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  “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.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It 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.”

  From 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 bec
ome 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.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hollister needed to walk. It was getting close to midnight. Winchester had left a couple of hours ago, after giving them a dizzying array of weapons, and Chee had remained behind at the . . . Hollister couldn’t think of anything else to call it but headquarters. It was far more than a warehouse or storage depot. The upper level, reached by a stairway, had rooms for all of them as well as a kitchen, sitting room, and armory.

  Jonas was confused. There was obviously money and power behind Pinkerton, Van Helsing, Winchester, and the others. He wondered if the setup was for him specifically or just something set in motion that he happened to be a part of. He was going after some deadly things, these vampires, as Van Helsing had called them. Looking at everything that had gone into preparing him for the task, he still couldn’t help but feel a little bit like cannon fodder.

  He walked on, fingering his Colts. Winchester had concentrated mostly on long guns during his demonstrations, but his gunsmiths had made some modifications to an array of pistols as well. They had been similarly altered and now could fire a multitude of ammunition. Some of the bullets had small holes drilled into them, the hole filled with holy water and then sealed with wax. One of the most interesting weapons, besides the “Ass-Kicker,” of course, had been a large-bore single-barrel shotgun that shot a net weighted down with lead balls attached to its edges. It deployed in the air and could capture a man or a beast “with apparent ease,” as Winchester had put it. Hollister snorted at the word ease. He didn’t think there would be anything easy about catching any of these monsters.

  Hollister couldn’t help but laugh at that. But he could see the tactical applications of the weapon.

  He drew the Colt on his right hip and tested the weight of it in his hands. It felt good to him and he realized again how much he had missed his former life. He missed the army, guns, and sabers, and the trappings of being an officer. Commanding men and fighting and even the rigid structure of the army had been his passion, and he had longed for it.

  The Colt slipped back into its slot on the tooled leather holster he’d been given. He had made sure the belt was full of extra rounds, and two speed loaders were strapped securely to each leg. When it came to facing down whatever he’d met on that hillside so many years before, he knew he wanted as much firepower as he could muster.

  A light misting of rain started to fall. He felt all jangled up and jumpy and put it off to the fact that until yesterday, he’d been in a jail cell. Walking around like this made him feel out of sorts. Like most cities though, Denver had a rowdy part of town close to the rail yard, and before long he heard noise and pianos and banjos playing from a variety of saloons. He kept going. Denver was a place he’d never visited, and he couldn’t see much of it at night, but the freedom of walking, the fresh air, and even the rain felt good.

  Before long, he had passed by the saloons and whorehouses and into a quieter place again, lined with shops and businesses long closed at this hour. Jonas wasn’t sure when he felt the first prickle of alarm along his neck. Growing up, working on the farm, going to West Point, the constant marching and drilling had kept him fit and he moved quietly and well, even when there was no reason to do so. He had learned on the plains that noise could mean death. And when he reached the next street corner, he left the wooden walkway and stepped out onto the dirt street, his strides much quieter in the rain soaked ground.

  He meandered across the street at a long angle, pulling back his duster and resting both hands on his pistols. When he reached the walkway, he paused momentarily, pretending he was unsure which direction to take. In the few seconds of quiet, he heard the clump of a boot on wood and the squeak of leather coming from across the street. Not reacting, he stepped carefully up on the wooden sidewalk and walked on. It was dark, and whoever followed him would have a hard time seeing him fingering his Colts. Unless of course, whoever was watching had excellent night vision—inhuman vision—like one of those things.

  “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. “Snap out of it, Hollister. No goddamn ‘vampire’ is going to jump you right in the middle of Denver.”

  Yet his grip on the Colts remained firm.

  He strolled silently down the street, stepping as lightly as he could, pretending to be interested in the shop windows dimly illuminated by the gaslight street lamps. At the next intersection, he turned the corner and put his back against the wall. He drew the Colt from his right holster and waited, counting to ten. Then, removing his hat with his other hand so as not to cast a shadow, he leaned forward and peered around the corner.

  Nothing.

  Or something.

  For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a black-clad figure dart into the alleyway two blocks back the way he had come. The movement was so quick, he
wasn’t sure he had seen it and he would have discounted it immediately but for the flash of blond hair. Long blond hair, and wearing a black duster. Now he was sure of it. Without moving, and scarcely breathing, he scanned the street but caught sight of nothing else.

  Four years of prison had dulled Hollister’s sense of smell. He was used to the stink of unwashed men and the other disgusting smells of daily prison life. But men who reeked of cologne were another matter. He spun around, bringing his gun hand up, putting the Colt almost on the nose of a tall, thin man wearing a black Stetson, with a scraggly beard over a pockmarked face. The man didn’t flinch, barely moved a muscle in fact, and Hollister found that odd. He moved his hand to his other gun when he saw the dim shadows of three other men behind the first one.

  “A very good way to get yourself killed, sneaking up like that,” Hollister said.

  The man barely shrugged and asked, “Your name Hollister?” Jonas thought he had a voice like a saw on wood, but so far Jonas had moved the Colt an inch closer and the man barely acknowledged it.

  “Who wants to know?” he said. And just so each of them understood he was not in the mood for games, he drew back the hammer on the gun. The click sounded like a cannon shot in the quiet street.

  “Mister, I’m raising my hands up real slow. And I’d appreciate if you’d drop the hammer on that smoke wagon real gentle-like. You got the jump on me for sure. It ain’t right, me coming up on you like this in the dark, and I’m sorry fer it.” The man slowly lifted his arms until they were bent at the elbows, his hands floating near his shoulders, the move so nonchalant that Jonas began to worry one of those creatures had found him after all. He kept the gun cocked.

  “Mighty generous of you,” he said. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “Name is Slater. These fellas here work fer me. And I work fer a man who’d like to talk to you,” Slater said.

  “The man have a name?”