Beau Riffenburgh - Pinkertons Great Detective: The Amazing Life and Times of James McParland

McKenna knew his life could end at any moment. Each day that passed pieces of the puzzle were being put together, and soon the inevitable conclusion would be reached by the bodymastersand they knew all too well how to eliminate problems. He realized that his every move was being watched, his actions scrutinized, and that he might soon be given the black spot, marking him for murder.

No one understood better than the rough brawler known throughout the less salubrious parts of Schuylkill County as Jim McKenna how easy it was to kill a man. His life could be snuffed out at home in the dead of night, or in the street on a dark evening, or even in a crowded, well-lit place that had seemed secure until it was too late. McKenna would not go easilyhe was well armed and could hold his own with a pistol, knife, lead pipe, or his fistsbut he could feel Death looking over his shoulder.

The premonition had started a week or so before, in mid-February 1876, when Mary Ann Higgins, whom he was courting, told him about the rumor that he was an informeraccused of being behind the arrests of several men from the Ancient Order of Hibernians (AOH), an Irish fraternal society with a large local membership. McKenna was convinced that the AOH was actually more than that. He believed it was essentially the same as the Molly Maguires, a shadowy and brutal Irish American brotherhood responsible for sabotage, beatings, and at least sixteen murderssome said more than fiftyin the Pennsylvania coalfields.

But it was not the notion of killing and violence that aroused Mary Anns disgust; it was the thought that McKenna might be a spy. For in a region heavily populated by immigrants from the turbulent northern counties of Ireland, few were detested more than informers. And few could expect shorter life spans.

McKennas friend Frank McAndrew and a friendly Pottsville saloon

Outwardly incensed that after two years as an officer of the AOH he should be accused, McKenna went to Kehoe to protest his innocence, and to demand an opportunity to prove his case. Kehoe agreed to set a trial for early March, near McKennas lodgings in Shenandoah, a grimy little mining town in the anthracite coal region about twelve miles north of Pottsville, the Schuylkill County seat. In fact, so convincing had McKennas protests been that he was allowed to spend the night in Kehoes house. But in the ensuing days, away from his smooth talking, Kehoes suspicions returned.

Kehoe saw McKenna in Pottsville on the day before the scheduled trial and urged him to accompany him on the train back to Shenandoah that evening. McKenna agreed, but when he boarded it, there was no trace of Kehoe. Mrs. Kehoe was there, but she said that her husband had left in the afternoon.

The suspicion struck me, then, just at that time, that all was not right, McKenna later testified. I began to see then where I stood.

Concerned that trouble might be waiting at the little crossing where he usually jumped off because it was close to his boardinghouse, McKenna stayed on the train. He was glad he had when he saw several suspicious figures in the shadows around the usually deserted track.

After disembarking at the main station, he made his way toward McAndrews house through dark streets encrusted with oft-thawed and refrozen mud and snow. He exchanged greetings with a few friends and was alarmed when one pointedly ignored him. When he popped into a tavern, another offered him a drink, but the mans hands shook so violently that he could barely pull the stopper from the bottle. McKenna wryly asked if he had the ague, although he knew the man was simply terrified to be with him.

A fellow named Edward Sweeney fell into step with him after he left the tavern, and McKenna innately sensed danger: I got him to walk in front of me. I said my eyes were bad, and I could not see; that the pavements had holes in them.... I got him ahead of me, and I made up my mind to keep him there.

At McAndrews house, McKenna was unable to prise any information from his friend, so he waited until several others who were there left, and then, listening intently for sounds of pursuit, slipped out again. He ignored the direct route to his boardinghouse and crept through the edges of a swamp to avoid an ambush. Once inside his tiny bedroom he laid out his weapons and sat awake through the long, freezing night, keeping anxious watch between the tattered curtains into the moonlight for the men he was certain planned to kill him.

Early the next morning, his hand tucked inside his old brown coat gripping the cold butt of a .36 caliber Colt Navy revolver, McKenna entered a smoky Shenandoah saloon with McAndrew. My God, man, dont you know why youve been summoned here? an acquaintance blurted before hurrying away.

McKenna did know. Only a couple of bodymastersthe heads of the AOH lodgeshad arrived, and it was obvious that judgment had already been passed: There would be no hearing. McAndrew, the only person now willing to be seen with him, suggested they go for a ride in a cutter, a lightweight, open sleigh. Following them in another cutter were two AOH men. Once they were racing across the deep snow, McAndrew informed McKenna that one of them had been charged to kill him. Have you got your pistols? he asked.

McKenna answered in the affirmative, and McAndrew continued, So have I, and I will lose my life for you. I do not know whether you are a detective or not, but I do not know anything against you. I always knew you were doing right, and I will stand by you. Why dont they try you fair? McAndrew then informed McKenna that he had saved his life the night before.