Blood Riders (3 page)

“Inmate Hollister, your appearance is, as usual, appalling. You are out of uniform. I can smell you from here.” The tone in his voice was measured. These were facts, not to be disputed, and Hollister knew he would be punished for his transgressions. More digging lay ahead.

“No excuse, sir,” he said, hoping it would save him from the lecture on the importance of an inmate’s personal hygiene. The colonel remained at the window, looking out on the prison grounds. This was unusual as he normally was all business, sitting at his desk and dispensing whatever orders he needed to in a clipped and efficient manner.

The colonel’s body language made him look bound up and angry, as if he had been forced to swallow something and could not bear the taste. Hollister then noticed the other man, sitting in the corner. Medium height, thick chin whiskers and a hard, granitelike face, which implied he knew a thing or two about trouble. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Hollister noticed the rough, scarred skin on his hands, especially on a few broken fingers that had never healed right. Whoever he was, he’d been in few scraps. Hollister remained at attention and turned his eyes to the practiced middle-distance stare of a prisoner, and waited.

“You have a visitor, Inmate Hollister,” the colonel said, his back still turned to Jonas. Jonas saw Whitman’s stance go straighter as he spoke, and he clasped his hands behind him. Neither man said anything, as if waiting for Hollister to speak.

“Yes, sir,” he finally replied.

The stranger stood up, striding confidently across the creaking office floor to Hollister and stuck out his gnarled right hand.

“Captain Hollister,” he said. “My name is Allan Pinkerton.

Chapter Three

H
ollister knew the name. He reluctantly shook Pinkerton’s proffered hand, but returned quickly to attention. Whitman turned around to look at him, and he was determined not to do anything that would bring the colonel’s wrath down on him. At least not yet.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Hollister,” Pinkerton said, with a trace of a Scottish brogue.

“
Private
Hollister,” the colonel corrected.

Pinkerton glared at him. “For now, Colonel. For now,” he said. He stomped back to his chair, picked up a leather satchel, and placed it on Whitman’s desk.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hollister saw Whitman blanch and press his mouth into a straight line at Pinkerton’s growing list of violations of proper procedure.

“Please, Captain Hollister, at ease, at ease,” Pinkerton said as he rifled through the satchel. Jonas glanced at the colonel for approval before allowing himself to go to parade rest, his posture relaxed but on the alert. He was concerned. This wasn’t about McAfee and the fight. This was something unfamiliar. One of the most famous men in America was here to talk to him. But not knowing why made Hollister edgy.

“Yes . . . yes here it is,” Pinkerton said, pulling a small ledger out of his case and thumbing it open.

“Jonas P. Hollister, captain, United States Army. Born in Tecumseh, Michigan. Graduated from West Point in 1864, assigned to the Seventh Michigan Cavalry under the command of General George Armstrong Custer. Awarded medals for valor at Cold Harbor, Petersburg, and the Winchester Campaign. Received a field commission of lieutenant colonel directly from General Ulysses S. Grant. Court-martialed for assault on a superior officer, found not guilty but reduced in rank to captain in March 1865.” Pinkerton paused. “What
exactly
happened there, Captain?”

Hollister was quiet for a moment. He squinted at the man. He still didn’t know what this was about. The colonel had returned to staring out the window, giving him no indication as to how he should proceed. All right, then.

“I punched George in the face, sir, because he was responsible for the death of thirty-seven of my men.”

“When you say George, you mean General Custer?” Pinkerton asked. Hollister nodded.

“General Custer was your superior officer and you assaulted him . . .” Lieutenant Colonel Whitman said, staring in disbelief. Pinkerton held up his hand and he stopped talking.

“Go on, Captain,” Pinkerton prodded.

“General
Custer, sir, was a glory-seeking jackass,” Hollister said, making sure he was speaking directly at Pinkerton. Knowing full well the colonel still held all the cards as far as his future was concerned.

