Authors: Michael P. Spradlin
A
s the prairie rolled by, Van Helsing and Pinkerton briefed Chee and Hollister with their accumulated knowledge of vampires. The information was sketchy, much of it second- and thirdhand. There was a great deal to digest, and Hollister found Chee’s contribution to their discussions both surprising and informative. He’d made a snap judgment about the kid, based on how he’d handled himself with McAfee. Of course he’d seen him around the yard and on other work details, but Chee was quiet and kept to himself. Now he had turned into a different person, and Hollister smiled to himself at the good luck of his choice.
They had worked straight through lunch and gone through Van Helsing’s book several times. He handed Hollister a portfolio.
“Da. Very gut! Major, here is a copy of my journal. I’ve had it transcribed for you. It contains all of the knowledge of the vampire we have accumulated. If and when you track down these vile beasts, I hope you will be villing to share your experiences with us,” Van Helsing said.
“Sure, Doctor. I don’t mind that at all. ’Course I’ll have to survive my encounter first, won’t I?” Hollister replied.
Van Helsing threw back his head and laughed. “Ach. So true, Major! So very, very true! You make a very good joke!” Hollister hadn’t intended it as a joke and knew Van Helsing wouldn’t be laughing either, if he’d been as close to one of those demons as Hollister had.
When they finally pulled into Denver, it was seven o’clock. The train chugged slowly onto a siding at the main station yard. The rails led the train inside a large warehouse. Checking his watch again, Pinkerton stood.
“Dr. Van Helsing, this is the end of the line for you, for now at least. Thank you for your assistance.” Van Helsing shook everyone’s hand.
“Ach. It is gut to have you with us, Major Hollister and Sergeant Chee. My thoughts and prayers will be with you on your mission,” he said.
Gathering up his papers and tucking them into his battered valise, he shrugged into his topcoat. “Adieu, gentlemen!” he said. He took one last look around the train, studying the devil’s traps and the markings on the walls; nodding in some internal agreement with himself, he reached the door of the car and paused. “Major, I want you to know something. What happened to you and your men, on that ridge in Wyoming . . . it vas not your fault. You could not have known what you were facing. And I believed you, Major, from the very first time I read the report. I just wanted you to know that. I believed you.”
The small man’s words were starkly sincere and Hollister could not help but be touched by them. No one had ever mentioned the incident to him in such a manner before. He gave the doctor a small salute. “Thank you, Dr. Van Helsing.”
Van Helsing returned the salute and left the car.
“Very good,” Pinkerton said. “Gentlemen, if you’ll accompany me outside. I think you’re going to enjoy meeting your gunsmith.”
“We have a gunsmith?” Chee asked. His appreciation of weapons at his disposal was already near euphoria and the idea of a personal gunsmith was close to sending him into hysteria.
“Yes, indeed,” Pinkerton said. “You might have heard of him. His name is Oliver Winchester.”
Chee and Hollister stared at each other in amazement. Winchester was the most famous gun maker in the country, next to Samuel Colt, who had died years ago. Winchester rifles were famous the world over, and his 1873 repeating .30-caliber model had become the best-selling rifle in history. Practically every home, cowboy, rancher, and cattle thief on the western frontier owned, wanted, or had stolen one. Once again Hollister stopped to consider what he had gotten himself into.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pinkerton, but a gunsmith? I don’t think guns are going to work on these things. As you reminded me, my Colt . . .”
“All true; however, wait and see what Mr. Winchester has created. You’ll be going into battle with far more than a Colt, Major.”
They stepped off the train. Hollister marveled again that Pinkerton had managed to find a building big enough for the entire train. Almost as if on cue, the door opened at the far end of the warehouse. A slight but determined-looking man with a dark black moustache and beard, and wearing a fine suit with a bowler hat on top of his head approached them. He strode straight to Pinkerton without taking his eyes off him. The two men shook hands.
“Gentlemen, please meet Oliver Winchester, owner and president of the Winchester Repeating Arms Company,” Pinkerton waited a moment while the man greeted Hollister and Chee.
