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  “Well, fact is, I like to tinker. Got a job with the railroad after the war. Trains get robbed now and then and I’ve run into Mr. Pinkerton here a few times. First time we met he thought I was the one done the robbin’.” Monkey Pete paused and laughed. It was a low-pitched snorting sound and Hollister thought it sounded more like a rutting hog. Mr. Pinkerton just shrugged. “Anyway, I like messin’ with engines and mechanical things and whatnot, and Mr. Pinkerton here heard about my ideas during one of our conversations. He liked ’em. Asked me to put ’em on paper and finally one day, come to get me to work for him and get one a my designs built. Once this here engine and cars got built, I figured no one else knew how to run it as good as me, so I stayed on,” he said.

  Hollister looked at Pinkerton. “What’s so special about this train?”

  “Finish your breakfast first, then we’ll take the full tour. I think you’ll find it interesting,” Pinkerton said. He said no more and busied himself reading from a sheaf of papers he held in one hand, eating with his other.

  Hollister looked at Chee but the young soldier bent to his meal, his expression revealing nothing. Hollister wondered if Chee was ever scared or happy; he doubted the kid’s expression even changed when he had been thrown into the box. Must remember never to play poker with the sergeant, Hollister thought.

  They finished eating, with no sign of Van Helsing. Monkey Pete cleared the dishes and Hollister watched as he first wiped down and then folded and collapsed the table and chairs and slid them neatly into a compartment in the floor.

  “Come with me, gentlemen. Monkey Pete, lead the way,” Pinkerton said. They followed the engineer outside. The train was stopped on a track siding.

  “Last night we stopped in Lawrence to add the rest of the cars,” Monkey Pete said. Hollister was surprised he had slept through it. But he had gone to sleep in a real bed for the first time in four years and probably could have slept through the First Battle of Bull Run.

  “We picked us up a coal car, a guest car, a car for the horses. The one there with no windows and doors is the armory, don’t want no one breaking in and taking all our nice weapons. The one behind the coal car, well, I call it my gadget car. Where I tinker on some o’ my designs,” he said.

  As they walked along the side of the train, they finally reached the engine.

  “I’ve never seen an engine that looks like this,” Hollister said studying it from top to bottom.

  “I’m certain you’ll find the engine to be a great advantage,” Pinkerton said. “It’s a technical marvel really, and Monkey Pete has even developed a way to transfer ballast on the train so that you can run nearly as fast backwards as forwards. Sometimes there won’t be a turntable for locomotives available so it’s a very useful feature.”

  Chee and Hollister had no idea what Pinkerton was talking about, but nodded as if they did.

  “I know I’ve been away awhile, but this engine seems . . . I don’t know how to describe it . . .” Hollister mumbled, his eyes locked on the contraption.

  “Monkey Pete has made quite a few other improvements to the standard steam engine. First, it’s armored. It might not stand up to a continuous assault from a cannon, but rifle or small-arms fire won’t hit vital systems and stop it. The engine has been modified—those baffles over the release valves are made of solid steel. They’re honeycombed inside so that the pressure is released, but the steam is recaptured and the water vapor is returned to the engine,” Pinkerton said with a note of awe in his voice. “You understand what that means, don’t you, Major?”

  “Of course,” Hollister said, nodding. “No. sir. I have no idea what it means. Do you, Sergeant?” He looked at Chee, begging him for help.

  “Um . . . I . . . think it . . . must make the train go faster, sir,” Chee stammered.

  Monkey Pete sighed. “It ain’t got nothing to do with speed, Major, it captures the water vapor from the steam so’s we don’t have to fill the boiler up as often. Improves the range of the train by hundreds of miles!”

  Jonas realized he’d never seen a man in love with a train before. The next hour was spent combing over the features of the remarkable machine. Pinkerton was adamant that they know every capability of the vehicle as he had spent a great deal of government money in outfitting it. And, he insisted, it might just save their lives.

  Chee visibly perked up when Monkey Pete demonstrated some of the weapons the train had built in. “Major, if you’ll step back a few yards so you can see this.”

  “Follow me, Sergeant,” he said. He and Chee went back inside the main car. A second later, Chee’s head and torso appeared on the roof above them, the sergeant having popped through a trapdoor inside. Directly in front of him, with a hiss of steam, a large, cylindrical cannon-shaped gun came up out of the roof.

  “A portable cannon?” Hollister asked, incredulous.

  “A water cannon,” Pinkerton said.

  “Water? What the hell?”

  “You’ll learn more from Van Helsing, but his research shows vampires don’t like water very much. It won’t kill them—well, maybe it will, we don’t know yet—but it will keep them away. Water, fire, and sunlight. Remember that and you might stay alive.”

  Hollister was happier when he saw the next weapon Monkey Pete had altered. Four Gatling guns, modified with a lot of gauges and hoses Hollister didn’t understand right away, were mounted on the roof and sides of the car. Whatever the energetic little engineer had done to them, it made them look even more lethal.