“I see. What is your opinion of Custer’s performance at the Little Bighorn?” Pinkerton asked.

“I wasn’t there,” Jonas said.

“But you must have an idea. Some thought about your former commander. An opinion?” Pinkerton went on.

“From what I heard and read, sir, he divided his command against a far superior enemy with a clear tactical advantage. It’s no wonder he got everyone killed. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Hollister stated. He saw Whitman’s shoulders tense.

Pinkerton said nothing, looking down at the ledger again.

“Tell me about Wyoming, Captain,” Pinkerton said.

“No, sir,” Hollister replied.

“God damn you, inmate, you will answer his questions,” the colonel turned from the window and roared at Jonas as he stormed around the desk.

“It’s all right, Colonel,” Pinkerton said. He had a tone about him that both shut Whitman off and took him down a peg or two. Whitman was about to say something else but decided against it, choking on the words, and spun around, returning to his spot at the window.

“I might be able to help you, Captain,” Pinkerton said

“Help me with what, sir?” Hollister asked.

“Get out of here. Permanently, I might add.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. But I need to hear from you what happened.”

Hollister smiled. Then laughed. He wasn’t sure why he was laughing—and he saw Whitman’s face redden, which only made him laugh more. His nerves were jangled, and he felt as though he might burst if he didn’t laugh. It was the only thing he could think to do. In Leavenworth, dark humor was one of the few things that could keep you alive, and for Hollister it was all he had right now.

“Is something funny, Captain?” Pinkerton asked.

Hollister calmed himself. “Yes, sir. I’d say it borders right on hilarious. You know what happened in Wyoming. You’ve read my testimony and my regimental commander’s report on the incident. Out of nowhere, the most famous detective in America shows up at Fort Leavenworth Military Prison and asks me what happened on that ridge three years, ten months, and eleven days ago, which, I might add, I never dreamed would happen. So I’m thinking there’s only two things that could have happened. One, you’ve suddenly decided I wasn’t lying, which I doubt, since no one else has ever believed me. Or two, it’s happened again.”

Pinkerton’s eyes narrowed and he studied Hollister. Something washed over his face. It was only a flicker, but Jonas saw it, clear as day. Pinkerton had arrived at a decision. Jonas didn’t know what it might be, but he clearly had reached some determination of vital importance. Hope stirred in his chest.

“Colonel, I’d like to talk to the captain alone, please,” Pinkerton said.

“I’m afraid that’s not allowed. It’s against regulations for any prisoner to be—”

“Colonel, when I first arrived, you promised me full cooperation, did you not?” Pinkerton asked. “Here’s hoping I won’t have to send a cable to General Sherman requesting . . .”

Without another word, Whitman threw up his arms and stomped out of his office, slamming the door.

“Pompous jackass,” Pinkerton muttered. He strolled casually around the desk to Whitman’s chair and sat down. “Please, Captain, sit. Let’s talk.”

“All the same, I’d prefer to stand, sir,” Jonas said. He felt completely in the dark. He had no control over whatever was happening, and so he was determined to hold on to those things he could control. He wasn’t going to let this strange man gain any advantage if he could avoid it. At least not until he knew what was going on.

Pinkerton shrugged and turned to another page in the ledger. “Very well. You’re correct in your assumption, Captain.” He said, looking up at Jonas.

“Which assumption would that be?” Jonas asked.

Pinkerton let out a big sigh. “Captain, I can assure you, I am here as your advocate. However, if you can’t at least listen to what I have to say with an open mind, we’re not going to get very far.”

Jonas said nothing for a moment. “Pinkerton.” He paused, thinking. “Weren’t you in charge of President Lincoln’s security?”

“I was,” Pinkerton replied.

“That sure worked out well,” he said.

Pinkerton’s eyes clouded and Jonas watched as the man’s mouth straightened into a thin line. His color changed from pale to bright red and Jonas set his feet, half expecting the detective to launch himself over the desk and pummel him into the floor. Yet the fury subsided as quickly as it had risen, and Pinkerton composed himself, settling in the chair again.