“Oliver, do you mind?” Pinkerton said, pulling the silver Saint Ignatius coin from his vest pocket. Winchester closed his hand around the offered coin. The three men waited, and Hollister wondered what would happen if someone, or something, held the coin who was not who they claimed to be. Would lightning strike them or smoke and fire seep out of their hand before they burst into flames?
But nothing happened. Hollister saw Pinkerton relax slightly and when Winchester retrieved his own coin from his coat and offered it to the detective, it felt as if some unspoken challenge had been laid to rest. Yet a small sliver of doubt still crept into Hollister’s mind. What if these creatures weren’t affected by silver? After all, Van Helsing said the metal “appeared to bother them” but not how, and what happened when it did or even if it really did. Had they tested it? If so, how? He would have to read up in the doctor’s journal about all this.
A porter had followed Winchester into the building pushing several large wooden cases on a dolly. The gunsmith thanked the man, who departed without a second glance. Hollister still found it odd, being in a building with a train inside it. Then again, he’d been in prison four years. Maybe things had changed.
Like the weapon that bore his name, Winchester was no nonsense. He got right to the point. He hefted one of the crates onto the table and popped the lid off. Chee inched forward, like an eager puppy, desperate to see what was inside the box. Jonas knew Chee was dangerous enough when he was unarmed. But he also appeared to have an unusual interest in guns. Hollister reckoned this made him doubly lethal.
Winchester removed a rifle from the case. It looked like a normal repeater, one of the big Henry’s Jonas had seen in the war.
“Gentlemen, this is an 1866 model Henry rife. It has had some modifications and enhancements made to it. Mainly, changes were made to the barrel that allow various types of ammunition to be used without damage to the mechanism or structural integrity of the barrel. You’ll each be issued one of these and there will be another dozen on board the train for your use. Please do not lose them. They are extremely costly and difficult to produce.”
“I used a Yellow Boy myself, riding with General Sheridan in the Shenandoah Valley during the War,” Hollister said, referring to the nickname given the Henry Rifle. The brass casing on the gun shone nearly yellow when polished and had given rise to the name. “It’s a fine weapon.”
Winchester beamed with pride.
“Sergeant Chee here was a little too young for the war, but I’m sure you’ve heard some of your elder brethren in butternut gray talk about the Henry,” Winchester said. Chee smiled.
“Yes, sir. Some of my uncles fought with the Eighth Louisiana. They called it ‘that damn Yankee rifle you could load on Sunday and fire all week.’ ”
Winchester laughed. “So I’ve heard. Well, given these new models and their capabilities, perhaps our enemies will grow to fear them in the same way,” he said.
For the next hour, Winchester went over the modifications to the rifles and the contents of the first case. They were given ammo that was modified for their side arms. Some bullets were made of silver and some had been dipped in holy water before they were fitted into the cartridge. Others were wooden as with the Gatling guns on the train, their ends machined into a sharp point. They looked especially deadly, like miniature spears.
When Winchester was finally winding down, Hollister noticed that he hadn’t opened or said anything about the second case.
“What’s in the other box?” Hollister asked.
Winchester stopped a moment and looked behind him at the case on the ground. He smiled and put one foot on top of it and stuck his hands in his vest pockets, looking for all the world like some carnival huckster.
“This?” he said, feigning disinterest and tapping his foot on top of the crate.
“This gentlemen, is a little something I like to call ‘The Ass-Kicker.’ ”
He then proceeded to show them how it worked.
I
t was the damndest thing Hollister had ever seen. It looked like a short-barreled shotgun had mated with a . . . he didn’t know what, maybe Monkey Pete’s train, and produced a weapon suitable for the devil himself. Winchester held it out and Jonas was almost reluctant to take it from him. There were two large steel baffles along the barrel, gauges and gears everywhere—all shining and polished—and a collapsing stock. It appeared to him the gun might fly apart at any minute.
