During their long day waiting for Sir Rowan’s return, Jack and Iain took alternating posts: one watching Adams, the other watching the tiny Battle Mountain depot. As expected, Captain Swain arrived on horseback and began asking grumbling questions about three men who may have been there. The ticket agent reported to Swain that, yes, he had sold three tickets east to a man of Jack’s description. One of the drifters confirmed, saying he had seen the three get on the train. No, they hadn’t mentioned Boise, best he remembered, but one of them talked about Ogden. So, Swain boarded the next train to Utah.
***
Now, three days later, Jack and Iain were facing north in the driver’s box of their lurching wagon, keeping it at a keen clip. Due to this ancient, nomadic trail’s north-south orientation—between the distant Rockies to the east, and the Cascades to the west, coursing through an area void of arable land, navigable rivers, or natural wonders—there was perhaps no traversable path in the United States more remote, more untouched by modern civilization, more ideal to be transporting such a wanted prisoner—a man like the one covered by the red tarpaulin behind them—their prize groaning through each jostle and jolt.
Far behind them, the Owyhee windmill slid from the Earth. To their right, a herd of antelope kept the wagon in steady contemplation. While to their left, the sky began to catch fire, throwing its glow across the rolling hills of pink-flowering sagebrush, gooseberry, bitterbrush, patches of yellow balsamroot, and the blooms of Indian blankets that matched the orange above.
Iain gazed up in wonder as the vast sky streaked with color.
Jack looked ahead, lost in warm thoughts of Carla.
<><><>
– 49 –
THURSDAY
March 28, 1907
“It’s The Jungle,” Haywood replied to Neva’s question about what he was reading. “By Upton Sinclair.” He faced the cover toward her briefly.
“What’s it about?” she asked from a chair outside his cell. They were alone. She wore her midnight-blue wool coat and a demure hat. It was perhaps too late in the season for a thick coat, but it made her feel sheltered, bundled there in that cold office, talking to her cold husband through cold, steel bars.
“Animal slaughter,” he said, sitting on his chair inside the cell. He was in his shirt sleeves, his suspenders loose.
“Oh. Sounds interesting,” she said without having heard him.
He cocked his dead eye. “It’s of no interest to you, Nevada.”
“No,” she admitted, glancing away toward her green crutches on the floor beside her chair. “Nevada? Not Neva?”
“Would you prefer Collaborator? Traitor?”
“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t— I just can’t.”
Just above a whisper, he said, “You gave the goddamned Pinks a map to our offices, to our home.” He took a noisy breath. “It was that preacher, wasn’t it? After all I did for him.”
She heard the frightful faintness in his voice. He was not enraged, as she thought he would be—as perhaps she wished he was. His rage she could understand. She had dealt with it for years. She could ball up and hide from it. But this, this sinister calmness, bore a chill she didn’t know.
“That preacher’s an ungrateful charlatan,” he continued, his tone even and deliberate. “Seventh Day bullshit.”
“Not our home.”
“What?”
“You said I gave them a map to our home, but I didn’t.”
“You know what I meant. The suites in the Pioneer.”
“That was never my home,” she said, then looked at him squarely. “I’m not responsible for them arresting you, Bill.”
“You helped. And you didn’t warn me, when you could have.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me!” he thundered.
There it was. She relaxed, slightly. “I didn’t come to be yelled at,” she said—though perhaps she had.
“What did you expect? Huh? What?” His voice stayed loud. “They have me here. They’ll hang me. I may not live for more than another month or two, Neva. I might die! Don’t you care?”
“Of course I do. But you’ve—”
“Your husband just told you that he’s going to die. How can you be so cruel?”
“Cruel? Me?” She found her anger. “It’s because of your cruelness that I did what I did. It’s because of you that so many innocent people died and—”
“Innocent?”
“—so much money was stolen.” She inhaled sharply. She wasn’t supposed to have said that.
“I didn’t kill anyone. And I didn’t steal any money. Is that what they’re saying? Is that what that ass Borah is claiming, that I—”
“It’s just a rumor. Apparently money is missing from—”
“Then that’s your fellow’s problem.”
“Who?”
“Are you going to play ignorant with me?”
“George has nothing to do with anything.”
“He’s the union’s treasurer. Any missing money is his—”
“I’m not talking about that. I don’t want to. I don’t, Bill.” After a pause, she added, “Some local chapters have questions. That’s all I’ve heard.”
“Oh? Nah, they love me.”
“Are you sure?”
The question caught him for a moment, then he said, “Of course. They know I protect them. And the ones who don’t love me, they fear me—as they should. They know I’ll do what I must to protect myself and the Federation.”