“As I said, Captain, you are correct. We’ve had another incident, similar in details to what happened to your command in Wyoming. In this case it was a mining camp in Colorado. One man escaped and reported an assault on the camp by what he called ‘flesh eaters.’ When the creatures attacked, the man jumped across the stream where the sluice box was set up. For some reason they didn’t pursue him there. They didn’t want to or for some reason weren’t able to cross the stream. The rest of his camp was wiped out. Each man was killed and the bodies were then thrown in the back of a wagon and carted away. Does this sound at all familiar, Captain?” Pinkerton looked up over the eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose.

Hollister nodded. He began to sweat, feeling the heat of the rising sun on that Wyoming ridge, watching in horror as the bodies of his troopers were casually tossed into a wagon like sacks of grain.

“The flesh eaters, as the man called them, rode away just before sunrise. This lone survivor finally made it into town and led a posse to the scene. As I’m sure you can guess, there was nothing to see. No bodies, some blood on the ground, a few signs of a struggle, but nothing else to support the man’s story.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton, but why are you here? What makes somebody with your connections come all the way to Fort Leavenworth to tell me this?” Jonas asked.

“Because, Captain Hollister, things have changed. Your experience in Wyoming is being looked at in a new light.”

“Is that so?” Hollister asked quietly.

“Yes. In fact, Captain Hollister, we have a proposal for you. Something we think you are uniquely qualified for,” Pinkerton said.

“What might that be?” Jonas asked.

“To find these things. Whatever they are. And kill them.”

Chapter Four

H
ollister was back in the colonel’s office two hours later, bathed, clean shaven, and in a fresh uniform. He tried not to notice the fact that the blue blouse showed captain’s bars at the neck, but his fingers went to them and touched them unconsciously. Pinkerton was still there, in Whitman’s chair, and he held out a sheaf of papers.

“Just a few formalities and we’ll be on our way, Captain. I’ll need you to sign a few documents, after that we’ll board a train for Denver. My private car is waiting at the station in town,” Pinkerton said.

He dipped a pen in the inkwell on the colonel’s desk and held it out for Jonas.

Jonas stood, hands clasped behind his back. Not moving and making no effort to take the pen. Pinkerton, head down as he shuffled through the papers on his desk, finally looked up.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” he asked.

Jonas nodded. “I expect there is.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Jonas stuck out his arm and rubbed the clean, fresh cloth of his new uniform.

“Certainly, Mr. Pinkerton. I’d be happy to. There’s too much going on here that I don’t understand. First question: you say what happened to my men in Wyoming has happened again in Colorado. I don’t see how that affects me. No one believed me then, so why all of a sudden is my story accepted as the truth?”

Pinkerton was about to answer, then thought better of it. He sat back, staring at Hollister, waiting for him to finish.

“Second question: after why me, why you? You are not unknown to me. You are famous and connected. So why are you here?”

“When this is over, I’d like you to consider working for me as a detective. You have a keen mind, Captain.” Pinkerton smiled.

“Not according to the United States Army, Mr. Pinkerton.”

Pinkerton waved a dismissive hand. “Yes. Well. Admittedly, mistakes were made. We know it now. We’d like make it up to you, but we’d also like your help.”

“And if I refuse?” Jonas asked.

Pinkerton frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll remain here and finish out your sentence.”

“Ah,” Jonas replied. “So that’s it. You’re not really exonerating me. You’re asking me to take on a duty that will most likely get me and perhaps others killed. And if I refuse, I stay here digging Whitman’s dirt until my sentence is up.”

