“Mr. Slater,” Hollister said, trying not to grimace as he spoke. “It’s awfully nice of the senator to send you here as our backup. But as you can see we managed to put these things down and everything’s fine, so your service is no longer required in this campaign.”
Slater lifted the barrel of the Fire Shooter, studying it, running his free hand over the barrel if he were inspecting a horse he wanted to buy. He smiled an ugly smile and looked at Hollister.
“I think you know he didn’t send me here for no backup,” Slater said. “You don’t look so good, by the way.”
Hollister could only imagine what he did look like, his shirt and face covered in blood and his body battered from being tossed around by Malachi inside a room made entirely of rock.
“Never better, actually,” Hollister said. “We got a lot of paperwork needs doing after all the shooting and exploding we did here. And Pinkerton and his men are on the way. So we’re going to get to it, if you’ll excuse us.”
Slater snorted. “I don’t think you got any backup coming. And even if what you’re saying is true, it’ll take Pinkerton a while to get here. And you’ll be dead and we’ll be long gone before he arrives.”
“Chee, why the hell hasn’t the dynamite gone off yet?” Hollister muttered quietly.
“What’s that? Didn’t quite catch it,” Slater said.
Chee had his Henry held at port arms and would never be able to get a shot off before one of Slater’s gun thugs shot him down.
“I was just telling Sergeant Chee here to shoot you first, once the shooting starts,” Hollister lied, trying to buy time until he could think of a way to stall Slater and his men. He tried to stand up straighter, but his wound sent another wave of pain through him and he bent forward again. The dynamite must have been duds, because there was no explosion.
“You know Shaniah here, she’s impervious to fire, plus she’s fast. Faster than Chee.”
“Well, Major Hollister, I never went to West Point, so I don’t reckon I know what ‘imperialist’ means . . .” Slater started to say.
“Impervious, not imperialist, you moron,” Hollister interrupted. “Means fire can’t kill her.” Where is the damn dynamite? he thought. “Chee,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You still got ammo?”
“Yes, sir,” Chee replied. “Six shots.”
“Crap on a Cracker,” Hollister said. “I’m out.”
“As soon as you two finish your little conversation there, please let me know. I’d like to get to the part where I kill the three of you,” Slater said.
“Kill these men,” Shaniah said. “Burn me with your contraption there, empty all of your guns into me. I will not die. And when I heal, which will only take a matter of days, I will find you, Mr. Slater. I have your scent. I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Without any hesitation.”
Hollister was growing impatient. Standoffs like this were not his forte. In the war, on the plains, he attacked or retreated to find a better tactical position. Waiting for the fighting to start was annoying as hell. It also led to stupid mistakes, he reminded himself. He wanted his explosion, he wanted his stomach to stop hurting like a bitch, and he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in Slater’s head just to top off his day. He was out of ideas though.
Slater stared at Shaniah, his reptilian eyes slitted nearly closed, as he considered her words.
“You know, I’ve done a lot of killing over the years,” Slater said, looking at the barrel of the Fire Shooter again. “Shot people, strangled a few, stabbed a fellow once in Wichita . . .”
“Was that you?” Hollister said. “Because I’ve heard Wichita doesn’t usually get a lot of stabbings, but this one year . . .”
“Shut your mouth!” Slater shouted. “Like I was saying, hung folks, pushed a rustler off a cliff, pretty much killed every way you can. ’Cept I ain’t ever burned anybody to death before.”
He lowered the Fire Shooter and pointed it at Chee. “While we was watching you fight these . . .” He looked around at the piles of dead bodies. “ . . . whatever the hell these things are, I got real interested in your little flamethrowers here.”
“Hey. Flamethrower, that’s a pretty good name. We were calling them Fire Shooters, but I didn’t much care for that. I like flamethrower a lot better, don’t you, Chee?” Hollister said.
“Yes, sir,” Chee said, never taking his eyes off Slater. Next to him he could sense Shaniah growing tense, waiting to spring. Chee held Dog in check some way Hollister wasn’t sure of. Probably by using his mind, for all Hollister knew.
“But wait,” Hollister said. “Did you say you were watching us fight these things? And you didn’t help us? Well, excuse me, but that’s just rude.” The dynamite was a goddamned dud; that was the only explanation. Hollister was angry he wouldn’t live long enough to tell Monkey Pete they had survived fighting a billion Archaics but were thwarted by faulty dynamite. If the three of them survived, Monkey Pete was going to get an earful. Hollister gave a sideways glance at Chee and rolled his eyes toward the mine, but Chee only shrugged.
“Shut up, Hollister. You ain’t funny. I ain’t the one sat in prison all them years like an idiot. I get to kill people and get paid for it and ain’t never got caught once. And now I’m gonna burn ya’ll, starting with the breed.” He looked at Chee “What do you think, Breed?”
“I think you better not miss,” Chee said.
Slater laughed, he turned the knob on the handle of the flamethrower and pulled the trigger. At that instant the dynamite inside the mine went off with a mighty blast. What Slater didn’t know was that the weapon Hollister had left behind had a barrel jammed with dirt and mud. The pressure mounted inside it, exploding in a burst of flames and engulfing Slater. Screaming in agony, he dropped to his knees as Monkey Pete’s fuel mixture burned the flesh from his bones.
