Though many suspected Malachi of culpable actions in the death of Genevieve, there was no proof.
When the Council finished their deliberations, they announced Shaniah as the newest leader of the Archaics. Her word was now the law. Technically, she answered to the Council and could be removed if it was deemed necessary, but that had never happened in the recorded history of her race. For all intents and purposes, her decisions were final.
When she was chosen, Malachi, who long believed he would rule one day, slowly descended into madness. He was convinced he deserved the office and fomented rebellion. His anger at what he considered a betrayal overwhelmed him. He spoke out, building dissent among the people. When Shaniah ordered him arrested and brought before a tribunal, he escaped with a few followers, left their mountain stronghold, and terrorized the towns and villages below. She and her personally chosen soldiers had not been able to catch him before he captured a ship and escaped. And it was up to her alone to bring him back. He must face Archaic justice. Or he must die.
The sky to the west had gone dark, and a half moon rose above the mountains to the southwest. Shaniah waited, using all of her senses to be sure the camp below was deserted. When she was certain, she spurred Demeter to a slow, careful descent down the canyon.
She rode along the edge of the camp, staying to the far right of a stream. The sound of the rushing water made her feel slightly nauseous and she circled away, reining Demeter around behind the buildings. Time, wind, and rain had removed any sign of the massacre. No doubt Malachi had dragged the bodies off, and there was no blood visible on the ground. Malachi had killed here though—she could smell him.
She dismounted outside the general store and tied Demeter to a hitching post. Inside, the store was full of goods. It was strange no one had come here to steal the food, guns, and ammunition still lining the shelves. But she supposed the stories of what had happened here kept the looters away.
The general store held no clues, and she moved on to the saloon next door. She found the signs of a struggle and bloodstains lining the floor. Most of the killing had happened here. She knelt and examined the scene, but it was harder to single out Malachi’s scent because there were too many smells mixed together. It was there though. Perhaps if she concentrated, she might be able to lock onto it and follow him to his lair.
He had eluded her repeatedly over the last four years. Being able to travel only at night, her unease in crossing rivers and streams had made her job more difficult. Malachi was feeding on human blood, giving him the ability to more easily tolerate the things that made an Archaic weaker, like rivers and streams. And Malachi was cunning. He knew she would be coming. He did not make it easy, leading her on, doubling back, and sending her down any number of false trails.
Two years earlier, he had staged a massacre of a band of Blackfoot Indians in Montana. But he had left the bodies and his band had refrained from drinking the blood. The massacre had made big news in the territory. The humans made inquiries and decided renegades had killed the Indians. When Shaniah was finally able to examine the site of the killings, she discovered that Malachi had staged the elaborate scene to taunt her. His smell was everywhere, but he was long gone and it was months before she picked up his trail again.
She stood and headed for the doorway, and upon leaving the saloon found three men, all of them dressed in filthy buckskins, standing next to Demeter. The sound of the rushing water in the stream had covered their approach and they had entered the camp downwind, her sense of smell failing to warn her. One of them held her horse by the reins. He was tall, missing his two front teeth and had a long beard, twisted and gnarled below his chin. It was stained and dirty and Shaniah did not want to think about what might have landed in it. The other two men were shorter, and just as ugly and disgusting as the first. One of them, his face lined with scars, wore cavalry pants and a ridiculous-looking top hat. He held a large rifle, which she thought might have been a Sharps carbine, and the other one, his hair greasy and matted to his head, held a lantern, which cast a flickering shadow on the wooden walls of the surrounding buildings. The man holding Demeter’s reins had two Colt pistols with handles out, belted around his waist.
This was trouble.
“Well, lookee here,” the tall man said, his tongue pushing through the space of his missing teeth, giving a lisping quality to his words.
Shaniah was dressed completely in black; a long leather duster, riding boots, and woolen pants. She had bound up her shoulder-length blond hair, hiding it beneath her black Stetson, but up this close it was easily apparent that she was a woman. And she carried no weapon except a dagger hidden in her boot.
Shaniah studied the men and for several seconds said nothing. It was quiet as the looters waited to see if she might try to run.
“That happens to be my horse,” she said. During her years in America she had practiced her English and her words came out only slightly accented. One of the men standing behind Demeter laughed and shifted his rifle, holding it at port arms.
“Is that so?” The tall man lisped. “Me and Beaver and Jonesy here was just riding along and we seen this fine stallion and thought he might have gotten lost. Where you from, honey?” he asked, as the two men chuckled behind him.
She didn’t see their horses anywhere, but they could have left them outside the camp. They were most likely scavengers, here to raid the town of whatever supplies remained.
She ignored his question. “Yes. The horse belongs to me, and I’ll be taking him now,” she said, stepping forward slowly. She needed to be at just the right distance.
“Well, we’ll see about that. You got some proof on you? Somethin’ shows you didn’t steal him? Awful big horse for a little bitty thing like you. Seems kinda strange, woman like you up here all alone on a fine animal like this.”
“He belongs to me, and I would be most grateful if you handed him over. Before this situation worsens.”
The scavengers behind the toothless man broke into uproarious laughter.