“I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms, but yes.” He picked up the paper he’d wanted Hollister to sign. “It’s all laid out here in writing. If you accept reinstatement you’ll be assigned to a special detail of the U.S. Secret Service and report directly to me. You’ll be paid, outfitted, and to assure the army’s cooperation whenever you need it, you’ll be restored to your rank. You’ll have authority from General Sherman to use whatever facilities or troops you deem necessary to expose and eradicate this threat.”

“Paid, you say. How much?” Hollister asked.

“Two hundred fifty dollars a month, plus board and horses. You’ll also be given access to a private, specially outfitted train.”

The amount of money stunned Jonas. It was nearly quadruple what his army pay had been before he was sent up the river. However, if he found these “flesh eaters,” he’d most likely get himself killed and he’d never spend the money anyway.

Jonas paced. Pinkerton waited patiently.

“Still doesn’t answer my second question, sir. Why now? Why does anyone believe me?” Hollister asked.

Pinkerton rested his elbows on the desk. He suddenly looked tired.

“The man who survived this most recent attack is from a family of some consequence. He has made noise. This noise has reached the president.”

“Who is this family?”

“Their name is Declan,” Pinkerton reluctantly answered.

Jonas recognized the name. James Declan had discovered the second-largest silver lode in the country. He was wealthy and powerful. Jonas understood things a little more clearly.

“I still don’t understand. If there were no bodies, no evidence . . .” Jonas’s words trailed off.

“You’re wondering why attention is being paid to this attack when yours was ignored?” Pinkerton suggested.

Hollister nodded.

“Senator Declan has enormous financial holdings in Colorado. Mining, land, ranching. He started with a small herd of cattle, became a big rancher, then the silver strike happened and he was
rich
,” Pinkerton said.

“And since he is now a U.S. senator whose position is compromised, the president dispatched me to Colorado to investigate personally. Based on my observation of the scene, I concluded the story the survivor is telling is true. The senator is claiming it’s nothing more than an Indian attack. Utes who are tired of the miners taking more and more land. He is doing this for a variety of reasons; to force the president to send more troops to Colorado, to keep the citizens calm, and Indian attacks are a much easier sell than telling the world what really happened. And then, of course, there are the creatures. People there are in danger, Captain Hollister. Grave danger. The senator doesn’t care about them, but if people were to learn the truth and flee the state? What would happen to his finances? It would be a disaster.”

“But what if the senator is right?” Hollister said. “Utes know how to fight. I’ve fought a few of them in my day.”

“True, but this was not an Indian attack,” Pinkerton said.

“How do you know?”

“Had it been Utes, there would still be bodies left. Scalped and mutilated, but left there to instill terror and inform the local populace that they are back on the ‘warpath.’ And there was almost no blood, Captain. With that many men, shot or scalped by Indians, there would be blood everywhere. I found hardly any.”

“Maybe they were rounded up and killed elsewhere,” Hollister suggested, knowing that wasn’t the case. He could fill the fear rising in him again: the same feeling he had felt when he spotted the camp through his spyglass. Something wasn’t right, and trying to poke holes in the detective’s theories was the only way he could quell the rising terror.

Pinkerton reached into his satchel and removed a small glass tube with a cork stopper in one end. It held something white, long, and sharp, and when Pinkerton handed it to him and he looked at it closely, he nearly dropped it in alarm.

“I thought as you did, until I found this,” Pinkerton said.

It was a fang. Hollister recognized it immediately. He had seen them on the creatures that’d attacked his men. He handed it back to Pinkerton like it was something hot.

“Might be from a bear or cougar,” Hollister muttered, knowing it wasn’t but feeling like he needed to say it anyway.

“It’s not, Captain. You know it. It must have been knocked loose in the struggle. My examination of the scene was more . . . thorough. I found it in between the floorboards of the camp saloon.”

Hollister was quiet a moment while he absorbed the details of Pinkerton’s story. He saw the tall white-haired thing standing in the advancing sunlight, his clothes and skin beginning to smoke. Heard the voice speak to him. He shook his head to drive the memory away.