The explosions threw the horses into a frenzy, their riders trying desperately to regain control of their mounts. The dynamite’s pressure wave knocked Shaniah and Hollister to their knees. Yet somehow Chee remained standing, and he fired the Henry shot after shot, killing five men. The rifle was empty. The last man tried to keep his horse under control and draw his pistol at the same time, until he was knocked backward out of the saddle by Chee’s bowie knife landing in the middle of his chest.
Then it was quiet. Dust filled the air. The torches had fallen to the ground and there was a little light left. Dog walked over to Slater’s remains and sniffed at him. Then he lifted his leg and peed.
“Good boy,” said Hollister. Even Chee laughed.
Chapter Seventy-nine
By the time they arrived back in Denver, Hollister was almost completely healed. Even the scar where the blade had entered his stomach was slowly disappearing. Chee developed an uneasy truce with Shaniah when he saw Hollister’s improvement. She remained on Dog’s bad list though.
Monkey Pete was happy to hear his contraptions had worked, but less so when he found out his equipment had been left behind.
“Sorry, Monkey Pete,” Hollister said. “In all the excitement we forget to grab the Ass-Kicker also, so it’s gone too, and I expect Winchester ain’t going to be too happy about that either. Besides, your damn dynamite nearly got us killed, so stop whining.” Pete groused and muttered a few curses but eventually came around.
The train chugged into Denver, and Hollister was happy to see the warehouse again. He’d come to think of it as home. Which was strange because there was nothing homelike about it.
On the way Shaniah and Hollister made no attempts to hide their relationship. But to Jonas it felt as if a veil of melancholy had descended over her and he couldn’t tell why. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t jolly her out of it.
They arrived about three o’clock in the afternoon. The warehouse became a hub of activity as the train was resupplied and restocked. Shaniah and Hollister stayed in his cabin until it grew dark.
“There’s something I’ve got to go do,” he said. “When I
get back, let’s take a walk. Sound good?”
She stood and took him in her arms. She kissed him, a long lingering kiss.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“For what you did for me. For my people. For keeping your promise.”
“Huh,” he said.
Chapter Eighty
Declan hadn’t heard from Slater or any of his men and he was starting to get nervous. He entered his mansion at dusk and went to the study.
He was pouring the bourbon from his decanter when he realized a man was sitting at his desk. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, spilling bourbon all over himself and the floor.
“Good evening, Senator,” Hollister said.
“Is that you, Hollister? What the hell are you doing here, trespassing in my house? By God, I’ll have you arrested!” His heart sank. If Hollister was here, then it meant Slater was probably dead. This was not good. Not good at all.
“I don’t think you’ll have me arrested. I don’t think you’ll do much of anything. In fact, in another forty-eight hours I don’t even think you’ll be a senator anymore.”
“What? Are you out of your mind? Get out of my house,” he said.
Hollister pulled a letter out of his vest pocket.
“I found this letter in Slater’s saddlebag. He’s dead, by the way. Pretty interesting, you transferring all this land and money to him, right before he comes trying to kill me.”
“That letter doesn’t prove anything,” the senator said. “I was simply rewarding an employee for years of loyal service.”
Hollister stood up and walked toward the senator, who instinctively backed up.
Hollister kept moving forward, the senator backpedaling until he was nearly standing in the fireplace.
“I think whether it proves anything or not isn’t up to you or me. I think I’ll send a copy of it to the governor and the president. Just for the hell of it, see what they think about it.”
“You—you—wouldn’t do that . . .” Declan stammered.
Hollister folded the letter back up and put it back in his pocket. “Your reaction tells me everything I need to know. Here’s what’s going to happen.”
Hollister stepped over to the table holding the decanters and poured himself a large glass of bourbon.
“First, you are going to get your son some help. Get him out of that bedroom, find an asylum or some doctors somewhere who will help him. Then you’re going to resign from the senate and you’re never going to run for any kind of office again. Ever. And third, you’re going to give back all the land you stole from the farmers and ranchers. Every acre. Give it back to the state, land grants, I don’t care. It goes back to the original owners if they still want it.”
“You’re insane,” Declan said.
“I am. If you’d seen what I saw, you’d be insane too,” Hollister said.
“I’m not doing any of these things.” Declan snorted.
“You will. You have two days.” Hollister put down the glass and walked back to where Declan stood. He drew his Colt, thumbing back the hammer. He put the barrel under Declan’s chin. The senator closed his eyes, tears escaping and running down his cheeks.
“You will do it, in two days. Or I”ll come back and kill you. Your choice,” Hollister said. “And don’t try sending anyone after me. Slater was as good as there was. Just not good enough.”
He left the mansion, the senator’s eyes still closed and tears cascading down his cheeks, long after Hollister was gone.
Chapter Eighty-one
Shaniah went to the stock car and led Demeter down the ramp. He was saddled and ready to go. It was best this way. She was an Archaic who needed to return to her people. Hollister was a human being who needed to get on with his life and though she should not have these feelings for him, she did. It would be a clean break.
