, “What was your delay?”
Darrow raised his brow at the insinuation. “They’ve been playing hide and seek with your whereabouts.”
Haywood continued his paper perusal. “Bested you.” He flipped a page. “Yet again.”
Darrow exhaled and looked around, then walked to the cell door. A young deputy saw him approach and let him out. Haywood looked up, watching his attorney leave, but made no effort to stop him. A moment later, Darrow returned from another office in the courthouse, carrying a chair. He re-entered the cell, placed the chair facing Haywood, and sat down. “I suspect this will be a long conversation, and I’m not sitting on your bed.” He then turned to the deputy. “You need to leave. I’ll be having a private, confidential conversation with my client. Lock me in here and go.”
The man nodded, locked the cell door, and left the outer office.
“You’re upset, Bill,” Darrow began. “As am I.”
“You are?” thundered Haywood. “Were you dragged from your bed in the middle of the night? Were you kidnapped, handcuffed, hauled a thousand miles from your home, out of your state and thrown in jail? Did your attorney swear those exact same events would never happen? That they couldn’t? Tell me, Clarence, is that what happened to you? Is that why you are upset?”
Darrow took a long breath. “In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m outraged by that same series of events.”
Haywood turned away, then got to his feet and shoved the table aside so he could stand at the window unimpeded. “You said they couldn’t do this.”
“I said they couldn’t do it lawfully.”
“They are the goddamned law! So, what they do is lawful. You should understand that better than I do, Counselor. Your law and their law are two different things.”
“I understand,” was all Darrow felt he could say.
The big man’s head slumped. “Get Claus. I want him in here.”
“Who’s Claus?”
“My dog.”
“Oh, yes. All right.”
“Is Winnie here?”
“I think so.”
“And Neva?”
“No.”
Haywood looked away. “She turned on me.”
Darrow sniffed. “It could appear that way.”
“It’s Pennington. Goddamned George Pennington. He turned her against me. Or her preacher did.”
“I don’t know about that. George is here, helping me.”
“You’d better watch him.”
“I will.”
“I’ve given her everything.”
“I imagine so,” said Darrow quietly.
“I haven’t given Winnie half what I’ve given Neva. But Winnie didn’t betray me. Neva’s the mother of my children, for godsakes.” After a pause, he grumbled, “I don’t want them here.”
“Who?”
“My children.”
“As you wish, but—”
“Especially not if … if they hang me.”
“They’re not going to hang you.”
Haywood turned, dead eye first. “How do you know? How does the great Clarence Darrow know that? You know they won’t hang me like you knew they wouldn’t kidnap me? Wouldn’t violate all my rights and drag me here? Is that how you know they won’t hang me?”
Darrow didn’t answer.
“Can’t clam you up, most days. Now you’ve got nothing to say.”
“I have an answer, Bill, but I don’t think you want to hear it.”
Haywood sat sideways in his chair. “I’m listening.”
Darrow dragged his bottom lip under his teeth, gathering his thoughts. “All right, the truth. The truth is: though they have the actual power to hang you, they do not have the legal power to do so. And they cannot hold you here—not without being in open violation of the Constitution. And they cannot find you guilty of a hanging offense without two separate, first-account witnesses. Two. They cannot. I know, all that and a nickel won’t buy a dead horse. But it’s all I have to work with: the law. I sent a petition to the Supreme Court, arguing for your immediate release. A man can not be extradited without evidence of—”
“But, they did.” Haywood picked up the newspaper.
“The Supreme Court will reverse that. It violates—”
“Have you read about that Russian fellow, Trotsky?”
“Sure. The socialist revolutionary.”
“Yeah,” said Haywood, finding a specific article in the paper. “Lead the workers— The Bolsheviks, they call themselves.”
“Yes.”
“Amazing victory,” said Haywood. “Got the first constitution in Russian history. I bet you didn’t know that.”
“I did.”
“Thousands of strong-hearted workers, good men, died fighting for a constitution, a two-bit piece of paper. Fighting th
at goddamned czar. People like us. Like any American worker. Like the men of the Federation. Union men. Those men and women. Women too. Even some children.” He punched a finger at the newspaper. “They armed themselves and marched in the streets. And they won, by God. But it wasn’t enough, was it?” Haywood looked again at the article. “That was in 1905. Then their constitution last year. And now … Here it says they think over a thousand Bolsheviks—Russian civilians, workers—have been executed this year. In 1907. Just two years since their uprising. One year since their constitution. Men and women, lined up and shot, or hanged. Without fair trials. And you know why? I hate to blame that Trotsky fellow, but he didn’t go far enough. He stopped short of the final mile. You can’t do that. He left the czar in power and didn’t put enough teeth in their new laws. So what’s it worth, their constitution? Their ink is barely dry and it’s already not worth a goddamned thing.”
“American courts will honor the American Constitution,” said Darrow. “They have for a hundred years, and I have no doubt they will in this matter.”
“Only one way forward for those poor, brave Russians,” Haywood continued, laying the paper aside. “Full on war. It will happen. Mark me. They need to drag the czar out and hang him. Him and that Rasputin fellow. They shouldn’t ‘apply their constitution.’ It’s too late for that. No ‘fair-trial’ bullshit. If the czar won’t honor it, Trotsky shouldn’t. I should write him.”
“Write him?” asked Darrow.
“Yes. Perhaps.”
“No, Bill. Absolutely not. If the prosecution reads a letter from you to Trotsky—”
“I could help him.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
Haywood glanced to be sure the outer office was empty, and then spoke softly. “You know exactly what I’d advise him. To do what I’ve done. I’ve taken our tyrants into the streets and executed them. I’ve bombed the trains and concentrators of the corporations and capitalist owners—any of them who would see a good man die for a dollar. And I’ve killed our political puppets, right at their homes. By God, Clarence, if this country’s companies, and our capitalist lords, and our governments … if they won’t follow the American Constitution: I ask you, why the hell should I?”
American Red Page 39