“Still doesn’t answer my second question. Why me? You could send anyone after these things. Why do you believe me now?” Hollister asked.

“There are a few reasons. Aside from young Mr. Declan—”

“Wait,” Hollister interrupted. “The survivor of the attack is the senator’s son?”

“Yes. I thought I mentioned that.”

“No, you didn’t. So, the good senator doesn’t believe his own son?”

Pinkerton shook his head. “The senator and his son are . . . estranged. And given what he considers to be the young man’s ‘wild tale,’ the president has some concerns. Those concerns must be addressed.”

“I’ve been locked up for four years, Mr. Pinkerton. Explain it to me,” Hollister said.

“Senator Declan is trying to convince the local population that this was nothing more than an Indian attack. I . . . we know differently. If word gets out about these ‘flesh eaters,’ we’ll have panic everywhere and the good senator will lose a great deal of money. Whatever these things are, this is the first documented evidence we have that they have killed again. We need someone who has seen what they are capable of to find them. And find a way to kill them. Does that answer your questions, Captain?”

It did. As usual, it was about money. Nobody cared that Jonas was telling the truth. Only that they didn’t lose money. He could be bitter about it, but what Pinkerton was offering was a way out. A chance to find the things that killed his men. Vengeance. Redemption. Vindication. All wrapped up in a neat little bow and handed to him with a big fat paycheck. Whatever the reason for Pinkerton’s springing him from Leavenworth, this was his chance.

“Major,” Hollister said.

“I beg your pardon?” Pinkerton replied.

“If I agree, it will be Major Hollister. It will also be a salary of five hundred a month. Plus all of my back pay at captain’s grade since I’ve been in this hole. The back pay will be wired immediately to John and Nancy Hollister in Tecumseh, Michigan. All of it. I’ll want a telegram back from my father confirming he received the money. In the telegram, he’s also to reply with the year I broke my arm in the thresher on the farm. That way, I’ll know he really received it . . .”

“Captain, this is outrageous! I don’t have the autho—”

“It’s Major Hollister and I’m not finished,” Hollister went on. “I may report directly to you, but I make the decisions as to how, where, and when we take on these things. Eleven of my troopers were killed in a matter of minutes. I’ve replayed that day a thousand times in my head and I think these things might have
some
weaknesses, but not many. I don’t want anyone questioning me, or my methods. Are we clear?”

Pinkerton slumped back in his chair, a man not used to being outmaneuvered.

“And one more thing. There’s an inmate in here named Chee. This morning he got thrown in the box for getting the bulge on a tub named McAfee. Whatever he’s in for, he’s to be granted a full pardon, released immediately, and promoted to sergeant major. He will also receive his back pay, to be distributed at his discretion, and is to be placed under my command.”

Pinkerton’s shoulders slumped. “Is there anything else, Captain Hollister?”

“Major Hollister. And no, I think that about covers it.”

“All right. I’ll agree to your terms. But I will need your colonel’s clerk to redraw these papers. It will take some time,” Pinkerton said.

“Fine. I’ve got nothing but time,” Jonas replied.

“Very well.” Pinkerton stuck out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Hollister shook his hand, surprised at the strength of the elderly man’s grip. He didn’t see the pistol until it was right up under his chin and he felt his fingers start to hurt as the grip turned to iron.

“Just two more things,
Major
Hollister. You may think you have the upper hand here, and given the gravity of this situation, you might be right. But never forget who is in charge. And never, ever, mention President Lincoln to me again. Are we clear?”

Hollister’s eyes rolled downward, looking at the pistol jammed against his flesh.

“Yes. We’re clear,” Hollister said.

“Excellent,” Pinkerton replied, the pistol vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “Excellent. Now excuse me,
Major
, while I call upon Colonel Whitman’s clerk to make a few changes in these documents.”

Hollister watched the stooped older man gather up the papers and scurry out of the room.

“Huh . . .” he said to the empty room.