Toothless Man reached out and grabbed Shaniah by the wrist.
“Maybe we’ll just have us a little party fore’n we decide who the damn horse belongs to.”
Shaniah whistled loud and shrilly through her teeth and Demeter instantly kicked out with his back legs. The man holding the lantern screamed as the hooves connected with his midsection. The kick broke the lantern and the coal oil splattered on his clothes and caught fire. He dropped his rifle and batted at the flames consuming him.
Shaniah moved with speed and precision, catching the toothless man completely by surprise. She twisted her arm and broke the man’s grip, and turning sideways, drove her elbow into his throat. The man gasped as his larynx was crushed and he clutched at his neck, unable to breathe.
The third man looked at his burning friend, then at Shaniah, and raised his rifle to shoot, but she shielded herself with the toothless man, who was now drawing his last breath. She lifted her leg, pulling the dagger from her boot, and in one fluid motion threw it, watching as it landed squarely in her remaining tormenter’s chest.
She released her grip on the toothless man and he slumped to the ground. He couldn’t breathe, but with one hand he tried to draw a pistol. Shaniah stepped on his hand and held her boot solidly there until he breathed no more. With him dead, she turned her attention to the last man, who had rolled about in the dust and finally extinguished the flames. He had dropped his weapon when Demeter kicked him and as she started toward him, he cried out trying to crawl away on his hands and knees. For a moment she thought of letting him go. But he would have raped and killed her or watched while one of his companions had. Besides, she couldn’t let anyone know she was here. If he lived and talked, word would spread. She was close. He was close. She knew it. Malachi would reveal himself soon. She could not allow anything to interfere with her hunt.
As he desperately scrambled away, she walked up behind him. With a powerful twist she snapped his neck and he died instantly. And for a
moment she felt rage, knowing his death had been too merciful.
She looked around. All three men lay dead in the street. It had only taken a matter of seconds. She walked to the second dead man and removed the dagger from his chest. As she did, she smelled the blood and her heart momentarily raced. She brought the dagger close to her face and inhaled the coppery scent. Archaic law forbade drinking the blood of dead humans as well, but she found it an interesting test of her willpower.
After a moment she cleaned the dagger on the shirt of the dead man and restored it to her boot. She carried the bodies to a nearby shed and placed them inside. She caught Demeter’s reins, mounted, and rode out of the camp, leaving the bodies behind.
And for a brief instant, the scent of the blood still caressing her memory, she had a better understanding of Malachi and the depth of his desires.
Chapter Seven
Jonas Hollister sat in the main dining room of the Paradise Hotel. He couldn’t stop staring at the table linen and thought for a moment it might be the brightest white cloth he’d ever seen. After four years of nothing but the drab gray and dank darkness of Leavenworth, it almost hurt his eyes. But the mug of cold beer sitting before him was another object of rapt attention.
Hollister had never been much of a drinker. He had shared brandy with General Sheridan during the war or when he called his officers together for staff meetings. And he occasionally had imbibed with his commanding officers at various posts on the frontier, so when it came to liquor he could take it or leave it. But the first sip of beer in more than four years felt like someone had tipped back his head and poured liquid ambrosia down his throat.
Hollister fingered the pips on his collar, feeling the major’s leaves there, and looked down at the dark blue sleeves of his blouse, something he thought he’d never wear again. He touched his belt and the leather cover of the holster holding the Navy Colt he’d been issued by the prison quartermaster. There was almost too much to take in. He felt slightly disconnected, like he was walking through a parallel world.
The Paradise was the fanciest hotel in Leavenworth. Pinkerton had given Hollister his first month’s salary in advance and told him and Sergeant Chee to have dinner, then meet at the railway station, where their train car was being readied.
Hollister sensed motion beside him, looked up and nearly jumped out of his seat, for the newly promoted Sergeant Major Chee was standing next to the table at attention.
“Holy shit, Sergeant! How did you do that?”
“Sir?” Chee asked.
“You snuck up on me,” Hollister said.
“No, sir. I’m reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”
Hollister studied the man before him. Not quite six feet tall, thin and rangy, his skin was coffee colored, his hair dark and curly. He had gray eyes, a shade Hollister had never seen before, but surmised they were eyes that never missed much.
“At ease, Sergeant, have a seat.”
Chee sat in the chair to Hollister’s right and Jonas could tell he was uncomfortable.
“Something wrong, Sergeant Chee?” Hollister asked.
“Sir? Uh . . . no, sir,” Chee said, shifting in his seat.
Hollister raised his hand and gestured to the waiter, who stood behind the bar across the room, in conversation with the bartender. Hollister watched until the waiter looked at him again. Hollister waved him over but the man stayed rooted to his spot. Another fellow dressed in a black suit walked into the dining room and strolled behind the bar, speaking quietly to the waiter and the bartender. After a moment he approached their table.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said to Hollister. He was portly, with a full set of whiskers. His hair was streaked with white, and he had stared hard at Chee as he approached the table.
“Evening,” said Hollister.
“Sir . . . Major . . . there is . . . if you would be kind enough to join me in the lobby for a brief discussion?”