She looked at him. There was his admission. At least to her, that was it. She had managed to keeps the waves of repulsion topping and collapsing far out at sea, but now the Earth had shifted, things were different—now those waves were here, ripping into her shore. She looked deeper. His wide face. The missing eye. The shoulders slumped in a jail cell, his thick neck likely to be hanged. Hated by thousands—perhaps more than the thousands who loved him. This was not a champion. Not a powerful man. But a weak man. How had she never seen it before? Reverend Sanders was right. George was right. Even Detective McParland was right, at least partially. This was not a father. Not a husband. But a deserter. A brutal coward who knew only to save himself at all costs. Loyal to no one. Not even to the members of the Federation, unless they were unflinchingly loyal to him first. And even then, he would betray them. A black-hearted man in love with one thing—power. She sat straighter in her chair. “You need to know, Bill. Whatever happens at the trial, I’ll not stay married to you.”
“Alright, that’s fine,” he said as flatly as if agreeing to the asparagus chicken.
She stared at him. Why no tears? she wondered. Not from him—that wasn’t surprising. But why none from her? Because she was right, she told herself. She didn’t love him. She loved George. She needed her daughters home. She needed to enjoy what life she had left. And at that moment, she needed to leave this place. She needed to be done with Bill forever. She picked up her crutches and stood. “Mr. Darrow asked me to testify on your behalf.”
He came to the bars. “Why? You don’t know about— Oh, about my character. What I’ve done for labor.”
“That’s right. Your character.”
“Good. That’ll be good. Do as Darrow tells you.”
She stared at him, snorted in disgust and turned away.
“You will, right?”
She pivoted on a crutch. “You actually believe I would.”
“Of course you will. You’re my wife!”
“On paper, perhaps. But it repulses me. Every fiber in me.”
“Goddamnit! Look around! This isn’t about you, you selfish woman. You child. And it’s not about us. It’s about thousands of men, the workers, their families. It’s about justice and revolution. This is not about you, but it is your obligation. You’re called—”
“No, Bill. It’s
about you. It’s about a man you had killed in front of his children and his wife. It’s my decision, whether or not I’ll testify about your character. You really want me to? Think hard on it. That decision definitely is about me. And about God and my eternity. And happiness. Yes, it’s about happiness. To the devil with you, Bill Haywood.” She spun and crutched to the outer door.
“Neva. Neva. Come back. Let’s—”
She kept moving, not turning.
“Go then, damn you! Go to your thieving adulterer!”
After managing to close the door behind her, she leaned on the wall in the courthouse hall, listening as he kept bawling. “You can’t judge me! You can’t testify for me! I won’t allow it! Who do you think you are, Nevada Jane Minor? A broken hag! A disease-filled, chatter-mag cripple! An adulterer! You’re nobody!”
Neva saw others in the hall were hearing Bill, their eyes critiquing her. She resumed moving to the lift, swinging her left leg between her green crutches, tears burning down her cheeks. She knew what she now had to do—for George, for herself. As the elevator’s doors closed, she clenched her eyes shut and whispered, “That’s enough! I’ll never speak to you again. Never.”
“It’s not required, Ma’am,” said the lift operator. “Just point at the number you want.”
“Oh, not you. Yes. I’m sorry,” she breathed, wiping away what remained of her salty streaks. “One please. To the street.”
<><><>
McParland tried to sleep on the BN&O narrow gauge but found it impossible, the anticipation too consuming. He had been sick with the sweats the past two days, and though the nausea was lifting, his body remained wracked with exhaustion. Still, nothing could keep him from being there, on that train, winding through the chalky hills, valleys of pinon and juniper, and then rising again into the mountains. He opened his eyes to the wood ceiling of the car. Then came a whistle from the engine and he sat up, looking out the window toward the front. They were approaching a small mining town. Senator Borah rose from his bench on the other side and slid into the one behind McParland. He too examined the cluster of homes and mine shacks outside. Then came the bell and the blow of steam and the train crawled to a stop beside a platform over which swayed a green sign painted with white letters:
SILVER CITY, IDAHO
McParland heard his men on the roof of the train car, and saw others stepping onto the platform. Pinkertons were also taking positions among the trees across the track and turntable. The town appeared deserted, but he knew better. Somewhere in that ramshackle cluster of buildings were two Pinkerton agents and a prisoner. And this was a remote mining town, thick with Federation men and their sympathizers. If a battle was to be had, if Pinkertons were to be slaughtered, this was the ideal location. There was only one narrow gauge track coming in. Wilderness for miles. Nowhere for a non-union man to hide. In some ways McParland regretted his decision to make this the hand-off point, but it was the last place someone would expect it.
The door to the ticket shed opened, and three men stepped onto the platform, each carrying either a rifle or a shotgun, and all wearing silver badges: a sheriff and two deputies.
“Damnit,” said McParland, donning his hat and moving to the door of the passenger car. Borah came up behind him. “Stay put, Senator, please,” said McParland. “Let me see about this.” Stepping out, McParland saw Pinkertons, including those on top of the train, taking aim at the lawmen on the platform. “Lower you weapons, gentlemen,” he yelled at his men. They did, and he walked to the sheriff. “James McParland,” he said, offering his hand.
Without accepting the gesture, the sheriff spit tobacco to one side. “State your business, Pink.”
McParland stared at the man and counted four seconds before speaking. “I’m an agent of the State of Idaho, and I’ve come to take custody of a prisoner.”