She mounted Demeter and was startled to find Chee standing on the other side of her horse, the ever-present Dog at his side.
“You’re leaving,” he said.
“Yes. It’s best this way,” she said.
He studied her a moment. “I agree,” he said.
“You don’t like me,” Shaniah said.
“No. Not really,” Chee answered.
“Why?”
“You think you love the major and he loves you. He does. But it cannot be,” he said.
“And so you hate me because he fell in love with me?” she asked.
“No. I hate you because you are an Archaic. And we are enemies, like the lion and the lamb,” he said.
“We leave humans alone,” she said. “We have for centuries.”
“For now. But it will not always be that way,” he said.
“Then hate me. If as you say, that is how it must be,” she said.
He nodded.
“Will you tell him I said good-bye?” she asked.
“I will not,” Chee answered.
“Why not?”
“It will only make it harder for him,” he said.
“I do not understand you, witch-man,” she said.
He shrugged.
She reined Demeter around and started on her journey home. Before she reached the warehouse door, she heard Chee call out to her and she stopped, wheeling Demeter around to face him.
“Did you tell him?” Chee said.
“Tell him what?” Shaniah asked, her voice cracking. He couldn’t know. It was far too soon. How could he tell? She was more convinced than ever he was a witch.
“To leave without telling him you are carrying his child is cowardly. He has a right to know,” Chee said.
“He can’t know . . . I’m not . . . it isn’t possible,” she stammered.
“But nevertheless it has happened. And you must tell him. It is only right,” Chee said.
She spurred Demeter close to Chee.
“You will not tell him. If you do, so help me, I will kill you, witch-man,” she said.
“First, I will not tell him because it is not my place. That responsibility belongs to you. Second, you may try to kill me at your convenience,” Chee said.
She looked at him for a long time. Then she turned Demeter toward the warehouse exit. He called out to her.
“Shaniah,” he said. “I will be watching.”
She rode away, his warning echoing in the empty warehouse.
Chapter Eighty-two
Two weeks later
“Is that where he spends most of his time?” Pinkerton asked.
“Yes, or at the Golden Star,” Chee said.
“God damn, I feel sorry for the man,” Pinkerton said.
Chee did not answer.
“Let’s go,” Pinkerton said.
“Before we do . . .” Chee pulled the Order of Saint Ignatius medallion from his pocket and flipped it in the air. Pinkerton caught it and held it out in his palm so Chee could plainly see it.
“Well done, Sergeant,” Pinkerton said, giving Chee his own coin. Chee repeated Pinkerton’s action, and satisfied, they left.
They walked through the streets of Denver until they reached the saloon. As he usually was, Hollister sat at the corner table farthest from the bar. A single glass and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, and his head was down as if he were trying to stare a hole through the table.
“Major Hollister,” Pinkerton said as he approached.
Hollister recognized the voice and glanced up. He looked briefly at Pinkerton and said nothing and returned to staring at his whiskey glass.
“I have something for you,” Pinkerton said, pulling a folded paper from his suit coat pocket.
He unfolded it and handed it to Hollister. Jonas looked at it, then tossed it onto the table. Across the top of the paper in large type it read, PRESIDENTIAL PARDON.
“Just as we agreed,” Pinkerton said.
“Thanks,” Hollister muttered.
“I have something else,” Pinkerton said.
“What? Because if you don’t mind, I really like to drink alone.” Hollister looked at
Pinkerton. The detective could tell he wasn’t much of a drinker. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and the bottle was mostly full. He came here and sat and sipped his whiskey because that’s what a man with a broken heart does.
Pinkerton removed a leather wallet from his suit pocket.
Hollister was a little drunk. “You keep pulling shit out of your pockets, Pinkerton. You haven’t got a monkey in there, have you?”
Pinkerton handed him the wallet. Hollister opened it. On one side was a badge. On the other was a small picture of Hollister from his army days, printed on a card that said, DEPUTY INSPECTOR, U.S. DEPT. OF THE INTERIOR, OFFICE OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS.
“What’s this?” Hollister said.
“It’s a new job, now that you’ve completed your original assignment. Sergeant Chee here has already said yes. You’ll travel around the west, and investigate . . . things. Like you just did with the Archaics. Incidents that are strange, curious, and don’t add up. You’ll keep the train and Monkey Pete. You’ll get a raise in pay. You’ll save lives. In fact we’ve already got a case for you down near the Mexican border. Might be Apaches. Might be something else. I’d like you and Chee to find out.”
Hollister snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to Pinkerton. “Can I let you know? Think on it for a few days?”
Pinkerton stroked his beard with his gnarled fingers. “All right, fine,” he said. “But don’t take too long, Jonas. People are dying.”
Jonas picked up the glass and stared at the detective through the amber liquid.
“Mr. Pinkerton,” he said. “Someone, somewhere, is always dying.”
Chee and Pinkerton turned and left the saloon, leaving Hollister alone with his whisky bottle and his thoughts.
Blood Riders Page 32