Winchester flipped a small lever to the side of the trigger guard and the gun broke open exposing four barrels. Winchester held up four rather large shells, nearly the size of small mortar rounds and loaded them into the barrel snapping it shut.
“There’s advantages and disadvantages to the Ass-Kicker,” Winchester remarked. He took the empty crate and dragged it toward the far wall of the warehouse about sixty paces away.
“It’s actually steam powered. There’s an attachment here,” he said pointing to a large brass fitting on the side of the weapon. “Monkey Pete worked with me on this one. With this valve attachment it can be charged from the engine on the train or any sort of standard steam-powered engine fitting. It builds up pressure in the line here, and each time you fire, it sends a pressurized round through the barrel and with these .90 caliber rounds . . . Well, you’ll see.”
Hollister held the gun, the stock resting on his upper arm, as he prepared to fire from the waist.
“That’s it,” Winchester said. “You’ll want to fire it like you would a shotgun. If you try to get too cute and fire from your shoulder, you’ll regret it. Go ahead, Major. I’d be honored if you’d take the first shot.”
“The first shot? You’re shittin’ me right? You mean to tell me you’ve never test fired this gun before?” Hollister replied, shocked.
“Of course we have.” Winchester answered waving his hands in front of him. “In the lab.”
“In your lab?” Jonas said.
“Yes, Major, I assure you the Winchester Repeating Arms Company has a first rate research facility. The gun has been tested.”
“Then why I am firing the ‘first shot?’ ” Hollister asked growing more and more uncomfortable.
“To be honest . . .” Winchester started, looking at Pinkerton for help, but the detective merely cocked his head and remained silent. “The first models had certain . . . problems. But when Mr. Pinkerton informed me of the severity of it, I put my best men on it around the clock. I’m certain the gun will work as promised, there just hasn’t been as much time as I would have liked to test all the . . .”
He didn’t get a chance to finish, because Hollister pointed the weapon at the crate and pulled the trigger. The noise alone was enormous and Hollister was unprepared for the recoil as it sent him staggering backward. He tried to keep his balance, but couldn’t and landed on the dirt floor on his butt. The gun hissed and clicked as the steam was released and the gears turned then stopped with another click as it readied itself for another shot.
“Oh my God,” muttered Chee his face caught between sheer astonishment and an almost childlike expression as if he were about to beg the major for the next shot and would be willing to trade his jackknife and all of his marbles for the chance to shoot the gun just once.
Pinkerton walked to where Hollister lay sprawled in the dirt and helped him to his feet. Winchester cackled with glee as the smoke cleared and the smell of cordite and gunpowder retreated.
“Not going to be a very useful weapon if it knocks you over every time you shoot it,” Hollister said in disgust, thrusting the machine back into the hands of the gunsmith.
“Oh. Really?” Winchester said. “Take a look at the crate, Major.”
Hollister had nearly forgotten about the target. He had been more concerned with the indignity of landing on his ass in the dust. Now he stared over toward where the crate stood.
It was gone. Only a few splinters remained. Some smaller pieces of wood still fluttered in the air, drifting slowly toward the ground like snowflakes. Hollister looked at Pinkerton and Chee in amazement.
“Huh.”
F
rom across the rail yard, a man stood in the gloom of alley between two rail sheds, watching the doors of the large warehouse where the strange train had pulled in a few hours ago. He was six feet two inches tall, whippet thin, dressed in a black leather duster, a black Stetson pulled low on his head. He wore a gun belt holding a nickel-plated Colt, the handle forward for a cross draw. His face was scarred and marked from a battle with small pox he’d barely survived as a young boy. He tried to cover it with a beard but the hair grew thin on his face, not covering the scars completely but succeeding in making him look more dangerous and angry.
His name was Slater and he worked for Senator James Declan. He was many things: ranch foreman, aide-de-camp, and—the role he most preferred—problem solver. Mostly he solved the senator’s problems with his Colt, as the gun was second nature to him. But he was happy to use whatever means necessary to make sure the troubles were taken care of. He wasn’t above shooting a man with a rifle from three hundred yards, or caving in a skull with an axe handle. Up close or far away, it made no difference to him.