“Oh yeah? What prisoner would that be?”
“You know, Sheriff.” He was reminded why he hated these petty, small-town sheriffs who bore no loyalty to any cause greater than their own—each playing god of their own worthless patch of dirt.
The sheriff shook his head. “Don’t think I do.”
“Must we do this waltz?” McParland said. He gestured toward the floor of the rail platform where they stood. “Got a dance floor right here. That what you like to do round here? You wanna dance with me, Nancy?” McParland swayed a few waltz steps.
The sheriff didn’t budge. “I don’t think you heard me, old man.”
“Oh, but I did. As you observed, I’m a bit lanky in the tooth. But, that means that in my long career, I’ve dealt with more puffed-up little shits like you than I can count.” He took a beat and said, “And I’m feeling quite sickly today. So, let’s dispense with all … this. Whatever this is.” He felt his head swimming. He needed to sit down. “You know who I’ve come for, and you’re going to hand him over, along with my two men.”
“I don’t—”
“Shut your trap. You know who the prisoner is. And the way I figure, you’ve already wired Denver, setting off the alarm. I bet Captain Swain and a good size posse are headed this way. Right?”
No answer.
“Yeah, I’m right. But they won’t get here in time, because I control the one pissant railroad coming in. It’s just you and these two sniveling cowards”—he indicated the men flanking the sheriff—“against my whole company ready to gun you down. But they won’t have to. You’ll just step aside and let me have who I came for. Then I can go home and rest.”
“You think so?”
“I do. In fact, if you had any balls—if you really believed in the Wobbly cause—well, you would’ve already killed my men, burned their bodies, and hid that excrement, Adams, off in these hills.”
The sheriff looked away, wiped his nose, and kicked at the wood floor planks. “How do I know you’re authorized?”
“Good question. At least now you’re acting like a lawman.” McParland turned toward the train and said, “Senator? Can you join us?” As Borah stepped out, McParland turned to the sheriff. “My I present the United States Senator for the State of Idaho.”
Borah smiled broadly, spreading his arms in a “let’s be reasonable” gesture.
The sheriff’s eyes widened.
“I’d appreciate your cooperation,” Borah said as he approached.
“Yes, Sir,” said the sheriff, shaking the senator’s extended hand. “It’s good to meet you.”
McParland raised his eyebrows at the sheriff and gestured toward the shed. “So, let’s go. Don’t make me bring President Roosevelt off that train.”
The sheriff’s eyes widened again toward the passenger car’s door, before he realized McParland wasn’t serious. He looked at his deputies. “Go get em.” After they left, the sheriff turned back and saw McParland’s bushy mustache raised over a haughty smile.
McParland turned and began surveying the mountains around them. As he did, he softly sang:
Red is the rose by yonder garden grows.
And fair is the lily of the valley.
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne.
But my love is fairer than any.
The sheriff continued watching McParland and Borah. The only sounds, besides McParland’s quiet lyrics, came from the engine’s steam, a few men clearing their throats, adjusting their rifles, and a chorus of mating calls from the valley’s bird populace.
“Nice little town you have here,” said Borah.
“Thank you, Senator. I hope you’ll return sometime. The missus would like to meet you also.”
“Your wife? Well, in that case, perhaps I will.”
The sheriff frowned and McParland grinned at Borah.
Footsteps and the shuffle of chains, then Iain and his shotgun appeared through the door and onto the platform. His face bore a black eye. Behind him came Steve Adams, bound at the wrists and we
aring a walking chain between his ankles. Then came Jack and his rifle. Other Pinkertons escorted Adams onto the train. McParland grinned at Iain and Jack, slapping them on the back. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’m mightily impressed. Well done.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Jack, boarding the train, noting that McParland appeared ill. Behind him, Iain pivoted, walked up to the sheriff and hit him square in the face, sending the man onto his back with a broken nose.
As Iain got on the train, Jack nodded at him. Then Jack spoke to McParland. “Sombitch deserved it.”
“No doubt,” chuckled McParland, sitting on a bench across from Jack. “Are you well?”
“I am, Chief.”
“Good. I was worried.” McParland pulled a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“How are you?” asked Jack.
“Good. Good. Just got a little bug.”
Iain started to sit beside Jack, but McParland stopped him. “Agent Lennox, could you give Agent Garrett and me a minute?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Iain before moving to a further bench.
McParland leaned toward Jack. “When we get to Boise ... I don’t want anyone knowing you’re in town, not for a few days. So, you and Agent Lennox find a boarding house in Caldwell or someplace, till I give word.”
“May I ask why?”
“If you’re in Boise, people will ask questions. It’s well known you went to get Adams. So, if they see you, they’ll figure he’s in the pen. Federation boys will be chomping to kill him. Of course we’ll have him protected, but all the same. So, let’s delay word getting out until I get his written confession.” He saw Jack’s disappointment. “Just a few days, Romeo. Then you can go see Miss Capone—and resume what we discussed before you left.”
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