Hollister looked at the man and a glimmer of understanding washed over him. “I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s discuss it here if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Sir, really . . .” the man stammered.
“Get to the point,” Hollister said.
The man sighed deeply, pinching his nose with his fingers. “Sir, our hotel has a strict policy regarding the . . .”
“Regarding what?” Hollister interrupted.
Chee had been silently watching the exchange, but then understood. He was not welcome in a place like the Paradise Hotel, and he started to rise from his chair.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Hollister said. Chee, confused, sat back down.
“Regarding what?” Hollister asked the man again.
“Major, you are of course more than welcome to dine with us this evening, but the hotel has a strict policy regarding the service of . . . certain individuals.”
“Really? What individuals would that be? It wouldn’t be soldiers wearing the uniform of the United States Army, would it?” Hollister asked.
“No sir, of course not . . . it’s just that your companion . . . is . . . sir, I’m sure you understand we . . . the Paradise Hotel . . . does not allow . . . Negroes to be served on our premises,” the man said, choosing his words very carefully.
“Really?” Hollister asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. He turned and looked at Chee. “Sergeant? Are you a Negro?”
“One quarter, sir,” the sergeant answered quietly.
“I’ll be damned. Well there you go . . . Mr. . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t get your name?” Hollister asked.
“It’s McLaren, sir, general manager of—”
Hollister interrupted again, “You heard the man. He’s only one quarter Negro, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sir . . . Major . . . I have no desire to make this uncomfortable for anyone. You, of course, are welcome to dine at your leisure, and I would be happy to have the kitchen prepare something for the sergeant . . . but I’m afraid he will have to leave the dining room.”
Hollister put his head down for a moment. He thought of the events earlier in the day, of Chee taking on McAfee in the yard. He chuckled to himself quietly. He unsnapped the leather cover of his holster, removed the .44 caliber Navy Colt, and laid it on the linen tablecloth.
“Sergeant, were you able to test fire your weapon before you met me here?” Hollister asked.
“No, sir,” Chee answered.
“I see. Perhaps we can do it here, starting with the first row of whiskey bottles behind the bar. My last Colt tended to pull up and to the right on the recoil. Hollister picked up the weapon and cocked the hammer, aiming it at the bottles. The bartender and waiter shouted, ducking quickly beneath the wooden bar.
“Major!” McLaren shouted waving his hands. “Please. There is no need . . .”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. McLaren, there is no need,” Hollister said. He extended his arm and sighted down the barrel. “So here is what is going to happen.” He paused. “Look at me, Mr. McLaren, while I tell you how this is going to play out.” McLaren had turned away and buried his head in his arms, waiting for the sound of shots. He reluctantly uncurled and faced the Major.
“Master Sergeant Chee and I are going to sit here in the dining room of the Paradise Hotel of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and enjoy two of your finest steak dinners. Then we are going to pay our bill and leave. Otherwise, I’m going to work on test firing my Colt right here in your fine establishment. Are we clear?”
Mr. McLaren swallowed hard. “Sir, please, my job . . .”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about your job, Mr. McLaren. I’d be more worried about the noise and all the busted glass if we don’t get our dinners post haste. Besides you wouldn’t want word to get out the Paradise Hotel doesn’t welcome patrons from the U.S. Army, would you? Hollister released the hammer on the Colt and put it back on the table.
“We’re waiting on our steaks. My companion here would like a beer and I’d like another. And I’ll expect them
promptly or I may have to reconsider target practice. Am I understood?” Hollister looked up at McLaren.
“Yes, sir, perfectly. Your dinner shall be here momentarily.” McLaren turned on his heel and headed back to the bar. Hollister could hear him issuing orders to his employees.
Chee stared in disbelief at Hollister for a long moment.
“Thank you, sir,” Chee finally said.
“Don’t mention it, Sergeant,” Hollister said. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Chapter Eight
Pinkerton’s car sat on a siding behind the train station. From the outside it looked like a normal Pullman car painted black and silver, and drawing closer in the gathering dusk it was clear the car was brand new. The metal shone and the sunlight glinted off the rounded corners of polished steel. Hollister bounded up the steps at the rear of the car and knocked on the door. A muffled command to enter came from inside.
Hollister entered first, followed by Chee, and both of them stopped for a moment to grasp what their eyes were seeing, for as normal as the train car appeared from the outside, inside it was anything but.
Pinkerton sat at a writing table placed beneath a window at the center of the car. And it was the windows that first drew Hollister’s attention. Strange shapes were painted in white all around each window and the far door at the other end of the car. The ceiling had three different trap doors built into it and the paintings circled them as well. A strange aroma filled the car and Hollister thought it was familiar but he couldn’t place it.
“Madre de Dios,” Chee muttered, barely getting the words out.
Pinkerton finished his writing and looked up.
“Ah, Major, so glad you’re here. You must be Sergeant Chee?” Pinkerton stood and strode confidently up to the young man. Chee nearly backed up a step and stared at Hollister in amazement as the detective pumped his hand. Hollister shrugged.
“Welcome, Sergeant. Major Hollister has told me all about you,” Pinkerton said.
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