He’d killed his first man at seventeen in Dodge City. He’d drifted into town looking for work, unable to find any, and started pinching from cowpokes outside the saloons when they were all drunked up. One night a cowhand took exception and put up a fight. Slater put a knife in his ribs and watched as he bled out right there in the alley. He thought taking a life might make him feel something: powerful or godlike or remorseful or scared. To Slater it was no different than pulling on his boots, but what he felt was nothing. He took the coin pouch from the dead man and left him there in the dirt.
Slater worked his way west across the plains, partnering here and there with various thieves and rustlers and doing his share of honest labor when he could, even a session as a town deputy marshal in Nebraska, but never any legitimate work for long. Slater was not suited to rules.
Six years ago, he’d arrived at Senator Declan’s ranch outside of Denver. He’d heard there might be work. Declan’s was one of the largest cattle operations in the state and owned nearly forty thousand acres. Slater signed on and worked for a few months; then a dispute with the foreman rose up. The foreman came at him with a branding iron and Slater took it away from him and beat the man to death.
Slater thought that would be the end. Colorado had just become a state and Declan, now richer than ever with his silver strike, had thrown a lot of money toward the governor to get an appointment as a senator. And he’d succeeded. Declan saw an opportunity.
He was on his way to Washington; with his foreman dead and his ranch in turmoil, he’d need a firm hand to keep things under control. And that’s what he saw in Slater, someone who would keep things orderly. Instead of sending Slater off to prison for killing his foreman, Declan promoted him.
James and his wife, Martha, had one son, James Junior, who was a lost cause, in the senator’s opinion. Spoiled, weak, vain, and unwilling to
take
what was his, the boy caused nothing but trouble. Now James had caused a whole new kind of trouble. The boy had thought to try his hand at mining, and had been in the Senator’s Torson City camp when these . . . whoever or whatever they were had killed everyone but James, who somehow managed to wade into the stream and get away from these things. And no matter how hard Declan and Slater tried, the boy would not be silenced. He insisted he’d seen “monsters,” not men.
When James refused to change his story, Declan sent Slater to the camp to investigate. And what Slater saw there had unnerved him. Slater was a killer, without an ounce of remorse for any of the men he’d killed. It wasn’t so much what he’d seen as what he hadn’t seen. If that many men had died the buildings, the town should be painted in blood. There was very little blood. Almost none, in fact, but everywhere he looked there were signs of struggle. Not just struggle but desperate struggle, the evidence of men fighting for their lives and losing. But not much blood.
There was another thing bothering Slater and it was something he couldn’t put into the words. When he had ridden into the camp, seen the general store and the saloon where the men had died, he had felt fear. It had started at the base of his spine and worked its way up till it reached the top of his head. He was frightened for the first time he could ever remember—after years of fights, robberies, beatings, and outright murders, he was never afraid. But being in Torson City, he felt fear. And he’d wanted to leave as soon as he rode in—even his horse was skittish.
He’d never been a gun thug, but he kept track of the men he killed. He didn’t put notches in his gun handle or act like the fakers. He just killed and moved on to the next killing. Most of the men he murdered were at the senator’s behest, some because they’d just been in the way when a job needed doing. It was not something he felt warranted much careful accounting. But five minutes in Torson City and he knew James wasn’t lying. Something evil and dark had been there. It killed efficiently and savagely, then took the bodies and left.
Now at the senator’s orders, he’d watched the strange-looking train roll into town and off the siding to its own warehouse. Pinkerton men guarded the outside, and so far neither Slater nor any of his men had been able to get a look inside. He had watched the short man enter with a porter and two shipping crates and a while later heard the muffled sound of weapons fired, followed by an unusually loud explosion, but since then nothing.
He shoved himself upright. It was time for him to report to the senator. Whatever was inside the warehouse had something to do with Torson City. The senator had been sure of that.
Now Slater was too.