  Pinkerton pulled back the slide on the magazine of the closest gun. He removed one of the rounds and handed it to Hollister. Jonas was surprised to find that in every other way it looked like a normal round with a brass casing, except the bullet was made of wood.

  “You remember how you killed that thing in Wyoming, Major? We believe wood stabbed into their heart is another way to kill them. They will turn to dust, as you saw. So we’ve made modifications on the weapons aboard the train. Everything here is new technology developed by some of the best minds in the world, and given a practical application by those men, some of it tested and improved upon by Monkey Pete here, who if you haven’t noticed already, is a genius in his own right. He’s also a crack shot with pistol or rifle, a munitions expert, a better field medic than most doctors you’ll meet, and a hell of a cook. And let’s just say he’s developed an abiding interest in Dr. Van Helsing’s work and is becoming something of an expert on these things. If he weren’t so crippled up, I might have been tempted to send him after them instead of you.”

  Hollister’s eyes narrowed, and he studied the detective’s face for any sign he might be joking. There was none. He was working up a retort, but swallowed it down. It wasn’t the time, and he was sure he’d rather chase the things that killed his men than dig wells all day long. Well, reasonably sure.

  Pinkerton met Hollister’s stare without flinching.

  “All of these things are going to come in handy if you find those creatures, believe you me.”

  Hollister wasn’t quite sure what to say. He’d hoped to have a chance to clear his head a bit this morning, given all of the changes that had taken place yesterday. But that seemed impossible now. He could barely grasp what he was seeing.

  “It all looks fancy, Mr. Pinkerton,” he said. “But I think I’ll rely on my Colt.”

  Pinkerton looked at Hollister for a moment. “Major, do you remember what happened on that ridge in Wyoming? How effective your sidearm was against those things?”

  “Yes . . . I—”

  “The answer is not effective at all. If your report was accurate, you shot one of those creatures at least twice at point-blank range. To no effect. Do you really want to pursue these things, who may have grown in numbers to God knows how many by now, with just your Colt?”

  Jonas had to admit the detective had a point.

  “You make a convincing argument, Mr. Pinkerton. What else should I know?”

  When they’d finished, Hollister had a basic
understanding of most everything. Chee was like a drunk in a brewery, reveling in the guns and asking Monkey Pete questions about each aspect of every single system. It was clear to Hollister that Chee had been overlooked and ignored by the army because of his race. A capable soldier, certainly, but they had failed to notice his natural curiosity, intelligence, and creativity. He may have served ably for many years, but had Hollister not rescued him, he would have languished in prison and been dishonorably discharged, if he was ever released. The army, especially the post-war army, was not an intelligent or progressive institution. And though the war against slavery had been convincingly won by the North, racism was still alive. Good men like Chee were still going to be chewed up by it.

  Hollister hadn’t realized Chee’s dog had disappeared until it returned, loping around the engine with a rabbit in its mouth. Apparently it was still hungry.

  “I’ll be damned,” Monkey Pete said. “That is some critter. I’ll cook us up a nice pot of rabbit stew.”

  Dog sat on his haunches next to Chee and growled low in his throat when Monkey Pete made to take the rabbit from his jaws.

  “Whoa,” Monkey Pete said, scrabbling backward.

  “Dog . . .” Chee said, snapping his fingers twice. Dog stood and stepped toward the engineer and placed the rabbit at his feet.

  “Sorry, Mr. Pete, sir,” Chee said. “I forgot to tell him you were a friend. He won’t growl at you again.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Hollister asked.

  “He just won’t, sir, and he won’t growl at Mr. Pinkerton or Dr. Van Helsing either. Once I tell him, that is,” the sergeant replied.

  “You, ‘tell him’?” Hollister asked, incredulous. “How, exactly?”

  “I just tell him like I’d tell anyone, sir,” Chee replied. “He speaks English. And Creole. And a little Chinese. I didn’t have a chance to teach him French before I was . . . I had to go to Leavenworth.”

  Hollister and Pinkerton stared at each other, then Pinkerton laughed.

  “He speaks English, does he?” Hollister asked.

  Chee just shrugged as if it were something beyond explaining. It just was.

  “Let’s get under way, Monkey Pete,” Pinkerton said. “And see if Dr. Van Helsing is awake. If I know Abraham, he was up all night scribbling away in his journal.”

  “Where are we?” Hollister asked, noticing for the first time that the train had pulled off on a siding in the middle of nowhere. Except for the train and the track, which disappeared on the horizon, there was no sign of civilization.

  “We are about four hours away from Denver,” Pinkerton said.

  Hollister was stunned. They had traveled over four hundred miles during the night. How was it possible?

  “What . . . that can’t be! We just left Leavenworth . . .” Hollister was unable to keep the shock out of his voice.

  “It has guns, armor, and an extended range,” Pinkerton said. “And there is one other thing you should know about your new train, Major.

  “It’s fast as hell.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As 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 re
trieved 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.